Into his mind’s eye came pictures of his mother. He wiped his hand across his face in the darkness as if that would erase them. He saw his mother as she had been when he was a child. Her bright red hair, naturally red not dyed like Elaine’s, was shining in the sunlight. Her sea green eyes were sparkling mischievously, and George could see himself smiling back at her. He could see the room: the cast-iron fireplace with the dried flowers in the hearth, the Victorian prints on the flock wallpaper and the black leather Chesterfield. He could also see the pipe and the bag and the china bowl.

George tried to shut out the images but they were too strong. He lay in bed and watched.

‘Come to Mummy, Georgie boy.’ Her voice was a caress. She held out her arms to the little boy in front of her. In the distance Georgie could hear the sounds of the anti-aircraft fire. He stood silently in front of her.

She spoke again, her voice harder this time.

‘I said, come to Mummy, Georgie.’

The little boy looked at the doorway and his mother laughed.

‘Come in, kids!’ Her voice was loud.

George looked at the doorway with frightened eyes. He watched his elder sister and brother come into the room.

‘Lie on the floor, Georgie boy.’

The child shook his head and began to edge his way backwards. He watched his mother’s red-lipsticked mouth twist into an ugly shape.

‘Don’t annoy Mummy, Georgie. Just lie on the floor.’

The child watched the others make a semicircle around him. His elder brother Joseph was so close he could smell the odour of bull’s eyes coming from him.

He closed his eyes at the inevitable. She had already given them the sweets. They would want this over with as quickly as possible. He felt the familiar sensation of ice water in his bowels as the older children pulled him to the ground. He felt a surge of hatred for his mother as his shorts and underpants were pulled off. He felt the contained violence from the others as they held him, face down on the floor.

He began to cry. Slowly at first, then violently, painfully, as his mother began pushing the rubber piping into his rectum. He tried to fight but it was useless. He felt the warmth of the soapy water hitting his bowels and then he felt the sick, wrenching feeling as they emptied. He winced as she ripped the rubber tubing from inside him. Then it was all over.

He lay on the floor looking up into his mother’s smiling face. The sweat was standing out on his forehead, and he felt the waves of nausea washing over him.

Then he saw his mother’s heavily made-up face approaching his own, felt the coolness of her lips as they sucked at his mouth.

‘That feels better, doesn’t it, Georgie boy?’