Raphie entered the interrogation room as though he was entering his living room and was about to settle himself on his couch with his feet up for the day. There was nothing threatening about his demeanour whatsoever. Despite his height of six foot two, he fell short of filling the space his physical body took up. His head was, as usual, bent over in contemplation, his eyebrows mirroring the angle by dropping to cover his pea-sized eyes. The top of his back was slightly hunched, as though he carried a small shell as shelter. On his belly was an even bigger shell. In one hand was a Styrofoam cup, in the other his half-drunk NYPD mug of coffee.

      The Turkey Boy glanced at the mug in Raphie’s hand. ‘Cool. Not.’

      ‘So is throwing a turkey through a window.’

      The boy smirked at the sentence and started chewing on the end of the string on his hooded top.

      ‘What made you do that?’

      ‘My dad’s a prick.’

      ‘I gathered it wasn’t a Christmas gift for being father of the year. What made you think of the turkey?’

      He shrugged. ‘My mam told me to take it out of the freezer,’ he offered, as if by way of explanation.

      ‘So how did it get from the freezer to the floor of your dad’s house?’

      ‘I carried it most of the way, then it flew the rest.’ He smirked again.

      ‘When were you planning on having dinner?’

      ‘At three.’

      ‘I meant what day. It takes a minimum of twenty-four hours of defrosting time for every five pounds of turkey. Your turkey was fifteen pounds. You should have taken the turkey out of the freezer three days ago if you intended on eating it today.’

      ‘Whatever, Ratatouille.’ He looked at Raphie like he was crazy. ‘If I’d stuffed it with bananas too would I be in less trouble?’

      ‘The reason I mention it, is because if you had taken it out when you should have, it wouldn’t have been hard enough to go through a window. That may sound like planning to a jury, and no, bananas and turkey isn’t a clever recipe.’

      ‘I didn’t plan it!’ he squealed, and his age showed.

      Raphie drank his coffee and watched the young teenager.

      The boy looked at the cup before him and ruffled his nose. ‘I don’t drink coffee.’

      ‘Okay.’ Raphie lifted the Styrofoam cup from the table and emptied the contents into his mug. ‘Still warm. Thanks. So, tell me about this morning. What were you thinking, son?’

      ‘Unless you’re the other fat bastard whose window I threw a bird through, then I’m not your son. And what’s this, a therapy session or interrogation? Are you charging me with something or what?’

      ‘We’re waiting to hear whether your dad is going to press charges.’

      ‘He won’t.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘He can’t. I’m under sixteen. So if you just let me go now, you won’t waste any of your time.’

      ‘You’ve already wasted a considerable amount of it.’

      ‘It’s Christmas Day, I doubt there’s much else for you to do around here.’ He eyed Raphie’s stomach. ‘Other than eat doughnuts.’

      ‘You’d be surprised.’

      ‘Try me.’

      ‘Some idiot kid threw a turkey through a window this morning.’

      He rolled his eyes and looked at the clock on the wall, ticking away. ‘Where are my parents?’

      ‘Wiping grease off their floor.’

      ‘They’re not my parents,’ he spat. ‘At least, she’s not my mother. If she comes with him to collect me, I’m not going.’

      ‘Oh, I doubt very much that they’ll come to take you home with them.’ Raphie reached into his pocket and took out a chocolate sweet. He unwrapped it slowly, the wrapper rustling in the quiet room. ‘Did you ever notice the strawberry ones are always the last ones left over in the tin?’ He smiled before popping it in his mouth.

      ‘I bet nothing’s ever left in the tin when you’re around.’

      ‘Your father and his partner –’

      ‘Who, for the record,’ Turkey Boy interrupted Raphie and leaned close to the recording device, ‘is a whore.’

      ‘They may pay us a visit to press charges.’

      ‘Dad wouldn’t do that.’ He swallowed, his eyes puffy with frustration.

      ‘He’s thinking about it.’

      ‘No he’s not,’ the boy whined. ‘If he is it’s probably because she’s making him. Bitch.’

      ‘It’s more probable that he’ll do it because it’s now snowing in his living room.’

      ‘Is it snowing?’ He looked like a child again, eyes wide with hope.

      Raphie sucked on his sweet. ‘Some people just bite right into chocolate; I much prefer to suck it.’

      ‘Suck on this.’ The Turkey