Stricklend’s childhood had followed a course traditional to many, in that he had been sent away to a prestigious boarding school at the age of seven. He had not found it easy to make friends, for he had no charm, no natural warmth, and no desire to ingratiate himself with boys he saw as almost always inferior to himself. He had shown some talent for boxing and for cricket, so that he had at least earned a grudging respect from his fellow pupils, if not their affection. He had also excelled at his studies, so that the masters viewed him as a satisfactory if rather unlikable student. He had kept to himself and eschewed clubs and social events wherever possible. It had seemed to him, he recalled, that he had in this way arrived at a method of making his school life tolerable, and he had hoped to move steadily toward achieving excellent passes in his exams and going on to university without mishap. But small boys grow into bigger boys, and these, he remembered with no small amount of bitterness, were less willing to accommodate someone who did not conform.

He had been thirteen the first time he had been singled out and set upon. Returning to the dormitory from the library late one evening he became aware he was being followed. He was not afraid; he knew his skills as a boxer, his height, and his strength would mean he could equip himself well in a fight if the need arose. What he did not, at that moment, understand, was that his persecutors were not so reckless as to risk personal injury. They had contrived to have about them a gang of followers, each more eager than the next to prove themselves to their leader. They pinned him to the ground, kneeling on his arms and holding his feet while blow after blow fell about his stomach, his face, his head. Then, when he was bleeding and dazed, they dragged him by his ankles the entire length of the corridor. He can still recall the feel of the boards beneath him as he was hauled along, his back snagging on a nail that was ever so slightly proud, causing a deep tear in his flesh and leaving a scar he carries still. They took him outside. It was December, and the ground was hard, the night clear, the mercury low. He was manhandled to his feet and bound to the leafless magnolia tree in the center of the quad. Stricklend had struggled against his bonds, but to no avail. The ringleader was called Hilton, a thickset boy with an unfortunately broad face and a prodigious growth of bristle on his chin. He leaned in close.