Dammit, there was something sinister about it. Something that spoiled my pleasure in the entire form. I’d never tried to be popular, but until that moment I’d thought myself approachable; seasoned enough to be comfortable, and yet still young enough at heart to understand what it was like to be fourteen and to enjoy a laugh. Until then, I had believed I had a rapport with the boys in my form. I stayed in the form room at lunchtimes; I joined in their conversations, even made the occasional joke. My nickname was Quasimodo—because I lived in the Bell Tower—and word around School was that I was mostly okay, except with bullies and homework evaders, and that my classes, though tough, were probably more fun than most.

But somehow, with Harrington, something had changed. I didn’t notice it at first—he really was such a colourless boy—but it seemed to me that Michaelmas term that my form had not quite come together the way it normally did. Sometimes it happens that a form is shaped by a few dominant personalities; sometimes a rift between two rival groups can make for a form that is ill at ease. That year’s 3S were a diffident lot, with heads that seemed forever bowed and eyes that refused to make contact. It took me two weeks to learn their names—as a rule I know them in a single day.

There were other anomalies too. Usually in a class there’s at least one clown; one bully; one fighter; one rebel; one butt. In September ’81, there seemed hardly any definition; no one seemed to step out of line; and the faces that peered out from behind their desk lids were bland as rows of cheeses. And yet, there was an atmosphere. Something disagreeable. Something sly, that sniggered and watched.

It took me some time to connect this with little Johnny Harrington. The boy wasn’t especially popular. He didn’t play to the gallery. He had no apparent interest in girls, societies, or sports—although he was quite a good swimmer, and even once won a House trophy in the hundred-­metre freestyle. He always gave in his homework on time, never even failed to hand in one of his library books. He was friendly with two other seventh-term boys; Nutter, who, despite a promising name, gave no redeeming sign of eccentricity, and Spikely, the tattletale; a neat, bespectacled little boy with a curiously alert and intellectual look, belied by his exam results.