On a Saturday morning, I wake in the dark and drive seven hours to a support session for “fellas”. “We don’t use the P-word,” the organiser had explained over the phone when I’d asked how many paedophiles were coming. In a musty hall in a one-time boomtown, bowls of chips and M&Ms have been placed on five desks arranged in a horseshoe. We are nine all up. Excluding the organiser, Susan*, and a prison chaplain, I’m the only one here who hasn’t committed a child sex offence.
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