The evening sunlight glinted off Howard's metallic hand as he strolled through the gardens of the Oxford campus. His other hand gripped a curly-haired girl's one, fingers laced through hers lazily. They walked in-sync across the lawn, the girl holding a bouquet of white lilies. They stopped by a small bench and sat down.

"Shame they're not for me," said the girl, passing the flowers to Howard, who placed them gently on the bench.

"I'll buy you some on the way home," Howard promised, leaning in for a quick kiss.

"Yes, please. Tulips. They're in season, aren't they?"

She was referring to a patch of red tulips by their bench. Howard nodded, a little distant. He gazed at the plaque on the bench – the girl noticed this and patted his hand.

"All right, How." She stood up, brushed herself down. "I'll give you some time alone."

Howard nodded, grateful. It never ceased to amaze him how his girlfriend could read his mind.

"Ok, Serena, see you at home."

"Later." She kissed him gently on the cheek and he watched her amble away fondly. Then he turned back to the plaque and read its inscription that was so familiar to him.

In memory of Cheryl 'Chevy' Jones and William Coyle,

Caring, dedicated students,

1988-2020

Rest in peace.

He sat there for a while, watching the buzz of the university all around him. The sun extended its last rays on the lawn and on the groups of students clumped together to enjoy the evening sunshine.

Howard never thought he'd make it to Oxford but Eleanor had encouraged him. She was the one who'd helped him search for psychology degrees and taken him to the campus open day. He'd fallen in love with it at once – loved the historic buildings that seemed to reign over them all.

After he first woke up at the hospital, he spent a few weeks recovering until they discharged him. The police came and informed on what happened at the house – while Howard had been smashing the window, Eleanor had managed to break a leg off the wooden frame of her bed. But neither Will nor Carabella had been interested in harming her, said the police. Carabella had gone straight to the window for Howard, Will took one look at the Eleanor and turned round. He'd headed straight to his room, injected himself with a syringe, and they found him dead a few minutes later of a heroin overdose.

Once the police had gone, his father took Howard home, let him clear his head for a few days, and then the police informed them that they wanted a statement. Howard had given them everything – he left no detail out. He gave them the recording on his phone, they confirmed it matched Eleanor's one, and he agreed that the diary and pills they laid out on the table in front of him were, in fact, the same as the ones he'd thrown out of the window.

They didn't charge him with anything. He hadn't murdered the farmer, they'd said. Neither had Eleanor killed Jonathan.

Eleanor had moved to London in search of a job. She'd ended up as an accountant in the city, something that, along with the money Jonathan had left behind, had allowed her to buy a large house in Chelsea overlooking the river. She'd decided to sell Tenningway House – it was too full of nightmares, they both agreed. She'd sold it to a loving family who would look after it, maybe cut back the overgrown garden, she'd hoped.

But that was two years ago. Howard ran his hand along his thick stubble and smiled. Long gone were the days of wispy hairs and shaving for the sake of looking old. Long gone was the boy with the scrawny face and dark, mussed hair that never stayed flat. Long gone was the seventeen-year-old who cried in pubs, who was too scared to order a beer, who allowed hot tea to be thrown on him, who clambered out of windows instead of going inside and fighting for his life. Long gone was the Howard he hated.

He breathed in the cool evening air that brought with it the sweet smell of chocolate from the pop-up stall someone had set up a few metres away. It reminded him of the smell of hot chocolate and suddenly he was seventeen again, huddled over a cup of it in the strange café in Penzance near to where Carabella had shot the farmer. He still dreamed about that night sometimes, but less than before. He hoped it meant his mind was healing.

Without thinking, Howard walked to the stall. A boy with a lopsided grin served him.

"A hot chocolate," blurted out Howard.

He paid, his prothetic hand awkwardly fumbling with the money. He caught the boy staring a little too long at his metal hand but didn't mind this time. He rather liked being a cyborg. Serena said it gave him an edge in the same way Captain Hook's hooked hand did.

The boy gave him the drink in a styrofoam cup, and he retreated to the bench with the lilies. It was getting dark and people were beginning to head inside but Howard stayed a little while longer, sipping on his steaming chocolate that warmed his cold body.

When the last sun rays had gone, Howard tipped down the last dregs and threw away the cup. Then he carefully picked a tulip for Serena and headed home.