He seemed to have no friends either and she believed it was because he didn’t seem to want any. That, to her mind, was unnatural in a child, and she knew that someone should address these problems but she didn’t know who that should be. It wasn’t as noticeable to everyone else, they just thought he was quiet. But Mary felt instinctively that there was something radically wrong with the boy, and that frightened her. If only she could talk to Cynthia, voice her concerns about his school-work, his indifference to other people. A kitten might be just what he needed, a little friend of sorts, something to love.

The doorbell rang, and she got up to answer it, leaving the young lad with her husband.

Roy Brown, their neighbour for over twenty-five years, was standing there with his little grandson Tyrone and, in his arms, he was holding a dead kitten and a Tesco carrier bag, blood everywhere.

Her evident surprise turned to shock when Roy Brown, his huge face twisted in disgust, said angrily, ‘Get young James out here. Look what he did to the kitten. He cut the little fucker’s throat.’ He was roaring in his anger, and this brought Jack out into the hallway.

‘What the fuck’s all the shouting about?’ He was looking at Roy Brown and the crying Tyrone in utter amazement.

‘Your grandson, that fucking weirdo James, has cut my Tyrone’s kitten’s throat. Cut the little cat’s throat, the wicked little bugger.’

Jack Callahan was looking at his old friend as if he had just grown another head in front of his eyes. ‘What the hell are you on about, man?’

Little Tyrone Brown was only five years old but, with the acumen of men ten times his age, said tearfully, ‘He did, he did, I saw him, he made me watch . . .’

Jack was staring from one person to another in utter disbelief. ‘That’s bollocks! Our James loves cats. For fuck’s sake, he’s been driving us mad about getting one for weeks.’

Roy interrupted him then saying, ‘That’s why he did this.’ He thrust the dead body of the kitten towards Jack who instinctively stepped backwards. ‘He couldn’t have one, so he didn’t want my Tyrone to have one either, the murdering little fucker.’

Jack was shaking his head; he refused to believe his grandson was capable of such an act. He was stunned into absolute silence.

Roy handed him the carrier bag saying, ‘Open that, go on, see whose knife it was that cut the animal’s throat.’