A sudden shout – ‘Don’t thee go fallin’ asleep now!’ – and more laughter.

Naked from the waist up, he was turned to face the frame and his hands placed through metal rings and secured tightly. He thought his legs were going to be parted and tied to the lower struts of the cross – he had not had anything explained to him, and he scrabbled for purchase with his fingers, panicking – but his feet were left on the ground. Something hit his lower back and he yelped and there was more laughter. A cabbage rolled between his feet.

He turned his head so his cheek rested against the rough wood. He lowered his eyes to the ground, focusing on the wilted and veined leaves of the cabbage and then on the wheels of the empty cart parked behind the frame, the wooden spokes poking from dirt-crusted rims. A high whine in his ears competed with the roaring waterfall of market sounds at his back. Time stood still.

Nothing happened. The rain fell more heavily now, plastering his hair to his face and trickling down his back. Perhaps they’d call it off, this public spectacle, because of the inclement weather. Hysterical laughter bubbled in his throat. He clamped his teeth together.

A pair of feet encased in scuffed boots appeared on the ground alongside him. Silas swivelled his eyes, straining, and saw a man’s hand gripping a thick wooden handle from which dangled nine thin cords, each with a knot in the end. The cords almost reached the top of the man’s boots.

He’d been whipped before by his father who’d used a leather belt and told Silas he was lucky not to be getting the buckle end. Next time tha’ll get it and tha’ll know about it then.

The feet and the hand holding the whip disappeared from view and Silas was staring at cobbles again. They gleamed blackly in the rain.

There was a soft voice in his ear – ‘Turn your ’ead the other way’ – and a handful of his hair was grabbed and now he was staring at the pavement on the other side. This was it.

He saw movement nearby, a black bird swooping to the ground, pecking at spilled grain. A foot in a polished black shoe kicked at it and the bird took off.

‘No respect for the occasion,’ a voice said, and Silas looked up into the mocking eyes of Albert Boothby. The man nodded, satisfied Silas had seen him, and walked away.

The fury that rose through his body numbed the first strike of the whip, but the second was a lion’s claw raking the skin between his shoulder blades. Silas gasped and quivered in anticipation of the next blow. It came, white-hot agony against his lower back. He had been determined not to scream. On the fourth blow, which followed the same path as the first and ripped open skin that was already on fire, he did. The fifth blow flicked his ribs, less forcefully. There were boos from the spectators. Then the sixth struck him below the nape of the neck. Silas jerked in surprise and bit down on his tongue, flooding his mouth with the metallic taste of blood.