My problem was that I didn't quite believe he'd done it.

'It's not that Knight isn't capable of something like that,' I told Dianne Dare in the Common Room that lunchtim e. 'He's a sly little oik, and far more likely to cause mischief by stealth than to play up in public, but--' I gave a sigh. 'I don't like it. I don't like him -- but I can't believe that even he could have been that stupid.'

'Never underestimate stupidity,' remarked Pearman, who was standing nearby.

'No, but this is malice,' said Dianne. 'If the boy knew what he was doing--'

'If he knew what he was doing,' interrupted Light from his place under the clock, 'then he should be b.l.o.o.d.y well locked up. You read about these kids nowadays - rapes, muggings, murders, G.o.d knows what -- and they can't even Jt them away for it because the b.l.o.o.d.y bleeding-heart Illberals won't let 'em.' I**' 'In my day,' said McDonaugh darkly, 'we had the cane.'

'b.u.g.g.e.r that,' said Light. 'Bring back conscription. Teach 'em some discipline.'

G.o.ds, I thought, what an a.s.s. He held forth in this muscular, brainless style for a few minutes more, attracting a lultry glance from Isabelle Tapi, who was watching from the yoghurt corner.

Young Keane, who had also been listening, did a quick, comic mime just outside of the Games teacher's line of vision, twisting his sharp, clever face into an exact parody of Light's expression. I pretended not to notice, and hid my smile behind my hand.

'It's all very well to go on about discipline,' said Roach from behind the Mirror, 'but what sanctions do we have? Do something bad, and you get detention. Do something worse, you get suspended, which is the opposite. Where's the sense in that?'

'No sense at all,' said Light. 'But we've got to be seen to be doing something. Whether or not Knight did it--'

'And if he didn't?' said Roach.

McDonaugh made a dismissive gesture. 'Doesn't matter. What matters is order. Whoever the troublemaker is, you can be b.l.o.o.d.y sure he'll think twice about stepping out of line again if he knows that the minute he does, he'll get the cane.'

Light nodded. Keane pulled another face. Dianne shrugged and Pearman gave a little smile of vague and ironic superiority.

'It was Knight,' said Roach with emphasis. 'Just the kind of stupid thing he would do.'

'I still don't like it. It feels wrong.'

The boys were unusually reticent on the subject. In normal circ.u.mstances, an incident of this type should provide a welcome break from the School's routine; petty scandals and minor mishaps; secrets and fights: the furtive stuff of adolescence. But this, it seemed, was different. A line had been crossed, and even those boys who had never had a good word to say about Anderton-Pullitt viewed the incident with unease and disapproval.

'I mean, he's not all there, is he, sir?' said Jackson. 'You know - not a mong or anything, but you can't say he's completely normal.'

'Will he be all right, sir?' asked Tayler, who has allergies himself.

'Fortunately, yes.' The boy was being kept at home for the present, but as far as anyone could tell, he had made a complete recovery. 'But it could have been fatal.'

There was an awkward pause as the boys looked at each other. As yet, few of them have encountered death beyond the occasional dog, cat or grandparent; the thought that one of them could actually have died - right in front of them, in their own form-room - was suddenly rather frightening.

'It must have been an accident,' said Tayler at last.

'I think so too.' I hoped that was true.

'Dr Devine says we can have counselling if we need it,' said McNair.

'Do you need it?' 'Do we get to miss lessons, sir?'

I looked at him and saw him grinning. 'Over my dead body.'

Throughout the day the feeling of unrest intensified. Allen-Jones was hyperactive; Sutcliff depressed; Jackson argumentative; Pink anxious. It was windy, too; and the wind, as every schoolteacher knows, makes cla.s.ses unruly and pupils excitable. Doors slammed; windows rattled; October was in with a blast, and suddenly it was autumn.

I like autumn. The drama of it; the golden lion roaring through the back door of the year, shaking its mane of leaves. A dangerous time; of violent rages and deceptive calm; of fireworks in the pockets and conkers in the fist. It is the season in which I feel closest to the boy I was, and at the same time closest to death. It is St Oswald's at its most beautiful; gold among the lindens, its tower howling like a throat.

