They were waiting for him at the hostel when the van dropped him and the others off at the end of the day’s work. Serena Flanagan wasn’t there; instead, it was the younger policewoman, the one who had stood at the door and taken notes the night before. Her and two policemen in uniforms. She said something about rights as one of the policemen bound Ciaran’s hands behind his back, the metal of the cuffs digging into his wrists. Ciaran kept quiet as the other boys watched. Mr Wheatley stood in his office doorway, looking at the floor. Ciaran stayed quiet as he was led away, put in the back of the car, driven to the station in Antrim, the same one they took him to seven years ago. They swapped his clothes for the same navy blue sweatshirt and bottoms, the same plimsolls, but a better fit now. They told him DCI Flanagan would be with him presently. Ciaran tingled at the idea. Now he waits quietly. The door opens, startling him.
