I was in an all too familiar classroom, but at least I had the comfort of my friend. I could not see him, but I knew he was sitting a few rows behind me, and therefore that we tacitly opposed the rest of the children there upon two fronts, rather than just the one. Julia, the girl who used to strike at my legs with the broomstick, had also contrived to get behind me, as she always did. No matter how I tried to wriggle out of things, she would invariably find some excuse to wander about the classroom; then, when the rest of us had sat down, almost absentmindedly she would force herself into a chair behind me. The worst of it, though, was that this was the only consistency in the trials I had to undergo at her hands. Sometimes it would be a sharp pinch to one leg or another. Sometimes for an instant something would jerk a handful of my hair so sharply my head sprang back and I nearly toppled over. But, then again, sometimes nothing happened at all. Every lesson became an eternity when Julia succeeded in getting behind me, and I wished I could have asked my friend to have sat there in her place. But it was as if, long ago, I had admitted defeat, and there weren't even the faintest stirrings of hope in my mind that this ordeal of mine would ever end. Even on my deathbed, she would somehow have slipped under the bed, pretending she was a cleaner - as indeed she might well one day be, - making some excuse about sweeping up the dust, and as my sight failed, I would feel those same bony fingers nipping, pulling, thrusting at me.

But Julia's tortures achieved something strange; they forced my mind to develop a profound sensitivity to its surroundings and the intentions of those within them. So far as she was concerned, the only ascendancy I might have over her was to try to find a pattern in her pinches and furtive thrusts with her ruler, so that I would know when they were coming, and thus have the chance to evade them. But this pattern could only be established by trying to intuit the way her own mind was moving, taking in stimuli from the classroom about it. Because I could not see her directly, everything depended both on my ears and the objects within our communal field of vision. I could hear - even feel - as she moved in her chair, stealthily shifting her weight from one buttock to the other. And many times I experienced an almost psychic understanding - a sense of something slowly but inexorably becoming taut, as though someone were drawing back the bolt of an arrow. At those times I would calculate how long I had to wait, seeming to relax my body, so that when I turned sharply I could surprise the hand that, sure enough, was moving furtively under the desk toward me, like a snake. Sometimes I would grab her wrist and twist it as hard as I could, but she was immune to pain. She was a strong, long-limbed girl, half living and half dead, whose pale skin was grey in places, and in places blue. And she would look at me with a kind of delighted spite, out of those soul-less eyes of hers, the freckles and the wild red hair seemingly breaking from her temples and the ends of her cheeks, like a kind of ugly flame caught in stasis.

I knew that nothing would happen till the teacher turned her back. I felt I could almost see through Julia's eyes the very motion I was seeing through my own; I could feel her own annoyance as the teacher strode from left to right, pointing at the blackboard, seeming to think about turning, and then failing to do so. Or else, turning only for an instant, and then back to face us once more. I could sense her frustration.

And, then again, I could also feel the moments when her mind receeded, and she forgot about me. It would be when we had been asked to do something complicated, like copy out a poem, putting all the indentations in the correct places. The wide lines of our calligraphy books had feint secondary lines to help us, showing exactly how far to describe each descent and ascent. At those times, I would keep a part of my mind open for the stimulus which I knew would break her mood, and remind her to have another go at me. If the blackbirds were singing, as they always seemed to be in those late afternoons, it would be the instant one of them stopped. Or else if suddenly the classroom became overcast, as a cloud passed over the sun. Or if someone dropped something, that made all of us start for a moment. Thus my mind was never free of Julia; each lesson was only, in some way, a new education in Julia, a new attempt to outsmart her. In ordeals of this kind, it may be impossible to explain to an older person why nothing was ever said. But nothing is ever said; there are some rules that only make sense to a child, and only a child could have invented them; so I cannot explain today why she felt this onus upon her to make my life such a misery, or why I in turn felt obliged to put up with it all without complaint.

I was dying for the lesson to end, but then, when Julia was there, I was always dying for the lesson to end. She was the very meaning of temporality for me, and all that made the future bleak. As the class as a whole got up, noisily pushing back their chairs in a mutual pandemonium, I realised this time that she had been spitting in my hair again. I could not go home without washing away that sharp smell of her saliva, and I shivered with disgust as I gently moved my fingers through my hair to locate the slimy little nests that had settled there.