But this year, there is more. Ninety-nine terms; thirty-three autumns; half of my life. This year those terms weigh unexpectedly heavy, and I wonder whether young Bevans may not after all be right. Retirement need not be a death sentence. One more term and I will have scored my Century; to withdraw on such a note can carry no shame. Besides, things are changing, and so they should. Only I am too old to change.

On my way home on Monday night I looked into the Porter's Lodge. Fallow's replacement has not yet been found, and in the meantime, Jimmy Watt has taken over as many as he can manage of the Porter's duties. One of these is answering the phone in the Lodge, but his telephone manner is not good, and he has a tendency to hang up by mistake when transferring calls. As a result, calls had been missed throughout the day, and frustrations were running high.

It was the Bursar's fault; Jimmy does what he's told, but has no concept of working independently. He can change a fuse or replace a lock; he can sweep up fallen leaves; he can even climb up a telegraph pole to retrieve a pair of shoes, tied together by their laces and flung across the wires by a school bully. Light calls him Jimmy Forty-Watt and jeers at his moon face and his slow way of talking. Of course, Light was a bully himself a few years ago; you can still see it in his red face and aggressive, oddly careful walk -- steroids or haemorrhoids, I'm not sure which. In any case, Jimmy should never have been left in charge of the Lodge, and Dr Tidy knew it; it was simply that it was easier (and cheaper, of course) to use him as a stopgap until a new appointment was made. Besides, Fallow had been with the school for over fifteen years, and you can't turn a man out of his home overnight, whatever the reason. I found myself thinking about this as I pa.s.sed the Lodge; it wasn't that I'd especially liked Fallow; but he had been a part of the School - a small but necessary part -- and his absence was felt.

There was a woman in the Lodge as I went past. I never questioned her presence, a.s.suming she was a secretary drafted in through the School's agency to take calls and to cover for Jimmy when he was called upon to perform one of his many other duties. A greying woman in a suit, rather older than the standard agency temp, whose face seemed dimly familiar. I should have asked who she was. Dr Devine always talking about intruders, about shootings in American schools and how easy it would be for some crazed person to enter the buildings and go on the rampage - but that's just Devine. He's the Health and Safety man, after all, and he has to justify his salary.

But I was in a hurry, and I did not speak to the greying woman. It was only when I saw her byline and her photo in the Examiner that I recognized her; and by then it was too late. The mystery informant had struck again, and this time, I was the target.

Monday, 11th October WELL, MRS KNIGHT, AS YOU MIGHT EXPECT, DID NOT TAKE kindly to the suspension of her only son. You know the type: expensive, arrogant, slightly neurotic and afflicted with that curious blindness which only the mothers of teenage sons seem to possess. She marched down to St Oswald's the morning after the Head's decision, demanding to see him. He was out, of course; instead, an emergency meeting was convened, including Bishop (nervous and unwell), Dr Devine (Health and Safety) and, in the absence of Roy Straitley, myself.

Mrs Knight looked murderous in Chanel. In Bishop's office, sitting very straight on a hard chair, she glared at the three of us with eyes like zircons.

'Mrs Knight,' said Devine. 'The boy could have died.' Mrs Knight was not impressed. 'I can understand your concern,' she said. 'Given that there seems to have been no lupervision at all at the time of the incident. However, regarding the matter of my son's involvement--'

Bishop interrupted. 'Well, that isn't entirely true,' he began. 'Several members of staff were present at different times throughout Break, although--'

'And did anyone see my son put a peanut in the other boy's drink?'

'Mrs Knight, it isn't--'

'Well? Did they?'

Bishop looked uncomfortable. It had been the Head's decision to suspend Knight, after all; and I had a feeling that he himself might have handled the matter differently. 'The evidence suggests that he did it, Mrs Knight. I'm not saying he did it with malice--'

Flatly: 'My son doesn't tell lies.'

