‘Three,’ he stated. ‘They think it was deliberate. They got a tip off and managed to stop the fourth. It was going to be on the Thames Water Barrier.’
‘Do they know who did it?’
‘Not yet. To be honest, I’m not entirely happy about you being there.’
‘We should be fine now, though?’ she asked, her voice cracking.
‘Yes, of course. They’ve got it under control, cariad. Where are you?’
‘Mayfair, at the Royal Mary…?’
‘I know it,’ confirmed Garan. ‘I’m on my way now. Is Viola alright?’
‘They’ve got her lying down in a neck brace, but they seem to think she’ll be OK.’
‘Has she called her parents?’
Gwenhwyfar nodded. ‘She’s calling them now.’
‘Good. I’ll see you soon. Be careful.’
There was a click. Gwenhwyfar pressed down on Arthur’s name. The number dialled and he answered immediately.
‘Gwen? Is that you? Are you all right?’
She explained everything, stressing the fact she was unharmed. He didn’t seem convinced, and when she told him that her father was coming to get her, he wanted to come too.
‘I should be there; I want to be there,’ he argued. ‘I have to know you’re all right.’
‘But I am all right,’ Gwenhwyfar insisted. ‘Besides, he’s already left. I’m just a bit shaken. The blast was right behind us. Are you OK?’
He seemed surprised. ‘Of course I’m OK, why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I just wanted to make sure.’ She shifted in the uncomfortable plastic seat. Her limbs were aching terribly. ‘My dad said there were three explosions, one failed. Do they think it’s terrorists?’
‘I don’t know what they think,’ Arthur admitted, ‘I just heard there’d been explosions on the news. My grandmother’s still up too, worried about you.’
‘Tell her I’m fine,’ she pled. ‘Viola’s the one with the gash on her head.’
His concern returned. ‘Is she all right?’
‘I think so.’ She glanced over. Viola was still on the phone. ‘They saw to her briefly in the ambulance. They just want to double-check her head injury now.’
‘Right. That doesn’t sound too bad. They’d be paying her more attention if it was something serious.’ There was a short silence. ‘What about money? Are you insured?’
‘That’s all fine—my dad’s going to sort it.’
‘What about your Biometric Identity Card? Have you got that?’
‘I’ve got it—it’s in my bag.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with him? I’d feel better if I did.’
‘I’d rather you stayed out of London,’ Gwenhwyfar told him firmly. ‘It’s not safe. My dad’s worried about the hospitals; that’s one of the reasons he’s coming to get us.’
‘You should probably leave, yes,’ Arthur agreed. ‘I wish I could do something. I hate not being able to help you.’
‘You are helping me,’ Gwenhwyfar countered. ‘You’re distracting me.’
‘I am?’
‘Yes.’ She averted her eyes from the waiting room, and smiled. ‘Keep doing it, if you like.’
For the best part of an hour Arthur recounted what he had been up to that day, including the homework he had done, an account of what he’d made for supper and the film he’d watched afterwards. Whenever he faltered Gwenhwyfar prompted him for more details, until at long last her father arrived, his face pale, his brow folded.
‘My dad’s here,’ she murmured quickly into the receiver.
He sounded relieved. ‘Good. Let me know when you get home. Be careful, Gwen.’
‘I will,’ she nodded.
‘You’d better.’
She hung up and sprang to her feet. Her father hugged her fiercely. He held her by the shoulders and inspected her.
‘Where’s Viola?’ he asked.
‘Over there. Where’s Mam?’
‘I made her stay at home.’ His eyes trailed around the roomful of casualties, observing the unpleasant scene with distaste. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ Gwenhwyfar assured. ‘We’re still waiting to be seen. I’m worried about Viola. She doesn’t look well.’
‘We’ll ask someone,’ he stated, hunting for a medic to snare. He caught a nurse just as she left a patient. He was told to wait and take a seat. Immediately Garan looked around for someone else. ‘Where’s the medical care I’m paying for?’
‘Dad—’ Gwenhwyfar cautioned. ‘Let’s just sit down and do what she says.’
‘Have you got your B.I.D?’ She nodded. ‘Good. Give it here.’
Gwenhwyfar felt her face burn. People were looking at them, and in the muted atmosphere of the waiting room everyone could hear Garan’s angry outbursts.
‘There’s got to be someone who knows what they’re doing,’ he growled. ‘Go and sit down. I’m going to find a doctor.’
