The town wore its summer face: shops with souvenirs, striped awnings, clusters of buckets, spades, beach balls, racks of picture postcards, the harbour full, every mooring filled. Now was the time for yachtsmen to come ashore, drink long, talk loudly in the pubs, boring on in yard-arm voices. Matilda strolled slowly among the people, observing the fat women in tight trousers or bikinis. They did not seem to mind their bulges burned red by the sun. Nor did the men, their shorts held up by tight belts biting into beer stomachs, mind their shape.

The fat and middle-aged were predominant by the harbour, wandering along with peeling noses, thighs sore from rubbing together. She turned up the main street, glancing in at the shop windows. A group of people stood staring at a television shop. The colour sets were showing the news on BBC and ITV.

‘I wonder what he’s saying?’ A small child holding his mother’s hand tugged. ‘Come on Mum, I’m tired.’

‘Just a minute love, let’s see the news.’

‘You can’t hear it –’

‘I like that girl announcer, she’s lovely.’

‘I like the man best.’

‘Oh look dad, that must be the Matricide.’ A teenage girl in shorts pointed. ‘He doesn’t look like a murderer.’

‘Murdered his mother, a right bastard.’

‘Oh Mum, I’m tired. Can’t we go home?’

‘Wait a minute. There may be a new photo.’

‘They’ve shown the same photo ever since he did it. You’d think a bloke like that would have lots of photos done.’

‘I like the way she does her hair. D’you think that way would suit me, Mum?’ the girl questioned.

‘Ask your Dad, dear.’

‘I’m tired,’ whined the small boy.

‘I expect with all that money he’s had a nose job done by now.’

‘A nose job?’

‘Well anyone would recognize that great hooter.’

‘Oh.’ Mum sounded pleased with the idea. ‘You’re clever, Dad.’ Dad looked gratified.

‘Big hooter like that stands out a mile, don’t it? So he has a nose job sharpish. That’s what I read in the paper anyway, either a nose job or he’s done away with himself.’

‘If he had any decent feelings he’d have done that.’

‘Oh Mum, I’m tired –’

‘Come on, son, I’ll give you a ride.’ The father hoisted the little boy onto his shoulder. ‘Up you go!’

‘Oh look, look, they’re shooting! Wait a minute, wait.’ The child craned down from his father’s shoulders to watch a scene of violence, bodies falling, ragged men lying legs astraddle firing guns. ‘Oh look, that one’s dead.’ He sounded joyful. ‘Look at the blood.’

‘So’s the Matricide’s Ma.’ The father started up the street carrying the boy who looked back towards the silent television, craning his neck to see death happening.