* * *
The hallways were riddled with massing students. Arthur, well practiced in the art of weaving through crowds, picked his way through with swift expertise. He was halfway up the stairs to the laboratories when someone called out to him.
‘Hey! Arthur!’
A sharp pain seared through the back of his skull as a half-filled water bottle hit him squarely on the head. He turned to see who had thrown it. Tom Hareton was laughing, but he wasn’t the culprit.
‘Where you off to in such a hurry?’ Hector barked. A few over-stretched strides, and he was standing on the step above him.
‘Science.’ Arthur ascended the stairs. Eagerly, Hector cut him off.
‘Why so fast? You’ve still got time.’
Arthur tried to find a way around, but quickly he was blocked.
‘You know, Art, you shouldn’t be so rude. I’m only trying to talk to you. I wanted to see how you were doing.’
‘Don’t you have a lesson to get to?’
‘I’m serious. I really did want to talk to you, Art.’
Arthur stopped, resisting the urge to push him.
‘I wanted to apologise,’ Hector continued. ‘I just wanted to say that I’m sorry Gwen picked me over you.’ A snigger from Tom echoed through the stairwell. ‘But we have to respect the girl’s wishes, don’t we?’
‘Of course.’ He moved a step up, but Hector persisted.
‘I mean, it can’t have been nice for you to walk in on us like that, but that sort of thing happens, right?’
‘All the time.’
‘I’d like to think we were still friends, and friends talk about everything, don’t they?’
Arthur darted around him and stomped up the stairs. Hector shadowed his steps, snapping at his heels.
‘Am I right? Like Gwen and me. I’d like to think we can talk about her without the hard feelings.’ More muffled laughter. ‘Like how many times we did it and how she moaned for more.’ Tom was in hysterics and Hector was finding it hard to keep a straight face. ‘I just thought I should let you know that we’re thinking of making it official, now. Like friends with benefits?’
Arthur slammed his hand into the double doors at the top of the stairs. Hector’s shorter paces soon relented, and the two teenagers fell behind, whooping like wild dogs. Arthur’s Science room was fast approaching and immediately he spotted Gwenhwyfar in the queue. She approached him, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
‘Arthur? Please, about Friday—I wanted to explain—’
‘Leave me alone, would you?’ he exploded. ‘I don’t care! I don’t care what you and Hector got up to, I don’t care how funny you think this is; so just get lost, and stop pretending you’re any different from them.’
She fell back, stunned. Ignoring the leaden silence that had fallen over his queuing classmates, Arthur hurried into the laboratory and sat at his old table, the eyes and whisperings of the gossipers pressing hard down upon him.
* * *
Science crawled by in isolation. Sitting alone at the back of the class, Gwenhwyfar tried to brush away the sting of Arthur’s words before they rubbed too deep. The memory of Tom’s party had faded into a sickly and indecipherable blur, interrupted by the ugly rearing of Hector and his cold, unwelcome lips. Like yesterday, Arthur left abruptly at the sounding of the bell. Crestfallen, Gwenhwyfar began the slow walk to the cafeteria. Her mind was lingering on the grinning faces of the grubby, squealing children when she heard her name echo in the hall.
‘Did you hear? After Arthur left they just kept on kissing. How cruel is that?’
Charlotte. Or Megara, as Gavin would say. Trisiphone was with her, as was Hattie, also known as Alecto. It took Gwenhwyfar a moment to realise that they were with Viola’s old acquaintances: Rhea Morte and Rebecca Woods. The five girls swarmed down the corridor like a section of a hive.
‘I heard they did more than that,’ Rebecca contributed, flicking her thick black hair over her shoulder. ‘I heard they had sex.’
‘No.’ Rhea gasped. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘But he’s so ugly,’ Rhea snorted, her upturned nose wrinkling. ‘I thought it was just supposed to be a prank?’
‘It was,’ Charlotte told them. ‘It was all Gwen’s idea.’ Gwenhwyfar noticed that she now walked central to their small group. Emily had been demoted.
