door swung open and Bob Oswald entered the room. ‘Which of you fuckers has got my little girl's iPod?’
Bob Oswald was a big man in the real world. In a room full of little desks and little people, he seemed to be a giant. His shaven head gleamed. His tattoos rippled. His smell of cigarettes and sweat pervaded. Fiona Torby stood up like she was on springs.
‘I told Miss it wasn't mine.’
‘OK, sweetie. Bring it here.’
Fiona Torby did so. Bob Oswald took her iPod from her and handed it to Sunrise.
‘There you go,’ he said. ‘And you,’ to Mrs Willet. ‘You think it's big and clever to bully little children?’
Mrs Willet said, ‘No. Of course not. But I didn't bully your daughter, Mr Oswald. I simply asked her to empty her bag out.’
‘Yeah. Right. Sure.’ Bob Oswald walked towards Mrs Willet's desk. ‘So how many other kids did you get to empty their bags out?’
‘Well, none, Mr Oswald. But I knew –’
Bob Oswald yelled before she could finish, ‘I said, how many other fucking kids did you get to empty their bags out?’
Mrs Willet shrivelled back in her chair. She said, ‘None.’
Bob Oswald leaned over towards her. ‘So. You think it's big and clever to bully little children?’
Very quietly, Mrs Willet said, ‘No.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nuh-nuh-no.’
‘What?’ Bob Oswald leaned closer. Mrs Willet leaned back. ‘What did you say to me?’
‘No, Mr Oswald. Sorry.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Well,’ Bob Oswald said, and a wisp of Mrs Willet's hair shifted under his breath, ‘you better be sorry. This is my little baby I'm trusting you with. You ever send her home to me in tears again, you won't just be sorry. You'll be very fucking sorry. You get me?’
‘Yes, Mr Oswald.’
Bob Oswald straightened. He ruffled his daughter's hair. ‘And you,’ he said in a harsh parade-ground bark, ‘stand up for yourself in future. Don't be so bloody soft.’
‘No, Dad. Don't worry. I won't be.’
‘Good girl.’ Bob Oswald looked over his shoulder and scowled at the petrified Year 2 pupils behind him, then turned and walked out of their world. Sadly, for Skunk, the council moved him and his family into their current Housing Association property soon after Mrs Oswald died giving birth to Sunset, and the Oswalds became the curse of her home life as well as the curse of her school life. It would not be a bad thing if Broken Buckley had murdered them all.
Now she turned to Jed and she said, ‘How do you think he'd have done it?’
Jed considered the question. ‘With a knife, or maybe an axe. Most likely with an axe, though, and I bet he slaughtered Mr Oswald first, then Saraya, then Saskia, then I reckon he'd have done away with Susan, before, finally – chop, chop - Sunrise and Sunset.’
‘But why do you think he did it?’
‘Serial killers don't have motives, Skunk. That's what makes them so difficult to catch. In fact, I bet Broken Buckley wasn't content with just slaughtering the Oswalds. I bet he's been watching you too.’
‘Jed,’ Skunk said, ‘shut up.’
‘No, Skunk. Think about it. If that's Broken Buckley's bedroom at the front there, he can see right into your room from his room. I bet that's what he's been doing since he slaughtered the Oswalds – watching and thinking and waiting. I mean, what else would he have been doing? He's been locked away in that house for almost forever. That's classic serial killer behaviour, that is – they hide away, but they're not hiding, they're watching, and while they're watching, they're working out who to kill next and what to do with the bodies.’ Jed dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Some cut them up and store them in bin bags. Others eat them – Jeffrey Dahmer did that - and some hide them away under floorboards. There was even this one in America who turned his victims into furniture. He shot his last victim in the head and made a lampshade out of her skin. I bet you'd make a cool lampshade. I bet that's what Broken Buckley's been thinking. You're lucky he got caught when he did. Let's hope he never escapes.’
‘Jed,’ Skunk yelled. ‘Shut up.’ And then, even louder, ‘Cerys, Jed's trying to scare me.’
‘Ain't trying,’ Jed yelled proudly. ‘Doing.’
Skunk punched him on the shoulder. ‘Ain't scared of no mad axeman,’ she lied, and fled, sobbing, down the stairs.
In the hallway, Cerys was crying even harder than Skunk was. She wasn't just crying, though. She was chasing Mike Jeffries down the hallway and hurling insults at his back: Wanker. Tosser. Scum. Skunk wasn't all that worried by this behaviour. Mike and Cerys were always arguing. It was because of the things they wanted. Cerys wanted to buy a house and get married and have children. Mike didn't. Now, sick of not being proposed to, Cerys hurled her cigarette lighter as hard as she could at the back of Mike's head. It hit his shoulder and bounced back to where she was standing. Before she could grab it and throw it again, Mike yanked the door open and fled. Cerys yelled after him, ‘Go on then, fuck off. And don't even think about coming back here because I won't be here waiting. I'll find someone who loves me. I'll find someone who cares.’ Silence for an answer. Cerys curled her fists up. ‘I know you're out there, listening. I know you're not really leaving.’ The sound of Mike's car driving into the distance seemed to drain her. She spoke without looking around. ‘Go upstairs, Skunk. Go play Xbox.’
‘Have you and Mike split up?’
‘Skunk, what did I just tell you?’
‘You told me to go upstairs and play Xbox.’
‘Go on then. Bloody go upstairs. Jesus. Fucking hell.’ Cerys fumbled a cigarette into her mouth and grabbed her lighter off the floor. It fell apart in her hands. She stared at it a moment, then went through to the kitchen and slammed the door behind her. Skunk stood all alone in the hallway. She knew Cerys was crying because she could hear the hoarse sound of her tears. She sat down on the stairs and carried on crying herself. She didn't want to be killed by Broken Buckley. She didn't want to be turned into a lampshade. Even more than these things, though, she didn't want Mike and Cerys to split up. She loved Mike. He was the best boyfriend Cerys had ever had. None of the others had ever remembered her birthday or bought her presents at Christmas. Now she would probably never see him again. He would go the same way as all the other men Cerys had ever been out with. It wasn't fair. Mike was dead good-looking and dead cool and almost half good at Xbox. Secretly, Skunk had dreamed of marrying him herself when she was older. Now this would never happen. She felt deserted. Betrayed. She sat on the stairs and tried not to think about Mike or Broken Buckley. She sat on the stairs and tried to think about Dillon instead: she remembered his smile and his freckles and decided he might be the best alternative for her affections now Mike had departed the scene. She wondered when she would see him again.
It turned out to be the next day, but that would be the last time she saw him for ages.
He was running out of the One Stop with a sausage, egg and bacon sandwich in one hand and a bottle of Sprite in the other. The lady behind the counter was giving chase. Although Dillon was faster than she was, an old man with a rolled-up newspaper grabbed him by the hood of his pale pink hoodie. Dillon cried as they dragged him back into the store. Behind him, very slowly, the automatic doors slid shut. Jed and Skunk stared at the sign that was stuck there. ALL THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED.
Jed sighed and said, That'll teach him. Then he took Skunk home to play Xbox. Outside, it started to rain. Summer was nearly over. It seemed incomprehensible to Skunk. She didn't know where it had got to. Not knowing what else to do with the last few days of the holiday, she moped around the house