Pale orange bricks, fresh white mortar and deep light giving roof-lights denoted the finest in late eighties architecture; functional, but with an almost embarrassed touch of daring modernism. Fairbridgewood Junior School was relatively small, tucked away in a quiet corner of South Fairbridge.

  To the kids it was a huge maze of classrooms, separated by cupboards and partition walls covered in paintings, stories and educational posters. As they went through the years, they slowly worked their way in a circle through the various extensions of the building, each one added to accommodate an ever-increasing number of pupils.

  Martha Price, a short, stout forty-nine-year-old woman, was a Year Three teacher at the school. She was shy with people, as though she had been untried by social settings, but powerful and strict with her pupils. The sound of her voice, alike to a strangled cat, shot adrenaline through the body of those children that she scolded with her vehemence.

  Often her thoughts cast back to the days when she had been able to throw blackboard rubbers at any pupil who had stepped out of line. She had been so good that the rubber almost homed in on pre-pubescent cockiness. But these days she restrained herself, instead she would give a verbal assault akin to a rocket propelled grenade.

  Her class was missing a pupil. She always thought that it would never happen to anyone from this school, that somehow the kidnappings would pass these families by. She felt that it was just one of those things you saw on TV, that can then be forgotten about. Tears filled her eyes when she learnt from the Robert’s family that little Nathan had been taken.

  The walls were filled with stories and drawings that he had made, his name had the most stars next to it, and his smile was a ray of light in her classroom. He was so smart and talented in all things that she was sure he would go on to cure cancer. It pained her to think that perhaps that boy would never return, that he lay dead somewhere with all his possibilities up in smoke.

  Martha read out the names of her pupils as she took the register. Her eyes hovered for a moment over Nathan’s name before she brought herself to move on. There was no sign of recognition from the rest of the class. They had not been told, the Headmaster believed that it would scare the children too much to know the truth. They were lucky, they had been spared the nightmares she had experienced. Never, she thought, I never thought it would happen to someone so close to me.

  ‘Now children,’ she said, looking over the rest of her flock, wondering which one would be picked off next by the prowling fox. ‘What do we do on a Wednesday morning?’

  Susanna’s hand flew up like a rocket, flicking her blonde ponytail into the air.

  ‘Yes, Sue?’

  ‘Assembly, Miss,’ the girl answered with a very proud smile on her face.

  Martha smiled. ‘Yes, that’s right. Now I want you all in register order. Come on, in a line.’

  The children formed an orderly line, after much reorganisation on their part, as they came to realise that most of them had no idea where they came in the register. Once they were settled, Martha ensured that all their shirts were tucked in, and that all their ties were straight. She led them through a blue door which led straight into the Assembly Hall.

  The class snaked to a gap in the crowd of sitting children. Martha took the military accuracy of shouting to the far end of the line to pull themselves back, so they were perfectly straight ‘like all the other boys and girls.’

  Mozart was playing on the sound system, a device that only the music teacher was allowed to operate on pain of death. She sat like an uncomfortable whale behind the piano, sweating in her ill-fitting black jumper. A pair of thick, semi-transparent glasses slid down her greasy nose before she pushed them back into their place.

  The music faded out and the chatter of the children died with it. Except for two little boys; one Indian and the other palest white. They were making animal noises that made each other giggle. Martha pounced on them with her iron grip and silenced their disruption.

  Martha nodded to her comrades, all of whom sat on plastic chairs along the edge of the hall. Martha took her place next to her class.

  The glass double doors swung open, revealing the bulging round belly of the headmaster. A black tie melted down his taught white shirt. His read face popped out of his shirt collar like an inflatable toy.

  Every head in the room pointed towards him, his authority was like gravity drawing all of them in. Huge bear-like hands grabbed at his thin leather belt and yanked his trousers up, he coughed as he did so, a single sudden sound that reverberated around the room. ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Taylor. Good morning, everyone,’ the rest of the room replied in a well-rehearsed chorus.

  ‘I think we will start by singing a hymn. Mrs Peachman?’ he said looking over at the music teacher. ‘What will we be singing today?’

  ‘We will be singing ‘One More Step Along the World I Go’.’

  There was a disapproving sigh from the back of the room as the Year Six bunch voiced their hatred for the song.

  Do not take the opinion that this was a Christian school, for it was not. However, some traditions cannot be broken.

  The piano began the marching song of the hymn, and the children began their yawning way through the words that were projected onto the screen by two girls manning the over-head projector.

  Mrs Peachman’s fingers left sweaty fingerprints on the keys as she played. Her large glasses crept down her nose, before she repositioned them between keystrokes with a single finger.

