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Routon had ripped the sleeve from his shirt and was attempting to stop the exit wound.

‘Fool!’ cried Lady Vyner. ‘Fool!’

‘I need sheets from the bed,’ Routon said to Millie and she sped off in search of them.

‘Where’s Caspar?’ said Israel. ‘What if they shot Caspar too?’

Sanjay and Podma raced up the hall to check bedrooms.

But little Caspar Vyner was sitting under a table, not two metres from his grandmother’s body. He still held the gun, as though it was welded to his fingers – he could not shake it
loose. His sobs had run out and he’d pushed himself back as far as he could go into the darkness. He was making small noises and rocking backwards and forwards. ‘Bubb . . .’ he
said. It was a little bleep of a sound, like a sick machine.

The headmaster and Doonan were at the child’s side, immediately. As they lifted him, he made the same noise three more times. When his gran came into view, he went rigid with fear and then
he was in spasm.

The men steered him from the room as the word ‘M . . . m . . . murderer!’ was hurled at his head in a long, terrible scream.

‘Hush!’ said Routon.

‘Don’t you hush me, you ogre!’

Routon had bound pads of sheet to both sides of the wound. He tightened the bands that held them, making the old woman wince with pain.

‘Is there anything we can do?’ said Sanchez.

Routon tightened the bandages a little more and sat her up. ‘It’s a flesh wound,’ said the captain. ‘Nothing broken. No vital damage.’

‘But the blood,’ said Millie. ‘Look at it.’

‘Don’t you worry about blood.’ He dragged one of Lady Vyner’s arms over his own shoulder. She gasped with pain. ‘She’s alright. The more they scream, the more
life they’ve got. It’s the quiet ones you worry about. Hold this pad in place, Millie. I’m going to get her up.’

‘Should we move her? Shouldn’t we wait?’

‘She’s a trooper – you can walk down a few stairs, can’t you, love? See if you can find her slippers.’

‘Caspar,’ said Doonan, softly. ‘I need you to put the gun down.’ He stroked the boy’s hair with one hand, so gently. With the other he kneaded the child’s
wrist. ‘We’re going to put the gun down, Caspar, aren’t we? And we’re going to go downstairs and everything’s going to be fine.’

‘Ba!’ said Caspar. ‘Mmah!’

‘We’re going to stretch out our fingers. We’re going to get this nasty thing down on the table. What a great heavy weight it is! Let’s see if we can get our fingers out
of the hole . . .’

‘I
din
. . . I din!’

Doonan spread his own fingers and held them in front of the terrified Caspar. ‘Can you just do that for me? Let’s touch fingers, come on, Caspar!’

Caspar blinked and licked his lips. Gazing into Doonan’s eyes, he finally opened his fingers and the gun slipped onto the kitchen table. The headmaster removed it. The boy then watched as
his gran limped from the flat; he was shaking, and her threats and abuse echoed all the way up the stairwell.

After some time, Doonan managed to soothe him into a chair and Flavio made a pot of tea. The children were finally sent away and there was calm.

The story came tumbling out. It was short and it was sad.

The gun belonged to Sanchez: everyone knew that. But how had it found its way to Caspar? According to Caspar, another boy had loaned it to him. Caspar admitted he’d been hunting for the
weapon all over Christmas, so it was a joyful moment when this kind, generous, friendly boy knocked on his front door and put the weapon in his hands. The boy had even given him advice, which
Caspar had listened to, carefully: the gun is not loaded, said the boy. It’s a harmless toy, so you can point it at anyone. They’d even tried out a few combat manoeuvres together, on
the landing.

‘What do you mean,
manoeuvres
?’ said Doonan, gently. Caspar was on his lap now, slowly recovering.

‘Cowboy,’ said Caspar. ‘We did cowboys.’

‘Did you really? That’s very good – and he showed you how to hold it, did he? Did you try any others? Talk me through it, take your time.’

‘Then we did cops, because he said cops were more fun. He said it was more fun, because cops have to . . . have to burst in and shoot. So he showed me how to . . . burst in and
shoot.’

‘When was this?’

‘This morning. And we were playing. We were pulling the trigger and it was an empty gun! I shot him and he shot me. But I said cops was more fun, so he said fine and he went away. And I
had lunch. And then . . .’

‘Go on, Caspar.’