Mortified, Gwenhwyfar gazed after him as he strode to the reception desk. He exchanged strong words with the nurse there, and then with a doctor who seemed to have been called out at his particular request. The two went off to one side to talk. Her shame only increased when suddenly the young doctor was next to her, asking her to sit.
It didn’t take long for him to deduce what she already knew, that her wounds were superficial, and soon he was snapping his fingers at the closest nurse. Despite the embarrassment of skipping the queue and the anger it caused among the other patients, Gwenhwyfar couldn’t help but feel relieved as Viola underwent another examination, the doctor decreeing that she should be x-rayed. Her wounds now cleaned, Gwenhwyfar went to stand beside her.
‘Did you get hold of your dad?’
‘Yes. He should be here in a minute.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not too bad,’ Viola responded. ‘Killer headache, though.’ She smiled, and Gwenhwyfar did too. ‘Did they sort you out at least?’
She nodded. ‘I only cut my knees.’
‘Viola!’
Gwenhwyfar looked behind her. It was Viola’s father, Samuel. She had met him a few times before. He strode into the building, his tall, slight frame bent with worry. As Viola tried to greet him he hurried over and urged her back down. ‘No, no, don’t move—stay where you are. Are you all right? What did the doctors say?’
‘They’re taking her for x-ray,’ Gwenhwyfar told him.
‘I’m fine,’ Viola murmured gently. ‘Just tired, and headachy.’
‘Gwen.’ Her father leant between them. ‘We should get going. Your mother will be worried.’
Gwenhwyfar nodded and looked to Viola, reluctant to leave. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said quietly. ‘The doctor will be back in a moment.’
‘Let me know when you get home. Call me if there are any problems.’
‘I will.’
‘It’s all right; she’ll be fine. You go home, Gwen. Get some rest,’ Samuel urged. The doctor returned to the cot.
Gwenhwyfar squeezed Viola’s hand, but then she was wheeled away and their fingers parted. ‘I’ll see you on Monday,’ she promised, watching her vanish through the hospital doors.
She followed her father out of the emergency room into the night, which was noisy with the arrival of fresh casualties. She was relieved to finally be within the safety of the family car. Ring-fenced by concrete, a solitary tree stood before them in the car park: a lingering blood vessel to a mortal earth. Silently her father arranged himself in the driver’s seat.
The drive home was long as the city was filled with diversions and temporary checkpoints. Her eyes played tricks with the shadows in the dark. It was almost sunrise when they pulled into their driveway, and a faint eastern light quelled the moon. Weary and aching, Gwenhwyfar stumbled out of the car. Despite being notified of their safety, Eve ran out of the house to greet them in a panic born of exhaustion.
Just before bed, Gwenhwyfar received a tex
t from Viola stating she had been discharged and was on her way home. She then sent Arthur a message announcing her safe return, hoping he was still all right.
Old Friends
Sunday morning passed with Gwenhwyfar in bed, and had Arthur not called in around twelve she would have slept for the rest of the day. Her parents had never met Arthur before and were surprised to learn of her interest in him, but both were grateful for his ability to encourage her to spend a little time downstairs.
The media station was ablaze with the incident. Garan’s account of the situation had been accurate. There had been three bombs: one in a club, one in a bar and one in a hospital, but the third had not detonated. The fourth attempt was on the Thames Barrier to coincide with the chaos of a congested city. The mystery, however, was not where, but why, and who.
The montage of images flashing across the screen halted, the broadcast interrupted by a speech from George Milton. He sheltered from the drizzle under a black umbrella, his grey suit still dry despite the rain. Camera bulbs flashed like strobe lighting. Milton was a man of average height, softening with middle age, his dark hair starkly receding at his temples.
Gwenhwyfar gazed at her Prime Minister, secure in the crook of Arthur’s arm, with her mother’s hand tightly clutching her own. The newsreader mentioned further developments in the government’s response to the attacks, described the scene, and was then silenced by George Milton’s opening words.
“Thank you all for being here with me. There are some people out there who are not going to like what I have to say today, but given the severity of the situation, I am going to give it to you straight. Last night, two hundred and seven British citizens were murdered in a set of mindless attacks that struck at the very heart of our great nation. Two hundred and seven men and women: fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters. My heart, and indeed the hearts of all of us here today, goes out to the relatives of the victims: the bereaved, the cheated. There is nothing that I can do that will bring those lost back to us, but as a father and a husband, I understand the pain that many of you will be going through today. I remember my own pain when I lost my beloved Macy, who died of leukaemia when she was only seven, and I remember that I, too, felt cheated. Cheated out of all those years, and days, that we never had.
