I don’t want to discuss that now. Have some decorum, Mousey. New Year is a Fresh Start, filled with Resolutions. Number One: no more clay pits; no more hanging around playing games. This year is an Important Year, so my father tells me. I’ll be fifteen. I need to Shape Up. Number Two: no more moping around Mr. Clarke’s room at lunchtimes. He’s just a teacher, not a friend. He doesn’t know shit about me. Number Three: get a girlfriend. Get my parents off my back.

I’m also going to tear three pages out of my St. Oswald’s diary. That’s because this is a Fresh Start, and we’re going to forget about that. Instead, I will think about New Year; ride my new bike around the estate; do some homework from Straitley, who seems to think that Latin should play a role in every part of my life; then maybe a trip to the movies (Excalibur), with Goldie and his girlfriend necking in the back row and me in front with the popcorn, pretending not to notice.

Nothing very different from any other holiday: bad TV and leftovers; New Year’s Eve and pantomime; thank-you notes; snow turning to slush all along the pavements. Nothing special, except for one thing, which you and I will not discuss.

No, I haven’t seen Poodle. I’ve already told that to the police. It’s not like we’re close or anything, and Christmas is a family time. I’m sure he’s okay, though. That’s what I said. He’s always been a bit nervous. And he’s been under pressure too, especially from Mr. Straitley, who doesn’t seem to like him much, and picks on him all the time at school. That’s what I told the policeman who came to talk to my parents. He wrote it all down in his notebook. He seemed very attentive. I mentioned Mr. Clarke too. I said he and Mr. Straitley were friends. He asked me if Mr. Straitley ever made me uncomfortable. I told him yes, he did. (It was true.) I think he’s been over to Goldie’s too. And to Mr. Speight’s house. But I don’t think Goldie will say much. I know he won’t mention the clay pits. He’s been too busy this Christmas trying to get inside Becky Price’s pants, and he knows that if he opens his mouth, I’ll tell his dad, and he’ll give him hell.

As for Harry—Mr. Clarke—