“I don’t think we always appreciate the impact we have on these young minds.” That was Dr. Blakely, finally finding the courage to speak. With his lashless, fishy eyes, he looked like a trout in the headlights. “The psychological scarring caused by public shaming can be immense. As a survivor myself, I feel we have a long way to go here. We’re instigating a program to discover the extent of the problem, after which we can start to address it.”

For a moment I was confused. A survivor? Had Dr. Blakely been involved in some kind of terrible childhood accident? Or did he mean a survivor of Life?

“We’re all survivors here,” I said. “So are my boys. I insist on it. In fact, a great deal of my teaching methodology is based on the assumption that, however much they may long for death, I expect them to survive the term, and preferably score well in Latin, although—”

“Colin Knight didn’t survive,” said Blakely in his colourless voice.

I stopped midsentence. Damn the man. Carried away by my oratory, I’d forgotten Colin Knight. “That was different,” I said at last. “Dammit, the boy was murdered.”

“There’s no proof of that,” he said. “All we know is that the boy was unhappy, that he was bullied, that he disappeared from School and was never seen again. All we know is that the School failed to spot the signs of abuse. All we know is that a boy—a lonely, desperate, vulnerable boy—felt that there was so little support for him here at St. Oswald’s that he had to run away. It happens, Mr. Straitley. Even here, it happens. And I know this isn’t the first time—”

Charlie Nutter. Damn his eyes. The man knows my vulnerabilities.

Harrington gave a tiny smile. “I know you’re fond of Allen-Jones—”

“That has nothing to do with it. The boy came to me with a complaint. I did what any form master would do.” I was starting to feel under siege.

Harrington sighed. “I’m sure you did what you thought was best.” Patronizing little stercus. “But Marcus’s role in Survivors means that he sees this kind of thing every day. He’s had experience in many schools, and spoken to many survivors.”

That word again. As if School were like a plane crash, with certificates at the end saying: I survived St. Oswald’s! Come to think of it, Dr. Blakely would probably approve of that. He strikes me as the kind of man who likes to put stars on wall charts and hands out lollipops after class. Not that he does any teaching; no. He’s far too busy having experiences.

“I hope we can count on you,” he said. “I really think a different approach would help resolve the conflict here.”