Kevin soon got wise to the 'creative craft' too, and by the nest session, he was ignoring them, no matter how much poster paint and pipe cleaners he was plied with. He would plonk himself onto the floor or a stool, and prepare himself for the pointless hours of attempts to coax him to talk.

Kevin started to attend Roarke's Sunday School, which worried me. They were both quite taken with each other, and I hoped Roarke wouldn't be interested in our son in any paedophilic way. One day, I got a call out of the blue. It was Roarke.

"Mrs. Miller, I need you to come down to the Church, I need to talk to you about your son."

I cleared my throat, ready to bombard him with "No I'm sorry Father, Kevin can't come to extended Church class or anything like that, he gets a lot of maths homework now.."

"I'm worried…" broke Roarke's voice. Oh God, what had Kevin done, smashed a few candle holders? Surely he wouldn't play the fool in his beloved Church? Why does he have to build things up, and take them away from himself?

"I think you should come right away." The phone went dead.

Father Roarke squirmed uncomfortably.

"I usually have to stay true to my oath," he blushed. "But this level of confession from an eight year old boy.."

"Oh God, what has he done?"

"Well, Mrs. Miller, it's a dead man, you see…"

"What?! My son is a murderer?!" I hauled myself off my pew and into a side room, where Kevin was playing with model sheep from a nativity scene, demure in his Church. Roarke followed.

"Kevin, what have you DONE?!" I asked, shaking him.

He went doe-eyed and stupid. "Well you see, mummy…" He was never like this, that high-pitched little voice. This was for the benefit of Roarke, a show. "The man, he died in our garden."

My eyes were popping from my head.

"If I may step in, Mrs. Miller. It was a homeless man, that's what I understand from talking to Kevin. He was very drunk, and Kevin found him tangled up in the weeds."

Yes, that was very possible. There was a sharp, weedy bank where the body could have lay.

"Well? AND?!" I asked sharply.

"Well Kevin…He ATE a little bit of the man, I'm afraid, Mrs. Miller."

"What?" I asked, bemused.

"Just a bit of his leg, mummy."

I hauled Kevin away and spanked the crap out of him until I was drained.

Kevin was unphased that Roarke had told me. He didn't seem to view it as a betrayal of trust. Long story short, the 'eating' continued. Kevin would snack on cadavers, somehow finding them in alleys on the way to school, eating unknown. The confessions to Roarke continued. By the time he was 12, Kevin was getting sloppy, and the blood rinds in his long nails and caked around his mouth betrayed where his lust lay. I no longer wanted him in my care. Surprise, surprise, Roarke adopted him, all legal. (And moving on up, he became a cardinal) Kevin even took on the family name, Roarke.

Kevin Roarke.