‘You’re the last one,’ I whisper as I stare deep into his lifeless grey eyes. His limbs are flopped by his side and his skin is warm to the touch as my hands glide across his face and arms. The pinky-red impressions left by my fingers around his neck are beginning to fade. I stroke his hair before finally, I hold his hand. It feels so small in mine.

My swansong needed to be someone special. And when I saw a boy with dark-blond curls, a freckled nose and cheeks, walking home alone from school, I instantly knew I had found who I was looking for. He was the spitting image of my brother George. And for the first time in all these years, this child’s circumstances were of no consequence. I was not trying to save him from anything. His death was a selfish one. I killed him because I wanted to.

This moment marks the end of an era.

I’m on my knees amongst the golden wheat fields on this beautiful afternoon. The crops ahead of me stretch far into the horizon and it won’t be too long before the farmers begin their harvesting. The beauty that engulfs me will vanish and so will the boy. But both will live on inside me.

The location wasn’t an easy reach. First, I had to drag him through woodland, wincing and cursing as the sharp prickles of bracken tore at my bare arms. But the colours surrounding us are so vivid and the landscape so perpetual

that it was too enticing to ignore. I am blessed that I get to share these final moments with him here.

I palm his eyes shut and begin to carefully strip him down to his underwear.

Weeks ago, when the familiar urge escalated from a nip to a bite, I chose my location in a Bristol housing estate and wore a police officer’s uniform I bought in a car boot sale a couple of years back.

I approached another young boy not entirely dissimilar to this one in a park and asked his name. ‘I’m glad I’ve found you,’ I said and informed him with urgency that my colleagues and I had been out searching for him as his mum had been rushed to hospital after being hit by a car. He trusted me immediately and, with tears pouring down his cheeks, we hurried in the direction of my parked vehicle.

‘Everything alright, Connor?’ a woman asked as she appeared from nowhere with a child of her own. Damn it, I thought. She knows him.

‘Mummy’s in hospital,’ he sobbed.

The woman turned to me. ‘What’s happened to Sue?’ asked the panicked friend. ‘Is she alright?’

‘I need to get my radio from the car,’ I informed her. ‘Can you keep an eye on Connor for a moment?’

‘Sure,’ she replied, her confusion outweighed by her need to comfort the boy.

Once out of sight and back at my vehicle, I drove away.

It had been a close call and was reported in the news the next morning as a ‘failed abduction’. To my relief, the police artist’s impression of me could have been anyone.

There had been a handful of other failures over the years, but that one left an indelible impression on me. If I don’t stop now, then it’s a certainty I’m going to get caught

soon. I have escaped capture for so long thanks to thorough preparation and determination – plus a little good fortune thrown in. But modern technology and streetwise children are also making it harder for me to do this.

Take that girl in North Yorkshire last year, for example. I was forced to hurry my final ritual after her watch made a pinging sound. I’d already disabled her phone, thinking that was enough to keep her off-grid. But I hadn’t considered there might be a tracking device on her smartwatch too. I had barely spent any time with her when someone tried to locate her. If I hadn’t sped up my process, she’d have soon been reported absent and the police would’ve used cell towers to pinpoint her last location. I will forever regret being unable to treat her with the respect she deserved.

I’m also calling time because my judgement isn’t what it used to be. I researched that girl’s watch afterwards – someone had paid more than £300 for it. She was not as impoverished as her appearance suggested. Then I think about the child I picked out in Devon because of the holes in her jeans and pastel shades in her hair, like paint that hadn’t been washed out. She too looked as if she came from nothing. But when her disappearance made the news later that week, I learned her mother was a company director and her father a pharmacist. Appearances are now so deceptive. There are of course other ways for me to find children than to break cover and go scouting for them. I’m internet savvy and I can confidently work my way around message boards, chat rooms, social media and direct messaging. I once attempted to meet with a child who thought I was a ten-year-old girl he’d been messaging on Snapchat. I watched from a distance as he waited in playing fields but something about it didn’t sit right. It felt I was cutting corners to lure him there. At the very last minute I walked away, and by the time I reached the car, I’d deleted all trace

of my online presence.

Some technology, however, benefits me. For years I relied on maps and newspaper clippings on library microfiches to narrow down areas to strike in unfamiliar towns. Now, property apps and online street views give me a flavour of a location before I even travel there. But no matter where I visit, CCTV is the enemy. Cameras keep a record of where I have been and how long I was there. Car parks remember my number plate; buses, motorbikes and cyclists can all be fitted with helmet or dashboard lenses, and even my own car works against me with its onboard computer system recording every journey I take. It’s all just too exhausting.

So for that and all the other reasons I have mentioned, I am bidding farewell to this life while it still remains my decision to make.

My attention returns to completing the task in hand. Rigor mortis typically sets in after three to four hours, so while he is still malleable, I take his limp, feather-light body and gently fold his torso and legs in half, bending his arms and neck so that he fits inside my suitcase. I hear the crack of his wrist as it snaps in two and I apologise to him. I close the lid, and for the final time, fresh air brushes across his skin. Then I leave his clothes stacked neatly in front of it and sealed in a shrink-wrapped bag.

I take several steps back and stare at the beauty I have created for long enough to ensure every inch of this scene is framed and sealed in my memory. In the future, each time I return to this moment, I will remember it in miniscule detail. Nothing will escape me, from the shape and shade of the clouds above us to the direction in which the suitcase casts a shadow. Each rock, each stone, each branch of the trees ahead of us will feed me for the rest of my days.

Finally, when I have taken everything I need from the moment, I pick up the suitcase and the boy and I leave as we arrived. Us together but me alone.