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Chapters (93)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Prologue
  4. Chapter 1
  5. Part One
  6. Chapter 1
  7. Chapter 2
  8. Chapter 3
  9. Chapter 4
  10. Chapter 5
  11. Chapter 6
  12. Chapter 7
  13. Chapter 8
  14. Chapter 9
  15. Chapter 10
  16. Part Two
  17. Chapter 1
  18. Chapter 2
  19. Chapter 3
  20. Chapter 4
  21. Chapter 5
  22. Chapter 6
  23. Chapter 7
  24. Chapter 8
  25. Chapter 9
  26. Chapter 10
  27. Chapter 11
  28. Chapter 12
  29. Part Three
  30. Chapter 1
  31. Chapter 2
  32. Chapter 3
  33. Chapter 4
  34. Chapter 5
  35. Chapter 6
  36. Chapter 7
  37. Part Four
  38. Chapter 1
  39. Chapter 2
  40. Chapter 3
  41. Chapter 4
  42. Chapter 5
  43. Chapter 6
  44. Chapter 7
  45. Chapter 8
  46. Chapter 9
  47. Part Five
  48. Chapter 1
  49. Chapter 2
  50. Chapter 3
  51. Chapter 4
  52. Chapter 5
  53. Chapter 6
  54. Chapter 7
  55. Chapter 8
  56. Chapter 9
  57. Chapter 10
  58. Chapter 11
  59. Part Six
  60. Chapter 1
  61. Chapter 2
  62. Chapter 3
  63. Chapter 4
  64. Chapter 5
  65. Chapter 6
  66. Chapter 7
  67. Part Seven
  68. Chapter 1
  69. Chapter 2
  70. Chapter 3
  71. Chapter 4
  72. Chapter 5
  73. Chapter 6
  74. Chapter 7
  75. Chapter 8
  76. Chapter 9
  77. Chapter 10
  78. Chapter 11
  79. Part Eight
  80. Chapter 1
  81. Chapter 2
  82. Chapter 3
  83. Chapter 4
  84. Chapter 5
  85. Chapter 6
  86. Chapter 7
  87. Chapter 8
  88. Chapter 9
  89. Epilogue
  90. Acknowledgments
  91. Reading Group Guide
  92. About the Author
  93. Copyright

Once more I looked at the envelope. My head was sore. The cheap blue paper tore in my hand as I fumbled it open. And in all the drama, we found that Winter had quietly slipped away, and when I looked in the envelope, I found that it was empty.

Chapter 8

8

November 4, 2005

Dear Mousey,

I palmed the letter, of course. I couldn’t let them read it. Not because it incriminates me; I just couldn’t bear their pity. I want them to remember me as something more than that sad little boy who killed things because he was afraid to live. I want them to be full of hate, and disbelief, and wonder. I want them to remember me as more than just a survivor.

I read the letter. It wasn’t long. But even so, I remembered it. I remembered every word; each one chosen as carefully as in a Latin translation. He’ll read it over breakfast, I thought to myself as I wrote it out. He’ll read it, and he’ll find me. He’ll find me, and he’ll do it again. And that brought it back: the fear of him; the dreadful, paralyzing fear that only one thing could exorcize.

October 15, 1989

Dear Mr. Scoones,

It’s been a while. I don’t suppose you remember me. Even when I was a boy, I was nothing special. Perhaps that’s why you did those things: because I was nothing special. And because of my history, of course, which meant no one believed me. But all that’s changed. They’re listening now. Everyone’s paying attention.

You’ve seen what’s happening to Mr. Clarke. That could happen to you too. I’m still remembering things all the time. And, unless you want me to remember in court exactly what you did to me, you’d better do what I tell you.

First, a cheque for ten thousand pounds to the Survivors bank account. Donations are tax-deductible. And you’d better start saving up, because you’re going to be generous. You’re going to pay for what you did. I’m your responsibility now.

Good-bye, Mr. Scoones. You won’t see me again. Except, maybe, in nightmares.

Yours sincerely,

David Spikely

Except that I had the nightmares. Every night, for years and years. But all that’s finished, Mousey. I won. If only my dad could see me now. He never quite believed me, you know. Because of My Condition. And because my T-shirt was wet that day—you know, the day that Bunny died. He never said. But I saw his eyes. He knew, but never said so.