‘We just spoke a few times. We had a little bit of an argument and she fell into the pit by accident. I tried to save her.’

The director pulled the cane out of Marc’s nose and lashed it across his face. The blow was a shock and Marc stumbled back to the door, clutching his cheek. He’d known it was going to be bad, but he’d never heard of the director striking a boy across the face before.

‘Stand up straight,’ the director ordered. ‘Get that hand off your cheek before I knock it off.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How many times do I have to hit you, Kilgour?’ the director snarled, as a second blow slammed into Marc’s naked side, just below his ribcage. ‘I’ve seen boys like you. Nasty, scheming boys, whose lives always end at a shot in the head or a penal colony.’2

After a third stroke, the director bundled Marc against the desk and pressed his chest to the cracked leather top.

‘Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself, boy?’

Marc was scared of the pain, but the director had beaten him regularly since he was five years old. He’d never shown weakness and had no intention of giving the director any satisfaction now.

‘I guess it’s a shame I lost the job,’ Marc said. ‘You’ve had a new bicycle and two new suits since the four of us started working for Morel.’

He expected the remark to trigger a savage caning, but it was going to happen anyway and he wanted it over with. However, instead of using the cane, the director brought his knee up between Marc’s legs with such force that his feet lifted off the floor.

Marc groaned as he rolled over the side of the desk and crashed to the floor. He’d snagged a cord and a telephone crashed down on top of him, followed by the director’s heel, pressing on his stomach.

‘See where a smart mouth gets you?’ the director gloated, bending his cane as he loomed over the boy. ‘You’re nothing, understand? A dog would offer companionship, a pig is good for meat and a chicken lays eggs, but an orphan boy is worth nothing.’

The pain in Marc’s balls was so bad that he fought for breath. The director took his shoe off and began lashing out with the cane.

‘This doesn’t hurt me one bit,’ the director beamed, as the beating continued.

By this time Marc had rolled himself in a ball. His naked torso was covered in red lines and pain came from twenty different places.

‘Do you think you’re tough?’ the director said, as he stopped the thrashing to catch his breath. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry.’

Marc took his hands away from his face and tried to look defiant, but he was losing his battle with a trembling bottom lip.