WHEN THERE WERE NO other boys around, no other common enemies, Willy and I would turn on each other.
It happened most often in the back seat while Pa drove us somewhere. A country house, say. Or a salmon stream. Once, in Scotland, on the way to the River Spey, we started scuffling, and soon were in a full scrap, rolling back and forth, trading blows.
Pa swerved to the side of the road, shouted at Willy to get out.
Me? Why me?
Pa didn’t feel the need to explain. Out.
Willy turned to me, furious. He felt I got away with everything. He stepped out of the car, stomped to the backup car with all the bodyguards, strapped himself in. (We always wore seatbelts after Mummy’s disappearance.) The convoy resumed.
Now and then I peered out the back window.
Behind us, I could just make out the future King of England, plotting his revenge.
