I took a deep breath of the pine-freshened air. I could see what was happening. Rupert Gunderson; the Honours Boards; the refusal to host Harry Clarke’s memorial; and now Allen-Jones and Survivors—all had been part of the same campaign. I felt as Socrates must have felt when his colleagues conspired against him. Next, it would be the hemlock bowl—or as men of Harrington’s ilk prefer to call it, voluntary retirement.

“Well?” said the Headmaster.

For a moment, I considered it. To simply let go, like Socrates—to drink the hemlock and be damned. Apparently it’s an easy death; a creeping numbness, then sleep. No more conflict; no more pain; a legacy unblemished. They had all of the twenty-first century on their side: computers; committees; paperwork. And as for political correctness, they ran the asylum.

What did I have to fight them with? A school cleaner and a garden gnome. If it hadn’t been so sad, it would have been hilarious. Better perhaps to accept defeat than death by a thousand paper cuts—

Then there came a knock at the door. Danielle came in with a tea tray. Once more, I was saved by Danielle, with her gold earrings as big as satellite dishes; her hair dyed in improbable stripes; her smile as sweet as springtime. Her entrance broke the tension that had built up without my realizing it; the snake charmer’s spell was broken and I suddenly knew what I had to do.

No, I won’t drink the hemlock, I thought. If they want me out, then they can fight me all the way to the gates. This is my School, not theirs, and I will not go willingly. Progress Through Tradition may be Harrington’s new slogan, but St. Oswald’s motto remains Audere, augere, auferre. To dare, to strive, to conquer. And that is what I shall strive to do, in defiance of all opposition.

I smiled at the Head. “Headmaster,” I said. “St. Oswald’s has all of my loyalty. Whatever I can do, I will, in service of St. Oswald’s.”

And on that I summoned my dignity and went back to my room in the Bell Tower, that last survivor of the fleet, while all around, the cannons roared and the rising tide of iron-gray Suits lashed at the beleaguered decks.

Chapter 5

5

December 1981

Mousey was my bestest friend. (Mousey, you were my only friend.) We were both in Miss McDonald’s form at Netherton Green, and we did most things together. Mousey had a Condition too—not like mine. It had a special name. I don’t remember it now, though. He was in the Slow Readers at school, but actually he could read just fine.