On this day 5 years ago, the first body was found. Since that day a body has been found every year. Everything changes each year, the victimology, the signature, the MO and COD. Before this, nothing had ever happened on Muck. If I solve this, it’ll be the front page. I’m a journalist, I need this. When I get the front page, I’ll be able to get any job. This could be the worst or best idea I have ever had, but I’m already halfway to Muck, there’s no going back now.

Muck is very small, I don’t know what i was expecting, but it’s tiny. It’s stunning though, the grass is so green. I made my way to the local tea shop where Kevin Craig was going to show me my room. As I made my way I felt eyes on me, I checked my hair, suddenly self conscious. A man was at the entrance.

“I’m Kevin Craig, you must be Olivia Ward” I shake his outstretched hand
“That’s me, sorry I don’t really have time to talk, I’m exhausted?” I lied, I really wanted to start on this story.
“Of course. I’ll show you to your room” We walked up a flight of stairs and all I could smell was tea and chips, lovely. At the top, he opens a strange looking white wooden door. Every other door was black.I felt like Harry Potter, it was tiny. Kevin left and I got to work.

The temperature had clearly dropped overnight. My first stop is to a house belonging to Mrs Helen Taylor. She’s a smiley, welcoming old lady. She’s one of those ladies who would give sweets to random children.

“Mrs Taylor I-” she interrupts me..
“Helen, please my dear” she says with one of those too nice smiles.
“Sorry, Helen, I wonder if you could answer some questions?”
“Of course, on you go” I pull out the pictures of the victims. She studies them carefully “Who are they dear?”. That’s a lie, she knows, I can see it on her face. I drink the tea she made and leave.

That was a waste of time, everyone had the same answer, almost scripted. I have one house left, Mr and Mrs Thomas. Mrs Thomas opens the door.

“Oh you must be Miss Ward. Come out of the cold. You must be frozen” she leads me to the living room where Mr Thomas sits. I show them the same photos, but their response is different

“Oh William, is that not the young boy who lived with Angie last year” Now we’re getting somewhere. They start pointing at pictures naming who they stayed with, all different. It clicks.

“Thank you, but I really must get going” I finish my tea and go to leave. My head weighs me down and I collapse. I can feel a cold piece of metal slice across my neck and I taste blood.

“Thank you doll, I thought it would never be our turn.”

Sarah Farren