I didn’t push him, Mousey. But I was the one who pushed Poodle. Wound him up like a clockwork toy, and watched him do the rest. It was fun. Like pouring my demons into someone else and watching them run off a cliff. But the water was too cold, I guess, and Ratboy went under too fast. It doesn’t take long, in cold weather. It’s called the Instinctive Diving Response. Ratboy dived. And Poodle— Well. Poodle went a bit crazy.

First he started to shake and cry, just like with the rabbits. Then he sat down and couldn’t get up; all he could do was shiver. I took him to the burned-out car (I was feeling cold as well), and waited till he could talk again. It took a while. I watched the fire, which by now had died to orange and black, with the leaves of Poodle’s beefcake books curled up and red round the edges. I found a couple of cigarettes lying on the ground, and lit one each for Poodle and me. Poodle dropped his. I picked it up.

He said: “We’ll have to tell the police.”

I finished my cigarette. I said: “Really? You’ll tell them you pushed him?”

Poodle looked at me like a dog about to be put down. “Ziggy, what else can we do?”

I shrugged. “I know what I’ll do,” I said. “I’m going home to watch TV. It’s The Two Ronnies on tonight. I’m going to watch TV, and eat leftovers, and maybe read a book, and—oh, probably not say I was with you today when you pushed that Sunnybanker.” I flicked the cigarette end away into what was left of the fire.

Poodle looked at me with big eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, grow up,” I said. “Imagine what would happen if you actually told the police. Everyone would know about you. There’d have to be a trial. You’d get expelled from school, at least. It would be on your record for life. You’d never get into college, or even get a regular job. You might have to go to a special school, maybe even Borstal. And even if they all believed that it had been an accident, what would your parents say? Your dad? What about the papers? What’s that going to look like, an MP with a killer son?”

Poodle began to cry again. “You can’t. We’ve got to tell,” he said.

“No, we don’t. And neither do you. You don’t want to say a single word. Because if you do, I’ll deny it. And that’ll make it even worse.”

He looked at me in misery. “I can’t.”