Behind me, your brother was stirring. The panic attack—if that’s what it was—seemed to be receding.

I glanced at Straitley. I realized that I’d let him distract me. Your brother was trying to stand up—and if he did, my advantage was gone. I raised the bat again, and braced myself for the killing blow.

“Put the bat down, Spikely.”

Straitley sounded old, and scared. Funny to think I’d been scared of him. Now I know better. I’m in control. And with your brother out of the way, I thought I could handle Straitley. I might not even kill him, I thought. It would be a case of my word against his—the word of a man who, everyone knew, detested Johnny Harrington . . .

“You followed him here,” I told him. “You’d been stalking him for weeks. You still believed he lied to the court over the Harry Clarke affair. You’d picked up the bat from school. You told yourself it was just in case. But Harrington wouldn’t listen. You snapped. And then, when Winter came along, you had to deal with him too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Straitley said. “Put down the weapon, and then we’ll talk.”

It’s funny, how you never stop being a schoolboy, somehow. Faced with my old teacher’s wrath, I almost wanted to obey.

“I saw it all from the path,” I went on. “You were completely out of control. As part of my work with Survivors, I’ve seen quite a number of instances of people suffering fugue states. You didn’t know what you were doing, sir. I’m happy to say that under oath.”

His hand on my leg. My eyes on the wall. Edith Piaf, singing “Hymne à l’Amour.” The scent of grass and chalk dust. The way his hand moved up my thigh. His breath on my hair. The music. And all the time, the knowledge that if it had been Harry, it wouldn’t have been anything to be scared of; that if it had been Harry, then maybe I would have wanted it—

“Spikely. Put down the weapon.” I’d been so lost in memory that for a moment I barely registered that this time, the voice was behind me. Another voice from St. Oswald’s past, crisp and full of authority. “Put down the weapon, Spikely,” it said. “Then turn slowly, to face me. Mr. Straitley may have come unprepared, but I am both armed and dangerous.”

I turned then, to see a figure there, on the other side of the bridge. A man in a dark blue overcoat, pointing a blunt-nosed object wrapped in a St. Oswald’s scarf. For a moment I didn’t recognize him. He’d never taught me as a boy. But then I saw that nose of his—

It was Dr. Sourgrape Devine.

Chapter 6

6

November 4, 2005, 9:15 p.m.