Of course, he denied following me. “I came back to care for Harry,” he said. “He had no one else to look after him. Do you know where I found him? At the old people’s hospice. He had no house, no possessions. Nothing but his memories.”

“Did he mention me?” I said.

Poodle gave me a venomous look. The years hadn’t been kind to him, Mousey. He looked old and decrepit. Too much booze and drugs, I thought. He’ll be gone in less than a year.

“We never talked about you,” he said. “I tried once or twice, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t let Harry know what we did. Not after all these years.”

I’d invited him inside, for fear of what the neighbors might hear, but his voice was so quiet that even I could barely make out what he was saying.

“I wanted to tell him the truth,” he went on. “But he always trusted me. He used to write to me from jail, telling me all kinds of things. I wasn’t allowed to see him. I couldn’t even write to him. My father said if I ever tried to contact Harry again, they would have me committed.”

Well, Mousey. Imagine that. How spineless can a person be? Turns out old Poodle had lived at home ever since the trial, with regular stints in therapy. That golden summer before the trial was the only freedom he’d ever known—at least, until a few months ago, when he’d moved back to Malbry. I almost envied him that, you know. To have had Harry to himself for that time; to be with him; to be needed by him. And now he was dead, and Poodle thought that both of us should put things right.

“What do you mean, put things right?”

Perhaps I’d spoken too loudly. He flinched. He never was much for shouting. Even when he was a boy, he was always the one who winced at loud voices, and cried when he had to drown the rats.

“Ziggy, we have to do it,” he said. “We owe it to him. To Harry. He spent seventeen years under a cloud. We have to reinstate him.”

I’ll admit it, I was touched. It’s been so long since anyone called me Ziggy. “Why?” I said. “He’s dead now. How can he benefit anymore?”

Tearfully, Poodle tried to explain. It wasn’t clear; something about Harry’s ashes, and Mr. Scoones, and a memorial in the Chapel at St. Oswald’s. It was nonsense, of course; St. Oswald’s would never allow it. Besides, it was impossible. I am a different person now. The events of so long ago happened to another boy. I spent seven years in therapy getting rid of the guilt of that day. My sacrifice was Harry Clarke. Don’t think it was easy.