‘Do you want to see my scars?’ He said, lifting his shirt up and showing off his pigeon chest. His gut protruded out from beneath it like a swollen, ridiculous tumour. She saw pale, shiny marks criss-crossing the skin between his nipples, and then she realised the scars were arranged in the form of letters, a crude inscription that someone had carved onto his body: PAEDO, it read. ‘They don’t like people like me in prison,’
