And then what happened?
To begin with, the boy tells the policeman, it is much the same as other nights.
The brothers sit in their small, dark room, listening to the sounds from the far end of the house, while at the same time trying not to hear.
At some point, the boy falls asleep without realising it, because he feels the jolt as his brother gets up.
The house is silent now.
He’s gone to sleep, John whispers.
The boy nods miserably and lies down sideways on his bunk, drawing his knees up to his chest. He expects his brother to tap back up the creaking ladder to the top bunk, so they can both snatch sleep, but instead John remains standing in the dark bedroom.
He is very still, but the boy can hear him breathing.
There is something a little like electricity in the air.
John? he says.
Shhhh.
The boy sits up again, frowning. John?
His brother reaches down and touches his cheek. It feels like his hand is trembling slightly. It’s okay. His voice is strained, thin. I won’t be long.
Where are you going?
I’ve got his key.
It takes the boy a moment to work out what he means. By then, his brother has moved away, over to the bedroom door, and is opening it slowly, carefully, so as not to make any sound.
The boy stands up.
John?
Shhh. Stay here.
His brother steps out into the hallway – dark now – and closes the door behind him, leaving the boy alone in the pitch-black bedroom. His heart is hammering, and he can hardly breathe. All over his body, the skin is tingling.
He is terribly afraid.
He does not want his brother to do this – wants to call out instead.
But he is scared for John. Whatever he does, he is scared.
Their father is insurmountable; they both know this.
They do not confront him. They do not intervene.
Even that does not guarantee their safety, but the opposite removes it entirely.
They have to keep quiet. They have to hide and remain unnoticed for as long as possible.
Not do this.
‘The key,’ the policeman says. ‘What did John mean by that? The key to what?’
The boy looks at him. Looks him right in the eye.
What the policeman sees there is, surely, not derision.
Because that would be impossible. There is no way this child is old and wise enough to be mocking him.
Perhaps he is lying – that much is possible – but a little boy would be keen to hide his lies, anxious that someone might see through them, rather than revelling in the fact that someone has and they both know it.
The policeman realises he is touching the cross on his necklace – that it has come out from beneath his uniform and he is rubbing it anxiously between his fingers. He forces himself to tuck it away. This child is not evil. He isn’t. He has simply been through so much.
And yet …
‘The key to what, Andy?’ Sergeant Franklin says. ‘The key to what?’
And with that same expression on his face, the eight-year-old boy says, ‘The key to my father’s gun cabinet.’