Helplessly I shook my head. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much hope I had placed on Knight—and only Knight—being responsible for the recent mischief that has plagued us. Knight was the culprit; the sender of e-mails, the malicious surfer (if that’s the word) of Internet filth. Knight had accused Bishop and the others; Knight had burned the gatehouse; I’d even half convinced myself that Knight had been behind those articles signed Mole.
Now I saw the dangerous illusions for what they were. These crimes against St. Oswald’s went much further than simple mischief. No boy could have committed them. This insider—whoever he was—was prepared to take his game as far as it went.
I thought of Grachvogel, hiding in his closet.
I thought of Tapi, locked in the Bell Tower.
Of Jimmy (like Snyde), who took the blame.
Of Fallow, whose secret was revealed.
Of Pearman and Kitty, ditto.
Of Knight; Anderton-Pullitt; the graffiti; the gatehouse; the thefts; the Mont Blanc pen; the small acts of localized disruption and the final bouquet—Bishop, Devine, Light, and Roach—firing off one after another like rockets into the flaming sky . . .
And once again I thought of Chris Keane, with his clever face and dark fringe; and of Julian Pinchbeck, the pale boy who at twelve or thirteen had already dared an imposture so brazen that for fifteen years no one had believed it possible.
Could Keane be Pinchbeck? Keane, for gods’ sakes?
It was an astonishing leap of illogic or intuition; and yet, I saw how he could have done it. St. Oswald’s has a rather idiosyncratic policy on application, based on personal impressions rather than on paper references. It was just conceivable that someone—someone clever—might be able to slip through the network of checks that exist to filter out the undesirables (in the private sector, of course, police checks are not required). Besides, the mere thought of such an imposture is beyond us. We are like the guards at a friendly outpost, all comic-opera uniforms and silly walks, falling by the dozen beneath unexpected sniper fire. We never expected an attack. That was our mistake. And now someone was picking us off like flies.
“Keane?” said Marlene, just as I would have done if our positions had been reversed. “That nice young man?”
In a few words, I filled her in on the nice young man. The notebook. The computer passwords. And through it all, his subtle air of mockery, of arrogance; as if teaching were simply an amusing game.
“But what about Knight?” said Marlene.
I’d been thinking about that. The case against Bishop was built on Knight; the text messages from Knight’s phone to his; maintaining the illusion that Knight had run away, perhaps from fear of further abuse . . .
But if Knight was not the culprit, then where was he?
I considered it. Without the calls from Knight’s phone, without the incident at the gatehouse and the messages from his e-mail address, what, then, would we have assumed and feared?
“I think Knight’s dead,” I told her, frowning. “It’s the only conclusion that makes any sense.”
“But why kill Knight?”
“To raise the stakes,” I said slowly. “To make sure Pat and the others were well and truly implicated.”
Marlene stared at me, pale as pastry. “Not Keane,” she said. “He seems so charming. He even got you that cake—”
Gods!
That cake. Till then I’d forgotten all about it. Likewise I had forgotten Dianne’s invitation; to see the fireworks, to have a drink, to celebrate—
Had something alerted Keane to her? Had she read his notebook? Had she let something slip? I thought of her eyes, bright with enjoyment in her vivid young face. I thought of her saying, in that teasing voice: Tell me, are you a professional spy or is it just a hobby?
I stood up too fast and felt the invisible finger poke at my chest, insistently, as if advising me to sit down again. I ignored it. “Marlene,” I said. “We have to go. Quick. To the park.”
“Why there?” she said.
“Because that’s where he is,” I said, grabbing my coat and flinging it over my shoulders. “And he’s with Dianne Dare.”
6
Friday, 5th November, 7:30 P.M.
I have a date. Exciting, isn’t it? The first I’ve had, in fact, in years; in spite of my mother’s high hopes and my analyst’s optimism, I’ve never really been that interested in the opposite sex. Even now when I think of them, the first thing that comes into my mind is Leon, shouting—you little pervert!—and the sound he made as he fell down the chimney.
Of course I don’t tell them that. Instead I please them with tales of my father; of the beatings he gave me and of his cruelty. It satisfies my analyst, and now I’ve even come to half believe it myself, and to forget about Leon as he jumped the gully, his face freeze-faded to the comforting sepia of the distant past.
“It wasn’t your fault.” How many times during the days that followed did I hear those words? I was cold inside; wracked by night terrors; rigid with grief and the fear of discovery. I believe that for a time I genuinely lost my mind; and I threw myself into my transformation with a desperate zeal, working steadily (with my mother’s help) to eradicate every trace of the Pinchbeck that was.
Of course, that’s all over now. Guilt, as my analyst says, is the natural response of the true victim. I have worked hard to eradicate that guilt, and I think that so far I have succeeded rather well. The therapy is working. Naturally, I don’t plan to tell her the precise nature of this therapy of mine; but I do think she’ll agree with me that my guilt-complex is mostly cured.
One more job to do, then, before the final catharsis.
One more glance in the mirror before I meet my bonfire date.
Looking good, Snyde. Looking good.
7
Friday, 5th November, 7:30 P.M.
It usually takes fifteen minutes to walk from my house to the municipal park. We did it in five, the invisible finger urging me on. The mist had dropped; a thick corona surrounded the moon, and the fireworks that popped from time to time above us lit up the sky like sheet lightning.
“What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty. They’ll be lighting the bonfire any moment now.” I hurried on, skirting a group of small children dragging a guy on a trolley.
“Quid for the guy, mester?”
In my day, it was pennies. We hurried on, Marlene and I, through a night that was rich with smoke and shot with sparklers. A magical night, bright as those of my childhood and scented with the dusk of autumn leaves.
“I’m not sure we should be doing this.” That was Marlene, sensible as ever. “Shouldn’t the police be dealing with this kind of thing?”
“D’you think they’d listen?”
“Maybe not. But I still think—”
“Listen, Marlene. I just want to see him. Talk to him. If I’m right, and Pinchbeck is Keane—”
“I can’t believe it.”
“But if it is, then Miss Dare may be in danger.”
“If it is, you old fool, then you may be in danger.”
“Oh.” It actually hadn’t crossed my mind.
“There’ll be police at the gate,” she said reasonably. “I’ll have a quiet word with whoever’s in charge while you see if you can find Dianne.” She smiled. “And if you’re wrong—which I’m sure you are—we can all celebrate Bonfire Night together. All right?”