The mist on the High Street was almost like rain. It was beginning to get dark and the wind was ruffling the discarded papers in the gutter. Mum would be mad worried that we weren’t home. The police lady gave us back our bookbags and told us to sit on the cement where the broken park bench used to be. She said we had to wait until some crime scene men came to take pictures. The lamp light glinted first off her buttons, then her teeth when she smiled. A policeman with a backside the size of the butcher’s lorry asked our names and addresses and wrote them slowly in pencil, turning the pages of his a small notebook with a thick left hand. The lights…

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