‘Poor Arthur,’ Rebecca sympathised, her arms linked with Hattie and Rhea’s. ‘He must be devastated.’
‘I spoke to Rupert yesterday,’ Charlotte announced. ‘Apparently Arthur thinks Gwen is absolutely vile. He can’t stand her. He never wants to speak to her again.’
‘No.’ Emily’s mouth hung open.
‘So he doesn’t like Gwen, then?’ Hattie asked.
‘Even if he did like her, it’s too late,’ scoffed Charlotte. ‘It’s not like he’ll forgive her for what she did, and besides, she’ll have whatever Hector has now, and I hear he has a lot. He’s slept with practically every girl in the school.’
Hattie made a sound of disgust. ‘I’m never going to sit near either of them again. Gross.’
Their voices faded as Gwenhwyfar slipped down the nearest staircase, her fingers tingling with rage. How dare they blame this on her? It took her longer than usual to make it to the canteen, and all the while she found herself replaying Charlotte’s words. Would Arthur really believe such a thing of her? Did he really hate her?
It took her a moment to realise she was being called. Striding purposefully through the crowded hall, she joined Gavin and cast off her bag next to Viola’s. ‘Where’s Tom?’
‘Band practice.’ Viola removed her feet from a chair so Gwenhwyfar could sit. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘I just saw the Furies,’ Gwenhwyfar started. She picked at her half-painted nails. ‘They’re saying that their stupid prank was my idea.’
‘No one’s going to believe that,’ Viola told her.
‘No? I think Arthur does. He said so. He told me I was just like them.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘If you can call it that,’ Gwenhwyfar muttered. ‘I tried to apologise, I tried to explain, but he just shouted at me and told me to leave him alone. He hates me.’
‘Really, he’s the one who should be apologising to you,’ Gavin remarked. There was a low rumble from above.
‘But he doesn’t know what happened,’ Gwenhwyfar reminded him. ‘It’s not his fault. I’d be angry at me, if I had only seen what he saw.’
‘I can talk to him. He might listen to me.’ Another rumble caused Viola to turn her eyes to the window. ‘It’s getting dark, out.’
‘Thunderstorm, probably,’ Gavin observed. He leant forward into their table. ‘Did you hear? They’ve made fifty arrests in relation to that protest on Friday. Ridiculous.’
‘How is that ridiculous?’ Gwenhwyfar prickled. ‘I was there, remember? They practically set fire to half of London.’
‘It’s ridiculous because they didn’t say who they arrested. According to some independent news websites they’re detaining the organisers of the peaceful protest beforehand. The riots were the perfect excuse.’
There was a moment of silence between them, and then a ripple of excitement through the hall as the thunder clapped louder.
‘Oh Gwen! I was just telling Gavin. I have news.’
‘News?’ Gwenhwyfar leant a little closer.
‘You can’t tell a soul, though. I don’t want Emily and that lot knowing.’
‘As if I’ll ever speak to them again,’ she assured Viola, glancing across to where Emily usually sat, where she used to sit. ‘What is it?’
Viola looked to Gavin, and smiled. ‘I’ve been scouted. By a top London modelling agency, can you believe it?’
‘What? When?’
‘I was in London on Saturday, and a booker stopped me in the street. They asked me to go to their agency. I just heard that I have a test shoot this Saturday.’
Gwenhwyfar felt a twing
e of jealousy. ‘A test shoot? What’s that?’
‘They take some pictures, and if they’re any good, they sign me. I might have to start going to castings. They say girls can make a lot of money modelling. A lot of them have bought their own house and one for their parents by the time they’re twenty.’
‘What’s the agency called again?’ Gavin questioned. ‘I want to look it up on my phone.’
‘Quantum Models. It’s supposed to be the best,’ she boasted. ‘All their girls get contracts with the big names abroad. Like Supra Models and Fashion First.’
‘But what about school?’ Gwenhwyfar asked.
‘I can work weekends and half terms,’ Viola explained. ‘Besides, it’s not far to London. I can always go to the occasional appointment if it’s important.’
