He looked back over his shoulder, back to the woods, then down at the small object he was bringing home. The air was hot and he was still damp inside his loose shirt. The shock of what had happened a few minutes ago had brought him out in a feverish sweat. From the house came the sound of his mother’s voice, and Carol laughed again. They were playing the counting game; it was Carol’s favourite. They played it all the time, while Michael drew pictures, or explored his camps in the garden. He felt sad. At the same time he felt angry. Again, he looked back to the woods across the field, then brushed at his trousers and sleeves, knowing that he might be in trouble. He tried to pick the leaf litter from his ginger hair and smoothed the wild locks down with a smear of spit. There was blood on his fingers, he noticed, and he wiped them carefully on the ground, then tore up some grass to use as a handkerchief, scrubbing at his face, at the stinging cut just below his cheek. He pushed open the gate and stepped into the garden, darting up through the maze, peering cautiously over the top of the low hedge as he moved towards the house.
