Well, Mousey, I wasn’t convinced. Why did we need more babies? And if there were no more babies, then would I live forever?

Tonight was the bonfire in Malbry Park. They’d been building it since last week. By now it was a massive pile; hundreds of pallets, and firewood, and mattresses, and newspapers, and guys made of rags and old clothes stacked as tall as a building. Next to the bonfire, the fireworks were pretty uninspiring. I got as close to the fire as I could. The heart of it was bright orange and roaring like a lion. I wondered if that was what Hell was like. I got a toffee apple. Then Poodle got a bit sick with the smoke, and we had to move farther away.

“What d’you want to be so close for anyway?” said Goldie, whose face had gone red with the heat.

“I wanted to know what it felt like,” I said. “Standing at the gates of Hell.”

Goldie gave me a funny look.

“You know, when they used to burn witches,” I said. “They thought they were being kind to them. Getting them used to what was to come. You know, like endurance training.”

“That’s sick,” Poodle said.

“I don’t know. It’s kind of cool.”

The thing is with Goldie and Poodle, they don’t always get me. We don’t really have much in common. Apart from being New Boys, of course. And apart from not having siblings. Still, it’s pretty cool sometimes to have someone to talk to in Church, and sit next to in lessons, and have a laugh with occasionally. It means that I fit in at last. I don’t attract attention. And that means there’s no trouble from Dad—a welcome change from Netherton Green.

When we got home, there was parkin, and ginger biscuits, and sandwiches, and Mr. and Mrs. Poodle and Mr. and Mrs. Goldie, all of them in their Church clothes, sitting in the lounge and discussing St. Oswald’s. Mr. Poodle was saying how it was the best thing that had happened to his son in years, and all the others were nodding like dogs.

“Not sure about the form master, though. He doesn’t seem altogether sound.”

Sound. Oh, Mousey. That word again.

Goldie’s father nodded. “The Chaplain’s a sensible chap, though,” he said. “And of course, there’s John Speight. If ever you need a sensible man to have a quiet word—”

Dad looked at me. “Yes. John Speight’s a marvel with the boys. Pity he doesn’t have a Middle School form. Who are the other Middle School form masters?”

“There’s Mr. Straitley, Mr. Scoones, and—” Harry, I almost said. “Mr. Clarke.” I picked up a piece of parkin. I noticed that Poodle was looking at me kind of sideways. I smiled and went on: “Mr. Speight’s cool. I wish he was my form teacher.”