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The tall boy glared at Steven and the letter, wondering whether he gave a shit or not. Finally he just tore it into bits and sprinkled it across the heather. The smallest boy pushed Steven again, this time in the shoulder. He could feel them itching for him to push back—wanting the challenge so they could justify their own actions. When he didn’t react, the middle boy yanked his anorak off his shoulders. Now Steven did resist, bending his elbows to keep it on.

“Gimme, you divvy.”

Steven didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t want to tell them that if he went home without his anorak his mother would go nuts. It was old and not completely waterproof, but he knew it was nowhere near the end of its useful life as far as she was concerned. He wouldn’t be able to tell her it had been stolen, in case she tried to complain to the hoodies’ parents—and then his life might as well be over. But the thought of having to tell her that he’d left it on the moor or lost it at school made his eyes suddenly hot with tears as the middle boy jerked harder, pleased he was resisting.

Steven bit his lip to stop himself begging, as the insistent pulling on his arms made him lose his balance and stumble sideways. Immediately the middle boy saw an opening and shoved him that way, sending him to his knees in the sharp gorse. His right wrist twisted as it was caught in the cuff of the anorak, momentarily taking his full weight as he fell, then wrenched free of the nylon, releasing him to tumble to his side.

He felt the spiky prickles on his arm, the side of his face, and even through his jumper and jeans; he jerked his head up to save his face, and heard the hoodies laugh.

“Get his trainers.”

The anger that had started to rise in Steven when the boy grabbed his anorak now made him kick at them as they tried to take his shoes. New last Christmas. His mother had been angry they were muddy; she would kill him if they were gone.

The boys gripped his flailing legs and he curled his foot up in an effort to hold the left trainer on, but it was wrenched from him.

His tears now were furious helplessness. He wanted to kill them; he wanted to yank them by the ears and smash his knee into their grinning faces; he wanted to pick up the stone shaped like a jelly bean and beat their laughing mouths until their teeth were jagged, bloody stumps.

Instead he cried while they took his right shoe too, and walked off laughing.

He waited and cried, wincing at the pain of the gorse pricking into him, but too scared to follow too closely behind them.

Finally he got up, flinching his way back onto the path. One of his socks had been pulled halfway off his foot. They were his favorite socks; his nan had knitted them for him for his birthday two years before and he kept them for special so as not to wear them out. Grey marl and ribbed, with a cleverly turned foot she called a French heel that made them hold their own shape, like cartoon socks. They’d been big for him when he got them, and they were small for him now, but he still wore them for special. Today had been special because of the photo of Dunkery Beacon. Now he’d remember today for other reasons too. He began to cry again, making it hard to find the jelly bean stone through the blurring, but he managed it eventually and then found the camera and started back down the path. It was slow going and painful and—by the time he reached the stile that led through the backs of the houses to the road—both his socks had holes in them.

“What do you mean, lost?” Lettie was not furious yet, but she was well on the way and Steven knew she’d get there before long.

“I’m sorry.”

“How can you lose your anorak and your shoes? And not know where?”

“And ruin his socks,” Nan chimed in. “Took me weeks to knit those with my arthritis. Doesn’t appreciate anything.”

“I did appreciate them!” he said, angry that she could think otherwise. Hadn’t she seen how he’d kept them for special? The thought made him start to cry again and some part of his mind sighed wearily at that. He was so fed up with crying today; he could hardly believe he had more of it left in him.

“Stevie’s crying, Mum!” Davey was intrigued.

“Fuck off, Davey,” he snapped.

“You dare use that word in this house!”

Lettie slapped the back of his head—not hard, but stunning him anyway, and shocking them all into a horrible, ticking silence.

His mother never slapped his head or face. She’d lash out at his arms or legs occasionally, but the head was off limits on the unspoken understanding that only drunks and council tenants slapped their children there.

Steven wanted to apologize. He wanted it so badly. He wanted his mother to hold him again the way she had the other day. He wanted to lay his head on her shoulder and be a baby again and not have to worry about his socks or his shoes or his anorak or the hoodies or the spade or bodies or serial killers. He wanted to curl up in bed with hot milk and sugar and have someone sing him to sleep while they stroked his hair.