No one will believe this was an accident. He stares in fascination at the crimson river staining his hands. This is bad. So, so bad. Better get rid of the evidence.

Quietly, he opens his bedroom door and listens. The voices he hears are deep in the bowels of the house. Far enough away for him to risk it. He edges out of the room, creeps to the bathroom, grabbing all the tissues and towels he can carry.

Trying to clean it just makes it worse. He scrubs hard, increasingly frustrated as it spreads and stains. It soaks through his trousers making them stick to his skin. He wants to cry.

The voices are closer now, he hears them coming up the stairs. What should he do? Heart exploding with panic, his eyes dart around the room, desperately searching. No more time. He has to hide. He holds his breath, trying not to make a sound. Trying to be invisible.

The women stare in confusion at what they are seeing. Fresh, dripping handprints smearing the wall, glistening rudely red in the overhead light. Footsteps marking a trail between bathroom and bedroom. What is going on?

They push the bedroom door open and flick the switch. The horror of the scene is evident in their wide eyes and shocked gasps.

'Charley Davidson, what have you done?' his mum exclaims. 'Come here right now!'

A curly, four-year-old head peeps out from under the bed.

'There's paint everywhere! Oh Charley, you've ruined the carpet. And my good towels too!'

'Wasn't me,' he mumbles.