shops and bought three blank sixty-minute cassettes. They weren't of the quality beloved by Ted Pitts, but for my purpose they were fine. Then I sought out one of Ted Pitts's colleagues and begged a little help with the computer.
'Well,' he said hesitantly. 'OK, if it's only for ten minutes. Straight after school. And don't tell Jenkins, will you?'
'Never.'
His laugh floated after me as I hurried down the passage towards the coin-box telephone in the main entrance hall. I rang up Newmarket police station (via Directory Enquiries) and asked for whoever was in charge of the investigation into the murder of Chris Norwood.
That would be Detective Chief Superintendent Irestone, I was told. He wasn't in. Would I care to talk to Detective Sergeant Smith? I said I supposed so, and after a few clicks and silences a comfortable Suffolk voice asked me what he could do for me.
I had mentally rehearsed what to say, but it was still difficult to begin. I said tentatively, 'I might know a bit about why Chris Norwood was murdered and I might know perhaps roughly who did it, but I also might easily be wrong, it's just that…'
'Name, sir?' he said, interrupting. 'Address? Can you be reached there, sir? At what time can you be reached there, sir? Detective Chief Superintendent Irestone will get in touch with you, sir. Thank you for calling.'
I put the receiver down not knowing whether he had paid extra-fast attention to what I'd said, or whether he had merely given the stock reply handed out to every crackpot who rang up with his/her pet theory. In either case, it left me with just enough time to catch the last of the hamburgers in the school canteen and to get back to class on the dot.
At four, I was held up by Louise's latest grudge (apparatus left out all over the benches- Martin would never do that) and I was fearful as I raced along the corridors the boys were not allowed to run in, and slid down the stairs with both hands on the bannisters and my feet touching only about every sixth tread (a trick I had learned in my far-back youth), that Ted Pitts's colleague would have tired of waiting, and gone home.
To my relief, he hadn't. He was sitting in front of the familiar screen shooting down little random targets with the zest of a seven-year-old.
'What's that?' I said, pointing at the game.
''Starstrike'. Want a go?'
'Is it yours?'
'Something Ted made up to amuse and teach the kids.'
'Is it in BASIC?' I asked.
'Sure. BASIC, graphics and special characters.'
'Can you List it?'
'Bound to be able to. He'd never stuff it into ROM if he wanted to teach from it.'
'What exactly,' I said frustratedly, 'is ROM?'
'Read Only Memory. If a program is in ROM you can only Run it, you can't List it.'
He typed LIST, and Ted's game scrolled up the screen to seemingly endless flickering rows.
'There you are,' Ted's colleague said.
I looked at part of the last section of the program, which was now at rest on the screen:
410 RESET (RX, RY): RX = RX-RA: RY: RY-8
420 IF RY › 2 SET (RX, RY): GOTO 200
430 IF ABS (1. 8- RX) › 4 THEN 150
460 FOR Q = 1 TO 6: PRINT(r) 64 + 4. V, '…';
A right load of gibberish to me, though poetry to Ted Pitts.
To his colleague I said, 'I came down here to ask you to record something… anything… on these cassettes.' I produced them. 'Just so they have computer noise on them, and a readable program. They're for, er, demonstration.'
He didn't query it.
I said, 'Do you think Ted would mind me using his game?'
He shrugged. 'I shouldn't think so. Two or three of the boys have got tapes of it. It's not secret.'
He took the cassettes out of my hands and said, 'Once on each tape?'
'Er, no. Several times on each side.'
His eyes widened, 'What on earth for?'
'Um.' I thought in circles. To demonstrate searching through file names.'
'Oh. All right.' He looked at his watch. 'I'd leave you to do it, but Jenkins goes mad if one of the department doesn't check the computer's switched off and put the door key in the common-room. I can't stay long anyway, you know.'
He put the first of the tapes obligingly into the recorder, however, typed CSAVE, 'A', and pressed 'Enter'. When the screen announced READY, he typed CSAVE 'B', and after that CSAVE 'C, and so on until the first side of the tape was full of repeats of 'Starstrike'.
This is taking ages,' he muttered.
'Could you do one side of each tape, then?' I asked.
'OK.'
He filled one side of the second tape and approximately half of a side on the third before his growing restiveness overcame him.
'Look, Jonathan, that's enough. It's taken nearer an hour than ten minutes.'
'You're a pal.'
'Don't you worry, I'll hit you one of these days for my games duty.'
I picked up the cassettes and nodded agreement. Getting someone else to do games duty wasn't only the accepted way of wangling Wednesday afternoons off, it was also the coin in which favours were paid for.
'Thanks a lot,' I said.
'Any time.'
He began putting the computer to bed and I took the cassettes out to my car to pack them in a padded envelope and send them to Cambridge, with each filled side marked 'Play this side first.'
Since there was a Parents' Evening that day, I went for a pork pie with some beer in a pub, corrected books in the common-room, and from eight to ten, along with nearly the whole complement of staff (as these occasions involved a three-line whip) reassured the parents of all the fourth forms that their little horrors were doing splendidly. The parents of Paul apple-on-the-head Arcady asked if he would make a research scientist. 'His wit and style will take him far,' I said noncommittally, and they said 'He enjoys your lessons', which was a nice change from the next parent I talked to who announced belligerently, 'My lad's wasting his time in your class.'
Placate, agree, suggest, smile: above all, show concern. I supposed those evenings were a Good Thing, but after a long day's teaching they were exhausting. I drove home intending to flop straight into bed but when I opened the front door I found the telephone on the boil.
'Where have you been?' Sarah said, sounding cross.
'Parents' meeting.'
'I've been ringing and ringing. Yesterday too.'
'Sorry.'
With annoyance unmollified she said, 'Did you remember to water my house plants?'
Hell, I thought. 'No, I didn't.'
'It's so careless.'
'Yes. Well, I'm sorry.'
'Do them now. Don't leave it.'
I said dutifully, 'How's Donna.'
'Depressed.' The single word was curt and dismissive. 'Try not to forget,' she said acidly,'the croton in the spare bedroom.'
I put the receiver down thinking that I positively didn't want her back. It was an uncomfortable, miserable, thought. I'd loved her once so much. I'd have died for her, literally. I thought purposefully for the first time about divorce and in the thinking found neither regret not guilt, but relief.
