For a while, Goldie didn’t say anything. He was thinking hard, I could tell. But this wasn’t a piece of algebra or a Latin translation. He was out of his depth, and besides, I think he was scared of me.

I looked at the shopping trolley again. Then I looked back at Goldie.

He shook his head. “We can’t,” he said.

Below us, Ratboy was climbing the pit; digging, first a hand, then a foot, into the hard and greasy clay walls. His breath came out in jagged plumes. His fingers were crabby and blue with cold.

“We could just leave him,” Goldie said.

“What, after this? Don’t be a dope.” I took his hand and placed it on one side of the trolley. The thing was heavy; heavy enough to solve all of our problems. “No one will ever know,” I said. “Charlie thinks he did it himself. Besides, what’s one pervert more or less?”

I let that sink in for a moment. Slowly, Goldie looked at me. And then, Mousey, we counted to three, and sent the trolley down the bank, and Ratboy’s eyes went wide, just once, before he hit the water—

We waited for him to resurface. But this time, he stayed under.

• • •

After that, I just went home. Watched TV, did my homework, wrote in my St. Oswald’s diary. But, Mousey, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t feeling as good as I thought. It was stupid. I know it was. But unlike the rabbits, with Ratboy it didn’t feel as if my fear had found another home. Instead it had found another voice. Not a very loud one, but with that twang my parents hate. And that new voice stayed with me for seven whole years, Mousey, never saying very much, except the occasional All right? and sniffing cold air through its nose like a little animal.

But it was always in my thoughts, counting down the seconds. Like the still, small voice of God—if God was a Sunnybanker.

Chapter 10

10

November 3, 2005

I’ll have to kill your brother now. I hope you don’t hold that against me. But I’m afraid he’s dangerous. He has the torn-out pages. We must get those back, Mousey. We don’t want anyone reading them. But it may be a good thing after all. I’ve been thinking of ending it, and this may give me the chance I need. Goldie’s no use to me anymore. Look how he was over Poodle. Look how loyal he was to me. He’s always been weak. And now look—the first hint of trouble, and here he is, giving in to blackmail. And from whom? A cleaner, no less. A dirty Sunnybanker.