David walked through town cautiously, hood up, head down, eyes darting everywhere. Were the police after him? He didn’t know. His heart was thudding too fast. His hands were shaking, teeth clenched.

  As he headed home, he saw a policeman in the distance walking towards him and quickly ducked into a gift shop, pretending to browse. The policeman walked past the shop.

  David continued his walk, cutting through alleyways and side streets of the town he knew so well. It had only been ten minutes and he knew, logically, that they could not have got to the police station, reported it, and got the word out yet to look for a kid in a raincoat. His anger twisted and burned—at himself, at everything.

  The fight hadn’t worked. His jabs were weak, off-target. He’d missed the first one. The second was okay, but again the gut shot was lousy. He should have dropped him. It should have been clean—like in the films. Instead, it had been messy, chaotic, stupid. He felt like an idiot. If he fought like that against his bullies, they’d just pound him harder.

  It hadn’t helped anything. He felt worse. Much worse.

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  He was nearly home, cutting through another shortcut behind some garages in a compound at the back of his housing estate. That’s when he saw the bird. The seagull. Lying there, unmoving. David edged closer, and becoming aware of him, the bird half-flapped a clearly damaged wing.

  David saw that its feathers were matted with blood. It was a fully-grown seagull and it was trying to move. It gave a low squawk as it tried to drag itself a few inches away—sensing something. David froze.

  Then—without thinking—he picked up a stick that was lying there, just waiting to be used. Heavy, damp, the bark rotting on one end. He walked toward the bird. It made another sound. Weaker this time as it tried to move away.

  David hit it. And then again, and then again. And then again. Until it stopped moving. Dead. Silent. He dropped the stick and stared at the lifeless, bloodied mess in front of him. Why had he done that? He didn’t know.

  He stared at the dead bird for ages. His chest felt hollow. His eyes burned and he sobbed. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t wanted to kill it. He didn’t know why he did what he did. But it was dead now, and it was his fault.

  He stood and walked the rest of the way home with his eyes fixed on the pavement. No one was in when he got back, thank God. His mother was out, probably getting drunk. The house was quiet. Cold.

  He went to bed and cried like he hadn’t cried since he’d been five.