My swansong needed to be someone special. And when I saw a boy with dark-blond curls, a freckled nose and cheeks, walking home alone from school, I instantly knew I had found who I was looking for. He was the spitting image of my brother George. And for the first time in all these years, this child’s circumstances were of no consequence. I was not trying to save him from anything. His death was a selfish one. I killed him because I wanted to.
