He faced the window, a dark silhouette, hands clasped behind his broad back. “Hello, Alfie,” he said before turning round. When he did, it took a few seconds and then I gasped aloud.

I had not seen John McGonagal in nearly sixty years. Not, in fact, since I fought him in the lane all those years ago. There was no mistaking him, although his hair was now mostly white, and his eyes had a sadness and emptiness that was almost heartbreaking. He nodded slowly. I had not said anything.

“I thought it was you,” he said in the same Geordie accent that he had threatened me and Mam with, and I was instantly on edge, the memories flooding back.

“You’re crazy, you are! Weirdo! A psycho!”

And then Rafel’s words: “In the real world, Alfie, you gotta kill ’em. Otherwise they come back for more.”

Had he come back for me? What was he saying? The silhouetted figure was talking and the words were swimming in my head….

“It couldn’t be anyone else,” John was saying, and my thoughts came back into focus, back into the twenty-first century. “When my great-nephew—Inigo, you know him—told me about the book incident at his school, I knew it had to be you.”

I stood there, blinking in amazement.

“It’s all right,” said John, shaking his head. “I know exactly what Inigo’s like. There’s a good lad in there somewhere but it’s hidden underneath layers of lazy, stupid, swaggering….” He stopped himself. “Well, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m here.”

I spoke for the first time. “I can see that. But…why?”

He turned back to the window and stared out, taking his time to answer.

“The doctors gave me six months to live—about six months ago. Don’t worry,” he said, giving a short laugh. “I feel fine. Tip-top, in fact. Mostly. But there were some loose ends to tie up—before I go, you know?”

I nodded, even though he was not looking at me. I had sat down on the hard sofa, but I did not take my eyes off him. He turned back and looked at me with his sad old-man’s eyes.

“I deserved that beating you gave me, Alfie. Deserved it one hundred percent. Took me a while to realize it, though. Years. And by the time I did, I wanted to—I don’t know, apologize, I suppose. But you and your mam had moved, hadn’t you? All because of me, I expect.

“And you left no trace. I’ll bet you’re good at that, eh? Moving on without a trace?”

I shrugged, wondering, Where is this going? It sounded very much as though he knew. Knew my secret. I got an uncomfortable prickling sensation down my neck.

“So I left it, and lived with it. Only you moved back, didn’t you? People talk, Alfie. And there’s lots to learn if you’re prepared to listen. I wrote to your mam but I got no reply. I thought I should probably just leave it alone. Then I heard about the fire.”

He paused. I think he was being really careful to sound measured and gentle. “I’m sorry, Alfie. About your mam. And…you know…” He looked around the sparsely furnished room with its hard-wearing paint and classroom smell. “This…and everything.”

“Do you…do you know? About me? And Mam?”

He smiled, and, for the first time, his sadness seemed to lessen. “Oh aye. I know. Your secret’s safe. Well, there is one other person that knows. The person that told me, in fact.”

“Hello, Alfie,” croaked another voice, and I spun round on the sofa. Sitting hunched in the corner of the room, in shadow, was a figure I had not seen when I came in, who had been sitting there all this time.

He was ancient, shrunken, with wild white hair and a permanent tremor in his chin. But there was a sharp look in his eyes that told me he was a long way from mental decline.

Staring at me and shaking his head was the person I was used to thinking of as the last friend I ever had: Jack McGonagal.