  The hulking frame of the headmaster disappeared into the darkness of the shadow caste by the stereo cupboard.

  The children burst into a chorus of noise, like a sing-along prayer of allegiance about Jesus travelling along with them in everything they do, and reminding them to: ‘keep me loving though the world is tough.’ Love, these children would come to understand, can be all that holds our sanity together.

  The hymn came to an end and the overhead projector let out a dying whirr as its light went out. Mr Taylor appeared from the darkness beside the stereo. He coughed again and pulled on his belt. What little commotion had started amongst the children quickly ended.

  ‘As you may know, we have recently changed the doors on all our classrooms. As I’m sure you’ve already learnt, they can only be opened from inside. I would just like to mention a few rules about these doors this morning.’

  Mr Taylor paced up and down the hall as he spoke. ‘First of all, it is fine for you to let in a pupil through the doors if they should knock. Secondly, you must make sure that you close any doors behind you. Thirdly, if an adult comes to the door, your teacher must open it. You mustn’t open the door to any adult. Do you all understand these rules?’

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  ‘Yes,’ the room replied in a single chorus.

  ‘Good, now our football team recently played the Brompton Middle School and I am glad to say that we won. So, well done to all those pupils that are on the team.’

  Mr Taylor went on for about half an hour on various subjects, including one of his numerous dog walking stories where he met a man whose dog was injured by a rusted can.

  Once the assembly was over, Martha led her troop back through the blue door as the hall emptied one row at a time. There was a cacophony of noise as thirty children all sat down at the same time in her classroom.

  ‘Okay class, it’s Wednesday and we’ve just had Assembly, so it’s time we...’

  Again, Susanna’s hand split the air. Martha smiled and pointed a finger in the girl’s direction.

  ‘Do P.E., Miss.’

  ‘That’s right. Now off you go and get changed, be quick about it. I want you all lined up outside the Gym in ten minutes.

  ...

  While the children disappeared to get ready, Martha grabbed a huge set of keys from the top draw of her wooden desk and checked her mobile phone. It was a brick-like thing because Martha had little use for it. No one called her, but that didn’t stop her from checking it. Satisfied that no one had called her, she dropped it back into the draw.

  The walk to the Gymnasium took no more than a minute. It was a separate building built across the playground. It was another temple of fine architectural school design, a gleaming beacon of education. At least, that’s how the Ofsted report read.

  Martha was halfway across the playground when a little girl’s voice piped up behind her. ‘Miss, miss!’ Martha turned round and saw that it was Susanna. Martha put out her hand and the blonde girl beamed a smile and took it gladly.

  The two of them finished the walk over the smooth tarmac, crossing over snakes and ladders and cartoons painted onto its surface. Susanna waited as Martha undid several locks and silenced the bleating alarm system.

  ‘Right then, said Martha. ‘Let’s get this place ready to play some sports in.’

  She led the girl through the inner double doors which opened into the expansive sports hall and then froze, rooted to the spot. The large bunch of keys in her hands fell to the polished floor with an explosive crash.

  Susanna let out a terrible scream before sprinting away through the doors and away from the building.

  Martha was left alone, as she had been all her life. If there was any moment that she needed to be surrounded by strong, protecting arms it was now.

  She fell to her knees and tears began to stream from her eyes, wetting the floor as they fell from her chin.

  Before her the dull, sightless eyes of Nathan Roberts, her little star, stared back at her. He lay in a puddle of crimson blood. His arms and legs were twisted, as though he had been in a car accident. He was another victim of the world’s cold truth.

  Martha fell forward and sobbed, a heart-wrenching, gulping cry that came from her belly upward. It was a final straw that had broken her, and she let all the years of her hurt to gush forth. ‘Why!’ she screamed before sobbing again.

  As she wept the lines of the hymn the children had been singing ran through her head:

  Give me courage when the world is rough;

  keep me loving though the world is tough;

  leap and sing in all I do,

  keep me travelling along with you

  ...

  Gin turned up an hour later. His blue Mondeo rolled into the playground, now swarming with officers in high visibility jackets.

  As he left the car, Tom descended the steps to the Gymnasium and met him mid-way.

  ‘What have we got, Tom?’ Gin asked as the two men now walked toward the building.

  ‘Same sort of thing as before, the body has been mutilated and severely beaten. The only thing that doesn’t match the other Osborne victims is the lack of any sexual abuse.’

  Now inside, Nathan Roberts body, surrounded by a corona of blood, was visible to Gin. He winced a little at the sight. ‘How long has the body been dead,’ he asked the coroner as he rested the boy’s body back onto his front.

