Finding out more and more about the way St Davids protected multiple sexual abusers, the word I keep wanting to use is “maggotty”. You see an animal beside the road, you think it’s still alive but it’s just the maggots heaving that make it seem like it’s breathing.

Then I feel guilty, because maggots leave clean bones, whereas all Vic Cole did with his life was tell lies and make people suffer. He hurt everyone, not just the children he had sex with. I think he’s probably the worst man I’ve ever met, edging out an IRA bomber who at least had the grace to eventually disavow violence.

Still, the maggottiness is real, and it is repulsive. I think it’s what stopped people telling the truth at the time. These godawful things had happened, rapes and incest, but everyone hoped they could just bandage it over and forget about the festering wounds.

Gross as they are, maggots in a wound are a good thing. They pick off the dead meat and let the living flesh heal.

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