"RODGER!"
The blood-curdling scream reverberated throughout the sullen surroundings of Wool's Orphanage, as did the hasty footsteps of those alerted by it. A horde of malnourished looking children ran as swiftly as their skinny legs could carry them to the scene of the disturbance, only to recoil and wish they hadn't been so eager. A particularly shabby looking girl in an oversized, drab sweater clung to her dusty faced sibling, tears brewing in her innocent eyes as they feasted upon the cause of the commotion: as nauseating and terrible as it was, she could not bring herself to look away.
Hanging limply from the rafters directly above the now sobbing figure of little Billy Stubbs was the only source of colour in the monotonous building. The corpse of a once white bunny, now embellished with glistening crimson, was suspended from a thin rope around its neck, drops of freshly spilt blood still dripping in a sickening rhythm to the distraught boy below.
A few paces behind the children staggered an equally wispy looking woman, her forehead creased with permanent anxiety. When Mrs Cole spoke, the unmistakable smell of gin – her alcoholic coping mechanism - lingered on her breath.
"What in the Lord's name is-"
Before she could finish, Mrs Cole's gaze had ascended to the focus of the young residents. Instinctively, a pale hand rose to her mouth as it to prevent the simultaneous involuntary gasp that escaped it.
"Children, I think you have seen quite enough. Let's be off with you!"
After a few moments, in the strongest voice she could muster, Mrs Cole broke the heavy silence penetrated only by Billy's weeping and the constant addition of droplets to the brilliantly red pool. The orphans were at last torn from their trances and looked around, relishing in their chance to scamper away from the spectacle they had, mere seconds before, been so keen to see. Only Billy seemed not to hear her.
Tentatively, Mrs Cole edged towards the singularly remaining child. She had looked after Billy for all six years of his life, and naturally felt a certain maternity towards him. The boy had been inseparable from the rabbit since he rescued it from an adder on the previous year's annual excursion. Unsure of the best or, indeed, the most appropriate method of consoling him, she settled for crouching down to his level and placing a hand firmly on his small shoulder.
"There there," She cooed in a shallow attempt to sooth him – a task hindered immensely by the persistent trickle of blood, "Rodger's in a better place now. No use crying over spilt milk. Come on, let's get you a nice hot drink. We'll ask Geoffrey to get the ladders out in the morning so we can bury him..."
Her insincerely calm voice trailed off as she scooped the child to his feet and shepherded him away. Though still shaking with no-longer audible emotion, Billy made no attempt to resist.
It was not often that the events at the orphanage shocked Mrs Cole. Having worked and lived at Wool's Orphanage for the best part of two decades, the normal trials and tribulations of youths had become quite routine. Even the antics of the most damaged of orphans in her care seldom dazed her. But this was not normal. This was something else entirely. It was on that basis alone that she knew who was responsible.
Drawing her own sunken eyes away from the mutilated creature ten feet above, and the distressing sight underneath, Mrs Cole scanned the throng of infants scurrying away from the scene. Out of the eighteen residents, only five had not emerged: Jack Carter, who she had last seen building a den in the far reaches of the garden despite the torrential rain, Martha Prowick, who had been deaf since birth, Robert and Raymond Baley, twins bedridden with a nasty cause of chicken pox, and Tom Riddle.