After everyone had left, I walked quickly to the nearest block of buildings, to search for a basin in which I could wash my hair and hands. Already the cleaners were poking about with their buckets and mops, and someone had turned out the lights, so everything was in semi-darkness. Walking about the unfamiliar rooms, I could only see darkened desks and jars of chemicals that must have been abandoned from some science practical that had just taken place. Then I realised that someone was watching me with attentive prejudice. It was something I had learned from Julia - the instinctive ability to know when I had become the subject of attention.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" came the question, icily polite. The schoolmaster was hidden somewhere in the shadows; I imagined he had been locking up his desk, when he had suddenly caught sight of me, and chosen, on impulse, to wait there in silence. The fact he spoke now suggested the evidence against me was complete, and that all his suspicions had been confirmed.

Abruptly I realised how things must have appeared - that I was creeping about in the darkness because I had come to steal some chemicals. Yes, I was creeping about, and with a melancholy inward smile I applauded his perspicuity. But it was not because I had come to steal anything; it was because I wanted to get to that bathroom before anyone could see me, and challenge me for having spittle in my hair. Now I remembered that only last term five boys had been expelled for trying to blow up the school with chemicals from the lab - much good it would have done us all. I had smiled at the futility of their gesture, for, unlike them, I knew in advance that in this place any initiative of ours was doomed from the start.

No less instantly, I realised that I was - genuinely and irremediably - in the wrong, and that there was nothing I could do now to change things. The master had called me to account, certain of what I was about to do. But because he had done so, conspicuously acknowledging a crime in progress, it made it impossible for me to prove that he had been mistaken all along. If he could only have sat quietly and watched me find my way to the bathroom, and then out again, back into the yard, I should have been safe.

I realised that what made me guilty was the humanity I shared with this man. My guilt was in the fact that I could contemplate stealing chemicals. We were both human; the master could contemplate stealing things, and therefore I must be capable of doing so, too. The proof of my innocence would have been that I had not contemplated doing such a thing. But this was an impossible proof, and I knew it. The only child who could be innocent would be the one who either could not understand that the crime were possible, or else was unable to understand why anyone should think him capable of performing it. But I understood the crime, and thus I could never clear my name surrounding some would-be transgression which had only failed to reach its conclusion because it had been interrupted. Perhaps he could not prove I was guilty, but I would never be able to prove to him that I was completely innocent, and that was far more important to me. Indeed, I felt I could happily live with any crime I actually committed; after all, I had no obligation to be an angel, nor any preconceptions that I was one. But if I could not prove my innocence in the face of accusation, I might as well slit my own throat, for there was no place I could hide; even alone in bed I would taunt myself out of spite with the shame, the shame of it all, till it stopped making sense and I could not even see how you could get up in this world without affronting the sunlight and being gossiped about by the wind between two meddlesome trees.

Desultorily I walked toward the desk from which I had heard the voice, but already I was acting under the master’s volition rather than my own. For, though I couldn’t see him, I knew he was awaiting me there, and that I had no option but to go. Slowly I drew closer, aware that even if other freedoms had been stripped from me, yet I still retained the power of deferral. But the master’s patience was limitless; I had taken his bait, and now there was nowhere left to go, however much I wanted to prevaricate and deny it.

And so at last I stood before him, watching the black and white of the face – the eyebrows, the whiskers, the hat, the collar, the long dark sleeves, watching the whole apparition uncrumple itself from the lines and scores and shadows and stretch-marks of the wallpaper behind him; and then I saw that he was sitting back insolently, aware that I owed him an explanation, and this eager anticipation of his wearied me, since it meant I would not only have to explain why I was there, but also explain everything else that he suspected, only half of which I could possibly guess. Nevertheless, I told him in a low voice about my hair being dirty, and that I was looking for a bathroom to wash it. I held out the top of my skull towards him, but he turned his head slightly to one side with a gesture of impatience. Now he was pointing vaguely down the hallway, not liking my explanation - indeed, plainly not wanting to be convinced of my innocence at all.

Now I was cross at myself for not attending better to his directions. I knew he would be watching me, but I didn't know which door to take. If I walked slowly enough perhaps he would forget all about me, but it seemed unlikely. My anger abruptly took on the form of shame, as if the two were the same thing. I was looking for that bathroom smartingly - that is the word - smartingly. I was looking for it red-facedly, as if I had just been whipped for some crime I had actually committed.

