his toes still tucked beneath the sheets. He seemed oblivious to Fish standing in the doorway. Tiny hands were tucked into his lap and his head leaned forward as
though he was studying something on the bed with him. But although he chatted away, the conversation was one-sided, for there was no one else there.
The caretaker was surprised not because of that fact – he had become used to children’s fantasies by now – but because this particular kid had barely spoken to anyone since
he’d been in the home. Fish knew the staff had been worried at first, thinking the boy might be retarded, but he had proved bright enough. Just timid. No, that wasn’t the word they
used. Withdrawn or something. Something like that. And now here he was talking ten-to-the-dozen. Well, he’d get what for if he woke any of the others.
Fish entered the room, angry, but forcing himself to tiptoe. The boy only became aware of him when his shadow fell across the bed.
‘Right, you little orror, what’s this about?’ Fish whispered fiercely.
The boy looked up at him, his eyes becoming wide. The sides of his mouth dropped and his lower lip instantly began to tremble.
‘Come on, what d’you think you’re up to this time of night? You want to wake up all the others?’ Fish stood over the boy menacingly, enjoying himself.
The boy began to shiver, but said nothing. He blinked as his eyes became watery.
‘What’s your name? Jimmy, innit? You wait till I tell Mr Bailey about you disturbing the other kids.’ Fish’s nose twitched and he raised his head, turning it in each
direction and sniffing. His gaze fell back on the child before him.
‘Have you messed yourself?’
The boy said nothing.
‘Come on, answer me. You had enough to say for yourself a minute ago.’
The boy began to draw his little body into a ball, his head sinking down onto his knees, hands tucked into his lap.
‘You little bleeder!’ Fish cuffed the back of the boy’s head. He kept his voice low, but its gruffness was effective. He pulled at the boy’s shoulders, lifting him up and
turning him around to examine the back of his long nightshirt. The boy cried out and the sound was no more than a tiny yelp, but Fish cupped a rough hand over his mouth anyway.
‘You bugger! Don’t you dare make a sound!’ He examined the nightshirt by the poor light shining through the doorway and was almost disappointed to find no dampness, no stains.
He grunted and let the infant collapse back onto the bed, but not before he’d dealt his bottom a hefty whack.
‘Now get into bed and no more noise. Mr Bailey’ll deal with you in the morning.’
The boy pulled the sheets up around him, covering his head so that only a small clump of hair was visible. The bedclothes shuddered spasmodically as he fought back the sound of his sobs.
Fish looked around the room once more: one of the other perishers must have done a packet. Or been sick. It was a funny smell. He shuffled out of the room, muttering to himself in low tones. He
left the door ajar as was usual – didn’t want Mr Bailey telling him off again for being careless – and crept stealthily towards the stairs.
He was on the first step going down when he thought he heard soft footsteps padding behind him. He half-turned and just caught sight of the tiny figure which had emerged from the shadows of the
now wide-open doorway; then small hands were pushing at his hips, powerful hands, and he was toppling forward, the stairs rushing up to meet him.
He bounced down the staircase and, if his limbs had been less brittle with age, he might have survived. But his head came to rest against the wall at the bend of the stairs and his neck snapped
like a frozen twig, his wire-framed spectacles slipping from his nose to swing casually from one ear.
At the last moment, just before all his senses had their lines to the brain cut, he was able to see the landing at the top of the stairs. And there was nothing there. Nothing at
though he was studying something on the bed with him. But although he chatted away, the conversation was one-sided, for there was no one else there.
The caretaker was surprised not because of that fact – he had become used to children’s fantasies by now – but because this particular kid had barely spoken to anyone since
he’d been in the home. Fish knew the staff had been worried at first, thinking the boy might be retarded, but he had proved bright enough. Just timid. No, that wasn’t the word they
used. Withdrawn or something. Something like that. And now here he was talking ten-to-the-dozen. Well, he’d get what for if he woke any of the others.
Fish entered the room, angry, but forcing himself to tiptoe. The boy only became aware of him when his shadow fell across the bed.
‘Right, you little orror, what’s this about?’ Fish whispered fiercely.
The boy looked up at him, his eyes becoming wide. The sides of his mouth dropped and his lower lip instantly began to tremble.
‘Come on, what d’you think you’re up to this time of night? You want to wake up all the others?’ Fish stood over the boy menacingly, enjoying himself.
The boy began to shiver, but said nothing. He blinked as his eyes became watery.
‘What’s your name? Jimmy, innit? You wait till I tell Mr Bailey about you disturbing the other kids.’ Fish’s nose twitched and he raised his head, turning it in each
direction and sniffing. His gaze fell back on the child before him.
‘Have you messed yourself?’
The boy said nothing.
‘Come on, answer me. You had enough to say for yourself a minute ago.’
The boy began to draw his little body into a ball, his head sinking down onto his knees, hands tucked into his lap.
‘You little bleeder!’ Fish cuffed the back of the boy’s head. He kept his voice low, but its gruffness was effective. He pulled at the boy’s shoulders, lifting him up and
turning him around to examine the back of his long nightshirt. The boy cried out and the sound was no more than a tiny yelp, but Fish cupped a rough hand over his mouth anyway.
‘You bugger! Don’t you dare make a sound!’ He examined the nightshirt by the poor light shining through the doorway and was almost disappointed to find no dampness, no stains.
He grunted and let the infant collapse back onto the bed, but not before he’d dealt his bottom a hefty whack.
‘Now get into bed and no more noise. Mr Bailey’ll deal with you in the morning.’
The boy pulled the sheets up around him, covering his head so that only a small clump of hair was visible. The bedclothes shuddered spasmodically as he fought back the sound of his sobs.
Fish looked around the room once more: one of the other perishers must have done a packet. Or been sick. It was a funny smell. He shuffled out of the room, muttering to himself in low tones. He
left the door ajar as was usual – didn’t want Mr Bailey telling him off again for being careless – and crept stealthily towards the stairs.
He was on the first step going down when he thought he heard soft footsteps padding behind him. He half-turned and just caught sight of the tiny figure which had emerged from the shadows of the
now wide-open doorway; then small hands were pushing at his hips, powerful hands, and he was toppling forward, the stairs rushing up to meet him.
He bounced down the staircase and, if his limbs had been less brittle with age, he might have survived. But his head came to rest against the wall at the bend of the stairs and his neck snapped
like a frozen twig, his wire-framed spectacles slipping from his nose to swing casually from one ear.
At the last moment, just before all his senses had their lines to the brain cut, he was able to see the landing at the top of the stairs. And there was nothing there. Nothing at
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