‘Gran was having a nap. I was only to have the gun for the day so I was just stroking it. I waited for her to wake up. I was just going to show it to her! She likes weapons, same as I do.
She was on the sofa . . .’ The boy started to cry. ‘I pretended to be a cop. I had it all ready, like Miles had shown me. I just . . . pointed it at her.’ He stared into
Doonan’s eyes, a new wave of horror rising as he relived the moment. ‘I just pulled the trigger.’

Caspar dissolved into sobs again and it took another ten minutes to quieten him. When he was able to go on, there wasn’t much more to the tale.

‘He said I could have it till teatime. He said Sanchez knew and everyone wanted to be friends with me. I was really happy, because he’d taken a curse out. He’d said he wanted
Gran dead, but now he said the curse was over . . .’

Inspector Cuthbertson did not attend the crime scene. He was alerted, immediately, and sent a handful of trusted men. He asked for a full report, subject to a government H.O.
He tried to contact Father O’Hanrahan, but the man wasn’t contactable.

Blue lights winked for several hours as darkness fell and statements were taken. Caspar was taken to a police station and Doonan stayed with him.

The headmaster now sat in his study, with his head in his hands. He had sent for Miles.

‘This might be the most important conversation you’re ever going to have,’ said the headmaster. ‘So I would advise you to think carefully about
everything you say.’

‘If you think it’s my fault,’ said Miles. ‘Why don’t you just send me to the police station?’

‘Because you’re a child.’

Professor Worthington served tea and then withdrew.

The headmaster looked at the boy in front of him and hunted for an opening. After a long minute of silence, he said, ‘When you came into my study, on your first day back at Ribblestrop,
you told me that you had changed.’

‘I have.’

‘Those were your very words, Miles: “I have changed.” And yet, it would appear that you were handling – and offering – a loaded gun to another boy.’

Miles was silent. He let his chin drop to his chest and his hair covered his eyes. He pulled his shirt around him like a shawl.

‘Why is your shirt so torn, Miles?’

‘Because I tore it.’

‘Yes. Why are there cuts on your forearms?’

‘Football.’

‘Those are tattoos, aren’t they? Professor Worthington says you do them yourself. With a compass.’

Miles stared at him. ‘I don’t,’ he said.

‘Did you give Caspar Vyner that gun?’

Silence.

‘Will you please answer my question?’

‘Yes,’ said Miles. ‘Yes.’

‘You loaded it?’

Miles nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘If I know Sanchez, it would have been empty when you found it. Sanchez left it unloaded, true or false?’

‘He left it unloaded. It was in his hiding place and I took it out. Ages ago and I told everyone.’

‘You gave it to Caspar and you loaded it at the last minute.’

Miles licked his lips.

‘You told him the gun was empty,’ said the headmaster. ‘But you had secretly loaded it.’

The silence stretched between them.

‘Is that the case, Miles? Can you confirm or deny what I have just said?’

‘If you want to expel me again, you can do it – you don’t need to go through all of this.’

‘I am not interrogating you. This is a conversation.’

‘You’re asking all the questions! How is that a conversation?’

‘Are there questions you want to ask me?’

‘Yes.’ The boy sat up. ‘For a start, why do you allow a gun to be in a kids’ dormitory? That little freak was after it – he would have found it in the
end.’

The headmaster picked up his cup and sipped his tea. ‘It’s Sanchez’s gun, as you know. It saved lives last term. And his father insists that he keep it.’

‘Not very safe, though, is it?’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Weird school that lets its pupils have guns.’

The headmaster looked at him. ‘You have a point,’ he said. ‘Ribblestrop is an unusual school and some of its pupils are also unusual.’

It was Miles’s turn to sip tea. ‘I didn’t mean to give Caspar a loaded gun,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d taken all the bullets out, but sometimes they get
stuck.’ Suddenly, there were tears in his eyes. ‘This is the last thing I wanted to happen! Everyone’s going to think I did it on purpose. Sanchez is going to go crazy –
he’s my best friend! I love him!’

The headmaster watched carefully. There was a single tear rolling down the boy’s nose. Miles wiped it away angrily.

‘If you expel me, I’m going to kill myself.’

‘Oh, Miles, what a disgusting thing to say!’

‘It’s true! If you want to—’

‘It’s absurd and obscene!’

They sat in silence.