‘True.’ Grinning, Gavin held out his mobile. The screen displayed the agency’s online books. ‘Looks professional.’
‘That’s because it is,’ Viola smirked. A flash of lightning illuminated the hall. Outside, heavy rain streaked past the windowpanes. Gavin and Viola flicked through the portfolios of the other models. Gwenhwyfar pictured herself at a photo shoot, then in a glossy magazine, and she contemplated the benefits. Why didn’t Viola want Emily to know? She’d be green with envy—they all would. Another flash flooded the hall, and a few excitable girls screeched. Something pulled at her attention. From the other side of the cafeteria Gwenhwyfar saw Hector’s eyes illuminate. He was watching her.
The Nutcracker
Mr Graham was spread out at his desk.
He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he was intimidating, and he had a large stomach that started above his heart and rounded off far below his middle. As Arthur approached him with his newly written paper, Mr Graham ordered him to wait with a fat extended finger. He didn’t hurry himself to finish the page that he was reading, and by the time he closed his crisp copy of Politics in New National England others were beginning to wander into class.
‘Well?’ Mr Graham’s eyebrows rose expectantly.
‘I rewrote it, as you asked.’
Mr Graham snatched the paper off him, a thick scowl shadowing his features. ‘This is hand-written. You know I can hardly read handwriting,’ he grunted. ‘You’re supposed to type up all your work.’
‘I couldn’t at such short notice, sir.’
‘What, no computer? Don’t tell me you didn’t have time to print this, Arthur. What about that library you’re always working at? Why not do it there?’
‘I can’t do schoolwork during work hours,’ he excused. ‘And my computer’s not working.’
Mr Graham considered this for a moment, squinted, and then abandoned the essay on his desk. ‘Very well,’ he relented, ‘but next time make sure it’s printed. Handwriting is only for exercise books. It works the muscles.’
‘Don’t you want to read it?’
‘Later. Now hurry up and sit down. You’ve already wasted enough of my time this week.’ He pulled himself up out of his chair. Arthur retreated, though his destination was no haven. Bedivere ignored him and when he tried to reach his seat the other boy made it as difficult as possible. ‘Hurry up and sit, all of you!’ Mr Graham barked. ‘I don’t have time for your dilly-dallying. Sit!’ He turned to the chalkboard and scrawled something nearly incomprehensible across it.
The lesson was long and tedious. Not once did Bedivere’s brown eyes shift from the surface of their desk, and a hand-drawn spiral on the front cover of his exercise book expanded and intensified. With yesterday’s behaviour clearly at the forefront of his mind, Mr Graham kept a close eye on them, squinting after them both suspiciously as they exited the classroom at the eventual sounding of the bell.
With nothing else to do at lunchtime, Arthur went to sit in Marvin’s musty classroom with a mushrooming headache. Idly, he traced the proclamations of infatuation and foul language engraved into his desk. Marvin was marking papers.
‘What kind of imbecile thinks that the Industrial Revolution originated in the United States?’ he harrumphed, exasperation creasing his features. ‘Have I not been making my lessons clear enough? The United States, as we know it, didn’t exist until 1776.’
Arthur peered over his school bag. ‘Who came up with that gem, then?’ he asked, pleased that he at least knew the origins of England’s most done-to-death historical event, second only to the World Wars.
‘Now now, Arthur. What sort of teacher would I be if I told you that?’ His eyes smiled. ‘Let’s just say their name begins with a T. That leaves three options, no?’
‘Three?’ asked Arthur.
‘Oh no, that’s in one of my other classes,’ Marvin corrected. ‘Never mind. I suppose it’s rather obviously Mr Hareton, anyway.’
Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘That’s hardly surprising.’
‘No?’
‘I don’t know why you don’t just smack him around the head with a textbook.’
Marvin seemed amused. ‘Is that what you would do?’
‘It might give the rest of us a chance to learn something. He never shuts up. Why don’t you just throw him out?’
