Broken Voices
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Was there a ghost? Was there, in a manner of speaking, a murder?
Ask me these questions and I cannot answer a simple yes or no. I did not know at the time and now, more than forty years later, I am even less able to answer them. Perhaps an easier question is this: what exactly do I remember about Faraday and me in those few days before the War? The First World War, that is, the one that was meant to end them all.
He and I didn’t know each other long, not properly — four or five days, perhaps. And nights, of course. I suppose there must be records — a report in the local newspaper, surely, and a police file. Perhaps letters from Faraday’s guardian. There must also have been correspondence between the school and my parents but I found no trace of it after my mother died. We never spoke of it when she was alive, not directly, and my father wasn’t able to speak about anything after they brought him back from France in 1915.