The Beauty Is in the Walking by James Moloney

‘Can I talk to the class for a minute?’
    He glanced up at the clock on the wall, then back at me. ‘Go right ahead.’
    Oh crap. I was back in Year Four when it was my turn for morning talk. I’d hated it back then and made my class squirm with how bad I was while all the time swaying around on legs that made me doubly self-conscious.
    â€˜I want to tell you what’s happening this afternoon,’ I began. ‘Maybe some of you would like to join in.’
    In front of kids who weren’t closely connected to me in some way, I didn’t have the nerve to come straight out with the word ‘protest’. They’d heard me say something about joining in, though, and eyed me with a mixture of boredom and suspicion in case I was asking them to collect for a charity.
    I was learning the hard way what a difference there is between an enthusiastic idea and actually getting something done. Chloe stared up at me from the front row and I fed on her natural self-confidence, hoping it would become my own – in fact, maybe I should tell them Chloe had already agreed to be part of it.
    No, a voice shouted in my head, she’s not one of the popular crowd. ‘Dan Latchworth is part of it and Bec Wiley,’ I said instead. Those two were liked across all of Year Twelve, as the lift in interest showed.
    I became more aware of Chloe, almost in touching distance, and worried I was denying her, when this chance to enlist more help from my class wouldn’t be happening without her. ‘Chloe, too,’ I added, nodding down at her, and saying that gave me a boost I hadn’t anticipated.
    An expectant air filled the classroom by this time – behind me, I sensed Svenson had stopped reading whatever he’d been checking over to listen. Without planning it the way a great orator would, maybe, I’d managed to intrigue them all by holding back what the hell I was on about. Time to tell them.
    â€˜It’s about the picture in this morning’s paper – the policeman with the knife in a plastic bag. Even if you didn’t see it, you’ve probably heard about it. You know where it came from, too – one of the Muslim families that moved here for the meatworks and you’d only be like everyone else if you were pretty sure by now that Mahmoud Rais is The Ripper. That’s his name,’ I said quickly, when a few faces seemed confused. ‘He’s the brother of Soraya, who’s normally sitting at that desk by the wall for this lesson. I guess we all know why it’s empty today.’
    Pointing out the empty desk stirred up memories of Soraya at the centre of feminine laughter whenever Svenson was late for class. The girls liked her and from that moment I picked out the girls in the class especially as I spoke. I was connecting, too, if the serious way they returned my gaze was anything to judge by. Hey, they were actually listening to me.
    I stopped worrying about the dribble from the corner of my mouth and let the years of therapy do its work. Slowly, letting the words come when my tongue was ready, I said, ‘The police are barking up the wrong tree and here’s why.’
    I described my afternoon exploring the school’s boundary and made a huge thing of the time discrepancy when Mahmoud was seen – with his little brother – and the time of Charlotte’s death.
    The faces before me had lost their blankness and many were leaning forwards, eager for what I’d say next. This had never happened before when I’d been speaking to a group and so I’d never understood what an inspiration it could be for a speaker. Ideas were coming from everywhere now and I found myself saying, ‘If the police spend their time checking out the wrong person, then they’re not looking for the real Ripper and that’s bad for the town, don’t you agree? The trail will go cold and eventually there’ll be another attack like the