I could tell my dad was pleased. “Well, we can’t like everyone,” he said. “That’s what school is for. To learn how to get on with people who don’t necessarily share our ideas.”

If only he knew. I gave Poodle a wink. Poodle looked uncomfortable. His eye began to twitch a bit.

“Oh, Mr. Straitley’s all right,” I said. “As long as you’re one of his favorites. There’s a little group of them. They sit with him at lunchtimes.”

Dad frowned. “I’m not sure I approve. I’ve never thought Masters should fraternize with pupils.”

“Oh, we don’t get invited,” I said. “We’re not special enough for him.”

I didn’t say anything more after that, but I could see the seeds had been sown. Just a few seeds, but with luck they may grow. These are the best years of our lives. We should be having fun. Right? So far, I’ve not had too much fun, except when I’ve been with Harry. But that could change. I hope it will. And Mr. Straitley had better not get in the way. Because when people get in my way, bad things sometimes happen. Mr. Straitley deserves a surprise. I deserve a little fun. And, as Harry said himself: there’s more to me than meets the eye.

Chapter 3

3

Michaelmas Term, 1981

“What do you mean, possession?” I said, perhaps a little too sharply. “As in nine-tenths of the law, perchance?”

He shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Then what?”

Of course, by then I already knew that young Harrington’s parents were deeply religious. They belonged to a local outfit, rather too modern for my taste, called the Church of the Omega Rose, which was housed in a modest square building down in Malbry Village. The Satanic Mr. Speight was a regular visitor, as were a number of our boys. Beyond that information, I hadn’t given the place too much thought.

I myself am Church of England by habit, birth, and nostalgia; I go to church at Christmas because I happen to like it, and because I enjoy the hymns, but would never describe myself as devout. I tend to believe that certain ideas (love, charity, and the like) are worth promoting, while others (such as stoning, narrow-mindedness, demons, fasting, original sin, and contempt for those who are different) are best left to wither quietly on one of the dying branches of faith. Others, I knew, did not agree. Harrington Senior was one of them.

“You mean, demonic possession?” I said.

Harrington nodded. “Yes, sir.”

I had to laugh. I thought the boy looked slightly offended.

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “Please go on. You were telling me about—your friend.”

“Well, sir. He has all the signs. Mood swings, nervous tics, bad skin, obsessed with death—”

“That’s adolescence, Harrington. I think you’ll find that’s normal.”