It was me: I had killed you.
I had turned it over and over again in my eight year-old head, useless thoughts like wet laundry flopping in the final throes of a drum. What if I hadn’t said this? What if I hadn’t done that? Why, dear God, did I ever join in with the others?
I took myself back to when you first came to our school: Mr. Neville, the headmaster, beckoning you and your younger brother to the front of the hall at the start of assembly:
“This is Carole Smith and her little brother, Peter. They are starting with us today – Carole will be with Swallows; Peter with Jays. I’m sure…
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