'AH boys tell lies.' That was Devine - true enough, as it happened, but hardly calculated to appease Mrs Knight. She levelled her gaze upon him.

'Really?' she said. 'In that case, maybe you should reexamine Anderton-Pullitt's account of the supposed fight between Jackson and my son.'

Devine was taken aback. 'Mrs Knight, I really don't see what relevance--'

'Don't you? I do.' She turned to Bishop. 'What 1 see is a concerted campaign of victimization against my son. It's common knowledge that Mr Straitley has his little favourites -- his Brodie Boys, I understand he calls them -- but I didn't expect you to take his side in this. My son has been bullied, accused, humiliated and now suspended from school -- something that will go on his cla.s.s record, and perhaps even affect his university prospects -- without even being given a chance to clear his name. And do you know why, Mr Bishop? Do you have any idea why?'

Bishop was completely lost in the face of this attack. His charm - real as it is -- is his only weapon, and Mrs Knight was armoured against it. The smile that had tamed my father failed to melt her ice; in fact, it seemed to infuriate her still more.

'I'll tell you, shall I?' she said. 'My son has been accused of theft, of a.s.sault and now - as far as I can understand - of attempted murder' -- at this point Bishop tried to interrupt, but she waved his protest aside -- 'and do you know why he has been singled out like this? Have you asked Mr Straitley? Have you asked the other boys?' She paused for effect, and as she met my eyes I gave her an encouraging nod and she bugled, just as her son had in Straitley's cla.s.s: 'Because he is ]ewishl My son is a victim of discrimination! I want a proper investigation of all this' - she glared at Bishop - 'and if I don't get one, then you can expect a letter from my solicitor.'

There was a resounding silence. Then Mrs Knight swept out in a fusillade of heels; Dr Devine looked shaken; Pat Bishop sat down with his hand over his eyes and I allowed myself the tiniest of smiles.

Of course, it was understood that the matter would not be discussed outside the meeting. Devine made that clear from the start, and I agreed, with becoming earnestness. I should not have been there in the first place, said Devine; I had only been asked to attend as a witness, failing the presence of the boy's form-master. Not that anyone regretted Straitley's absence; both Bishop and Devine were adamant that the old man, engaging as he was, would only have made a foul situation even worse.

'Of course there's no truth in it,' said Bishop, recovering Over a cup of tea. 'There's never been any question of anti-Semitism at St Oswald's. Never.'

Devine looked less convinced. 'I'm as fond of Roy Straitley as anyone,' he said. 'But there's no denying he can be rather odd. Just because he's been here longer than anyone, he tends to think he runs the place.'

'I'm sure he doesn't mean any harm,' I said. 'It's a stressful job for a man of his age, and everyone can make the occasional error of judgement from time to time.'

Bishop looked at me. 'What do you mean? Have you heard anything?'

'No, sir.'

'Are you sure?' That was Devine, almost falling over in his eagerness.

'Absolutely, sir. I simply meant--' I hesitated.

'What? Out with it!'

'I'm sure it's nothing, sir. For his age, I think he's remarkably alert. It's just that recently I've been noticing--' And with modest reluctance I mentioned the missing register, the missed e-mails, the ridiculous fuss he'd made over the loss of that old green pen, not forgetting those few vital, register-less moments, when he had failed to notice the unconscious boy gasping out his life on the cla.s.sroom floor.

Emphatic denial is by far the best tactic when seeking to incriminate an enemy. And so I managed to convey my utmost respect and admiration of Roy Straitley whilst innocently implying the rest. Thus I am shown to be a loyal member of the School - if a trifle naive - and second, I ensure that doubt remains like a splinter in the minds of Bishop and Devine, preparing them for the next headline, which, as it happened, was to feature in the Examiner this very week.

NUTS TO YOU, SIR!.

Colin Knight is a studious, shy young man who has found the social and academic pressures of St Oswald's increasingly difficult to deal with. 'There's a lot of bullying,' he told the Examiner, 'but most of us don't dare report it. Some boys can do anything they like at St Oswald's, because some of the teachers are on their side, and anyone who makes a complaint is bound to get into trouble.'

