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Dedication

To my Brodie Boys:

You know who you are.

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1

1

September 1981

Dear Mousey,

Fun Facts About Murder: Use Coca-Cola to clean up blood spills. The combination of ascorbic acid and carbonated water actually digests the blood, leaving no trace of evidence.

Not that I’m planning a murder. But it is an interesting subject. Unlike most of the subjects I will be studying this term—Maths; Latin; English; French. Actually I do like English. But the reading list is awful. To Kill a Mockingbird; Chaucer; Barry Hines. And Shakespeare. Always Shakespeare. Why can’t we read something fun, for a change? Something with a bit of bite?

Still, you’d have been proud today. I didn’t give myself away. Never tell tales, never cry, and never give yourself away. That’s what it takes to do well at school. That and being cool, of course. Which is why no one will ever suspect that I am writing this diary. A diary isn’t cool. Diaries are for sissies and girls. A diary gives everything away, which is why I’m going to write my thoughts in a place my parents will never look. My new St. Oswald’s Prep diary, handed out this morning on the first day of the Michaelmas (autumn) term. Hiding my story in plain sight, like a corpse at a graveside.

They never look at my schoolwork, except for the bit in red at the end. AAA: the row of tents. As long as those tents are there, it’s fine. And my form master will never look. I can tell that already. Mr. Straitley, Quaz to the School. That’s short for Quasimodo, because he looks like a gargoyle and lives in the Bell Tower. I think that’s supposed to be a joke. It doesn’t seem very funny to me. In fact, Mr. Straitley scares me a bit. I don’t think I’m going to like him.

Back at my old school, Netherton Green, my teacher was Miss McDonald. She was blond, and pretty, and young, and wore Indian skirts and ankle boots. Mr. Straitley wears a cape, like all the other teachers. But his is dusty and covered in chalk. He calls us by our surnames. We all go by our surnames here. It’s one of those St. Oswald’s rules, like not running in corridors, and never leaving your shirt untucked.