‘You asked why,’ he said. ‘You asked why I was, you know – or… what the situation was. So I don’t know. It does seem to stem from… or in my mind, like I said… I’ve never quite put it into perspective, because he was a sad, wretched little man, looking back. And being objective, a very lonely one – and he must have been so scared, so… in torment, really. But he made me, or got me, to touch him. Touch him, between the legs. His… penis.’

There was a silence.

‘Many times?’ she said.

‘No. Five times, in all. And once… the last time, was the last time because I got very scared. I cried, because…’

‘What?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

He laughed again.

‘I do.’

‘You don’t.’

‘Michael. Look at me.’

‘No.’

‘Please look at me.’

‘If I do… if I look at you, Maria, I don’t think I’ll be able to talk. Or do anything – I’m so sorry, but… the last time…’

He closed his eyes, and – inevitably – the tears squeezed from under his eyelids and rolled down his cheeks. He felt his lip trembling, and he was back there even as the rocks seemed to tilt for a moment and slip him all the way through the years. The sun was warm, and the wind nagging as usual, but he was in the classroom, and however many times he got out of it, somehow – like a comedy or a farce – there he was again, for the green door was closed. Its little bolt was drawn so they wouldn’t be disturbed. The blind was down, and the fact that it was lunchtime meant no children were allowed inside the building without special permission – which was what he had. He was allowed to be in room five, on the top corridor of main school, because he had a meeting with Mr Trace. He was there again, behind the teacher’s desk.

The man had his gown on, and Michael was in a chair too, just opposite. Caesar’s Gallic Wars was open, and his pencil case was right beside it.

‘Try kneeling down,’ the man had said – so softly. And the next thing he knew, he was on his knees, and Mr Trace had his hand on his shoulder, and then on the back of his neck. So gentle, so easy and surely so easy to resist – but somehow not. For he was bowing his head, and the head of the penis – just the head – was inside his mouth. And the next moment, and the next moment – a succession of moments, for the hand kneaded his hair, and pushed him lower and lower. Up again, and lower – for how long? For one full minute perhaps, or even two?