over a comic book. His dark hair is too long, and he’s wearing cut-off jeans and a grey t-shirt with a growling dog on the front.
The boy looks up, catches me watching him.
I turn away.
‘Don’t be shy,’ you say in a quiet voice. ‘You should go talk to the boy. That way he won’t bat an eyelid when you see him next. He’ll be relaxed.’
I think of the last boy, the first one, and a tremor of fear rushes through me. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Look, this is the perfect opportunity.’
The mum gets up and takes the girls to the water’s edge as the dad strolls to the cafe.
The boy’s alone now.
You jog your arm into mine. ‘Go. Practise on him.’ You stand up, stretching. ‘I’m getting another drink.’
You give me a look – the look – then stride off.
I stay where I am for a few moments, fear battling curiosity. Can I really do this? Do I want to do this? You think I can but I’m not so sure.
I take a deep breath then walk along the beach to the boy, weaving between all the people who are cluttering the beach now. The boy doesn’t notice me for a bit as I stand over him. Then he looks up, scowling.
‘Looks interesting,’ I say, gesturing to the comic book.
The boy takes his headphones off. ‘What?’ He looks angry. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk to me.
I think about heading back, then peer at the cafe. You nod at me, encouraging. I don’t want to disappoint you.
I kneel down beside the boy. ‘I’ve met the man who illustrates those,’ I lie.
‘Oh yeah?’ the boy says, feigning disinterest but I see his eyes light up.
‘Yep. My friend’s brother knew him.’
He looks me up and down. ‘I’ve seen you at school.’
‘That’s right. You like it there?’
He laughs. ‘Does anyone?’
I laugh back and we start to talk.
After a while, I sneak a peek back at the cafe to see you watching us, this strange intense look in your eyes. I look back at the boy and know things aren’t going to end well for him.
‘Get back inside,’ Anna’s gran called over her shoulder. ‘Lock the door, call the police.’
‘No,’ Anna said, striding down the path towards Florence as the angry-looking crowd throbbed in front of them.
‘You’re Anna Graves?’ Elliot’s father shouted at her, his red hair like blood under the moonlight.
‘No, she isn’t,’ Florence said, shaking her head. ‘You’ve got the wrong person.’
‘Liar,’ Elliot’s father hissed at her.
He strode towards Anna. Florence tried to get in the way but he pushed her aside.
‘Gran!’ Anna went to help her but Elliot’s father grabbed her with one hand, using his free one to look at his phone as Anna struggled against him.
She caught sight of the screen. It was a tweet featuring the publicity shot the station always used of her – one eyebrow wryly raised, arms crossed, long brown hair smooth and shiny. Below it were the words: ‘BREAKING NEWS: Mother who killed Elliot Nunn is named as local radio presenter, Anna Graves.’
She looked out at the crowd. There were about twenty people on the beach, jeering at her, glaring at her, hatred in their eyes.
She saw her gran try to pull herself up, wincing slightly.
Anna fumbled in the pocket of her cardigan, finding the door keys. She pulled them out, jutting one between her two fingers and pointing it at Elliot’s father’s face.
‘Let go of me,’ she hissed.
‘What you going to do, knife me?’ the man spat. ‘Not young enough though, am I? You only kill innocent school kids, right?’ He dragged her towards the crowd, her bare feet scraping against the pebbles. ‘Elliot’s murdering bitch is here!’ he shouted to everyone.
More people started jogging over from the direction of The Docks. Anna stumbled backwards but the man grabbed her wrist, twisting it painfully. ‘You’re not going anywhere, child killer.’
‘Please, I didn’t mean it, please,’ she said, the reality dawning on her that she might get hurt, that her gran already was.
People drew closer, gathering around her. Someone flicked her face, another kicking the back of her legs and making her buckle. One man with tattoos on his folded arms watched with hatred in his eyes.
She heard Florence cry out her name and Anna struggled desperately to get to her but couldn’t match Elliot’s father’s strength.
‘Wait!’ a woman shouted. Anna looked up to see a woman walking through the crowds towards her.
Elliot’s mother.
Part of Anna felt relief. Was his mother going to stop them? But then Anna saw the look in her eyes.
‘Is it true?’ Elliot’s mother said, grabbing Anna’s chin and looking her in the eye, her breath stinking of cigarettes.
‘He tried to kill my baby,’ Anna said. ‘I had no choice.’
‘You killed my baby,’ she said. ‘So now I don’t have any choice, do I?’
People laughed, even cheered. The man with the tattoos just continued glaring at her. It was even more chilling than the laughter.
The two mothers stared at each other. Beneath the rage, Anna saw the gaping hole of loss and desperation in the woman’s eyes. She wanted to hold her, so foolish, she knew. But maybe, more than anyone here, Anna had got the closest to experiencing how she felt, the hint of that acidic loss she’d have felt if Joni had been killed. It occurred to her in that moment how ironic that was, to be the one who might understand…and yet to also be the one to have taken her son from her.
‘Please,’ Anna pleaded. ‘You must understand why I had to try to protect myself.’
His mother’s
