The wanted murderer L.S.

Hillside House.

"What is that-" Harry said, looking at the sandwich Louis had made for himself.

Louis-sat on Harry's sofa with a plate on his lap
-examined the sandwich as if he'd forgotten what he'd just put in it. "Ah-Ham, jelly babies, blueberry sorbet, chocolate sprinkles, and a stick of string cheese."

"How delightful.." Harry said, sitting on the chair opposite the sofa, "Anyway, what have you been up to since the last time we saw each other?"

Louis put his plate on the table, and took a moment to respond, as he quickly became distracted by the criminology magazine and the half-working torch sitting there. Harry waited patiently, and Louis looked up to say, "I finished school! I did my exams last week. Again."

Harry smiled, "Are you going to university next year?" to which Louis nodded, "To study what?"

Louis lifted the magazine, "Criminology! I want to be a detective!"
"I'm happy to hear it." Harry said, sipping his tea, "Your lecturers will love you, I'll bet my money on it."

"I just hope that it won't be too hard because I'm really, really bad at school. I'm good at things I'm interested in, I'm not academically smart."

"You'll be alright." Harry said, "University's nothing like school."

Louis rocked back and forth excitedly, picking up his mug of tea when Harry gestured to it. Harry watched him drink it, eyes following the cup as it was placed back onto the table to check that the tea had gone down.

"You know, you look different to how you did before." He said, "You've been in the sun-you're nice and rosy now. Like a human sunflower.."
"Is that a good or a bad thing?"
"Good."
"Oh. You look-uh.. What happened to your face?"

Harry, who'd seemingly forgotten the aching cuts and bruises on his face, raised an eyebrow.
"Little fight; it's not that bad."

"With Jack?"
"Mn. No one else would dare to do this. Not with me."

Louis opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again.

"Ask me." Harry said, "Ask what you want to know. You want to know who he is, don't you?" Louis nodded, "Yes."
"Well.. I don't know the answer, Louis.

Louis blinked at Harry. There was no change of expression, not even the slightest one. Harry's face told him nothing. "What do you mean?"

Harry shrugged and glanced over to the cat sitting in the whicker basket on the television. She was scratching at the screen, so Harry threw a ball of wool in her direction.
"Ginger." He said, "Behave."
The cat stopped, and he turned back to Louis.
"No one knows who he is; even he claims not to.
His identity is one the village parish council was instructed to give him. His name, age, and all that are either fake or guessed."

Louis frowned and pulled the large tartan blanket that was draped on the sofa over himself.
He tucked his knees up to his chest and asked,
"How did he get here?"

Harry uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way, "He was guessed to be about seven when my mom found him passed out in the middle of the road with a broken wrist and twisted ankle. There was no sign of how he got there, or when, or where he'd come from before it. Aliens could've spat him out for all we knew. Naturally, he was taken to the station, but they couldn't find who he was; nor had anyone reported a missing person's case. My mom took him in, in case anyone came back, but no one ever did. A few months went by, and the parish council decided that it was best for Jack to stay and attend the village school."

"But.?" Louis asked, reading the warnings behind Harry's eyes.

"But the boy began to act strangely. At first, it was little things that no one noticed besides me. He began to grip his dining utensils with an unnerving amount of force. He cut up bugs and kept them in his bedside table. He began to follow people around, in the house and the village, as if he was stalking them almost. Knives and scissors were constantly found in a different place from where they'd been left."