Secrets - They Say I Fled

They say a group of teenagers saw me on the field that August Bank Holiday Monday.

One called over, asked if I was all right. I didn't answer, apparently. Just continued stumbling in the direction of home, sweat dripping from my face. The teenagers didn't hang around. They assumed I had sunstroke. If I had seen myself, I would have probably thought the same.
          
Others noticed me wandering along the main road towards the estate where we lived. Drinkers in the pub watched me stagger like a drunk. I continued walking. Up the hill, through a ginnel, past the church. Down the hill, along alleyways of back-to-front houses, to the car park at the bottom of the estate. 
           
Dad was out with your dad that afternoon. They say your mother saw me and came out. 'Where's Craig?' she said. 'What happened, Alan?' 

They say I muttered two words. 
           
A name.
 
***
A man went to prison. 

A local, Vince Macarthur.

End of story.

So I thought.
 
***
Anyway, Macarthur's free after sixteen years, and I receive another of those notes done on a portable typewriter with fading black ink. You know, the old-fashioned sort of typewriter that makes a clackety-clack-clack din and predates the electronic typewriter. The note comes through my door shortly before dawn.            

Liar. You'll get your commupance in the end, you watch.