Luke is pleased with himself. Jessica seemed quite nice. A little bit on the small side and didn’t seem too keen on lifting. Moaned about the Ten Tors doing her back in. That might be a problem, helping with the deliveries. She also had very long nails, he noticed. Might stop her from getting stuck in. But she was nice. Local. Friendly manner. Says she doesn’t mind early starts and needs the cash. Mum would like her, so he will definitely pass on her CV.

He checks his watch. Tim next. Running a bit late. Not a good sign.

Mum likes punctuality.

From the Facebook group, seems they both did the Tors the same year as him, though he doesn’t remember them. Jessica or Tim. So many people. But anyone who could face the Tors has stamina. And commitment. So a good vetting process. Yes. Luke feels chuffed with himself for thinking of this. Nice part-time job. Trundale shop. Interested? Message me . . . He is glad things are slowly improving at school, and doesn’t want to leave his mum in the lurch – wants to thank her for her support. But not many young people want to get up so early for a job. If she doesn’t like Jessica or Tim, he’ll leave it to her.

Luke glances through to the back of the shop to see that the coffee machine is nearly done. Good. He’s gasping. He tidies up the clutter on the counter and notices a rose in the display on the floor, head hanging in shame. He takes it from the bucket and moves it into a vase out the back. Will try to rescue it later. For a moment, it makes him think of Emily. He gave her a rose last Valentine’s Day. They have had a coffee together since everything and he is glad to have talked properly; that she knows how much he cares. How very sorry he is for all she went through. She is taking a break from school – a trip to stay with an aunt in France. She still doesn’t want a relationship with anyone for a bit but has said he can write. He is pleased about that. And then the shop bell tinkles. Luke smiles, thinking again of his mum. She so loves the old-fashioned sound . . .

At first he doesn’t imagine it can be Tim. Thinks it’s a customer. He looks older . . .

‘Hi. My name’s Tim. Here about the job?’ He stretches out his hand and

Luke takes it, trying to conceal his surprise. Everything about this boy is sort of older than he expected. Clothes. Hair. Skin – a bit grey. Sunken eyes, too.

‘Right. Yeah. Great . . . Thanks for calling by.’

Luke babbles about the job. The hours. The duties. He asks Tim to sit at the stool by the counter. Just ten minutes and they can close for lunch for half an hour and have a proper chat.

A woman comes in, looking for a bargain. ‘Anything discounted?’ Luke shows her the sunflowers. Striking. Gorgeous – twenty per cent off. She takes them. Tim watches as he wraps them in tissue and sorts the cash and the change.

Luke is telling Tim that his mother needs someone early Saturdays and occasional Sundays to help with boxes and general sorting; also front of shop while she finishes the displays.

‘You happy serving?’

‘Oh. Yeah, yeah. Worked in a newsagent.’ ‘Good. That’s great.’

But there is something about Tim that is a bit off. Difficult to pinpoint, and then as Tim leans forward, the smell hits Luke. Really bad BO. That’s a no, then. Luke pulls back and forces a smile. His mum won’t like that. Tim’s out, then. But he will be polite. Diplomatic, but he’ll keep it short.

‘So you don’t remember me? From the Ten Tors?’ Tim is staring at him. ‘No, mate. Sorry. But so many people. I did it twice, actually. The

longer route the second time. You?’

‘Just the once. I did it the same year’ – he pauses – ‘as Anna Ballard.’ And now Luke is stilled. Tim is staring at him very deliberately,

unblinking.

Luke stares back and is starting to get it. He narrows his eyes and thinks for a moment. Tim is looking at him really carefully; really oddly.

‘So – you a journalist?’ ‘No. I’m not a journalist.’

‘Well, do you know what, Tim? I don’t think this is going to work out, mate. No offence, but—’

‘You telling me you don’t remember Anna Ballard?’

Luke is stilled again. What the hell is going on here? ‘Look. I don’t know what this is really about. But I’m not having anyone here upsetting my mum any more over the Anna Ballard case. So how about you just leave, please.’

But now Tim has taken a photograph out of his pocket. ‘Explain that, then.’

Luke is temporarily nonplussed as Tim slaps the photograph on the counter. The picture is from the melee after the medal ceremony at the Ten Tors. Scores of people. Luke scans the faces, narrowing his eyes to finally

spot himself with two of his mates on his walking team. Andy and Geoff. To their right is a group of girls. One of them . . . Yes. He leans closer. It does look like Anna Ballard. It’s a shock. He’s of course seen her picture on the news. But Luke had no idea they did the Tors the same year . . .

‘Look. I had no idea Anna Ballard was there that year. And I have no idea why you’ve brought this photograph. But I’m not going to discuss this with you. Understand? You need to go. Right now.’

Tim then backs away and Luke thinks, Thank heavens. The guy’s some kind of nutjob. But instead of leaving, Tim puts the bolt across the door. Turns the sign to ‘Closed’.

Excuse me?

Just standing by the door now, staring at him.

‘Wooah.’ A wave of more serious realisation through Luke now. He moves forward to sort this – the guy is not big, not strong, and Luke reckons he can shoulder him out of the shop and see if he will piss off. Or maybe he’ll have to call the police. But Tim has slowly pulled a knife from his right pocket. His eyes are bulging and locked on Luke’s.

‘Through to the back. Now.’

Luke looks at the knife’s sharp blade. He is thinking of his options. The back door. Phone. Kicking the knife out of the guy’s hand. For now he puts his hands up slowly, just at waist height. ‘OK, mate. So how about we calm this right down—’

‘Through to the back, I said.’

Luke walks slowly backwards. He can’t risk turning away from the knife. Remembers now that the back door is bolted. Christ.

‘You and Anna. She liked you. She was talking to you. I watch. I see things. I watch and I remember—’

‘No, mate. Really. I’m sorry but you’re wrong. I don’t remember her. It was just everyone happy together.’

‘You’re lying.’ And now Tim’s eyes are wild. Furious. ‘I watch her. I know—’

And then very suddenly Tim lunges forward and skims Luke’s right arm with the knife. A surface slash, but instant and excruciating pain. Blood immediately.

Luke is standing alongside his mother’s workbench and glances left. Remembers. Luke grabs for the coffee jug really fast and hurls the scorching fluid at Tim. Some of it flows down Tim’s leg and he calls out in pain. But it misses his face, and there is another lunge with the knife. This time a searing pain in Luke’s thigh. The fast seeping of blood onto his trousers.

They are on the floor now, and Luke is struggling to get up. Feels his thigh so wet. Tries to stand but the pain is terrible and next – a blow to his shoulder.

And then he sees just a glimpse – the glint of red, reflected in the mirror his mother uses to check her displays. The handles. Her favourite secateurs. The bright red handles just visible on the edge of the lower shelf. He uses the reflection to feel for them – stretching, stretching – and swings backwards. The terrible feeling of the blade deep into flesh. And then blackness.