by Unknown
‘I am.’
The PPS fell back in his chair. ‘Isn’t that somewhat arrogant of you?’
‘I can see how it might look that way. I assure you, though, I don’t feel arrogant. I feel only regret that my warnings are being ignored.’
At the door of his office, bridging the awkward moments of ushering out his distinguished visitor, the PPS remarked tartly, ‘The Prime Minister will not be pleased. Is there anything you would like to say by way of explanation?’
Merlin considered the question. ‘Tell the Prime Minister this: time is short. Every day that passes we lose ground to those who threaten the stability of the world. We must destroy them, or they will destroy us.’
‘Are you not rather stepping out of your field, Mr. Thomas?
These matters are, after all, best left to politicians.’
‘Are they, Mr. Pettifer? What have politicians ever done to earn our trust? Tell me that. Can you think of one good reason why we should place in their hands the most precious thing we have – the future of mankind?’
‘If I may say so, Thomas, you seem to take yourself a bit too seriously. But then you are young, very young. Politicians are not infallible, but they do have the experience, and on the whole they make good use of it. There have always been prophets of doom, and mankind has survived in spite of them. No doubt it will continue to survive.’
‘That cannot be taken for granted.’ ‘You and Nostradamus, eh?’
Merlin shook his head. ‘We are very different, he and I. Nostradamus was convinced that the end of the world was inevitable. I am convinced it is not.’
When Merlin had gone, the PPS breathed a sigh of frustration tinged with relief. The fellow obviously had a screw loose, several screws in fact. Didn’t they say that genius was close to madness? Had he slipped over the edge? A knighthood? A straightjacket would be more appropriate.
When the news broke of Merlin’s resignation from the Weapons and Research Unit, there were many in both the commercial and academic worlds eager to employ his services.
First, however, he had to be found, and that, for a time at least, proved impossible, for Merlin had disappeared. He seemed to have broken all contact with his friends and former colleagues, surfacing for brief periods in various parts of the world, never staying in the same place for long. No one knew what he was up to, though there were plenty of rumours: he was creating complex software programmes for the drug barons; he had become a master computer hacker; he was amassing a great fortune; he was on a remote desert island testing weapons of the future for the Chinese army. He was working for the Russians, he was working for the Americans, he was working for the Israelis, he was working for the Arabs. He was in South America, he was in Africa, he was in the Antarctic, he was on the sea bed, he was in space. When the unglamorous truth was revealed, it created both alarm and sheer disbelief; Merlin had become an assistant House Master at Glastonbury School in the county of Somerset.
That he had chosen an academic rather than a commercial career was not perhaps so surprising. What was more puzzling was that he had not offered himself to one of the United Kingdom’s principal centres of learning and research. Had he done so, it was certain that every leading University in the land would have competed hotly for him. Quite apart from the inevitable academic glory, he would certainly have been showered with national honours and prestigious appointments; Chairman of this Royal Commission, President of that Council, and no doubt Tsar of whatever Committee or Association he cared to name. Yet for some inexplicable reason he had abandoned any notion he might once have had of making a name for himself, and in the process as good as labelled himself a failure. No one doubted that he would make an excellent schoolmaster, but oh what a waste of such extraordinary talents! It was a mystery to everyone who knew and admired him.
Six
2001
On a blustery day in late summer two boys were fishing near Ponterlally bridge. The eldest, a lad of eight, sat tense
and straight-backed, his posture indicating deep concentration, left hand grasping the fishing rod, right hand firmly on the reel, never for a moment taking his eyes off the little red float riding the surface of the water, alert for the small dipping movement that would tell him a fish was nibbling at the bait. By his side, sprawled on his back, legs extended, ankles crossed, fishing rod balanced in the crook formed by his bare feet, lay his younger brother. His hair was white blond, his eyes a startlingly vivid blue, the colour of cornflowers, and they were looking not down at the river, but up at the sky. Keir found his brother’s constant day-dreaming irritating. ‘Where are you, for goodness’ sake?’ he asked, for the umpteenth time.
