There were three in all, working from a server gently humming in the corner of the room. It was all new equipment, bought at great expense to a custom specification. The server had been difficult to install; the owner liked to keep the heating as high as possible, cold was an irritant, so the server needed two large fans positioned either side of it to keep it cool.

It had been a difficult morning, weaving in and out of the crowds, dodging the cameras outside the High Court. And what good would it do? The trial was listed for four weeks, and at the end of it, would there be justice?

Maybe not in court, but the owner would see to it anyway. Trial or not, there would be justice.

Justice and retribution.

There was little to do but wait, so the owner was drawn to the computer screen, idly filtering through the search history, wincing at the terms that had been inputted, wondering if the computer realised what sordid material it had produced.

At the bottom, a familiar term: ‘The Girl of Devil’s Point’. The owner clicked on it but knew what would come up. A conspiracy blog written by some useless pervert who supposedly collected strange stories and commented on them. As if he knew anything. The owner scanned the blog but there were no new comments – there hadn’t been for months. Just the original story and a few mindless remarks from various users. ‘Spooky’ and ‘that’s fab’. Morons, the lot of them.

The blog’s author had moved on, apparently realising that no one was interested, and started a new page about ‘The Green Children of Woolpit’. The owner read on, vaguely interested, although already familiar with the legend. In the twelfth century, two children are found in the Suffolk village of Woolpit with green skin speaking a language no one understood. That was it, basically.

The owner clicked back to the blog about the girl of Devil’s Point. Who was she? Where did she come from? What happened to her?

The blog was full of stupid questions and no answers.

The owner turned around and looked at the wall behind. It was covered with photographs from top to bottom, some squeezed together so tightly that only an inch or so of wall was visible. The owner picked one of the photographs and stared at it. It showed a boy of ten standing in front of a house on a hillside, the sun at his back and, in the distance, the sea. The owner found it a very calming image.

Although, like the green children of Woolpit, it wasn’t real.