“I know him,” I said. “I’ll have a word. He won’t trouble you any longer.”

Once more, Allen-Jones looked surprised. “But you don’t have any proof,” he said.

“I don’t need proof,” I told him. “I know Gunderson. I know you. It’s really quite straightforward.”

For some reason, this didn’t seem to reassure him as much as I’d hoped.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“I thought you’d need proof, sir.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“I could give you proof.” And, keeping his back to the glass door, he lifted his shirt to show me a complex arrangement of duct tape strapped around his skinny ribs, holding in place something that looked to me like a toy walkie-talkie.

“What on earth?” I began.

He explained his projected scheme. Allen-Jones is a bright boy, though he sometimes overcomplicates things. In this case, his solution to the Gunderson problem was characteristically elaborate. He planned to take this contraption around to Gunderson’s form room, where, he assured me, he would be duly menaced by Gunderson, and I would be able to listen in by means of a second receiver, connected to a recording device, which would permit Allen-Jones to take the evidence straight to the Head of Middle School, and thereby to Thing One and Thing Two, and yea, unto the Head himself—

I interrupted this fantasy. “I don’t need evidence,” I said. “Trust me. Henceforth, at your approach, young Gunderson will melt away like the snows of yesteryear. Do you have a book to hand in?”

Allen-Jones nodded.

“Then come with me. We’ll face the beast together.”

Chapter 10

10

September 14, 2005

I’ll confess, it has been some time since I had to get angry. Over the course of thirty-four years, I’ve earned a reputation; and nowadays I find that I need not raise my voice more than two or three times a year, usually with a New Boy as yet unacquainted with the ropes. Still, there’s no harm in beginning a term with a nice big bang, especially if there’s a bully involved. I followed Allen-Jones to the Chaplain’s room and lingered outside the frosted-glass door for just long enough for Gunderson to incriminate himself.

Gunderson was at his desk, holding court to a circle of friends. The Chaplain, once a rugby man, has a soft spot for sportsmen, and Gunderson, though academically weak, happens to be on the rugby team. He has grown since I taught him, acquiring a sheath of muscle. But the face remains the same; the pinched and slightly simian look, grinning with mean enjoyment.

He stood up as Allen-Jones came in. “I thought I told you last time,” he said. “No queers allowed in here.”

Allen-Jones walked up to the desk, looking nervous, but composed. “Why? Do you feel threatened?” he said. “Or is it because I don’t fancy you?”