Chapters (93)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Prologue
- Chapter 1
- Part One
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Part Two
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Part Three
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Part Four
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Part Five
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Part Six
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Part Seven
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Part Eight
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Reading Group Guide
- About the Author
- Copyright
And then, the day before New Year’s Eve, came the news that a boy had disappeared. Not in the local press this time, but in The Times, and on TV, on Nationwide and the nine o’clock news. At four fifteen or thereabouts, a teenage boy had disappeared on his way home from White City, barely half a mile away.
No one had seen anything suspicious. No one knew where the boy might have gone. Last seen at a corner shop, where Mill Lane turns into Parkside Road, he’d stopped to buy a bottle of Fanta, and then had apparently disappeared from the face of the planet—
The boy was Charlie Nutter. And he had last been seen less than a hundred yards away from Harry’s house on Parkside Road, just over from the clay pits.
Part Four
PART FOUR
Fama volat.
—VERGIL
Chapter 1
1
December 1981
So that was Christmas, Mousey. Old films; Queen’s Speech; dinner in front of the TV. It’s okay, unless you’re used to a higher level of excitement. And then there’s the way you have to pretend that you’re having a brilliant time; opening presents; reading cards; pretending they’re just what you wanted. The new bike on the front porch that you have to pretend is such a surprise. The money from your grandparents in a reused envelope, with a card that looks as if it came from a secondhand shop in the fifties. And then there’s the turkey, dried to a crisp, and the pudding, and the mince pies; and the carol service in the Church, with the red-haired Mulberry girl wearing a long white nightgown and singing “Little Donkey.”
I’ve not seen Poodle or Goldie much. Poodle’s had some trouble at home. Doesn’t surprise me, really. He never could keep a secret. Anyway, his Condition now seems to be public knowledge, thanks to his mother. Seems she found some of Poodle’s drawings, hidden inside a schoolbook. It didn’t take long to get him to confess, and then it was just a matter of time.