That was a good one, actually. We got chocolate brownies. And all the time, Poodle was looking at me, like I was the one who had done something wrong. Which is unfair, don’t you think? It’s not my fault he has gay thoughts. I’m not the one who should feel guilty.

Afterward he came up to me. We were having brownies and orange juice. Goldie was talking to Mr. Speight in the little Chapel. “You told, didn’t you?” he said, making sure no one else heard.

“No, I didn’t,” I said (it was true).

“So how come everyone’s suddenly talking about it?” He glared at me. “Coincidence?”

I shook my head. “Don’t be paranoid. No one’s mentioned you—yet.”

Poodle pulled a face. “They will. My mum’s been going through my things. My dad’s been asking questions. It’s not like they’re subtle, or anything.”

“So? You just deny it.” I didn’t see why he needed to tell. He could have lied, even to me. But Poodle isn’t like that. He always ends up confessing things. So far, he hasn’t spoken out about his Condition to anyone else. But his complexion speaks for itself, as does his greasy hair and the fact that for the past few lunchtimes he’s been hiding out in the library and not eating anything—

He says it’s a stomach bug. I know it’s not. It’s a cancer, eating away at him. And he hates himself. The more he talks about it, the more you realize that. He thinks his Condition is something that he can put aside, not think about, not deal with. He thinks he deserves to be punished, and so he pinches and slaps himself. I’ve seen him doing it, when he thinks that nobody’s looking. And the other day in gym, there was a row of sticking plasters up his arm. Well, Mousey, you know what that means.

“I think I can help,” I told him.

He looked at me with hopeful-dog eyes.

“But only if you want to be cured,” I said. “I mean it. This is serious.”

Poodle nodded eagerly.

“Plus you can’t tell anyone. Not your parents, or Straitley—”

“I’d never talk to Straitley, Zig.”

“All right,” I said. “We’ll give it a try. Meet at the clay pits this afternoon. Four o’clock. Tell Goldie to come. And tell him not to tell anyone.”

• • •

By four o’clock, it was nearly dark. I’d been there for almost an hour. That’s how long it takes, realistically, for the rats to start to come out.There are rats by the clay pits. There’s always something to scavenge. Leftover sandwiches. Dead things. Stuff that people have dumped there. I’d brought some bait. Not cheese, though. That only works for cartoon mice. Rats like meat. I brought dog food. Dog food always worked before.