Page 45 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

Two small bodies, lifeless and cold. One boy, one girl. Someone has taken the time to present them neatly, arms laid carefully by their sides, hair swept off their faces. The girl’s smocked dress is soaking and grass-stained but has been smoothed out to give the impression of modesty, the boy has one shoe missing and his sailor suit is too small, puckered at the top of the arms, a slight rip on the collar. The little girl has the fragment of blue cotton fabric held in her slightly pudgy hand, grains of sand under her fingernails, a tiny silver bracelet on her wrist, a wisp of weed wrapped around it.

They are lying exactly perpendicular to the water, the very slight slap, slap of the waves the only sound to be heard. The sand around the bodies has been smoothed over, and there are footprints down to the water. There is a deep groove in the sand, where a small boat must have recently been resting.

The beach is by the side of a large, ribbon loch, stretching away for four miles, the calm water reflecting the purplish-brown hue of the heather-covered hills and the contrasting almost turquoise sky. On the other side of the loch stands an imposing house made from red sandstone with gargoyles and gothic arches, tall chimneys and turreted roofs. There’s something in the air that suggests it can see those two small bodies, that suggests its reaction is a silent scream, a silent howl of distress, a cry for help that reverberates over the loch and the hills making the rabbits sit up, the deer turn their heads and the birds turn their gazes down to the beach where those two bodies lie, undisturbed and awaiting discovery.