Felix was six; he was standing in Pater’s study with his legs crossed. (He really, really needed the loo.) Pater was grilling him on capital cities, making sure Felix was ready for his school interview, ready to follow in the footsteps of four generations of Fitzwilliam men: Shrewsbury House until he was old enough for Eton. Mother had already bought the tuck box and the trunk with his initials on the top. Failure was not a possibility. He had to succeed—had to—because if he didn’t, he couldn’t be with Tom for his final year before Eton. If only Tom were here now. Tom had magical powers. He always knew when Felix was alone in Pater’s study. Always knew when to burst in. Pater couldn’t get mad at Tom because Tom was Mother’s favorite. And strong. He had big muscles from those weights he lifted.
Who cared that Tom was Mother’s favorite? Not Felix. He was Tom’s favorite, and that was all that mattered. When he was grown up at twelve—double digits!—he was going to be just like Tom. Tom was always laughing about being in detention. Nothing scared Tom. Nothing! Not even Pater. If Tom were here, Felix could be as brave as a World War I soldier in the Battle of the Somme.
He really needed the loo.
The curtains were drawn; it was dim and stuffy. Pater’s green leather chair looked black. Everything looked black. How could Pater work in here with so little light and the gas fire turned up high? The room stank of stale cigars; the overhead light flickered. Felix shivered. The boys in his class were always making up scary stories about hell, but Felix didn’t have to use his imagination. He knew what hell looked like.
He stared at Pater’s blotter, covered in splodges of black ink like dried bloodstains, and backed up into the bookcase. He didn’t want to think about the last time he’d been in here alone.
Pater raised his voice; Felix’s tummy felt all growly. His fingers were slippery, too. He tapped his palm, which he always did when he was anxious. Pater called it his annoying habit, but it always made Felix feel better and reminded him to not suck his thumb, which no one but Tom knew he still did. Sometimes he dug his fingernails into his palm hard. Hurt loads, but it stopped him from raising his thumb to his mouth.
The capital of Finland? Pater slammed his hand down on the blotter.
Felix knew this! Too hard, though, to remember everything: the sequence of his annoying habit, the capital of Finland . . . Too late. Thumb at his mouth. Quick! Think, Felix. Chew nail! Yes, chew nail. See. I’m not a baby!
I’ve told you a thousand times, Felix. Keep those bloody hands still. You’re not some nervous little girl. Or are you? Are you another fairy, like your brother?
What did Pater mean? Tom was a boy, not a fairy.
Take that thumb out of your mouth! Pater’s face was red.
Felix screwed his eyes shut. Capital of Finland, capital of Finland.
Helsinki! he called out, but it was too late. He was always too late. Pater was going into the locked drawer at the bottom of his desk.
No. Daddy, no.
Bend over.
Helsinki, Daddy, Helsinki!
You know the routine.
He was crying and tapping his palm and all he wanted was to suck his thumb. He couldn’t run away. He was jammed up against the bookcase. Trapped.
Pater moved out from behind the desk. He tightened his grip on the riding crop.
Please. I’ll work hard. I’ll get rid of my annoying habit. I will. I don’t mean to be “the big disappointment.”
Take your trousers down, and your underwear. Bend over. Pater’s voice was cold and hard.
No.
Pater stopped and panted as if he were a bull about to charge. And Felix couldn’t help it, he wet himself.
Everything happened fast. He was on the floor, facedown on the stinky old Oriental rug. He screamed, but the house was empty. No one would hear him; no one would rescue him. Mother was away for the weekend; Tom was off with friends.
Pater tugged at Felix’s trousers. The whip cracked.