Certainly, Colin Knight does not look like a troublemaker. And yet, if we are to believe the complaints levelled against him this term by his form-master (Roy Straitley, 65), he has, in three short weeks, been guilty of numerous instances of theft, lying and bullying, culminating in his suspension from school following a bizarre accusation of a.s.sault, when a fellow student (James Anderton-Pullitt, 13) choked on a peanut.

We spoke to John Fallow, dismissed from St Oswald's two weeks ago after fifteen years' loyal service. 'I'm glad to see young Knight standing up for himself,' Fallow told the Examiner. 'But the Anderton-Pullitts are School Governors, and the Knights are just an ordinary family.'

Pat Bishop (54), Second Master and spokesman for St Oswald's, told us: 'This is an internal disciplinary matter which will be thoroughly investigated before any further decision is taken.'

In the meantime, Colin Knight will continue his education from his bedroom, forfeiting his right to attend the cla.s.ses for which his family pays 7,000 pounds a year. And although for the average St Oswald's pupil this may not count for much, for ordinary people like the Knights, it's very far from peanuts.

I'm rather proud of that little piece: a medley of fact, conjecture and low humour that should rankle suitably in the arrogant heart of St Oswald's. My one regret was that I could not sign my name to it - not even my a.s.sumed name, although Mole was certainly instrumental in its construction. Instead I used a female reporter as my cover, and emailed my copy to her as before, adding a few details to facilitate her enquiry. The piece ran, flanked by a photograph of young Knight -- clean and wholesome in his school uniform - and a grainy cla.s.s portrait from 1997, showing Straitley looking blotchy and dissipated, surrounded by boys.

Of course, any criticism of St Oswald's is balm to the Examiner. By the weekend it had resurfaced twice in the national press: once as a cheery blip on page 10 of the News of the World, and once as part of a more contemplative editorial piece in the Guardian, ent.i.tled 'Rough Justice in Our Independent Schools'.

All in all, a good day's work. I'd made sure that any mention of anti-Semitism was withheld for the present, and instead, worked on my touching depiction of the Knights as honest folk, but poor. That's what the readers really want a story of people like themselves (they think), scrimping and saving to send their kids to the best possible school although I'd like to see any of them actually blowing seven grand in beer money on fees, for G.o.d's sake, when the Government's giving out education for free.

My father read the News of the World, too, and he was filled with the same ponderous cliches about School's your best investment and Learning is for Life, though as far as I could see, it never went further than that, and if he saw the irony in his words, he never gave any sign of it.

St Oswald's Grammar School for Boys Wednesday, 13 th October KNIGHT WAS BACK ON MONDAY MORNING. WEARING AN expression of martyred bravery, like an a.s.sault victim, and the tiniest of smirks. The other boys treated him with caution, but were not unkind; in fact I noticed that Brasenose, who usually avoids him, went out of his way to be friendly, sitting next to him at lunch-time and even offering him half of his chocolate bar. It was as if Brasenose, the perpetual victim, had spotted a potential defender in the newly vindicated Knight, and was making an effort to cultivate his friendship.

Anderton-Pullitt was back, too; looking none the worse for his near-death experience, and with a new book on First World War aircraft with which to plague us. As for myself, I've been worse. I said as much to Dianne Dare when she questioned the wisdom of my swift return to work, and later, to Pat Bishop, who accused me of looking tired.

I have to say he isn't looking too well himself at the moment. First the Fallow case, then the scene with AndertonPullitt and finally this business with Knight... I'd heard from Marlene that Pat had slept more than one night in his office; and now I saw that his face was redder than usual, and his eyes bloodshot. From the way he approached me I guessed the New Head had sent him to sound me out, and I could tell Bishop wasn't pleased about this, but as Second Master, his duty is to the Head, whatever his own feelings on the matter.

'You look exhausted, Roy. Are you sure you ought to be here?'

'Nothing wrong with me that a good strict nurse can't cure.'

