I keep my head straight. I'm a lamb taking on a pack of wolves. If they decide to attack then I'll be torn to shreds. Underneath, I'm that scared little boy again; outwardly, I stare straight into each of their eyes as they rotate around me, neither flinching or blinking. The circle narrows. I smell warm beer on their breath. My eyes are large; my body is motionless.
The circle widens. The biggest boy, the one with the most fluff on his cheeks, turns his back. He walks away, up the slope, swaying his shoulders. He holds his finger up.
"You better watch yourself, old man!" he says.
The other three look at me with disdain, then scurry off after their leader.
Now it is just me and Ken, left in the darkness of the car park. I'm still contemplating that they called me an old man. I'm not that old, am I? But then I'm prone to distorted, irrational thinking. We've discussed this. Age is, of course, relative. To the ladies at my local Bingo club I am still a young pup with so much life still to look forward to. To these youths I am prehistoric, probably on my last legs, riddled with arthritis. And besides, they were trying to insult me. I'm encouraged by this. If my age - something that is completely out of my control and that affects each and every one of us - is the only thing they could find to mock me, then I can't be doing too badly, can I?
I become aware that these random, spiralling thoughts are a subconscious distraction technique. Ken's hands are trembling. I go to give him a hug, to give him some reassurance, to tell him that it will be okay.
But he turns away and busies himself by doing what he is paid to do. He hunts down the trolleys. I am left standing in the car park, just watching him as he edges away from me. I start to feel awkward and self-conscious, even though there is nobody left to watch me.
"See you then," I say, but my words are lost in the slight breeze that picks up dust and debris from the floor. If Ken heard me then he shows no acknowledgement. I turn and leave the car park, feeling slightly bewildered.
DAY SIX 6TH JUNE 1988
Gordon Allen taps gently on the door. There is no answer, so he taps harder. "Son?"
The door pushes open and Gordon peeks his head inside. It's only been a few hours since he sat next to his boy at the dinner table, but in the interim the colour has faded from his son's cheeks and his hair appears greasier and more fragile. "Can I come in, son?"
Jeffrey bows his head and smoothes down one of the newspapers that are spread out over his bed. Gordon knows that silence is acceptance. He lowers himself into a small, square space on the edge of the bed.
"You were quiet at dinner, Jeffrey. Is everything okay? Your mother is worried about you. We both are."
Jeffrey glances up. Despite the dark patches under his eyes, he still emits a zany energy. He brushes away a strand of hair."You know there has been another murder, Dad? Killed in the same way. The victim was Benjamin Conway. Bit of an oddball. Three Roman numerals engraved into the skin. The number is going up. In Rhondda this time. He is getting closer."
Gordon nods his head sagely. He wants to pick up the newspapers and burn them in the fire; but what was the point? This killer was everywhere: on the radio, on the Welsh news, on the national news; everybody was talking about him in work. If they took away one avenue then Jeffrey would merely seek out another. It was only a couple of days ago that this beast entered their world, but now he absorbed it. Jeffrey came down from his bedroom on Friday just like any other morning, but then he spotted the front page of the newspaper and he read every word of the article in a trance. He barely noticed his dad leave for work. Now Jeffrey was the first to reach for the newspaper when it dropped through the letterbox. His mother's morning routine was ruined. Gordon eyed the papers laid out on the bed with disdain. Now he knew why Jeffrey hurried back to his room after tea.
"I'm aware, son," Gordon replies, carefully choosing his words. "This man is obviously very sick. I don't know if he is evil or mad, or maybe an evil madman, but either way, he is very dangerous. I'm sure he'll be caught soon enough, though."
"You reckon?"
"Of course. These people always are."
"What about Jack the Ripper?"
Gordon hoped his son didn't notice him rolling his eyes. No seventeen-year-old boy ever wanted to be patronised. "Those were different times, Jeffrey. We have DNA. We have instant radio communication. This animal won't be able to run forever."
"I think he is cleverer than the police, though," Jeffrey says.
"No clever man would ever commit these evil crimes, son. You know we don't like you reading about all this, Jeffrey. It just isn't healthy. And your mum felt so sorry for that poor couple. Imagine if your personal life was dragged through the gutter like that."
"There isn't much to say about my personal life," Jeffrey mutters.
"Anyway, let's not waste our time talking about him. Life is too precious. The Euro's start in a couple of weeks, don't they? That should be good. Shame Wales aren't in it. Been thirty years since we got to the final of anything. Our best chance
