Unfortunately, Jae had called him much worse than that when she’d emerged from the pit, encrusted in manure. Farmer Morel had sacked him on the spot and threatened to remove certain sensitive elements of his anatomy with a blunt knife if he ever came near his daughter or his farm again.

The door of the office across the hallway opened and the heavily built director emerged, clutching the neck of a sobbing seven year old called Jean. A shove sent the youngster sprawling across the tiled kitchen floor, and the squat man looked pleased with himself as he ran a hand across his glistening bald scalp.

Sister Madeline looked horrified at the red welts on the boy’s skinny back.

‘Put some iodine on his cuts, sister,’ the director ordered, as Jean grabbed the table to pull himself up. ‘And if you wet the bed again, you’ll be sleeping out in the barn with the chickens.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,’ the boy sniffed, rubbing his tiny hands together.

Director Tomas raised one eyebrow and clapped as he turned towards Marc. ‘And after the warm-up, we have the main event,’ he said, gleefully pointing an arm towards the office.

Marc was a regular on the director’s beating schedule and he always imagined heroics at this stage: pulling a dagger out of his pocket, or grabbing the saucepan and throwing boiling soup in the director’s face. But as always, he didn’t have the guts, so he stepped solemnly towards the office, with its leather-topped desk and the smell of cigarettes mixed with BO.

Tomas was a powerful man who’d boxed middleweight during his army days. Middle age had fattened him up, but though a few fifteen and sixteen year olds had swung at him over the years, none had ever come off better for it.

‘Stand straight. Feet apart, hands out front,’ the director barked, as he slammed his office door.

Across the hall, Jean cried noisily as the nun used iodine to disinfect his cuts. Another pleasure Marc had to look forward to.

‘Hasn’t been long since you were last here, Kilgour,’ Director Tomas said. ‘But now you’ve really excelled yourself.’

The director swiped his long cane from an umbrella stand and ran a piece of rag along its length to wipe away Jean’s blood. The cane had a metal tip to cause extra pain and the director whooshed it through the air before jamming the end into Marc’s nose, stretching his nostril and forcing him to snap his chin up towards the gloomy ceiling.

‘Morel is one of our most respected neighbours,’ Tomas growled. ‘What was going on between you and his daughter?’

‘Nothing,’ Marc said, as the metal tip burrowed deeper into his nose.

‘And how does nothing lead to the poor girl emerging from a pit encrusted in manure?’