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8

FRIDAY

Rex didn’t want to go to school. He’d had enough of bullies. Ginger this. Ginger that. He’d even thought of dyeing his hair, but his mother threw a wobbly when he suggested it. He wanted it cut short, and she’d clipped him on the ear and said no way. He was only seven, but he knew younger kids who’d at least got a fade. It wasn’t too much to ask. His mam had even started tying up his hair at home, it was that long. He toyed with robbing her scissors and cutting it himself. But she’d kill him. The row between his mam and dad last night had been so bad that this morning he’d grabbed his school bag, fixed it to his back and crept out the front door before they were even awake.

It was still dark, not yet six, but he wasn’t scared. He was way too early for school. Maybe he could take the day off. Sneak into the cinema that was close to his estate and curl up on a soft seat at the back for the day. If he could sneak in.

A foggy mist lingered over the GAA pitch and it made him want to sit in the middle of it; to let it swallow him up. He glanced up the road at the cinema. Was it a good idea? How would he get in without anyone seeing him? It didn’t open until noon. That was a problem. But Rex wasn’t one to let problems stop him. Unless it was his mother laying down the law about his hair. Sure what harm could a day off do? A day without taunts.

His mind made up, he turned to his right, away from the school and town, and walked towards the cinema complex. Maybe he’d find out what it was he’d seen last night through his bedroom window.

The barrier was locked, so he hopped over the wall and moved slowly through the long grass. There were a load of shops situated around the cinema, even a coffee shop that sold smoothies. He was mentally counting the change in his pocket when his foot touched something. Making to sidestep whatever it was – probably a dead fox – he couldn’t help himself. He glanced down at it.

Two muddy feet. No shoes. A pair of jeans, wet and dirty. Further up his eyes travelled, over the bloody chest, the twisted arms, until they rested on the face. A woman. A girl maybe. It was hard to tell with only the street lights in the distance for illumination. She was so pale. And dirty. Black streaks under her eyes trailed onto her cheeks. And her lips were almost as chalky as her skin.

Afterwards, Rex would wonder why he’d been so calm. Why he hadn’t screamed and run away. Instead, his seven-year-old feet were rooted to the wet grass. He took out his phone, which he wasn’t supposed to bring to school, and switched on the torch. The scene before him was shocking. Still he remained mute, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He felt his eyes bulging from their sockets at his terrible find. He could feel them stretching the skin.

He’d seen his granddad dead in his coffin, so he knew this woman was dead. He should call the guards. But he didn’t want to have to explain to them, to his parents, his teacher, why he was there at godawful o’clock.

He switched off the torch and sat on his school bag on the wet grass. Cocking his head to one side, he studied her broken body, and wondered who she was and how she’d ended up bloodied and dead at his feet. And then he wondered who had killed her. Would they kill him too?