‘We’re halfway through the term,’ said the headmaster. He was breathing heavily. ‘I have a casualty in hospital, with gunshot wounds. I have a boy threatening suicide. I
have a traumatised child in a police station. Less than six weeks, Miles! When, not just two hours ago, we were enjoying ourselves on the lake! You come to me: “I’ve changed! I’m
healed.” You shouldn’t have even been
touching
Sanchez’s gun! Not after last term!’

‘But I didn’t know there was a bullet in it.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘He begged me to borrow it, Caspar did!’

‘Yes. And Caspar is one of our most vulnerable children. He’s completely isolated! Are you proud of tormenting him?’

‘I didn’t torment anyone!’

‘Is this the new Miles? Are you gloating, now? Are you proud of yourself?’

Miles was turning red. ‘
I didn’t mean to do it!
’ he hissed.

‘You gave him the gun,’ yelled the headmaster. ‘You put bullets in the chamber – just like last term! You showed him how to shoot and you told him—!’

‘I thought it was empty!’ screamed Miles. He was on his feet. ‘I thought it was empty! Empty! Empty!’ He smashed his teacup onto its saucer, breaking both. A lake of hot
tea spread over the table and Miles’s right hand was suddenly red with blood. He grabbed the teapot and turned wildly around, and then crashed it through the window. The blood now ran freely
from his injured arms and he howled suddenly, like an animal. Once, twice – he stood and howled, and then the sobs took hold and shook him like a doll.

The headmaster sat in horrified shock. He forced himself to be calm. Despite the blood and the screaming, he had to be calm. There was a box of tissues nearby and he slowly laid them over the
boy’s injuries. Miles leaned forward, gasping. Blood leaked through the tissues. The headmaster pressed a napkin, gently, firmly. His own hands were shaking.

Miles quietened. ‘No . . .’ he moaned. ‘I don’t want to go. I have to stay!’ It was a whine and he seemed to be five or six years old suddenly. ‘You never
heard what she said!’ he shouted.

‘Who?’

‘Lady Vyner. Last term! You never heard what she said about my mother!’

‘And you’re telling me . . . Miles, are you telling me you’ve been holding a grudge for all this time?’

Miles said, ‘She got what she deserved!’

The headmaster sat in silence for a moment.

‘You’re cut,’ he said. He knew his voice was trembling.

Miles shook his head. ‘I’ve had deeper than that. This is nothing.’

‘Let me see, please.’

Miles sat down and laid his arms on the table. The headmaster removed the napkins and tissues, peeling them back. He felt utterly sick. The child’s skin was ruptured in several places and
he clearly needed stitches. Even that could wait, though: this moment was too important and he needed time.

‘I’m going to tell you about one of my problems, Miles,’ he said. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much pain are you in?’

Miles met his eyes.

‘No pain,’ he whispered.

‘See if this makes sense to you, because I need your advice. I’m going to tell you something that I think is true and important. Throughout my life, I have never been able to
recognise truth from lies. One of my worst failings is that I find almost everyone I meet plausible. And I am cursed with an imagination that understands people who do awful things. It’s why
I was sacked from two schools. It’s why I lost my family, I think – and it’s no doubt why Ribblestrop will fail.’

‘I’m telling the truth,’ said Miles. ‘If you don’t believe me, there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘But we can’t go there, can we? We can’t talk about truth.’ The headmaster paused. ‘Don’t you see? Liars lie to themselves. The need to survive is such that
we
believe
our own lies – just to keep going. Do you understand me?’

Miles said nothing.

‘I’ve got one more question for you, then I think we ought to look at your cuts. I want you to think about the answer – alright?’ The headmaster paused. ‘I want to
know,’ he said, ‘what you would do, if you were me?’

Miles still said nothing, and the only sound was a very soft drip of blood and tea from table to floor.

The headmaster continued. ‘Would you believe this boy sitting opposite me? Would you say,
This wonderful boy. He must be telling the truth. It’s all a horrible accident that we
can learn from.
Or would you know in your heart that he’s just done a wicked thing and is now lying about it? Lying to himself, even.’

Miles went to speak three times and each time nothing came. He had sucked his injured flesh and, just like at the football match, there was blood on his lips. His eyes were wide and luminous,
and he was staring at the little shunken head that was still on the headmaster’s desk.