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rope for a collar and a half-healed wound on
its side.
    ‘Well done, lad,’
Mr Witney said. ‘So you learn more than Latin and Greek at that school of
yours.’
    I bent down and
scratched the dog between his ears. ‘Good boy, Stanley,’ I murmured. ‘Good
boy.’ Just for a moment I was blindingly happy, dizzy with joy.
    Faraday nudged
my arm. ‘Can we go back now? Please?’
    I looked at his
pale face and his big teeth, ghostly in the fading light, and all at once the
joy evaporated.
    ‘There’s blood
on you,’ he said. ‘There’s blood everywhere.’
    He was right.
My hands were streaked with blood, some of it from the dog’s muzzle and some of
it from my stick. The corpses of rats lay everywhere, some complete, some in
fragments. The dogs’ interest in them diminished sharply once they stopped
moving.
    ‘Come on,’ he
said. ‘Please.’
    I glanced over
my shoulder, hoping for a wave from Mr Witney or a nod of farewell from one of
my comrades in the battle. But no one was looking at me. No one paid any
attention when we left the yard and walked down the muddy lane towards the
green.
    For a few
moments, for an hour even, I had been part of a group; I had played a useful
part; I had been, in some small way, valued for what I did. That was all gone.
Now I came to my senses and discovered that part of my collar had come adrift
from my shirt and the tip of it was nudging my left ear. My overcoat was
splashed with mud and cowpats, as well as blood. I had lost my cap. And I was
alone once more with Faraday.
    ‘They were talking
about me,’ he said in a voice that wobbled. ‘Mr Nicholls was there. He knows.’
    ‘Who’s
Nicholls?’
    ‘He is a lay
clerk. A tenor.’ For a moment there was a hint of superiority in Faraday’s
voice. ‘Not very good, though he thinks he is.’
    The lay clerks
were the basses and the tenors of the Cathedral choir. They were grown-ups.
Many of them had been at the choir school when they were young, and they still
lived in the town.
    ‘What does it
matter if he recognized you?’
    ‘You don’t
understand.’ Faraday was always accusing me of that, and quite rightly. ‘Mr
Nicholls was pointing me out and whispering about me. They know.’
    ‘I expect it
was about your voice breaking and not being in the choir any more.’
    ‘No. You should
have seen their faces. They’d heard about... about the other thing.’
    He meant the
postal order. If Mr Nicholls knew about it, the story could no longer be
confined to the Choir School and a handful of trusted outsiders like Mr
Ratcliffe. It would be all over the place in a day or two, in the College and
in the town.
    ‘I can’t bear
it,’ Faraday said.
    I glanced at
him and saw a tear rolling down his cheek.
    ‘We’ll go back
to the Rat’s now,’ I said. ‘We can make tea. If there’s bread, perhaps we can
have toast. He’s got a toasting fork in the fireplace.’
    ‘Thank you,’ he
said, blowing his nose. ‘Thank you.’

7
    Poor little devil. I was sorry for
Rabbit. I wanted to help, as long as doing so wouldn’t inconvenience me too
much. The question is: did trying to help make matters worse?
    It was starting
to rain. In order to get back to the Sacrist’s Lodging as swiftly as possible,
I took us back through the Cathedral, which was not only shorter than by going
through the College or through the town but also, at that time of day, lessened
the chance that we should meet anyone who knew either of us.
    My suggestion
wasn’t entirely altruistic: if a boy from King’s was found outside the College
without his cap, it automatically earned him a beating. It was possible that
the rule did not apply in the holidays, but I didn’t want to put it to the
test. Besides, I was starving, Mrs Veal’s lunch a distant memory, and the idea
of food was powerfully attractive.
    Most people in
the College used the Cathedral for shortcuts, and so did many townspeople.
There were three doors open to the public — the west door