He did not smile. 'After what happened, I thought you might at least take a week or two.' I could see where this was leading. 'Nothing happened,' I said shortly.

'That's not true. You had an attack--'

'Nerves. Nothing more.'

He sighed. 'Roy, be reasonable--'

'Don't lecture me, Pat. I'm not one of your boys.'

'Don't be like that,' said Pat. 'We just thought--'

'You, the Head and Strange--'

'We just thought you could do with a rest.'

I looked at him, but he would not quite meet my eye. 'A rest?' I said. I was beginning to feel annoyed. 'Yes, I see that it might be very convenient if I did take a few weeks off.

I Give things time to settle down? Give you chance to imooth a few ruffled feathers? Maybe pave the way for some of Mr Strange's new developments?'

I was right, which made him angry. He didn't say anything, though I could tell he wanted to, and his face, already flushed, took on a deeper shade. 'You're slowing down, Roy,' he said. 'Face it, you're forgetting things. And you're not as young as you were.'

'Is anyone?'

He frowned. 'There's been talk of having you suspended.'

'Really?' That would be Strange, or maybe Devine, with his eye to room 59 and the last outpost of my little empire. 'I'm sure you told them what would happen if they tried. Suspension, without a formal warning?' I'm not a Union man, but Sourgrape is, and so is the Head. 'He who lives by the book dies by the book. And they know it.'

Once more, Pat did not meet my eye. 'I hoped I wouldn't have to tell you this, ' he said. 'But you haven't left me any choice.'

'Tell me what?' I said, knowing the answer.

'A warning's been drafted,' he said.

'Drafted? By whom?' As if I didn't know. Strange, of course; the man who had already devalued my department, downsized my timetable, and who now hoped to put me to rest while the Suits and Beards took over the world.

Bishop sighed. 'Listen, Roy, you're not the only one with problems.'

'I don't doubt it,' I said. 'Some of us, however--'

Some of us, however, are paid more than others to deal with them. It's true, though, that we rarely think of ouf colleagues' private lives. Children, lovers, homes. The boys are always astonished to see us in a context outside of St Oswald's - buying groceries in a supermarket; at the barber's; in a pub. Astonished, and mildly delighted, like spotting a famous person in the street. I saw you in town on Sat.u.r.day, sir! As if they imagined us hanging up behind our form-room doors, like discarded gowns, between Friday night and Monday morning.

To tell the truth, I am somewhat guilty of this myself. But seeing Bishop today -- I mean, really seeing him; his rugby man's bulk gone half to fat in spite of that daily run, and his face drawn, the face of a man who has never quite understood how easily fourteen slipped away and fifty settled in I felt an unexpected pang of sympathy.

'Listen, Pat. I know you're--'

But Bishop had already turned to go, slouching off down the Upper Corridor, hands in pockets, broad shoulders slightly bowed. It was a pose I'd seen him adopt many times when the School rugby team lost against St Henry's, but I knew Bishop too well to believe that the grief implicit in his posture was anything other than a pose. No, he was angry. At himself, perhaps - he's a good man, even if he is the Head's man - but most of all, at my lack of cooperation, School spirit and understanding for his own difficult position.

Oh, I felt for him -- but you don't get to be Second Master in a place like St Oswald's without encountering the occasional problem or two. He knows that the Head would only too pleased to make a scapegoat of me - I don't ive much of a career ahead of me, after all, plus I'm

#xpensive and nearing retirement. My replacement would Come as a relief to many -- my replacement a young chap, a Corporate Suit; trained in IT; veteran of many courses; Itreamlined for rapid promotion. My little malaise must have given them hope. At last, an excuse to be rid of old Straitley without causing too much fuss. A dignified retirement on grounds of ill health; silver plaque; sealed envelope; flattering address to the Common Room.

As for the business of Knight and the rest -- well! What could be easier than to lay the blame - ever so quietly - on a former colleague? Before your time; one of the old school, you know, awfully good chap, but set in his ways; not a team player. Not one of us.