His younger brother did not answer. Where was he? How to explain that he was journeying to a place so far away that it was beyond the reach even of his restless imaginings? At this moment his mind was filled not with reels and floats and worms but with the vastness of the universe, where millions of solar systems and galaxies roamed, and black holes lay in wait to trap the unwary.
‘Arthur!’
Some day, he dreamed, he too might be up there exploring those infinite tracts of space and time – times past and times future. It was possible, anything was possible if you believed, wasn’t it? See there! And there again! Way, way up, in a sudden flare of time, he glimpsed his future in a flurry of white clouds as the wind whirled them across the sky.
‘Arthur!’ The name cracked like a whip in the morning air.
Arthur’s blue eyes widened as he sat up sharply. ‘Where on earth are you?’
Arthur thought of trying to explain that he had not been on earth at all but decided not to; Keir would never understand. ‘I was thinking.’
A scornful look darkened Keir’s face. ‘Thinking! Is that what you call it! You said you wanted to come fishing with me. Why aren’t you fishing?’
‘I am,’ said Arthur. ‘Sort of.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re dreaming,’ said Keir sternly. Although there was only a year between them, Keir was very much the elder brother. He took very seriously what he perceived to be his fraternal duty, a significant part of which was assaulting his younger brother either verbally or physically, or both. ‘You want a fight?’
Arthur shook his head. He could never see the point of fighting. Besides, he always got the worst of it.
‘You’re a wimp, you know that?’ Arthur was silent.
‘You watch out,’ said Keir, ‘or I’ll thump you. You want me to thump you?’
‘No.’
‘Say you’re sorry, then.’ ‘What for?’
Keir raised his fist threateningly. ‘I’m sorry.’
Arthur pulled a handful of grass from the river bank. Throwing it into the water, he watched the green threads separate and drift downstream in the current. Watching him, the exasperated Keir wagged a stern finger. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Dreaming doesn’t catch fish. There was one tugging on your line just now and you didn’t even notice.’ ‘Was there?’ Arthur lay back again, head resting on clasped hands. He had noticed alright, and was secretly happy that the fish had got away.
Keir, who always worked diligently at everything, had no patience with his kid brother. There was something wrong with him, he never took anything seriously. If there was one thing Keir had learned from his father – if a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing well. Why was his brother so lazy? It was shameful. ‘We’ve been here ages, and you haven’t caught a single fish.’
Though Keir would never understand, Arthur was here to be with his brother, not to catch fish. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he ventured.
‘Doesn’t matter!’ echoed Keir scornfully. ‘If catching a fish doesn’t matter, then what’s the point of fishing?’ Keir allowed himself a smile of quiet satisfaction; he was rather pleased with that remark, flattering himself that he had made an excellent point.
It seemed to Arthur that fish looked very happy in the river. So why not leave them there? That was his opinion, at least, but one he
kept to himself when Keir was around. On the other hand, he was quite content to trot along with his older brother and be part of what he was doing. Despite everything, Arthur loved his brother, which was something else best kept to himself; Arthur had learned from experience that Keir was very touchy about anything to do with feelings. Once, when Arthur was much smaller, he had tried to kiss Keir on the cheek, and Keir had screwed up his face and jeered at him for being a sissy. Arthur had never forgotten that, but nevertheless nothing could alter the fact that for Arthur, Keir was the wisest, the most grown up, and altogether the best older brother any boy could have.
‘Keir?’ he whispered.
A sigh of exasperation. ‘What!’
A nod up at the sky. ‘Do you think they are watching us?’ Keir looked blank. ‘Do I think who is watching us?’
‘The aliens,’ said Arthur.
Keir was thoroughly exasperated. His concentration had been disturbed yet again, and his brother was talking rubbish. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? There’s no such thing as aliens.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Grow up.’ Keir reeled in a fish. ‘Even if there were any,’ he added disdainfully, ‘why would they waste time watching you?’
