. Four Michael knew he should get up and unlock the door. He should pick up his bag and go to History, down the corridor and across the court where the flower beds were. It was Thompson’s Third Law: don’t bunk lessons, because someone will notice. Do everything you’re told. Don’t draw attention to yourself. The worse things got, the more you had to hold it together. But he just couldn’t make himself move. He was late already anyway. Father Sewell would be looking at his empty desk, shaking his head vaguely, murmuring about autumn colds and the influenza epidemic in 1918. He’d just assume that clever, inconspicuous Thompson was ill. Bunking off? Thompson? Surely not. A boy like him? And what do you mean, a personal crisis? A fight with a friend? But Thompson’s not the sort to have friends . . . And how right he was. Michael grinned to himself, fiercely, pushing the misery away. Stupid, Michael, stupid. Letting yourself think Francis was actually a mate.
