Bessie cried hard at hearing this and hated herself for it. Instinctively, she shoved him as hard as she was able in the chest. It might have been his slippery soles on the gravel of the car park or his drunken state that made him lose his balance, but either way, Tony toppled backwards, hitting the deck with a thud.

‘Waaaaaaagh!’ went the roar of all those close enough to bear witness, as they pointed and chuckled, nudging the next person to make sure they didn’t miss the sight of Tony Full-of-Shite Dunlop on his back, scrabbling in the stones to stand up and rubbing dust and gravel from the arms of his jacket. Bessie felt her heart race, wary of his revenge. Tony stood eventually, before calmly raising his hands to all those laughing. He then took a bow and the crowd laughed some more; the odd one or two even clapped. From a certain distance it was all very jolly, but Bessie was close enough to see the froth of spit at the corners of his mouth, the red stamp of embarrassment on his neck and his eyes, the pupils of which were mere pinpricks. He came at her again, closer now, too close. Her fear was real and her limbs shook.

‘How dare you push me over!’ he spat through gritted teeth.

‘Well, don’t touch me! Don’t say such horrible things to me!’ she replied. She scanned the crowd, looking for Michelle, the girl who was like family, comfort and solidarity to her, a safe harbour.

‘Do you know what?’ Tony laughed, ‘I’m going to really enjoy telling everyone. You won’t be able to set foot outside of your house without someone giving you a certain look, and they won’t even have to say a thing, but you’ll know what they’re thinking. You’ll know what we’re all thinking – that you’re fucking dumb and a fucking slut!’ From the floor he retrieved his cigarette, which had miraculously survived the tumble, and drew on it sharply. ‘Why are you crying?’ he asked sarcastically.

Bessie swiped the tears from her cheeks and struggled to find words of retaliation, wary of angering Tony more and of him wreaking worse havoc with her reputation. She laid her arm over her stomach, hiding her skin, wanting to cover up so as not to look like a girl who’d had sex in an alleyway.

‘Just leave me alone!’ Her voice cracked as disappointment and self-recrimination poked at her – was this the best she could come up with?

‘Don’t cry, Bessie, you should be proud!’ he goaded her. ‘I mean, nine is a respectable number, far better than three hundred and sixty-one.’