“Boy’s an attention seeker,” said Eric Scoones at lunchtime in the Common Room. He was a Young Gun in those days, with his eye on the Head of Middle School job, and a waistline as yet unaffected by his fondness for a nice Fleurie. “Roy, you’ve got an SLF.”

SLF—or Special Little Friend—was our term for a boy who develops a particular taste for the company of one of his Masters. Games and English teachers are the worst for attracting schoolboy crushes, although almost anyone will do. Eric and I had both had our share of youthful admirers, and even Dr. Shakeshafte—no oil painting, no hero of the rugby pitch, and definitely not what you’d call either charismatic or approachable—had a few fervent supporters, no doubt drawn to the seat of power.

I tried to explain to the Common Room that Harrington was not one of these, and that his disruptive influence was more than a plea for attention. “No, it’s something else,” I said. “Something more—unsettling.”

No one disagreed with that, except for Dr. Burke (the School Chaplain) and Mr. Speight, the Head of Religious Education, who was rumoured to speak in tongues and worship Satan at weekends. Admittedly, these less-than-likely allegations were all made by boys to whom he had given punishments—Mr. Speight was a stickler, and his various disciplinary methods included such things as detention; running laps at lunchtime; copying pages out of the Bible; litter patrol; the cane; and what he liked to call “idiot jumps”—in which the culprit would stand on a chair, performing jumping jacks while shouting I am an idiot! until he either fell off the chair or collapsed from lack of breath. It was on this last, primarily, that Mr. Speight had built his fiendish reputation, which, coupled with a flair for sarcasm and a keen suspicion of anything that might possibly qualify as occult, had earned him the nickname “Satan.”

“The boy has principles,” said Speight. “Perhaps that’s what you’re noticing.”

I shook my head and poured tea from the urn. Mr. Speight disapproved of me, and never missed an occasion to make his feelings known. It didn’t surprise me to find him in the pro-Harrington corner.

The Chaplain looked up from his Sporting Life. “Boy’s sound enough,” he said. “Swam for the House on Sports Day. Won us fifteen House Points too.”

I gave an inward sigh. The Chaplain, though an excellent man, had rather a blind spot where sports were concerned. Many a miscreant had been reprieved because he played on the rugby team, or had earned House Points for Parkinson. (The House system at St. Oswald’s is based on archaic rivalries going back three hundred years, with Parkinson House being traditionally known for rugby and RE. This makes the Chaplain partisan, although even now, twenty-four years later, he remains unaware of this.)