Different Class
Authors: Joanne Harris
About the Book
Fun Facts About Murder: Use Coca-Cola to clean up blood spills. The combination of ascorbic acid and carbonated water actually digests the blood, leaving no trace of evidence.
After thirty-four years at St Oswald’s Grammar in North Yorkshire, Latin master Roy Straitley has seen all kinds of boys come and go. Each class has its clowns, its rebels, its underdogs, its Brodie Boys, who, whilst of course he doesn’t have favourites, hold a special place in an old teacher’s heart. But every so often there’s a boy who doesn’t fit the mould. A troublemaker. A boy capable of twisting everything around him. A boy with hidden shadows inside.
With insolvency and academic failure looming, a new broom has arrived at the venerable school, bringing PowerPoint, sharp suits and even sixth-form girls to the dusty corridors. But while Straitley does his sardonic best to resist this march to the future, a shadow from his past is stirring. A boy who, even twenty years on, haunts his teacher’s dreams. A boy capable of bad things.
Set in Malbry, the same Yorkshire village as
Gentlemen & Players
and
Blueeyedboy, Different Class
shows Joanne Harris at her darkest and most unsettling, and confirms this impressively versatile writer’s mastery of the psychological thriller genre.
Contents
To my Brodie Boys:
You know who you are.
P
ROLOGUE
1
September 1981
Dear Mousey,
Fun Facts About Murder: Use Coca-Cola to clean up blood spills. The combination of ascorbic acid and carbonated water actually digests the blood, leaving no trace of evidence
.
Not that I’m planning a murder. But it is an interesting subject. Unlike most of the subjects I will be studying this term – Maths; Latin; English; French. Actually I
do
like English. But the reading list is awful.
To Kill a Mockingbird
; Chaucer; Barry Hines. And Shakespeare. Always Shakespeare. Why can’t we read something
fun
, for a change? Something with a bit of bite?
Still, you’d have been proud today. I didn’t give myself away. Never tell tales, never cry, and never give yourself away. That’s what it takes to do well at school. That and being cool, of course. Which is why no one will ever suspect that I am writing this diary. A diary isn’t cool. Diaries are for sissies and girls. A diary gives
everything
away, which is why I’m going to write my thoughts in a place my parents will never look. My new St Oswald’s Prep diary, handed out this morning on the first day of the Michaelmas term. Hiding my story in plain sight, like a corpse at a graveside.
They never look at my schoolwork, except for the bit in red at the end. AAA: the row of tents. As long as those tents are there, it’s fine. And my form-master will never look. I can tell that already. Mr Straitley, Quaz to the school. That’s short for Quasimodo, because he looks like a gargoyle and lives in the Bell Tower. I
think
that’s supposed to be a joke. It doesn’t seem very funny to me. In fact, Mr Straitley scares me a bit. I don’t think I’m going to like him.
Back at my old school, Netherton Green, my teacher was Miss McDonald. She was blonde, and pretty, and young, and wore Indian skirts and ankle-boots. Mr Straitley wears a cape, like all the other teachers. But his is dusty and covered in chalk. He calls us by our surnames. We all go by our surnames here. It’s one of those St Oswald’s rules, like not running in corridors, and never leaving your shirt untucked.
They tell me it’s important to follow
all
the rules this time. St Oswald’s is a
New Start
, far away from Netherton Green. A new start. No trouble; no pranks. No hanging around with the
Wrong Sort
. No sharp objects. No rough games. And always follow
all
the rules.
Of course, I don’t
know
all the rules. That’s part of being a Seventh Term Boy. Seventh Term Boys have a whole two years to catch up, including schoolwork, making friends, joining teams and learning
The Ropes
. That’s a nautical term, by the way. Dad likes nautical terms. He’d have liked me to join the Navy one day, but I can’t, because of
My Condition
. (That’s what they call it.
My Condition
, Mousey.)
My Condition means that there are things they’ll never let me do at home. My Condition determines the friends I make, the games I play, even the school I attend. That’s why Dad chose St Oswald’s. St Oswald’s is a Church school, with a
Rigorous Moral Code
. That’s what I need, apparently. Well, maybe there’s some truth in that. After all, there’s no fun in breaking rules unless they really
mean
something. Running in corridors doesn’t count. You need to see past the trivia before you can reach for the fun stuff.
Oh, and
Never Get Caught
, of course.
That’s
the most important thing. Breaking rules is only fun if you get away with it. That means not telling anyone, even your best friend – assuming I had one, which I don’t. Not any more, anyway. Perhaps that’s why I’m telling you all my secrets, Mousey. Imaginary friends – like dead ones – don’t talk. They never give the game away. Still, it might be nice to find someone who shares my interests. Someone who likes to break the rules. Someone to share in the fun stuff. The fun stuff, like at Netherton Green.
The fun stuff. Like murder.
P
ART
O
NE
Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae.
(V
ERGIL
)
1
