The joke, mild as it was, failed to melt his composure. “Sir. It isn’t normal. He thinks about it all the time. He keeps saying he’s going to die, and then he’s going to burn in Hell and there’s nothing anyone can do.”

That made me sit up a bit. Unlike the girls of Mulberry House, my boys were not generally prone to fits of excessive sensibility. Harrington didn’t seem the type to indulge in morbid thoughts, but nevertheless, I told myself, this might be a cry for attention. I found myself checking his face for blemishes, but apart from a single spot on his chin, the boy seemed remarkably acne-free.

“Is . . . your friend . . . a believer?” I said.

“He used to be,” said Harrington. “Now I don’t know what he is.”

“And do you know of any reason he might be feeling . . . unhappy?”

He shook his head. “He’s not unhappy, exactly. My father says there’s something missing in him. Like a light’s been turned out.”

“He thinks there’s a problem, then?”

Harrington shrugged. “He thinks we should pray. That’s his answer to everything.”

I said: “The idea of possession doesn’t have to be literal. When you say something like: What’s got into you? you really mean: Is there anything wrong? And when you say: I’m not myself—”

“Sir, it isn’t me, sir.”

I lied. “Of course I believe you. But if you can’t tell me the name of your friend, or why you think he may be . . .”

“Possessed.”

“Quite.” I was starting to wonder now whether this might all be some kind of joke. But Harrington’s agitation was real. I would have bet my life on it.

The boy gave me a sideways look. “Sir. You don’t believe, sir.”

“Do you?”

I thought he flinched at that. “I only want to help, sir.”

I only want to help, he said. Who wouldn’t have believed him then? Sincerity tempered with awkwardness—and just the right amount of concern.

“Then why not tell me the name of your friend?” I asked, just as the lesson bell went. Outside, in the corridor, came the sounds of activity. Harrington glanced at the door. For a moment, I thought I saw a shadow of something cross his face. Had he seen someone standing there? Someone he wanted to avoid?

“Look at me, Harrington,” I said.

Obediently, he turned to me. Through the frosted glass of the door, I could see boys lining up for class. Had one of them made a sign? Was a member of staff with them? There was no way of telling.

“Come on, Harrington,” I said. “How can I do anything to help unless I know who we’re discussing?”