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Anonymous Reporting on Camilla

‘She met Madison Smith at the school gate,’ I say in a low voice in the laundrette. ‘I saw the whole thing.’

My brother’s eyes meet mine. Today, it’s raining, long summer rains, and the laundrette is cool and dim. It smells of damp clothes and damp weather.

‘Noted,’ he says. A pause, then he adds, ‘Good work.’

I try not to shiver with pride at this statement, but I can’t help it. My brother is sparing with praise.

‘What was communicated?’

‘That I don’t know,’ I answer. ‘I followed her home from the school, but nothing happened.’

‘I’ll … Leave it with me,’ he says.

As I depart, I hear him making a call about Madison. I wince, just slightly, though I don’t show it. It’s better not to.