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least there were enough boys remaining for seven-a-side.
    “Don’t bog rats’ mothers teach them table manners?” Baskins teased as he raided the fridge, foraging for breakfast.
    Sometimes when you open your mouth and say something, the warning bells don’t ring loudly or quickly enough. Baskins just about managed a look of regret before Max’s lunge took the heavier boy rolling across the kitchen floor. Pans clattered. The big milk jug on the table couldn’t resist gravity and shattered on the stone floor. A chair splintered.
    Max straddled Baskins’s chest, twisting his rugby shirt in a double grip that threatened to choke him. Baskins was stronger than Max, but he couldn’t kick free. Giddyingsplodges of light blurred his vision. He was starting to black out. Spittle rattled in his throat; his eyes were bulging. He hit Max on the side of the head with his fist. It made no impression.
    Max Gordon was going to kill him!
    Fergus Jackson burst in, grabbing one of Max’s arms as Mr. Roberts, the sports master, held the other.
    “Max! Enough! Let go, Max!” Jackson shouted. For a moment, they could not loosen his grip, and Max shot a look at him, which sent a shudder through Jackson. Something other than rage and intent glinted in Max’s eyes—it was as if a wild animal had been snared and was about to fight for its life.
    Then Max eased his grip slightly, Jackson’s commands breaking through his blinding haze of anger. Between them, Jackson and Roberts hauled Max off the gasping boy.
    Max crouched, ready to attack. Jackson was scared. He had never seen Max behave in such an uncontrolled, aggressive manner. No one moved; then Roberts put himself between Max and Baskins, a warning hand raised.
    “Enough!” Roberts shouted.
    “Max,” Jackson said more quietly. “Max, it’s all right, boy. It’s all right.” They could see Max physically relax and come out of whatever zone he’d been in. He nodded.
    “Sorry, Baskins,” he said dutifully, but the look he gave Baskins as he left the room allowed no doubt in anyone’s mind that the fight had been stopped just in time.
    “What did you say to him?” Jackson asked.
    “Nothing, sir. Well, I just gave him a poke to wake him up and asked if his mother hadn’t taught him any manners.” He pulled a face. “I forgot about his mum.”
* * *
    Max walked down the corridor with Mr. Jackson. He really hadn’t wanted to apologize, but his parents’ influence and his own sense of shame pushed those feelings aside. His dad had always told him that only unthinking thugs attacked without provocation. Baskins mentioning his mum seemed perfect justification to Max, though he knew it wasn’t. Besides, he hadn’t wanted to let Mr. Jackson down.
    “Apology accepted,” Mr. Jackson said. “Do you want to talk about it?”
    “I don’t think so, sir.”
    “All right. Well, you know you can whenever you wish.”
    Max nodded.
    Mr. Jackson pulled a coat from a long row of hooks. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”
    Max grabbed his jacket and followed Mr. Jackson, who had already pulled open the side door to the cobbled yards at the back of the school. It was ear-nippingly cold, but the various outbuildings broke the wind’s direct assault.
    “I want to tell you something, Max, and I don’t want to be interrupted while I do so.”
    Max waited. Jackson looked as though he was about to break bad news. “One of our ex-pupils died a few days ago. His name was Danny Maguire.”
    Max had to fake it: “Sorry to hear that, sir.” He listened as Jackson recounted the visit by the MI5 impostors. Was Max in trouble? Was there any connection between Maguire, these men and Max? Did he know anything about drug smuggling? Max denied all knowledge of anything Jackson askedhim. Telling the truth might hinder his investigation into what had really happened to his mother—and why Maguire had died.
    “And you have received nothing in the post from Maguire?”
    “Like what,