young to realise what they were doing. ‘They knew all right,’ she says, venom flicking from her voice as she spits the words out. ‘They planned it. Came prepared, with a knife. They killed my child because they’re sick and twisted, both of them, right the way through, and they should pay in full for her death. She lost her right to life through them and it’s only fair they should spend the rest of their lives in prison in return.’ The broadcast cuts back to the newscaster.
‘What gets me is the waste of public money,’ Callie Richards says. ‘You can’t tell me it’ll come cheap, giving those two new names, and who’ll foot the bill? The taxpayer, that’s who.’
Natalie’s inability to remember more than the barest of details frustrates her. She’s battling the flicker of hope in her gut, the one repeating his words to her. I didn’t kill Abby Morgan, Nat. She’s desperate to believe him on one level and yet, on another, it’s easier to brand him a child killer. Safety lies in spurning Mark Slater, in retreating to lick her wounds via singleton status. If she’s alone, she reasons, no man can hurt her the way her father did her mother with his frequent infidelities.
Knowledge is power, so she’s heard, and right now, she’s lacking in power. Time to set that straight. She switches on her computer and does a search on ‘Abby Morgan murder.’ Over three hundred and fifty thousand hits come up. Wikipedia’s top of the list, but she doesn’t click the link. Too dull, the articles always too long, too annotated, to suit Natalie’s tastes. A YouTube link beneath it entitled ‘Yearly Vigil’ catches her attention, and, intrigued, she clicks on it. Seems Michelle Morgan holds a vigil each year at the site of the murder, at the time when her daughter died. This is news to Natalie; she doesn’t remember seeing or hearing anything of this. The blurb gives her the bare facts, with the video link connecting to the latest vigil, the one held last year. Natalie skims through the comments. Most are of the ‘lock them up and throw away the key’ variety.
Her fingers shaking, she clicks on the video link.
Natalie can’t tear her eyes from the screen. Michelle Morgan stands in front of a microphone. The setting’s a field, the weather damp and drizzly. Abby’s mother appears older than her age, more mid-fifties rather than the late forties she must be. She’s of average height, carrying at least ten kilos of excess fat strapped to her belly and thighs. Reddish-hued hair, pulled back in an unkempt ponytail, wisps of which escape around her neck. No make-up. Unlike her face, her clothes are younger than her years, a little too tight, a tad too bright. Green trousers a size too small, a shiny butter-coloured top that strains across her breasts. She’s flanked on her left by a young woman who looks barely out of her teens as well as a man who’s possibly in his late twenties. After having read the blurb accompanying the video, Natalie realises who they are. Rachel and Shaun Morgan, Abby’s older sister and brother. Rachel’s stance is awkward, her shoulders hunched, her hands thrust deep into her jacket pockets. She’s clearly unnerved by the television camera pointed her way. Low self-esteem lurks in her poor posture and frequent glances at her brother, who seems altogether more stoical. He stands tall, immobile, with no discernible expression on his face.
‘It angers me that the two individuals responsible for depriving my family of a cherished daughter are now at liberty, protected by new identities, living their lives in freedom, when my child has been deprived of her own life. Robbed of it in a most brutal and callous fashion.’ Michelle Morgan’s voice is forged from steel, her posture straight and strong, unlike Rachel’s. ‘Where is the justice for the victim? Why did the two boys who murdered my child get food, clothing and education, all at the taxpayer’s expense, when my daughter
‘What gets me is the waste of public money,’ Callie Richards says. ‘You can’t tell me it’ll come cheap, giving those two new names, and who’ll foot the bill? The taxpayer, that’s who.’
Natalie’s inability to remember more than the barest of details frustrates her. She’s battling the flicker of hope in her gut, the one repeating his words to her. I didn’t kill Abby Morgan, Nat. She’s desperate to believe him on one level and yet, on another, it’s easier to brand him a child killer. Safety lies in spurning Mark Slater, in retreating to lick her wounds via singleton status. If she’s alone, she reasons, no man can hurt her the way her father did her mother with his frequent infidelities.
Knowledge is power, so she’s heard, and right now, she’s lacking in power. Time to set that straight. She switches on her computer and does a search on ‘Abby Morgan murder.’ Over three hundred and fifty thousand hits come up. Wikipedia’s top of the list, but she doesn’t click the link. Too dull, the articles always too long, too annotated, to suit Natalie’s tastes. A YouTube link beneath it entitled ‘Yearly Vigil’ catches her attention, and, intrigued, she clicks on it. Seems Michelle Morgan holds a vigil each year at the site of the murder, at the time when her daughter died. This is news to Natalie; she doesn’t remember seeing or hearing anything of this. The blurb gives her the bare facts, with the video link connecting to the latest vigil, the one held last year. Natalie skims through the comments. Most are of the ‘lock them up and throw away the key’ variety.
Her fingers shaking, she clicks on the video link.
Natalie can’t tear her eyes from the screen. Michelle Morgan stands in front of a microphone. The setting’s a field, the weather damp and drizzly. Abby’s mother appears older than her age, more mid-fifties rather than the late forties she must be. She’s of average height, carrying at least ten kilos of excess fat strapped to her belly and thighs. Reddish-hued hair, pulled back in an unkempt ponytail, wisps of which escape around her neck. No make-up. Unlike her face, her clothes are younger than her years, a little too tight, a tad too bright. Green trousers a size too small, a shiny butter-coloured top that strains across her breasts. She’s flanked on her left by a young woman who looks barely out of her teens as well as a man who’s possibly in his late twenties. After having read the blurb accompanying the video, Natalie realises who they are. Rachel and Shaun Morgan, Abby’s older sister and brother. Rachel’s stance is awkward, her shoulders hunched, her hands thrust deep into her jacket pockets. She’s clearly unnerved by the television camera pointed her way. Low self-esteem lurks in her poor posture and frequent glances at her brother, who seems altogether more stoical. He stands tall, immobile, with no discernible expression on his face.
‘It angers me that the two individuals responsible for depriving my family of a cherished daughter are now at liberty, protected by new identities, living their lives in freedom, when my child has been deprived of her own life. Robbed of it in a most brutal and callous fashion.’ Michelle Morgan’s voice is forged from steel, her posture straight and strong, unlike Rachel’s. ‘Where is the justice for the victim? Why did the two boys who murdered my child get food, clothing and education, all at the taxpayer’s expense, when my daughter
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