What kind of an arsehole parent would do that to their kid? I mean seriously? Who in their right mind calls their kid ‘Rodger’ when their last name is also Rodger.
It was a typical October morning. Halloween, with the usual English slate skies. Puddles from the overnight sleet sat on the verge of freezing. Clouds hung low and threatened to burst, drenching those stupid enough to venture out into the cold.
Jonathan’s heart thumped as he hung up the phone. He scanned through the email again. The cat was rubbing around his feet purring, hoping for a feed no doubt. The birds had awoken in full song as dawn threatened to illuminate the stillness outside. But bugger the hour, it didn’t matter. He scraped the wooden chair across the tiled floor. He didn’t take his eyes of the email. He sat, and scanned every word again, blinking in disbelief.
Big John Miller loved Sundays.
Coffee. I needed coffee. The irresistible urge to caffeinate, so the power of cognitive thought is regained. That need so strong, you’d step on people, push and shove them out of the way, if it wasn’t for polite society. ‘Vive la revolution’ I say. Don’t get in the way of me and my coffee or there will be trouble. Don’t get in my way or–
Thinking back on it, we should have seen the signs. We should have taken action years, decades, shit, even centuries before if we'd've any hopes of preventing what happened.