Bullying, he hardly needed to remind Dyer, had absolutely zero place at the Phoenix. He knew ‘young Vasily’, considered him ‘quite free range’ in a tone that suggested ‘cocky little shit’. The rapidity of Mr Tanner’s reaction on receiving Dyer’s email hinted that this was not an isolated incident, something that he felt at liberty to vouchsafe during a follow-up telephone conversation in respect of another boy whose father had also registered a complaint. Dyer deduced that he was referring to Samir Marvar.

‘What I’d like to suggest is the following,’ Mr Tanner said. ‘I’m going to get the boys together to talk about it, but first I will meet with Vasily and his parents.’

The street lights switched on. Dyer closed the gate behind him, and stood for a moment looking back down Bardwell Road. This was the start, this was the gate from where he had set out, the portal to the world beyond. He had hoped that he would find there the excitement and fulfilment he pictured for himself when he read the passing of Arthur or Treasure Island or Greenmantle. He would meet his Guinevere. In real life, she would touch his shoulder. You. At last.

He turned – and that was when he saw Vasily’s parents waiting by the Rink.

Chapter Four

A LARGE PART OF Dyer’s guilt had to do with his eye being not on Vasily, but on Vasily’s mother. Most of the Russian mothers were boarding mums who lived in Moscow or St Petersburg and visited Oxford once a term; Katya Petroshenko, by contrast, based herself during term-time in a gated community off Jamaica Road. Little was known about her. A former Murmansk beauty queen with an idiosyncratic command of English was the story going round. ‘Vut zer fuck iss bum-break?’ was one phrase that had been attributed to her, but this may have been the registrar’s touch.

Dyer had met Katya the previous autumn. He was standing outside the Rink when a light hand stopped him. He turned and saw a very beautiful woman. His height, slim. Her straight blonde hair was tied up. She seemed to recognise Dyer.

‘Are you Leandro’s father?’ The voice is deep, but feminine.

Dyer cracks a smile.

She is wearing flat shoes and no make-up. Her face looks as if it has been washed in a cold stream. She has high cheekbones and a faint gossamer moustache, like peach fur.

‘Katya Petroshenko,’ she says. ‘My son Vasily is in A block.’

He meets her gaze without conceding much curiosity. After Nissa, he has resisted beautiful faces. Her eyes are the grey of an Arctic wolf. They look like eyes that can see a long way in the dark.

Katya compliments Dyer on Leandro’s running achievements on Sports Day, back in July.

He feels himself relaxing at once. Having a son who runs fast – that gives him a gravitas he can take pride in.