‘Oh, believe me, the thought has crossed my mind on several occasions.’ Slowly Marvin shook his head. ‘But I learned long ago that the best form of punishment for Mr Hareton is the lesson itself. Why throw him out into the corridors when he clearly hates learning so much?’
Arthur grinned. He loved his lessons with Marvin, loved spending his extra hours in this room. Yes, it smelt as if it hadn’t been cleaned in fifty years, and yes, the pile of books next to the teacher’s chair was so precariously stacked that all the students had bets on when it would finally collapse, but Marvin was at his level, thought in the same manner as he and Bedivere did, as opposed to all the other students at Logres, who looked at him as if he were mad if he ever tried to hold an intelligent discussion with them.
‘Ah!’ was the next exclamation. ‘This genius seems to think that steam engines ran on oil. What a Hawking!’
Arthur laughed. ‘Not Tom again, I hope.’
Marvin scribbled red ink across the page. ‘No, not this time,’ he sighed. ‘Do you know what the worst thing about marking students’ papers is, Arthur? It’s the fact that I can’t simply write, wrong. No, one must never write wrong on a student’s paper. Nor may I write incorrect. It all has to be good try, or, wonderful attempt. Or my personal favourite, not quite right.’
Arthur flicked back through his exercise book and frowned. ‘I’ve got a couple of not quite rights in here, Marv.’
‘Well of course! No one can always be quite right.’
‘Next time just write wrong, please. I won’t sue you for it.’
‘You might not, but the committee of teachers and parents would have my head.’ Abandoning his marking, Marvin stretched. ‘So, how did that not quite right paper go down with Mr Graham?’
‘I have no idea. He didn’t even read it. I don’t think he’s going to.’
‘He probably just wanted to make a point.’ Marvin rubbed his deep-set eyes. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t. I feel confident enough in your abilities to be sure that having to write such drivel won’t brainwash you, like it has nearly every other student at this school.’
‘I’d say that the teachers are more brainwashed than the students,’ Arthur duelled. ‘Has it always been this way?’
Marvin’s quick eyes locked onto him, his hands linked behind the back of his head. His brown jumper had ridden up his shirt, and he had bruises of ink ingrained into his fingers.
‘I mean has the educational system always been so… so limited?’
‘Limited?’ For a moment Marvin considered his words. ‘Well, any system of education is limited. Do you think they cover the Nanjing Massacre in Japanese schools? Do we cover Britain’s involvement in the development of biological warfare?’
Arthur watched him closely and chewed the inside of his cheek.
‘No, we don’t,’ Marvin ploughed on. ‘So I suppose the a
nswer to your question is yes, the educational system has always been limited. As time goes by however, we see variations on that limitation. I would say that today, it is particularly limited.’
Arthur’s headache threatened to bloom into something more substantial. ‘But why?’
‘Aha! Thank you Arthur, thank you.’ Marvin waved his hands about, brimming with excitement. ‘You have just brought us to another vital point.’
‘I have?’
‘Yes, you have. There is a lot that our government would rather we didn’t know, but even their best efforts can’t censor out everything. Something, somewhere will always get through. The intellectual is the single most dangerous thing to a government, and do you know how? I’ll tell you. It’s because they never stop asking why.’
There was a moment of silence.
‘I always knew you were a smart one, Arthur. From the moment I saw you on your first day, I knew you were different. You always asked questions, always wanted to know, always were the first to pick apart inconsistencies. You were always, always asking why.’
Arthur bit at the dry skin on the inside of his lip. He gazed at Marvin as his teacher stopped gesticulating and his hands dropped to the table. He swallowed.
‘Why is the most important question in the universe. Why can change the world. Remember it, Arthur. Never stop asking why.’
* * *
French was long, and once again Gwenhwyfar found she learnt little due to her disruptive class. Afterwards they spent lunch in the packed canteen, with the wet weather raging beyond the windows. Geography was her last subject of the day, a lesson shared with Viola, and it commenced without much fuss. It was later, when students were supposed to be working quietly, that she heard Emily and another girl whispering doggedly.
The Future King: Logres Page 9
