Zan froze at the officer’s words. He knew his friends would be watching from the back seat of the car but this brought little relief. The smell, the words, the touch of the man, seared themselves on to him. For days afterwards the reek of the officer’s body odour and cheap antiperspirant would linger around him. He was crippled by hot, relentless shame. He prayed for the moment to end, for the officer to step away, his insides twisting and somersaulting. Then suddenly he threw up. The policeman sprang back in disgust, his shiny black shoes covered in vomit.

‘Urgh! Who’s going to fucking clean these?’ he shouted at Zan, who was gasping for air. ‘I should get you to do it! Right now, you fucking –’

The second officer appeared, and said something to his colleague. The first policeman’s tone changed. ‘I’m going to let you off this time, little boy. But you won’t be so lucky if I catch you again.’

Zan climbed into his car. He sat there shaking as his friends’ questions came at him hard and fast. He didn’t know how he managed to drive home, and when he got there, he didn’t tell anyone what had happened. He closed the door, climbed into bed and waited for sleep. If he didn’t tell anyone, then it hadn’t happened.

But a few days later, he was stopped again. This time the officer’s partner took the lead. Polite and apologetic, he was quick to let Zan go. ‘Sorry, mate, just doing my job, you understand?’ he said, handing back his driving licence. The fat officer with the body odour and wandering hands watched, his eyes sharp, his shoes clean and firmly planted on the pavement. His partner’s apology restored Zan’s faith and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was always best to do the right thing, he reminded himself, especially in a country where everyone’s rights were safeguarded. Maybe the last time hadn’t been as bad as he remembered. Maybe his brain had played tricks on him. He went home happy and relieved. His mother, who had been worried about her son’s sullenness, put his behaviour down to his teenage years.

But then it happened a third time, the fat policeman leaning over him again, his breath still stale and alcoholic, his hands travelling further, deepening the scars of shame. Zan could not bring himself to tell his family. He tried to talk to a teacher at school. But it turned out that his wife was a police officer, and he took it as an affront. He told Zan he was overreacting.