Who’d have thought this is how his life would end: one minute walking across the heath, bent into the wind, then a sudden blow to the skull. The place was deserted, apart from a few kids near a distant church, flying kites.

Ben fell backwards onto the grass and watched as white clouds scudded overhead. He couldn’t move; sensed only the few moments left, as his lifeblood drained into the black earth.

Ben knew what they’d say; could almost hear them now. There’d been no excuse for the affair with his best friend’s wife. Of course they excused themselves, blamed their overwhelming passion. Whatever it was, it made them lose all sense of time, place and loyalty.

But who’d have thought the old man would take his revenge? Who’d have thought he had it in him - not just the strength, but the cunning.

He must have watched for days, then picked the right spot, up here on the heath, where Ben took his mid-day stroll.

The attack came from behind, the noise of footsteps muffled and carried away by the gusts. The blow once dealt, he’d made his escape.

Ben heard faint cries, carried on the wind. He thought of seagulls and a turning tide; shingle beneath his feet.

As darkness closed in, he didn’t see the boy run towards him, although he felt a vibration in the earth. He made no answer when the voice sang out: ‘Please, Mister, can I have my kite back?’