I didn’t want Ms. Buckfast. I wanted the Head, and I said so. But the secretary—a bird-eyed blonde who seemed to look right through me—must have been briefed to get rid of me, because after a wait of ten minutes or so, a red-haired woman of generous size came out of a nearby office.

“Mr. Spikely,” she said. “Can I help?”

For a moment, I almost revealed my surprise. But I’ve always been good at hiding things. I smiled, pulled a face at the secretary, and followed Ms. Buckfast into her room.

It’s funny, the things you remember. Perhaps it’s the smell that brings it back; that uniquely St. Oswald’s smell, like cabbage, chalk, and floor polish. That day it was raining, and the sound of water in the gutters and drains was like a tiny orchestra of splashing and popping and gurgling. It brought it all back, Mousey. That little room in the Bell Tower; our own form room beneath it. The smell of the rain from the rooftops; the sound of it flicking against the glass. The way he put his hand on my leg, and whispered in my ear: Good boy. Not a pleasant memory, and yet it has made me who I am. A rich man. A success. You might say, a survivor.

I sat down in a leather chair and let the years wash away from me. “Becky Price,” I said, and smiled.

“How nice of you to remember me. It must be over twenty years.”

“You haven’t changed all that much.”

That was stretching the truth a bit. She’s a lot bigger than she was then; more rounded at the edges. But her voice is still the same; that low and throaty contralto that used to go down so well in Church. I wondered if she’d got the job by sleeping with the boss. Probably not. I mean, why would he? Johnny’s wife is gorgeous, and Ms. Buckfast (what a name!) is only, at best, a four out of ten.

She gave me a smile. It brought her to five. “It’s good to see you, David,” she said. “Now tell me, how can I help you?”

“I want to see Johnny,” I told her.

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. Johnny’s very busy right now. But I can pass on a message.”

I tried a more direct approach. I said: “Is he avoiding me? Because that would be dangerous.”

That ought to get her attention, I thought. But Becky Price just smiled again and said: “That sounds like a threat, Dave. Can I offer you a drink?”

I shook my head. Too risky. I like to use my own crockery. The state of the mugs at St. Oswald’s was always suspect, Mousey. Cracks; chips; rings inside like on the stump of an ancient tree. You can catch all kinds of things from a dirty coffee mug.