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limit to how far they’ll take me socially. Certainly not to the rarefied heights of the Guards.’
    The headmaster sighed. ‘Ever the realist, eh, Blackwell? Well, I’ll see what I can do.’
    ‘No, sir,’ said James. ‘You’ll do better than that.’ He produced a sheet of paper from his prefect’s blazer pocket.
    The headmaster raised an eyebrow. ‘I beg your pardon? I’m not sure I like your tone, boy.’
    ‘I’m not sure I care either way, sir,’ replied the teenager. He placed the form on the desk between them. ‘This is a typewritten reference from you to the commanding
officer at Cranwell, explaining that I am ideal officer material, based on my exemplary record with the School Cadet Corps. It also gives details of my School Certificate results this summer, with
special emphasis on my excellent examination score in mathematics. An 88 per cent mark, as I recall.’
    The headmaster sat very still.
    ‘Blackwell, you are barely competent in mathematics.’
    The boy smiled, and waited. After a long moment, the man opposite him shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
    ‘Look, I’m very fond of you, Blackwell – James – you know that, but I’m not signing this. You simply can’t ask it of me.’ He picked up the letter and
tore it carefully in half.
    James smiled again. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, sir. I was your star cadet and I did exceptionally well in maths. You must have me muddled with another boy, I think. But you have a
habit of doing that, don’t you, sir? Do you remember when you called me Thomas instead of James? You were very apologetic. Mind you, you were rather worked up at the time, as I recall. I put
it down to over-excitement.’
    The headmaster’s voice, when he finally spoke, was barely above a whisper. ‘You little bastard. You
fucking
little bastard. I’ve done so much for you. I paid for
lessons to stop you talking like a barrow-boy, I—’
    ‘But sir,’ James interrupted. ‘You told me you
liked
me to talk like a barrow-boy. Have you forgotten that as well?’
    The headmaster sank back into his chair. ‘You wouldn’t dare. You wouldn’t dare say a word. We’d both go to prison.’
    James inclined his head. ‘No, sir,
I
wouldn’t go to prison. I’m much too young – especially when we . . . how did you used to describe it? When we had our . . .
“special lessons”. But you, sir? You certainly
would
end up in clink; there we are in full agreement. And of course, there’s the rather nasty business of corrupting a
minor, too. That’s got to deliver some hard labour into the bargain, I should imagine. But what do
you
think, sir?’
    Frightened, shrunken eyes met those of the brightest blue.
    ‘I think – I think you had better write me another letter to sign, you little tart.’
    ‘Ah.’ James stood up. ‘Now, just for that, you can stick that one back together again, sir, and copy it out in fair hand. I wasn’t all that happy with a typewritten
version, to be honest, any more than I was happy with our . . . well, transactions, as I suppose we should consider them in hindsight. Anyway, recommendations of this kind are so much more
intrinsically
personal
when they’re handwritten, don’t you agree? And you have such lovely copperplate, sir.’
    The headmaster’s eyes closed for a moment. ‘Get out, just get out. You’ll have your filthy letter in your pigeonhole in fifteen minutes. Then you can go back to your pigsty of
a home and your scrubber of a mother, and never come back here. Term finishes next week anyway. If I see your face at this school again I’ll call the police and bring charges for blackmail. I
swear I shall.’
    James Blackwell walked calmly to the study door. He opened it and turned back.
    ‘No, you won’t. You’ll write my letter and then you’ll shut up. Don’t bluster, sir. It demeans you even further, if such a thing were possible. Goodbye,
sir.’

9
    James Blackwell may have manipulated his way into Cranwell, but once