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Chapters (93)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Prologue
  4. Chapter 1
  5. Part One
  6. Chapter 1
  7. Chapter 2
  8. Chapter 3
  9. Chapter 4
  10. Chapter 5
  11. Chapter 6
  12. Chapter 7
  13. Chapter 8
  14. Chapter 9
  15. Chapter 10
  16. Part Two
  17. Chapter 1
  18. Chapter 2
  19. Chapter 3
  20. Chapter 4
  21. Chapter 5
  22. Chapter 6
  23. Chapter 7
  24. Chapter 8
  25. Chapter 9
  26. Chapter 10
  27. Chapter 11
  28. Chapter 12
  29. Part Three
  30. Chapter 1
  31. Chapter 2
  32. Chapter 3
  33. Chapter 4
  34. Chapter 5
  35. Chapter 6
  36. Chapter 7
  37. Part Four
  38. Chapter 1
  39. Chapter 2
  40. Chapter 3
  41. Chapter 4
  42. Chapter 5
  43. Chapter 6
  44. Chapter 7
  45. Chapter 8
  46. Chapter 9
  47. Part Five
  48. Chapter 1
  49. Chapter 2
  50. Chapter 3
  51. Chapter 4
  52. Chapter 5
  53. Chapter 6
  54. Chapter 7
  55. Chapter 8
  56. Chapter 9
  57. Chapter 10
  58. Chapter 11
  59. Part Six
  60. Chapter 1
  61. Chapter 2
  62. Chapter 3
  63. Chapter 4
  64. Chapter 5
  65. Chapter 6
  66. Chapter 7
  67. Part Seven
  68. Chapter 1
  69. Chapter 2
  70. Chapter 3
  71. Chapter 4
  72. Chapter 5
  73. Chapter 6
  74. Chapter 7
  75. Chapter 8
  76. Chapter 9
  77. Chapter 10
  78. Chapter 11
  79. Part Eight
  80. Chapter 1
  81. Chapter 2
  82. Chapter 3
  83. Chapter 4
  84. Chapter 5
  85. Chapter 6
  86. Chapter 7
  87. Chapter 8
  88. Chapter 9
  89. Epilogue
  90. Acknowledgments
  91. Reading Group Guide
  92. About the Author
  93. Copyright

Another glass of claret, I think. And maybe a slice of fruit cake, with a piece of Wensleydale cheese. My doctor wouldn’t like it, but if I’m going to stay up all night, I’ll need the extra energy. From the mantel­piece, Harry’s gnome watches me with a knowing eye. Beside him, the Bowie record in its paper envelope. I’m not really a fan, of course. But tonight, that cheery little tune seems to be the only link to a fast-­disappearing reality. I put it on the turntable, heard the hiss and scratch of years. Then the helium voices, suspended in music like insects in tar. It’s a ridiculous little tune. And yet, somehow, it comforts me. When I play it, Harry Clarke seems somehow less forgotten, less dead. I close my eyes for a moment, not feeling anywhere near to sleep. And the next thing I know, it’s morning, and I’m sitting stiffly in my chair beside the record player, with a dead fire in the grate and the dead sound of the needle jumping on the turntable—tick, tick, tick—like a clock counting down the seconds . . .

Part Seven

PART SEVEN

Alea iacta est.

—CAESAR

Chapter 1

1

November 1, 2005

Headmaster, and Chairman of the Governors,

It is with the greatest regret that I find myself obliged to hand in my notice as Classics Master of St. Oswald’s. Ill health—

No. Not ill health. Doctor’s orders. Not my old GP, of course, but a far more dangerous quack. Dr. Harrington, MBE, whose toxic form of medicine might once have suited a Plague Doctor mask.

On the advice of the doctor, I have come to believe that it is no longer possible for me to discharge my duties adequately. As a result—

That sounds very stiff. On the other hand, I feel very stiff; compressed into a jacket of words, when I want to run and shout.

As a result—

As a result, I took a small nip of brandy to warm my chilled bones this morning, which made the Bursar look at me in an odd way in the Common Room. I wondered why he didn’t make some kind of hilarious comment—the Bursar loves his comments—then, when I went to the bathroom and saw myself in the mirror, I realized why he’d kept silent.

I looked terrible. Not in my usual unkempt way, with chalk dust on my suit lapels and my hair in scarecrow spikes. Today I am almost colourless, and old—as old as damnation. Usually, when I look at myself in the mirror, I see a boy of about fourteen, with eyes that crackle with mischief in a face that has suffered some kind of a collapse—but a boy of fourteen nevertheless, wearing a very convincing mask.