That was true; he looked awful. Mud on his trousers; red in the face; panting like a fat dog. If only I could get close, I thought, then maybe I could use the bat. On the other hand, perhaps the best thing to do was to bide my time, then take him by surprise and maybe push him over the parapet. Besides, I was curious. What did he know? What had your brother told him?

He looked at me with those elephant eyes. “One death may seem like an accident,” he said. “But three starts to look like murder. Do you think they’ll believe you this time? Or will you accuse someone else again, the way you did with Harry?”

I laughed. Of course, he has no idea. How could he, when I never told anyone, not even you? But Straitley went on, with furrowed brow, his voice cracked with emotion.

“Why did you do it, Spikely?” he said. “Harry was a good man. Harry always stood up for you.”

I looked at him. He was breathless now, his eyes all bloodshot with anger. For a moment I felt sorry for him; for all his grief and outrage. It made him more human to me, somehow. It made me almost like him.

“But Harry didn’t stand up for me,” I said. “He didn’t help me at all. I went to him with a secret—something I’d never told anyone. Something so bad it was eating me up, eating me from the inside. I trusted him. I thought he could help. And instead, do you know what he did?”

He sent me to the Chaplain. Who went right back to Mr. Scoones. Because I had a problem, he said. The same one I’d had at Netherton Green. Getting too close to my teachers, he said. Daydreaming. Making things up.

“Harry was so busy,” I said. “He said I should talk to the Chaplain. Harry couldn’t see beyond Harry and Charlie. His special boy. And so I went to the Chaplain and—guess what? The Chaplain didn’t believe me.”

His hand on my leg. His breath on my neck. His hand pressing down on my shoulder. A square of sunshine on the floor, all filled with little motes of dust. The sound of his breathing, muffled by the sound of the record playing. Something by Edith Piaf, I think. Mr. Scoones loved Edith Piaf. And he smelled of Gauloises and aftershave, and something bitter and soapy and sour, and when he was done he stood up and said: “Good boy. Good boy.”

“Harry was a decent man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. What you allowed to happen.”

Poor Straitley. Even a decent man can hide a world of darkness inside. I don’t suppose he believed me. Why did I even want him to?

“I was a child,” I told him. “I didn’t deserve what happened to me.”