Curtain Call at the Lantern

"Kieran Doyle," you said, and the whole theatre turned to look at the boy at the back. It was the easiest accusation in the world. That's what should have warned you.

Kez didn't move. He'd been looked at like this all his life. Rook's hand went to his radio.

It took two days for the Sentinel to print the story: "TERRACE TERROR: TEEN QUESTIONED OVER GALA DEATH". The photograph they used was the one Halloran had staged. The boy at the centre of it was smiling the way you smile when you've decided it's pointless to argue.

The police released him after seventy-two hours. It didn't matter. By then Kez had lost the flat-share he'd been promised, the apprenticeship, and the last of his patience. The label had done its job.

Jonah found him a week later on the wall outside the chip shop, hood up. "Everyone knows what I am," said Kez. "Might as well be it."

Jonah wrote the sentence down and never wanted to write another one like it.