David reached the bottom of the 103 steep steps. Getting down was easy—climbing back up—that was the hard part. He stepped onto the damp sand, his footsteps slowing as they sank slightly with every stride. The wind was lighter down here, sheltered by the cliffs, but he didn’t notice.

  The sun remained bright, with overhead clouds promising rain. He walked on—resolute, slow, steady, head down—towards the boy, trying to summon his rage.

  The boy was a long way off, crouched at the edge of a rock pool where the tide had left behind shallow puddles and tiny marine worlds. The women—his mum and the other one, probably his gran—sat chatting on a blanket. The rest of the beach was deserted, as always in March.

  David glanced over and saw the older one notice him. He looked away. He hated her—for no reason. Keep going. Build the rage. Don’t stop. Do it, he told himself over and over.

  The wind carried sounds unevenly across the beach; the sound of the ocean was prevalent, with a few seagulls circling above. Closer now, he saw that the boy looked smaller than he’d expected—definitely younger. Maybe three inches shorter. Too small? Too young? Doubt flickered. He pushed it away.

  Chris didn’t notice David at first. He was too busy peering into a rock pool, net resting casually beside him, his face inches from the water. David reached him and hesitated. “Hi,” he said, trying to sound casual, friendly—just another boy on the beach. Inside, the rage was building.

  Chris looked up and smiled. “Hi!”

  No hesitation. Just easy, childlike friendliness. The kind of honest, open look that made adults say what a lovely boy he was. Chris stood up, brushing sand from his hands, still smiling.

  “I’ve found loads of crabs,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Some tiny ones, but there’s a massive one in that pool over there with really big claws. Do you want me to show you?” He lifted his long fishing net, pointing towards a deeper pool.

  David nodded, staying quiet. Letting him talk. Luring him in. They walked a few metres together, David trailing just behind, mind racing. There’s no reason to do this. He’s nice. But I will. Inside, David cried.

  Chris knelt by the pool again. “It’s massive. Like, properly massive. I didn’t try to catch it, though. Don’t want to hurt them. I just like watching.”

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  “Have you been collecting them?” David asked in a plain tone, trying to provoke something. He didn’t care about crabs—he just needed an excuse to get started. To strike that first punch.

  “Oh no,” said Chris brightly. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Good,” David muttered, unsure where to take it next. He decided to go for it. “I think you’re a twat.”

  Chris looked confused. “Oh. Sorry,” he said, unsure what he’d done.

  “Collecting crabs is evil, you wanker,” David snarled, trying to sound menacing.

  “I haven’t, honest. No crabs collected. I’m sorry.” Chris’s openness had gone, replaced with uncertainty, early fear—voice thin, eyes wide—that drove David forward.

  “Oh, shut the hell up. You need a slapping.” David edged closer, the bravado boiling up. Left jab, left jab, right to the gut—just like in the films. This wasn’t bullying. This was training. This was preparation. This was finally doing something.

  Chris backed up. “What—what’s wrong?” he asked, stammering.

  David didn’t answer. He stepped in and threw the first left jab.

  Chris moved—not far enough, though. The punch half caught his cheek, and it hurt. David felt the slight sting as his knuckles ran across Chris’s cheekbone. He cursed inside. Fuck. That was pathetic.

  Stick to the plan. Second jab. Closer. Chris was trying to back away. “Don’t run, you little twat!” David shouted, jabbing again.

  This time it hit clean—straight into Chris’s left eye. Chris stumbled back in pain. He nearly went down but managed to stay upright, arms flailing. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!” he screamed, loud and desperate.

  David’s pulse thudded. Adrenaline had kicked in; the doubt had gone. He looked around and spied that the old ladies had noticed. One of them was already rising.

  One more punch. One more. To the gut. Chris was crying and still screaming. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

  David ran at him, closing the gap, and launched a right hook to the stomach.

  Chris’s arms came up again—frantic, defensive, flailing. The punch came through—not full strength, not perfect—but enough to make contact. Enough to hurt. David’s hand throbbed as he pulled it back from Chris’s stomach. As he did so, one of Chris’s flailing arms caught him across the cheek.

  The slap didn’t hurt, but the insult of it—the fear striking back—lit a fuse.

  “You hit me? You little fuck!” screamed David. He surged forward, ready for a fourth blow—

  “Fuck off! Go on, fuck off, you little sod!” The voice came from behind, full of rage. The old lady was charging towards him, arms waving, trying to scare him away. Chris was behind her now, sobbing, clutching his tummy and trying to scramble away.

  Nana grabbed a pebble mid-run and hurled it at David. It spun awkwardly, sailing wide.

  David froze just long enough to realise it was over. “Fuck you!” he spat at the lady and turned—running hard across the sand, past the pools and back to the steps. Behind him, both women crouched around Chris, fussing, wrapping arms around him, shielding him.

  “Fuck you!” David shouted again for no reason as he climbed the stairs, holding back his own tears, up to the cliff top, into town, down the back lanes, keeping himself hidden.