It was a small funeral. A small funeral for a small life. Trotter's parents were pleased to see Adrian again and were polite to Cartwright, but they couldn't entirely disguise their distaste for him. His beauty, pale in a dark suit, was an affront to the memory of their pudgy and ordinary son.
After the ceremony they drove to the Trotters1 farmhouse five miles outside Harrogate. One of Pigs Trotter's sisters gave Adrian a photograph of himself. It showed him lying on his stomach watching a cricket match. Adrian tried hard but couldn't remember Pigs Trotter taking it. No one commented on the fact that Trotter kept no photographs of Cartwright.
Mr Trotter asked Adrian if he would come and stay in the summer holidays.
'You ever sheared sheep before?'
'No, sir.'
'You'll enjoy it.'
Tickford took the wheel for the homeward journey. Adrian was allowed in the front next to him. They didn't want to risk him being sick again.
'A sorry business,'said Tickford.
'Yes, sir.'
Tickford gestured over his shoulder towards Cartwright, who was leaning against Ma Tickford and snoring gently.
'I hope you haven't told anyone,' he said.
'No, sir.'
'You must get on with the term now, Adrian. It has not started well. That disgusting magazine and now this . . . all in the first week. There's a bad spirit abroad, I wonder if I can look to you to help combat it?'
'Well, sir '
'This may be just the jolt you need to start taking yourself seriously at last. Boys like you have a profound influence. Whether it is used for good or evil can make the difference between a happy and an unhappy school.'
'Yes, sir.'
Tickford patted Adrian's knee.
'I have a feeling that I can rely on you,' he said.
'You can, sir,' said Adrian. 'I promise.'
It was four o'clock when they got back. Adrian returned to his study to find it empty. Tom was obviously having tea somewhere else.
He couldn't be bothered to track him down, so he made toast on his own and started on some overdue Latin prep. If he was going to turn over a new leaf then there was no time like the present. Then he would write back to Biffo. Attend all his Friday afernoons. Read more. Think more.
He had hardly begun before there came a knock at the door.
'Come in!'
It was Bennett-Jones.
'Really, R.B.-J. Flattered as I am by your fawning attentions I must ask you to find another playmate. I am a busy man. Virgil calls to me from across the centuries.'
'Yeah?' said Bennett-Jones with a nasty leer. 'Well it just so happens that Mr Tickford calls to you from across his study, an'all.'
'Dear me! Five minutes' separation and already he pines for me. Perhaps he wants my advice on demoting some of the prefecture. Well, I am always happy to look in on dear Jeremy. Lead the way, young man, lead the way.'
Tickford was standing behind his desk, his face deathly white.
'This book,' he said, holding up a paperback, 'does it belong to you?'
Oh Christ... oh Jesus Christ . . .
It was Adrian's copy of
'I... I don't know, sir.'
'It was found in your study. It has your name written in it. No other boy in the school has a copy in their study. On the instructions of the headmaster the prefects checked this morning. Now, answer me again. Is this your book?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Just tell me one thing, Healey. Did you write the magazine alone or were there others?'
'I–'
'Answer me!' shouted Tickford, slamming the book down onto the desk.
'Alone, sir.'
There was a pause. Tickford stared at Adrian, breathing heavily from his nostrils like a cornered bull.
Oh cuntly cunt. He's going to hit me. He's out of control.
'Go to your study,' said Tickford at last. 'Stay there until your parents come for you. No one is to see you or talk to you.'
