“Charlie Nutter is a troubled young man,” said Mrs. Harrington at last. “Much as we sympathize, we don’t think Johnny should be spending too much time with him. He has—”

“Demons?” I suggested, and smiled.

“Quite,” said Mrs. Harrington.

Chapter 4

4

September 16, 2005

Ira furor brevis est. Rage is a brief insanity. My anger over the Head’s refusal to allow Harry’s memorial service had not cooled overnight, but it had become a little more cautious. Thus this morning I arrived at Harrington’s office at seven fifteen, to find him already in there, pouring a cup of coffee from the espresso machine in the corner and looking fresh and guileless.

Some men do not change very much from the teenage boy they used to be. Harrington has grown, of course, but the essentials remain the same. The smooth blond hair; good skin; the suit that might have come from a fashion magazine. I caught the briefest glimpse of his unguarded expression before the politician’s smile appeared, stretching over his features like a cartoon mask.

“Mr. Straitley! Please, come in.”

That was disingenuous. His deliberate use of my surname—inviting me to ask him to call me Roy, or seem churlish in not doing so—the smug, proprietary way in which he gestured toward the chair positioned in front of the Headmaster’s desk—the blotter still scarred by repeated explosions from Shitter Shakeshafte’s torpedo pen—oh, he was a politician, all right; smarter than most politicians, double-dipped in a toxic brew of arrogance and sanctity.

“I’m sorry you had to come in so early,” he said. “There are so many things to do. Good thing I need so little sleep.”

He poured me a cup of coffee in the Head’s own china. “I’d be lost without my espressos,” he said. “Beats the staff-room brew any day.”

He waited for me to take it. Finally, I did. It would have been foolish not to; but the thought that he had manipulated me, even in such a small way as to accept an unsolicited cup of coffee, was enough to make my heart notch up, and the invisible finger prodded me admonishingly.

I sat in the chair in front of the desk. “You should call me Roy,” I said. “Don’t tell me I intimidate you, after all these years.”

He smiled. “Is anyone ever really at ease calling an old schoolmaster by his Christian name? But I was never shy with you. I always respected you very much.”

Really. How utterly warming, I thought.

“That’s why I wanted to see you today, even though I know what you want, and you know why I can’t give it to you.”

I sipped my espresso. It was too strong, and would have me running to the bathroom all morning. At my age, these things matter; besides, my legs are not as spry as they were twenty-four years ago. A bathroom visit takes planning and time.