Then Mrs. Bagshot came to plead for justice for her dead son, triggering a battle between the Shifty-but-Rich and the Honest-but-Poor, fought on the pages of tabloids all across the country. St. Oswald’s was portrayed nationwide as a hotbed of privilege and vice. Mrs. Bagshot wasn’t ideal, but her grief was genuine. And everyone loves an underdog. I played the part to perfection.

But Johnny Harrington was the star. I could understand why, of course. He was handsome; articulate; spoke of his deep faith in God; blamed himself for not having seen what was happening to his friends; remembered how Poodle and Ziggy had always seemed so secretive; played down his own involvement with the rats and the rabbits, but said how he’d always suspected something sinister was afoot. He too had seen the signs. He too had suspected something amiss. He cited Mr. Fabricant’s book; Straitley’s Latin profanities; quietly painted a picture in which all of St. Oswald’s was riddled with vice and corruption, an Old Boys’ Club that preyed on the young; a place in which no questions were asked, and where colleagues would cover for even the vilest of abuse. Then he told the jury how he had come to Mr. Straitley for advice after the thing with Poodle and me, and how Mr. Straitley had laughed at him.

And the jury swallowed everything. Johnny’s sincerity; his remorse; the fact that his northern accent had not quite vanished (at least for the trial); his portrayal of himself as the boy who’d never fit in. Everything was perfect. He never faltered, even under the most aggressive cross-examination, but always kept eye contact and spoke quietly, but firmly. Charlie Nutter and I came across as crazy; damaged; uncertain. But Johnny Harrington came across as sincere, as well as totally sane. Of course people believed him. Johnny believed the story himself. He couldn’t have done a better job if I’d actually coached him.

After that, Harry didn’t have much of a chance. He denied all knowledge of my abuse; denied having known Lee Bagshot; denied offering boys money for sex; denied sleeping with Charlie Nutter until the boy had turned twenty-one. But none of that swayed the jury, all of them comfortable northern folk who found it hard to believe that a deviant like Harry might have any kind of moral code. Most of them thought that buggery should be illegal anyway, and mistrusted Charlie Nutter, with his ridiculous name, and his twitch, and his wealth, and his father, with his seat in the House of Commons and his look of pompous outrage.

And Harry would not accuse me. That, and not his words, was what hurt. His damn superiority. His refusal to engage when his lawyer tried to destroy me. He stood behind his screen, looking old, and all he said when questioned was: