Visions of Mrs Davidson cupping her breasts kept coming into his thoughts. Her furious rubbing of them. He watched Mandy take a man’s penis into her semen-smeared mouth and suddenly her face was Mrs Davidson’s, the man was him. He felt his breathing getting heavier.

One good thing had come out of the evening: at least he knew her name now.

The next day, George did not go to work. His face was swollen and he told Elaine that he had an abscess on his tooth. She dutifully rang his office and then left to go to her own job.

She worked in a large supermarket in Grantley town. She was a ‘checkout girl’ and hated it.

Left alone, George had an idea.

Dressing himself meticulously, he got into his car and drove to London. As he admired the Essex countryside (even in the cold and wet it looked magnificent) George made his plans. After the fiasco of the night before, he decided that he should get himself kitted out properly.

He turned on Essex Radio and sang along to the Carpenters as he drove. Lighthearted and gay, he made his way to London’s West End.

George walked nervously into the shop in Soho. It was his first time in a sex shop; he’d always sent for his books and videos by post. But once inside he felt strangely at ease.

Behind the counter was a man of about his age who smiled at him as he browsed around the shop. The only disappointment was that the books and videos were tame. Tame and boring. He picked up a leather mask and took it to the counter.

‘Eighty-five quid, please, guv.’

George meticulously counted out the money. It would be his Christmas present to himself. He felt almost jovial.

‘You into bondage?’

George nodded shyly. ‘Yes.’ He smiled his secret smile that just showed his teeth. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Was you after the hard porn like? Only if you was, I think I can help you . . .’

George picked up the carrier bag with the mask in and smiled again. Wider this time.

‘I’ve got snuff movies here for two hundred quid a throw.’

George was perplexed. ‘Snuff movies?’

The man saw his confusion and pulled him to one side to explain.

‘Look, they’re films with birds in . . . getting the business like. But they ain’t pretend, see? It’s really happening to them. That’s why they’re called “snuff” or “stuff” movies.’

The man could see that George was still unsure. He sighed. He had been in this game for thirty years, man and boy. He knew a nonce when he saw one, and he would swear on his granddaughter’s head that this bloke was one. A prize nonce.