‘I expect you’re right,’ said Arthur.
‘Of course I’m right. They’d have better things to do.’ ‘Like what?’
Keir groaned with frustration. That was another irritating thing about Arthur, he was forever asking questions. Ending a conversation with him was like trying to wipe honey off your fingers. ‘Like . . . well, you know . . . invading another planet or something.’
Arthur sat up sharply, eyes bright with excitement. ‘You think they might invade earth?’
‘Don’t be bloody daft!’ ‘Why not?’
‘Because . . . ’ Keir floundered for the definitive response, the one that would wipe the sticky mess off his fingers for good. ‘Because, stupid . . . because they are so many light years away from us that by the time they arrived, we wouldn’t be here any more.’
Arthur lay back, closing one eye and then the other, observing his big toe move first to the left, then to the right. Why did it seem to move, when actually it hadn’t moved at all? Or had it? How could you be sure? It was quite hard to be sure about anything. He was not even sure he understood what Keir meant, though it seemed like the wisest thing he had ever heard. He regarded his brother with a mixture of awe and astonishment. It was amazing; Keir was only eight years old, and already he knew everything.
‘And don’t ask any more silly questions,’ said Keir, terminating the discussion. He tried hard to focus again on his rod and line but irritating thoughts crept in to his head disturbing his concentration. One of the most annoying things about Arthur was the way fish gathered by the riverbank the moment he appeared. That never happened to Keir. There they were now, dozens of them, jostling and leaping a few inches from Arthur’s bare feet. And what was he doing? Taking advantage of his good fortune? No. He could have bent down and scooped a handful into his basket. Instead, he was wriggling his toes, gazing at the sky and talking to himself. Once he even saw Arthur reach into the water, pick up a fish and stroke it. What’s more, he spoke to it! He actually spoke to a fish as if it were a friend of his! The fish didn’t even wriggle. He could easily have tossed it in the basket, but no, not Arthur. What did he do? He threw it back in the river again. What could you do with a ninny like that?
Keir lived to please his parents, Hector and Elizabeth. Getting things right was the best way he knew of earning their approval. Whenever he went fishing, he prided himself on catching at least five or six good-sized fish. Today, he had caught eight, a record. Unfortunately it was not in his nature to be satisfied for long. As he heaved the heavy basket onto his shoulder, he was whistling happily, but on the long trudge back, his spirits began to fail, and by the time the two boys got home, Keir was miserable. Why had he not caught more fish? he asked himself. He could have done, should have done. Glumly, he received his father’s congratulations. ‘Eight fish! And big ones too! Well done, Keir! Well done, indeed! Mum will be delighted. Run along to the kitchen and show her your catch.’ Hector then made a big show of rummaging around in Arthur’s basket, pretending to look surprised that it was empty. ‘I expect they jumped back in the river, eh, Arthur?’
Arthur could come home with an empty fishing basket and still make his father happy. To Keir it made no sense. Dad was always going on about how everything had to be logical. How logical was it to be satisfied with failure? Was he not always telling his sons to use the gifts God gave them, and how they must do the very best they could? Yet here he was ruffling Arthur’s hair as if he had done something to be proud of. At times like this, Keir hated his brother.
Fortunately, Arthur was not competitive, and excelled at nothing of any importance, though he did have a natural aptitude for ball games. At the local primary school he was opening bat for the first team, and much admired as a spin bowler; at soccer and tennis he also showed considerable promise. In general, though, there was nothing outstanding about him, except perhaps that he seemed to have a special relationship with animals; cats and dogs, like fish, followed him around; birds would fly down from trees and perch on his shoulder as he walked; on a horse, though he had never had a lesson, he was completely at ease. Some people said that horses spoke to him, though no one had actually heard them do it.
