“Parents complained to the Head,” said Burke. “Said you humiliated the boy in front of half the Upper School. Boy’s got issues, apparently. Seeing a child psychologist. HM says we need a policy to help us deal with vulnerable boys.”

“Vulnerable?” I said. “I’ll have you know that Gunderson was having a go at one of my boys.”

The Chaplain looked pained. “Who, Gunderson? Surely not. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, you know.”

I took a moment to convey what I thought of Gunderson, his hurt feelings, his psychologist, and his parents. Then I explained about Allen-Jones.

The Chaplain looked vaguely bewildered, and said: “The boy told you that? Said he was queer?”

I admitted that he had.

The Chaplain raised his eyebrows. “Funny thing to tell a chap. No wonder Gunderson was upset. But that’s not what I called you for. Fact is, I’ve had a communication.” He held out a piece of paper. “Thought you ought to know, Roy. This part was addressed to you.”

I knew at once. Don’t ask me how; perhaps because he’d called me Roy. All the same, I went through the motions of expressing surprise and concern; even though I was swimming through a cold and lightless tunnel of dread. The worst of it was, I’d expected it—known of it—for twenty years, sensed it hanging over me like the sword of Damocles. And how appropriate that it should come right now, with Johnny Harrington back on the scene, with his black sack of memories.

I took the piece of paper. A single sheet of cheap blue bond, of the kind they sell in prisons and long-term mental institutions. No date; no address; closely written in blunt gray pencil, in Harry’s unmistakable hand—slanting, almost feminine, with an academic flourish that was worthy of a better, nobler instrument:

Dear Roy,

It’s been a while since I wrote to you, but really, nothing much happens here, and I’d rather hear about life in St. Oswald’s than bore you with tales of the everyday. People have been generally good, and have kept me in touch with developments. Eric wrote to me once or twice, and the Chaplain, and “SS.” I heard he died soon afterward. A pity. He was a good man. Certain men seem to project something of immortality.

But no one really escapes in the end. Not from the past, not from ourselves, and especially not from St. Oswald’s. Which is why I write to you now, after a silence I hope you’ll forgive, but dying is a dull enough business, even for the interested party, without having to inflict the tedium onto others. Suffice it to say that I’m comfortable—at least as much as I can expect. One institution isn’t very much different from another, although here, of course, they have better soap, and rather more flexible visiting hours.