I’d already reached the end of Dog Lane when I heard a sound behind me. I turned. It was Winter; in blue jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, looking as guilty as I felt. He must have run from White City, I thought. At his age, I supposed he still could.

“Mr. Straitley, can we talk?”

I kept on walking. He followed me.

“I saw you at the house just now. I watched you through the curtains. I know you saw Ma.”

“Yes. Why did you lie to me?” We were almost at my gate. I could hear the wind in the horse-chestnut tree at the back of my garden.

Winter gave me a sideways look. Once more I remembered Joseph Apple, that quiet, unremarkable boy who had detonated so tragically ten years after leaving St. Oswald’s. The invisible finger, still active, started its stealthy walk across the open files of my rib cage.

“Mr. Straitley. Can I come in? There are some things I need to explain.”

“You mean, how La Buckfast learned about our escapade? Or why you left your cleaning job just as Harrington dropped the bomb? Are you even a cleaner at all, or was that just a convenient way to get me to confide in you?”

“What? What are you talking about?” He stared at me in confusion. “What bomb?”

“You mean, you don’t know?”

Winter shrugged. His look of surprise was genuine. His look of guilt had been genuine too—but perhaps I’d jumped to conclusions. I began to wonder whether I had not misjudged him after all.

“Look, you’d better come in,” I said. “I’m tired, and I need a drink.”

I unlocked the front door. We went in. The scent of my house wrapped me like a well-worn blanket: dusty rugs; tobacco smoke; old books; mothballs; and polish. My house smells like St. Oswald’s, minus the biscuity smell of boys, and it never fails to comfort me. But it was cold. I lit the fire, then found the decanter of brandy and poured us both a decent glug.

“Thanks.”

I sat on the sofa. Winter chose a chair by the fire. “Was that what you were hiding?” I said. “The fact that your mother was still alive?”

He nodded. “I’m sorry I lied to you, sir. I don’t even know why I told you that.” He looked into his brandy glass. “But really, I mean, who hasn’t fantasized about the death of a loved one?”