“I had to do it,” I told him. “He needed to be put down.”

“Don’t say that!” he hissed. There was a pause. I could hear him breathing; fast, as if he had been running. “Listen, I’m coming over,” he said. “We need to straighten this out, right now.”

I made a pot of green tea as I waited for him to arrive. I thought it better not to offer him a beer. I rather mistrust alcohol. Alcohol’s a killer. That was what killed Poodle, you know. Alcohol and stubbornness.

Johnny knocked on my front door ten minutes or so afterward. It’s only a short walk through the park, but he was already out of breath. I suppose it’s the sedentary lifestyle, but at his age he ought to be careful. Heavy drinking can cut your life expectancy by twenty years—that’s even more than smoking. He’s thirty-eight. That would give him ten or twelve years. Not that that would bother me. I’m going to live forever.

I opened the door. Johnny came in. He didn’t look too bad, actually, and I felt some disappointment. When he dies, his lovely wife will be a wealthy widow. And she is very lovely, Mousey. Some women improve as they mature.

“How nice to see you,” I told him. “How’s Liz? Give her my love.”

Johnny gave me a look, as if I’d said something ridiculous. His status has made him arrogant; I would never have been that rude.

“Would you like a cup of green tea? I’ve already poured one,” I told him. “Tea’s very healthy, you know. Filled with antioxidants.”

“No thanks,” said Johnny.

I shrugged and sat on the sofa. I sometimes forget that others are not as mindful of their health as I. Johnny paced up and down for a while, then turned back to look at me. He was still a little flushed. Probably high blood pressure.

“Was it really you?” he said. “Did you really do it?”

He ran his hand through his hair, and I wondered if he’d had transplants. He’s always been rather vain, you know, even when he was a boy. That perfectly straight, dark blond hair. Mine was thinning, even then. I was not an attractive boy.

“They’re saying he was drunk,” he said. “That he fell into the canal.”

I shrugged. “Well, yes. That would make sense. He was depressed. He had problems. He was addicted to drink and drugs. He had no reason to stay alive.”

“Did he die alone?” he said.

Stupid question. “We all die alone.”

“Dammit! Were you with him?”

“Of course,” I said. “I pushed him.”

“Jesus.” He started to pace again. “Sweet Jesus, David. You pushed him.”

“He pushed that boy in the clay pits,” I said.

Johnny looked even more agitated. “You said you’d never mention that. Oh God. What am I going to do?”