Free Guilty Innocence by Maggie James Page A

can do without the reminder on today of all days, thank you very much, and he forces his gaze away, back to his now empty coffee cup, purging the memory of the other boy from his mind. Today is about Abby Morgan, not Adam Campbell.
    He leaves the coffee shop and steps out into the pale March sunshine, heading towards the edge of town, not far from the A382. It doesn’t take long for him to reach the scene of the vigil; the route is burned onto his memory. To do so necessitates walking past Abby Morgan’s house again; Mark averts his gaze and picks up his pace, but it’s not enough to stop his heart from squeezing his lungs so he can’t breathe. He stops, head down, gasping, at the top of the lane leading to the field where the vigil will take place. As always, Mark takes comfort in numbers, counting slowly upwards in his head, allowing the soothing digits to melt the iron fist constricting his breath. One, two. Eventually he’s able to carry on, continuing down the lane and across the field to reach the site of the vigil.
    It’s ten minutes to four now, and from what he can see, very few people are attending this year. Most appear to be general onlookers, along with a press photographer and a television crew. Mark has deliberately dressed down, in nondescript clothing, with a hood over his head; he doesn’t think anyone will notice him, though, despite the lack of attendees. Just another curious bystander.
    He positions himself behind the camera crew. To his right, the man he spotted from the cafe window is standing near the press photographer, stamping from one leg to the other, seemingly impatient. Like all of them here, they’re waiting for the Morgan family to arrive. Mark wonders if Matthew Morgan will attend this year, assuming he’s still alive, or whether it’ll be the usual trio of Michelle, Shaun and Rachel.
    It’s a cold March day, despite the sunshine, and Mark shuffles from side to side, hands in his pockets, in an attempt to generate heat. He promises himself a pint and a pub meal on the way back to warm up, regretting not choosing a thicker sweatshirt under his jacket. He doesn’t have to wait long, however. After a few minutes, he’s aware of more noise, and people talking, and dragging his gaze from the ground, he watches as Michelle, Shaun and Rachel arrive.
    It’s one hell of a shock for Mark to see them in person, and panic washes over him again. His chest constricts as the familiar counting starts in his head. Breathe , he tells himself. One, two . Having Abby Morgan’s family in front of him is ten times more intimidating than viewing them on screen from the safety of his sofa. He’s seen Michelle Morgan in the flesh before, of course; she appears in the courtroom every day of his trial. He remembers the way she stares at Jon Campbell, Adam’s father, a gaze some might interpret as accusatory. A challenge to the man whose son killed her daughter, demanding what kind of a parent he thinks he is. Difficult for her to do the same with Joanna Barker, given how his mother attends the trial only when compelled to give evidence.
    Mark forces his gaze back to the scenario in front of him. Michelle takes up her usual position behind the microphone, Shaun to her left, with Rachel next to him, nearest to Mark. He uses the opportunity to get a better look at Abby’s sister. She’s petite, slim, almost doll-like, an image strengthened by her very fair skin and long red hair. Pretty, he thinks, although redheads aren’t to his taste. Glancing across to Michelle’s coppery hair, he can see from where Rachel’s inherited her colouring. She keeps tugging the sleeves of her jacket down, the gesture nervous, slightly panicky. As usual, her expression is tense, unhappy. She’s not someone, Mark decides, who anyone would ever look at and pronounce: she’s got a lot of confidence.
    He switches his attention to Shaun Morgan. A tall guy, probably a tad over six feet, athletic in build. He hasn’t