At school Arthur was well-liked, though no one took him seriously, least of all his teachers who had given him up as an academic prospect. Arthur found more to interest him in a shaft of sunlight than in boring lessons. What, for example, were those billions of specks of floating dust that appeared and disappeared as the sunlight came and went? To Arthur, it was obvious they were visitors from another solar system. Why else would they be beaming down through the classroom window? And what were they doing in a shaft of sunlight, scaled down to microscopic size? The only question was, were they friends or foes? It amazed him that the teachers ignored these sparkling motes floating in the air; or hadn’t they noticed? He tried to warn his classmates, but knowing Arthur, they would smile and look away. They were too busy doing arithmetic and French and all that stuff. He couldn’t help feeling they had all got it wrong, for what was more important; memorising the angles of an isosceles triangle, or making contact with a million extra-terrestrials?
Keir suffered no such distractions; he worked relentlessly, he paid attention, if he got it wrong, he did it again and again until he got it right. As a result he was invariably top of the class. No teacher ever said of him what they so monotonously said of Arthur – ‘could do better’. Never once did Keir bring home a bad report, yet his demons were never far away; however glowing his parents’ praise, it could never be enough, and however stern their criticism of Arthur, it could never be as harsh as he deserved. Had he been challenged, Keir would most vehemently have denied being jealous of Arthur. What reason could he possibly have to be jealous of him, when he was constantly proving himself to be better at everything he did?
The sad truth was, superior as Keir felt himself to be, that he was convinced his parents loved Arthur best, a fact which puzzled and infuriated him, especially as he had no idea what he could do to make them love him more than Arthur. For some reason he could not explain he had always looked on his younger brother as an intruder, sensing intuitively that he was born to be an only child, and had somehow been deprived of his rightful status.
Had Keir only known, his father was inordinately proud of him. ‘Keir is the clever one,’ Hector would say proudly. ‘He’s ambitious, and he’s got guts. He’ll be Prime Minister one day, you’ll see. Arthur . . . ? He’s a good lad. But he’ll never amount to anything.’
Elizabeth would smile at her husband’s predictions, and keep her opinions to herself.
Seven
2002
Ferdinand Tozer, a wealthy industrialist and generous contributor to the Conservative Party, was waiting in the library to see Uther
when a young girl walked in. It was Elaine, eldest of the Pendragon sisters. On her fifth birthday, Elaine had informed her parents that her chosen profession was the stage. That she was plain and a little pop-eyed did not bother her in the least. ‘I shall be a great actress,’ she had announced. ‘The queen will make me a dame, and I shall have masses of lovers.’
She thrust out her hand. ‘I’m Elaine,’ adding helpfully, ‘I’m fifteen.’
Tozer lifted his corpulent frame to an unsteady half-crouch, tweaked the proffered hand by the fingertips and fell back in his chair panting from the effort. ‘Delighted to meet you, little madam.’
Elaine viewed the visitor coldly; if there was one thing she hated it was being patronised. She took a seat opposite Tozer, folding her hands demurely in her lap. ‘My step-father phoned. I’m to entertain you.’
‘Most kind.’ Tozer sat nodding his head emphatically, emphasising how kind he thought it was.
Observing her visitor’s uneasiness, Elaine presumed that he was probably here because he wanted something. Her step- father was an MP and had important friends, so people said. They also said he could do things for the right kind of people. ‘Are you rich?’ she enquired shrewdly.
Tozer’s eyes widened. ‘I suppose I am – rather,’ he replied, pulling an apologetic face and wiggling his shoulders in embarrassment, as if to convey how deeply he regretted being rich.
That confirmed it, Elaine thought to herself. This man definitely wanted something from daddy – probably a knighthood or a lordship or something. She sized up her visitor, fixing him with an unwaveringly challenging stare.
Desperate to change the subject, Tozer observed soapily, ‘You must be the eldest sister. Being so mature, I mean,’ he added with a flattering smile.
‘I’m fifteen. Margot’s thirteen.’ Knowing there were three sisters, Tozer was about to enquire about the youngest, when Elaine continued almost without a break. ‘Would you like me to tell you a secret?’
