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Redman chose his moment； and delivered a crippling blow to Slape's knee； the weak leg； he guessed。 He guessed correctly。
Slape screamed； and staggered back； reeling round and hitting the wall face on。 Redman followed through； pressing Slape's back。 Too late； he realized what he'd done。 Slape's body relaxed as his knife hand； crushed between wall and body； slid out； bloody and weapon less。 Slape exhaled death…air； and collapsed heavily against the wall； driving the knife still deeper into his own gut。 He was dead before he touched the ground。
Redman turned him over。 He'd never bee used to the suddenness of death。 To be gone so quickly； like the image on the television screen。 Switched off and blank。 No message。
The utter silence of the corridors became overwhelming as he walked back towards the vestibule。 The cut on his stomach was not significant； and the blood had made its own scabby bandage of his shirt； knitting cotton to flesh and sealing the wound。 It scarcely hurt at all。 But the cut was the least of his problems： he had mysteries to unravel now； and he felt unable to face them。 The used； exhausted atmosphere of the place made him feel； in his turn； used and exhausted。 There was no health to be had here； no goodness； no reason。
He believed； suddenly； in ghosts。
In the vestibule there was a light burning； a bare bulb suspended over the dead space。 By it； he read Lacey's crumpled letter。 The smudged words on the paper were like matches set to the tinder of his panic。
Mama； They fed me to the pig。 Don't believe them if they said I never loved you； or if they said I ran away。 I never did。 They fed me to the pig。 I love you。
Tommy。
He pocketed the letter and began to run out of the building and across the field。 It was well dark now： a deep； starless dark； and the air was muggy。 Even in daylight he wasn't sure of the route to the farm； it was worse by night。 He was very soon lost； somewhere between the playing…field and the trees。 It was too far to see the outline of the main building behind him； and the trees ahead all looked alike。
The night…air was foul； no wind to freshen tired limbs。 It was as still outside as inside； as though the whole world had bee an interior： a suffocating room bounded by a painted ceiling of cloud。
He stood in the dark； the blood thumping in his head； and tried to orient himself。
To his left； where he had guessed the out…houses to be； a light glimmered。 Clearly he was pletely mistaken about his position。 The light was at the sty。 It threw the ramshackle chicken run into silhouette as he stared at it。
There were figures there； several； standing as if watching a spectacle he couldn't yet see。
He started towards the sty； not knowing what he would do once he reached it。 If they were all armed like Slape； and shared his murderous intentions； then that would be the end of him。 The thought didn't worry him。 Somehow tonight to get off of this closed…down world was an attractive option。 Down and out。
And there was Lacey。 There'd been a moment of doubt； after speaking to Leverthal； when he'd wondered why he cared so much about the boy。 That accusation of special pleading； it had a certain truth to it。 Was there something in him that wanted Thomas Lacey naked beside him？ Wasn't that the sub…text of Leverthal's remark？ Even now； running uncertainly towards the lights； all he could think of was the boy's eyes； huge and demanding； looking deep into his。
Ahead there were figures in the night； wandering away from the farm。 He could see them against the lights of the sty。 Was it all over already？ He made a long curve around to the left of the buildings to avoid the spectators as they left the scene。 They made no noise： there was no chatter or laughter amongst them。 Like a congregation leaving a funeral they walked evenly in the dark； each apart from the other； heads bowed。 It was eerie； to see these godless delinquents so subdued by reverence。
He reached the chicken…run without encountering any of them face to face。
There were still a few figures lingering around the pig…house。 The wall of the sow's partment was lined with candles； dozens and dozens of them。 They burned steadily in the still air； throwing a rich warm light on to brick； and on to the faces of the few who still stared into the mysteries of the sty。
Leverthal was among them； as was the warder who'd knelt at Lacey's head that first day。 Two or three boys were there too； whose faces he recognized but could put no name to。
There was a noise from the sty； the sound of the sow's feet on the straw as she accepted their stares。 Somebody was speaking； but he couldn't make out who。 An adolescent's voice； with a lilt to it。 As the voice halted in its monologue； the warder and another of the boys broke rank； as if dismissed； and turned away into the dark。 Redman crept a little closer。 Time was of the essence now。 Soon the first of the congregation would have crossed the field and be back in the Main Building。 They'd see Slape's corpse： raise the alarm。 He must find Lacey now； if indeed Lacey was still to be found。
Leverthal saw him first。 She looked up from the sty and nodded a greeting； apparently unconcerned by his arrival。 It was as if his appearance at this place was inevitable； as if all routes led back to the farm； to the straw house and the smell of excrement。 It made a kind of sense that she'd believe that。 He almost believed it himself。
〃Leverthal；〃 he said。
She smiled at him； openly。 The boy beside her raised his head and smiled too。
〃Are you Henessey？〃 he asked； looking at the boy。
The youth laughed； and so did Leverthal。
〃No；〃 she said。 〃No。 No。 No。 Henessey is here。〃 She pointed into the sty。
Redman walked the few remaining yards to the wall of the sty； expecting and not daring to expect； the straw and the blood and the pig and Lacey。
But Lacey wasn't there。 Just the sow； big and beady as ever； standing amongst pats of her own ordure； her huge； ridiculous ears flapping over her eyes。
〃Where's Henessey？〃 asked Redman； meeting the sow's gaze。
〃Here；〃 said the boy。
〃This is a pig。〃
〃She ate him；〃 said the youth； still smiling。 He obviously thought the idea delightful。 〃She ate him： and he speaks out of her。〃 Redman wanted to laugh。 This made Lacey's tales of ghosts seem almost plausible by parison。 They were telling him the pig was possessed。
〃Did Henessey hang himself； as Tommy said？〃 Leverthal nodded。
〃In the sty？〃 Another nod。
Suddenly the pig took on a different aspect。 In his imagination he saw her reaching up to sniff at the feet of Henessey's twitching body； sensing the death ing over it； salivating at the thought of its flesh。 He saw her licking the dew that oozed from its skin as it rotted； lapping at it； nibbling daintily at first； then devouring it。 It wasn't too difficult to understand how the boys could have made a mythology of that atrocity： inventing hymns to it； attending upon the pig like a god。 The candles； the reverence； the intended sacrifice of Lacey： it was evidence of sickness； but it was no more strange than a thousand other customs of faith。 He even began to understand Lacey's lassitude； his inability to fight the powers that overtook him。
Mama； they fed me to the pig。
Not Mama； help me； save me。 Just： they gave me to the pig。
All this he could understand： they were children； many of them under…educated； some verging on mental instability； all susceptible to superstition。 But that didn't explain Leverthal。 She was staring into the sty again； and Redman registered for the first time that her hair was unclipped； and lay on her shoulders； honey…coloured in the candlelight。
〃It looks like a pig to me； plain and simple；〃 he said。
〃She speaks with his voice；〃 Leverthal said； quietly。 〃Speaks in tongues； you might say。 You'll hear him in a while。 My darling boy。〃 Then he understood。 〃You and Henessey？〃
〃Don't look so horrified；〃 she said。 〃He was eighteen： hair blacker than you've ever seen。 And he loved me。〃
〃Why did he hang himself？〃
〃To live forever；〃 she said； 〃so he'd never be a man； and die。〃
〃We didn't find h