The family were camping at the base of Hayworth Tor on the night of Philip’s disappearance. Anyone who was in that area of the moor on Sunday who may have any information is urged to come forward immediately.

Tim (2002)

1

He couldn’t look away.

Tim stood on the grass, unmoving, as the sound of Tom’s desperate gasps for breath gradually faded and became nothing more than horse whispers.

His father was straddling Tom’s waist, silent and intent on his task, and Tim couldn’t bring himself to look at his dad’s face. He knew what he’d see if he did; he’d seen that face before.

Blood roared inside his head. He felt a nasty mixture of fear, horror and – just a little bit, deep down – exhilaration.

Tom’s face had gone from red to purple. His eyes bulged outwards, large white eyes splintered with thousands of red capillaries. A line of snot ran from his nose down to his bruised lips. Tim felt his penis stiffening in his pants. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, and looked down at the ground. There was a large flat rock by his left foot, and Tim prodded it with his toe.

After a few moments his dad let out a long, ragged breath. Tom was completely silent now, and Tim knew it was done.

He glanced back up and saw his dad in the same position, looking down at Tom. His father’s face was back to normal again. The skin of his cheeks had tightened, and his eyes were their usual light brown colour. They stared down at Tom’s lifeless body with something like love, and Tim felt a wave of hate pulse through his mind.

He glanced down at the large rock by his left foot again.

Would he have time, if he moved quickly? He imagined himself bending slowly and grasping the rock, then springing forward and bringing it down against his dad’s head with both hands. His dad’s startled gasp. The thick crunching sound as his skull broke open. The blood.

Tim looked up and saw his dad watching him.

His eyes were fixed on Tim’s face, and for one horrible moment Tim thought his dad knew exactly what he was thinking.

Could he do that? Tim didn’t know, and didn’t want to know. The wave of hate in his mind was being taken over by fear, the way it always was in the end. He looked once more at Tom’s bloated face and glassy eyes, and fought the urge to throw up.

‘Don’t worry, you’ll get the taste for it.’

Mr Stevens was smiling at his son; it was a thin smile that Tim also knew well. He’d seen it countless times when he was growing up, after all.