'- when we'd been sick all over the place,' said Francis, 'and fallen in mud, and didn't get home till dawn. There was the blood – he might have wondered exactly how we'd killed that deer-but still.'

Uncomfortably, I thought of the Bacchae: hooves and bloody ribs, scraps dangling from the fir trees. There was a word for it in Greek: omophagia. Suddenly it came back to me: walking into Henry's apartment, all those tired faces, Bunny's snide greeting of'Khairei, deerslayers!'

They'd been quiet that evening, quiet and pale, though not more than seemed remarkable for people suffering particularly bad hangovers. Only Camilla's laryngitis seemed unusual. They'd been drunk the night before, they told me, drunk as bandicoots; Camilla had left her sweater at home and caught cold on the walk back to North Hampden. Outside, it was dark and raining hard. Henry gave me the car keys and asked me to drive.

It was a Friday night, but the weather was so bad the Brasserie was nearly deserted. We ate Welsh rarebits and listened to the rain beating down in gusts on the roof. Bunny and I drank whiskey and hot water; the others had tea.

'Feeling queasy, bakchoi T said Bunny slyly after the waiter took our drink orders.

Camilla made a face at him.

When we went out to the car after dinner Bunny walked around it, inspected the headlights, kicked at the tires. This the one you were in last night?' he said, blinking in the rain.

'Yes.'

He brushed the damp hair from his eyes and bent to examine the fender. 'German cars,' he said. 'Hate to say it but I think the Krauts have got Detroit metal beat. I don't see a scratch.'

I asked him what he meant.

'Aw, they were driving around drunk. Making a nuisance of themselves on the public road. Hit a deer. Did you kill it?' he asked Henry.

Walking around to the passenger's side, Henry looked up.

'What's that?'

'The deer. Didja kill it?'

Henry opened the door. 'It looked pretty dead to me,' he had said.

There was a long silence. My eyes were smarting from all the smoke. A thick gray haze of it hung near the ceiling.

'So what's the problem?' I said.

'What do you mean?'

'What happened? Did you tell him about it or not?'

Henry took a deep breath. 'No,' he said. 'We might have, but obviously the fewer people who knew the better. When I first saw him alone, I broached it carefully, but he seemed satisfied with the deer story and I let it go at that. If he hadn't figured it out on his own there was certainly no reason to tell him.

The fellow's body was found, an article ran in the Hampden Examiner, no problem at all. But then – by some rotten stroke of luck – I suppose in Hampden they don't get many stories like this – they published a follow-up story two weeks later.

"Mysterious Death in Battenkill County." And that was the one Bunny saw.'

'It was the stupidest thing,' Francis said. 'He never reads the newspaper. None of this would have happened if it wasn't for that blasted Marion.'

'She has a subscription, something to do with the Early Childhood Center,' said Henry, rubbing his eyes. 'Bunny was with her in Commons before lunch. She was talking to one of her friends – Marion, that is – and Bunny I suppose had got bored and started to read her paper. The twins and I went up to say hello and the first thing he said, practically across the room, was "Look here, you guys, some chicken farmer got killed out by Francis's house."

Then he read a bit of the article out loud. Fractured skull, no murder weapon, no motive, no leads. I was trying to think of some way to change the subject when he said: "Hey. November tenth? That's the night you guys were out at Francis's. The night you ran over that deer."

' "I don't see," I said, "how that could be right."

' "It was the tenth. I remember because it was the day before my mom's birthday. That's really something, isn't it?"

' "Why yes," we said, "it certainly is."

' "If I had a suspicious mind," he said, "I'd guess you'd done it, Henry, coming back from Battenkill County that night with blood from head to toe."'

He lit another cigarette. 'You have to remember that it was lunch time, Commons was packed, Marion and her friend were listening to every word, and besides, you know how his voice carries… We laughed, naturally, and Charles said something funny, and we'd just managed to get him off the topic when he looked at the paper again. "I can't believe this, guys," he said.

"An honest-to-God murder, out in the woods too, not three miles from where you were. You know, if the cops had pulled you over that night, you'd probably be in jail right now. There's a phone number to call if anybody's got any information. If I I wanted to, 1 bet I could get you guys in a heck of a lot of trouble…" et cetera, et cetera.

'Of course, I didn't know what to think. Was he joking, did he really suspect? Eventually I got him to drop it but still I had an awful feeling that he'd felt how uneasy he'd made me. He knows me so well – he has a sixth sense about that kind of thing.

And I was uneasy. Goodness. It was right before lunch, all these security guards were standing around, half of them are connected with the police force in Hampden… I mean, there was no way our story could stand up to even peremptory examination and I knew it. Obviously we hadn't hit a deer. There wasn't a scratch on either of the cars. And if anyone made even a casual connection between us and the dead man… So, as I say, I was glad when he dropped it. But even then I had a feeling we hadn't heard the last of it. He teased us about it – quite innocently, I believe, but in public as well as private – for the rest of the term. You know how he is. Once he gets something like that on the brain he won't give it up.'

I did know. Bunny had an uncanny ability to ferret out topics of conversation that made his listener uneasy and to dwell upon them with ferocity once he had. In all the months I'd known him he'd never ceased to tease me, for instance, about that jacket I'd worn to lunch with him that first day, and about what he saw as my flimsy and tastelessly Californian style of dress. To an impartial eye, my clothes were in fact not at all dissimilar from his own but his snide remarks upon the subject were so inexhaustible and tireless, I think, because in spite of my good-natured laughter he must have been dimly aware that he was touching a nerve, that I was in fact incredibly self-conscious about these virtually imperceptible differences of dress and of the rather less imperceptible differences of manner and bearing between myself and the rest of them. I am gifted at blending myself into any given milieu – you've never seen such a typical California teenager as I was, nor such a dissolute and callous pre-med student – but somehow, despite my efforts, I am never able to blend myself in entirely and remain in some respects quite distinct from my surroundings, in the same way that a green chameleon remains a distinct entity from the green leaf upon which it sits, no matter how perfectly it has approximated the subtleties of the particular shade. Whenever Bunny, rudely and in public, accused me of wearing a shirt which contained a polyester blend, or remarked critically that my perfectly ordinary trousers, indistinguishable from his own, bore the taint of something he called a 'Western cut,' a large portion of the pleasure this sport afforded him was derived from his unerring and bloodhoundish sense that this, of all topics, was the one which made me most truly uncomfortable. He could not have failed to notice what a sore spot his mention of the murder had touched in Henry; nor, once he sensed its existence, could he have restrained himself from continuing to jab at it.

'Of course, he didn't know a thing,' Francis said. 'Really, he didn't. It was all a big joke to him. He liked to throw out references to that farmer we'd gone and murdered, just to see me jump. One day he told me he'd seen a policeman out in front of my house, asking my landlady questions.'