Things seemed to improve though as I made my way down the almost endless corridor. I came into a patch of light where the walls divided for ten yards or so and there was a square filled with desks and various men and women sprawled about on chairs, most of them on the telephone. I felt oddly comforted by this sudden proximity of strangers; I felt I could lose myself among them, and I resolved to ask again for more precise directions.

But I had failed to leave my past behind me; I seemed to be pulling it after me like a toy on a string. Now there were footsteps behind me and I realised it was the master once more, striding quickly and purposefully. He didn't bother to greet me afresh; instead, there was something bumptious - even triumphant - in his voice, as he got straight to the point: "Since you've left my desk, I now find I no longer have my key-chain, wallet, watch. Perhaps you'd care to buy me replacements?"

This speech infuriated me beyond all reason, and I found myself striving to deduce just what it was in it that so provoked me. I saw that part of it was the implicit contempt with which he asked if I'd care to buy him replacements, rather than return the things he supposed I had stolen. Then I realised, in its snide, sarcastic way, how honourable the whole thing sounded. The man didn’t want to debase himself by accusing me of actually stealing anything; it was enough that, like a true gentleman, he offered me the possibility of making good my misdeeds. That was the key to it. He was treating me with utter contempt, but he was treating me like a gentleman, pretending that he believed I was one, but wanting me to see that I couldn't possibly be. To his credit, I reflected, he did at least seem genuinely to believe in the reality of my offence, and I had no doubt his effects had indeed gone missing. Nevertheless, his self-righteous contempt aroused my own. The man was small, and I was not afraid of him, even if he was a schoolmaster and I was bound to him in certain ways. I was reflecting on what I would say, determined to have my revenge upon him. The most natural response would have been to deny the whole thing, but to deny the allegation was also to accept it as a reasonable matter for debate, and therefore, by extension, that I was the sort of person who could be guilty, even if, in this particular case, I were found not to be. But I didn’t want to defend myself; I wanted to hurt and humiliate the man as much as he and Julia had hurt and humiliated me, and I think I actually started to tremble as I realized that there was nothing which would satisfy my blood lust beyond the eternal and unquenchable burning of the two of them forever in the private hell I would forge for them alone. But first I wanted him to hit me; my mind was in tatters; it ached and struggled; it was like something twisted and splattered, something whose stomach had burst beneath it on the stones, and when you prodded it it wouldn’t run away any more. I itched for physical pain, and the more unjust, the better. He had made a mistake, but I could turn that to my own ends. For if he hit me, I would have the law on my side, and oh, how I would hunt him down with that weighty companion; how I would punish him, and how merciless I would show myself to be. So I said slowly - making sure I didn't put a word wrong - "Do you know, I have absolutely no intention of buying you a new watch, a new key-chain, a new wallet. I could easily afford to do so, but the fact is, I … won't." I drew out the last word, stressing it unnecessarily. The second sentence was pure malice, and I looked him straight in the eye and smiled at him as I said it. I knew he thought I had stolen his things, so this barefaced denial of any reparation, along with – and this was the key – my failure to deny that I had actually done so would, I was convinced, prove unbearable to him. But, coward that he was, he simply turned on his tail, saying something like "Don't let him leave this place." I realised that he had become surrounded by three or four sycophantic companions, who, deep down, were doubtless as repulsed by all this as I myself was. They watched me out the corners of their eyes, casual and embarrassed; for my part, I refused them the satisfaction of seeing that I even cared.

I knew I was in the right, but it was that kind of knowing when nevertheless you actually feel wrong. You know something, but you aren't sure of all the facts. Your certainty both focuses you and also seems somehow to undermine you. Your sense of certainty is like something solid, something definite, when suddenly you find yourself thinking that it is just such a solidity which might be the germ of your defeat - that wall of which you are so sure may in fact simply be concealing something still more certain which you cannot see because of it.

At length the man returned with a police-woman. I was glad he hadn't made me wait long, since I was uncomfortable here. But he himself was doubtless no less uncomfortable, having lost no time in bringing in the law, and afraid the whole time, I daresay, that I might somehow escape without punishment.

I have always been fearful of the police, so I was relieved to find this woman did not scare me. She was small and tired, more like some kind of traffic warden. Her uniform was clearly old and, though perfectly clean, never to be restored to its former glory. Not wanting to be here herself, she waited in silence for us to explain ourselves.

"This man accused me of stealing his things," I said. Now I felt a different kind of embarrassment. It seemed, after all, as if the schoolmaster had succeeded. For I resented the fact this dirty laundry was being aired in public, and that, now the law was here, I seemed to have an obligation to clear my name. I resented the fact that while I was not the one who had made the allegations, I was, once again, the one who was having to explain and defend himself.

