Ned never knew why he had done such a sly and terrible thing. Perhaps it was Fate, perhaps it was the Devil, in whom he believed sincerely.
He had slipped the book from Ashley Barson-Garland’s bag, dropped it onto his knees and opened the first page before he was even aware of what he was doing. His right hand lay on the desk and pretended every now and then to slide backwards and forwards through Advanced Cell Biology.
Lowering his eyes to his lap, he began to read.
It was a diary. He did not know what else he had imagined it might be. It looked at least four years old. He believed that it was its age that had first attracted him to it when he had seen it peeping from the bag. He had seen Ashley carry this book with him everywhere and that had intrigued him.
None the less it was very strange that he should have done such a thing. Ned did not like to think of
himself as the kind of person who was interested in other people’s diaries.
It was difficult to read. Not the handwriting, which was very small, but clear and strong: Barson-Garland’s style was — how should one put it? — opaque. Yes, that was an intellectual’s word. The style was opaque.
With each line that Ned absorbed, the drowsy buzz of the classroom fell further and further away into the background, until he was entirely alone with the words and a vein that throbbed quick and guilty in his neck.
