Free? What right did he have to be free? What right did he have to escape his guilt? Anybody listening might have found it hard to believe that he, not I, was the murderer. And yet, Harry Clarke had chosen to help him, to redeem him. It wasn’t fair. He’d chosen me first. Why had he abandoned me?

The fleeting scent of chalk dust; cut grass; oiled wood. The sound of clattering footsteps. Music playing; something light. The echo of distant voices against a polished parquet floor. The feel of his hand on my shoulder, pushing me down toward the desk. Then, the sound of his voice. Good boy; like something you might say to a dog.

That’s the thing about memory, Mousey. Sometimes the smallest thing triggers it. And this time, ironically, Poodle was the trigger: Poodle, flushed with happiness, Poodle saved; redeemed by Love.

And then an idea came to me. I thought about it as Poodle went on. It was nicely simple; neat, with square-edged hospital corners. It would, at the same time, validate my suffering and mess up Poodle’s disgusting little dream of happiness. It could be done, I realized. There was a way I could escape the pit into which I had fallen. Of course, I’d need a sacrifice—God hates those unbalanced accounts—but if what I had glimpsed was right, then it might mean my salvation, and more—my return from the wilderness.

Chapter 2

2

October 14, 2005

Just like Harry Clarke, I thought as I saw the figure in blue at my door. It was not a rational thought; but nevertheless, it gripped me like an icy hand on the back of the neck. I considered just turning and running away. But to where? This was home. There was nowhere else. Unlike Eric, who likes his little trips to Paris, or Dr. Devine, whose wife has made of him quite the globe-trotter, I don’t even have a passport anymore. These fantasies belonged to a world long dead. And so I took a shaky breath and stepped forward into the porch light, and saw, not a uniformed officer, but Winter, dressed in jeans and a blue hooded parka. There was a folder under his arm.

Relief made me weak, then angry. “What the hell are you doing here?” I’d rediscovered my Bell Tower voice, designed to cut through concrete.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he said. “I heard you had some trouble today.”

“Vae! The St. Oswald’s grapevine,” I said. “Listen, won’t you come inside? I, for one, am in need of a drink.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I unlocked the door. I was feeling better by then. Those boys in the park had rattled me, but I was over the shock. Arriving in the living room, I found the decanter of brandy and poured myself a decent glug. “One for you?”

He nodded. “Thanks.” He sat down and sipped his drink.