"So what exactly did you say?" she asked me in turn, neither sympathetic nor condemnatory. She was the impersonal face of the law, whose operations revolved around verbal facts. Just as there should never have been cause for accusation had the schoolmaster said nothing in the first place, so it was only the fact that I had answered him so arrogantly that gave me the obligation to explain myself to her now.

Already I was seeking to justify myself: "I said I wouldn't give them back, but I only said that because I hadn't taken them, and he had no right to accuse me -"

"Don't you know," she suddenly interrupted, - "Don't you know it's his wedding day tomorrow?" She said it with a kind of restrained wonder, as if I couldn't possibly not know this thing, but that nevertheless she was obliged by her profession to give me the benefit of the doubt. Somehow she was implying that I had ruined this man, his peace of mind, his integrity, but not in a way that could ever give me satisfaction, only in a shoddy, mean-spirited, humiliating way that would make you gnash your teeth at night and wish you had never been born. Instantly, I could see - I could empathise - I could identify. I dropped my head and said softly, so that no one could hear except the two of us - "I'm not always one to put two and two together very fast." I meant by this that yes, I had known perhaps that someone was having a wedding, and the groom's name, and where he sat, and everything about him; and perhaps I rediscovered all of these things in the instant the policewoman challenged me, yet at some level I had never put them all together.

Then again, perhaps I was innocent, and perhaps I had never known at all. For I had no confidence in knowing; everything was analysis, anticipation, interpretation; the only way to live in this world was to step quietly while watching out the back of your head, or, better still, to create a world out of your mind so that you never need to face this one again.

Either way, with this realisation came a far worse one - that I would never be able to convince the police-woman - not that I was afraid of being prosecuted for anything - that this was true, that I really had forgotten and failed to connect, or that I had never known in the first place. Against this attempt to clear my name, not of a crime but of something worse - a lack of humanity - I would always be in the wrong.

And still I felt resentment. The need for me to bow humbly, to "confess" a weakness which I did not regard as such at all - and which I did now more for her benefit than my own. Ultimately, I was amused by the fact I was scatter-brained; I was sorry if I had hurt anyone because of it; but the fact was, the schoolmaster was an idiot, and I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. I tried to say this too - that I wouldn't lose any sleep over it - but it seemed to come out as something still more incriminating - that, now, I was trying to deceive myself in addition to her, as though my guilt were too great to face.

"I always thought that the law should be on the side of those who were maligned, rather than those who are merely innocent," I said. I realised, even as I said this, that she would not understand, that such a declaration ran in the face of anything she could understand. I knew it, from the sandy greyness of the sides of her cheeks - a small police-woman, past her prime, doubtless underpaid, unattractive with her short hair, and probably - though she would never admit it - lonely herself.

For there was no word, in her book, which had the right to stand up against that word "innocent." It would be like trying to say that there was a form of light which was different from light or dark - something impossible, because nothing existed in her mind which could make sense of such a distinction. It was not something you could argue about, like "Selfishness is good," or "Selfishness is bad." It was the base, the bottom line; but it was also a pit within which I felt myself sinking. I was going to open my mouth a last time, to try to convince her of what I meant about the difference between "maligned" and "innocent", but what was the point? The essence of accusation is that it strips us of the proof of innocence. And, when one once has been accused, one can never prove oneself wholly innocent again. All you can do is to try to hide from the words, or seal up the world’s mouth, or cut off everyone’s ears, so that no one can be accused or overhear someone else’s accusation. Already I could feel Julia prodding me in the back; perhaps the whole time I had felt only that, and the schoolmaster and the policewoman and the dim corridors, the desks of chemicals and even the bright, kindly little space where the phones were – all of these were just a distraction. I no longer had even the strength to turn back to face her; instead, there were just the stone lions facing out over the football pitch, beyond which there was a line of chestnut trees, and beyond them the gravel of the drive of the stone house in which the headmaster’s wife lived, and then, beyond that, another field with goalposts at both ends, and then another line of chestnut trees, the gravel of a further drive, the wife of another schoolmaster, and so on. Simply thinking of it made me dizzy, and I wished I could dampen and flatten, smudge and forestall my existence as easily as I could the transit of my thoughts, although I strongly suspected I would only be guilty, even in this, of something else.