  Removing his gloves the coroner replied, ‘according to the liver probe, about ten hours.’

  ‘Jesus, then it can’t have been Osborne,’ said Tom.

  ‘Then it makes the situation even worse, seems like he either has an accomplice, or we have a copycat,’ Gin grumbled.

  Gin walked closer to the body. Laying in the puddle was a long, black feather that had been heavily battered. With a pair of tweezers he produced from his pocket, he picked it up and smelt it. The scent of rotten meat and smoke stung his nostrils, almost making him gag with its strength.

  He placed the feather back and walked up to the boy’s body. Ripples danced over the blood, bouncing around the puddle. The boy’s skin was heavily lacerated with deep cuts, criss-crossing his body. His arms and legs were snapped and bent, a bone jutted from the wrist of his left hand.

  Nathan’s eyes, staring blankly towards the doorway, seemed to draw Gin in. There was something about them that made them irresistible – as though they were calling to him.

  Looking behind him, Gin saw that Tom made his way through a doorway into one of the side rooms, and the coroner had left the building. A little nervously he turned back towards Nathan’s body and stared into those eyes.

  Dark green, lifeless, and sightless the boy’s eyes stared ever onwards. The right eye was bloodshot, probably caused by one of the blows he had sustained. But Gin focussed on the dark pupils.

  Slowly, ever so slowly he began to go deeper into the darkness of the boy’s pupils. The darkness grew in Gin’s mind, beginning to envelope him like the midnight waters of an ocean. Deeper and further in he went, being submerged within the darkness.

  Gin’s thoughts became like tendrils, seeping easily from his mind like smoke rising from a gentle fire. But they were disorganised, scattering themselves into the darkness. Taking hold of them, Gin pulled them back into himself, before sending out a single tendril of his own will.

  It was a question, wordless but full of intent. In response images began to fill the darkness. They were thin, like the rolling mists that spread across fields. He saw birds standing like men, their golden eyes shining into the night. Tall ambling giants walked in endless lines. A long rock gauntlet stretched out before him. Heat burnt through the darkness, immense and hungry for more than just firewood. Claws sliced through the darkness, and a cawing laughter echoed about him. An incoherent booming voice growled into the darkness.

  He was thrust from Nathan’s eyes and a bolt ran through his body as if he had been struck by lightning. A fine steam rose from the blood about him, excited by whatever forces were at play here.

  Gin’s breathing was hard, almost panicked. Tom returned from the side room, speaking to another officer.

  ‘You Ok, Gin?’ he asked when he saw his friend’s pale face.

  ‘Just bad memories,’ he returned.

  ‘Maybe you should try talking about them one day.’

  Gin looked back at the boy’s body. ‘Not yet, Tom.’ With that he retreated from the Gymnasium altogether and slipped his slight frame into his car. He stared through the windshield at the scorching tarmac beyond it.

  From inside his shirt he revealed a necklace. On the end of the white gold chain was a dull, red crystal rose. A single emerald leaf was attached to a stem of the same colour. His fingers began to caress it, and warmth flowed into his fingers as memories began to float around in his head.

  Fifteen years ago, his life had been very different. He often yearned to return, but he dared not to. Gin knew that there was nothing left there for him anymore, that had been the reason why he had left in the first place. He had searched for a purpose, and he believed that he had found it in this place.

  Gin rested his head on the steering wheel. A bead of sweat raced from his forehead to his chin, where it fell into his lap. A single image burned into his brain: a woman’s face. Her beauty was astounding, like no one else in the world. She was dressed in white, long blonde hair skipped down her back and her grey eyes pierced through the air.

  Tears stung at his eyes, and he had to choke back a growing lump in his throat.

  After a while he came back to himself, started the engine and drove himself to his hotel. He took a long shower, so hot that the steam filled the bathroom with a thick smog.

  Through the mist he could see the memories from Nathan’s mind, playing over and over until he could stand them no more.

  Wrapping a towel around his waist he tried to ease his mind with mid-afternoon television. But each time the program cut to another angle, he would see a claw here, a beast there, or a roaring fire creeping through the darkness.

  In frustration, he threw the remote control at the wall, it smashed into several pieces and lay useless on the floor. The more that Gin looked at it, the more it began to resemble the body of Nathan Roberts.

  Gin gripped his brown hair between his fingers and yelled: ‘alright! Enough, I’ll find the answer.’

  With that he threw on some clothes and dived into the car. He took it on a drive for thirty reckless miles, simply venting the tension that had built inside of him.