And yes: perhaps I needed it too. It’s not my fault; my Condition means that sometimes I just do these things. And sometimes, yes—I go too far. But if God made me, which my dad and everyone else at Church seem to think—then I guess it’s God’s fault I’m this way. You can take it up with Him.

Poodle was looking at Ratboy again. “Bastard Sunnybanker.”

“We need to teach him a lesson,” I said.

I was looking at Ratboy too, but I was thinking of Poodle.

Poodle looked at me doubtfully. “How?”

I explained what we would do. The Pit Shaft wasn’t far away. If we could get him to come to the edge, to look into the water—

“It’ll be all right,” I said. “We’ll pull him out—eventually.”

Poodle looked uncertain. “No way. Ziggy, he’ll kill us. He’s crazy.”

“No,” I said. “He’ll be soaking wet. Anyway, it’s two to one. He’ll know that he can’t mess with us, and he’ll never come here again.”

Poodle bit his finger. “You’ll stay with me? You promise?” he said.

“’Course I will. I promise.”

“Okay.”

Still keeping his eyes on Ratboy, he started to move toward the pit. Ratboy didn’t turn round. The sound of the bonfire was still too loud.

“Stand by the edge. Right there,” I said. “Then we’ll call him over.”

“What are we going to say?”

I shrugged. “Say you saw a body in there. Pretend you can see it floating.”

Poodle shivered.

“Come on,” I said. “Look as if you’ve spotted it. Just a little further—”

And that was what happened, Mousey. I honestly didn’t mean it to happen that way. Well, of course I meant it, but not the way it turned out. That was an accident. Not my fault. The best-laid plans of mice and men—

Which brings us back to you, Mousey.

Chapter 4

4

September 20, 2005

How do criminals manage their guilt? I arrived at St. Oswald’s today fully expecting to find the police waiting for me in the Bell Tower, ready to accuse me of the theft of the Middle School Honours Boards. In fact, after a fitful night’s sleep, I had become so convinced of this that I had already prepared a short speech, to be delivered on the occasion of my arrest.

Not that I felt guilty, no. But I was convinced that my countenance would reveal my crime, and so I was slightly taken aback to find not the police but Devine at my door, looking annoyed, and carrying a brightly coloured garden gnome.

“Straitley, a word,” he said.