Over the past few years the British way of life has repeatedly come under attack. It was only a few months ago when our cities were terrorised by riots, and more recently when London was assaulted again during a violent protest, which resulted in the death of a celebrated and much loved police officer. Our country is still in shock. The war on terror has been long.
As your Prime Minister I assure you: this terror will not be tolerated. This reign of fear will not last. Together we will fight these terror-mongers head on. To this purpose a new special force has been enlisted, dedicated to counter extremism on every level of society. These servicemen will ensure your safety and keep our loved ones from harm. They will target the beliefs that feed extremist ideas and, by wiping out terrorism for good, secure the future of our children.
Despite our losses, there is hope. We stand together as citizens under one banner with the rallying cry that we will not be bowed by terror. As Churchill said: ‘It is no use saying, “We are doing our best.” You have got to succeed in doing what is necessary.’ Well, I, your Prime Minister, will do what is necessary. We will hunt down those responsible. We will dismantle those who would harm us. Together, we will see the rise of a New National Britain, through the hard iron fist and the justice of the New Moral Army.”
A flurry of commotion commenced upon screen. Reporters fired out questions as George Milton edged sternly away and someone else took the stand. Garan hissed a sound of irritation.
‘New Moral Army?’ he growled, his thin frame hunched over. ‘New morals: whose morals? Or does that not matter?’
‘It can’t be a bad thing,’ her mother said. ‘What would we have done if Gwen had been closer to the blast? We would have been desperate for something like this to be in place already. We have nothing to worry about.’
Arthur lingered close to Gwenhwyfar for the rest of the day. A rigorous discussion on the news preceded a quiet afternoon in her bedroom, one during which both her parents hovered downstairs anxiously, calling up to see if anything was needed. When Gwenhwyfar had told her mother she was fine for the fourth time, she gently closed her bedroom door and went to join Arthur on the bed.
The sheets had been straightened, though it was not her doing. Silently she sat next to him, their sides touching. After a few moments Arthur wrapped his arm around her, pulling her into a close hug. The room smelt of sleep and perfume. Her dirtied dress lay over a chair.
‘I’m glad you’re all right, Gwen.’ He drew his other arm about her. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done if something had happened to you.’
‘I know.’ She inhaled deeply, and his scent calmed her. ‘Thanks for coming over. I know you were busy today.’
‘It’s nothing,’ he told her. ‘We went to see my grandfather this morning, and my grandmother insisted I come here afterwards.’
‘Do you always visit your grandfather’s grave on Sundays?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
In the silence she stroked his side. ‘Do you ever visit your father’s?’ Arthur nodded, and Gwenhwyfar looked up. ‘How much do you remember of him?’
‘Not much,’ he admitted, trailing his fingers along her back. ‘I was too young. He’s buried next to my grandfather.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Car accident.’ Arthur shrugged. ‘He liked to drink. He always used to sit up late with bottles and cans around him. I saw my grandparents once, dragging him up the stairs in the morning. I think they moved him so I wouldn’t see him like that when I woke up.’
They sat in silence. Idly, Gwenhwyfar’s fingers worked under Arthur’s shirt and caressed his skin. The result was instantaneous. As she looked up to him he firmly took her cheek, drawing her into an eager kiss.
‘Arthur,’ she murmured into his lips. His hands tugged her closer, drew her against him, and suddenly he was all over her; kissing, tasting, touching; though mindful in his passion of the wounds she bore. His large hands slipped beneath her top and slid along her spine, and as she collapsed into him they toppled onto the mattress, kissing furiously.
Arthur quickly became frustrated with her clothes. The barrier of fabric ground between them as he pulled away her top, his need consuming. He kissed and sucked at her skin, feeling the contours of her bra, and as Gwenhwyfar straddled him she found her thoughts go bounding into chaos.
They didn’t explore one another further. Tongues wrestled and hands wandered, but as the hour wore on they found themselves lying half dressed across the bed with their limbs entwined. The nervous tension had not been dispelled, and as Gwenhwyfar lay in the nook of his arm her fingers played restlessly across his skin.
They said goodnight at six, on the front doorstep with another long exchange. They found their lips hard to separate, and they parted with a promise that they would see each other in school. Smiling up at him, with the ache of her knees still present, Gwenhwyfar thanked him again in earnest. She waited at the end of the driveway, gazing after him as he walked down the street, her longing eyes fixed upon him until he had vanished from sight.
* * *
News of the bombings was already common knowledge at Logres, and the moment she and Viola appeared in their tutor room on Monday morning they were hounded by their classmates. Charlotte, Hattie and Morgan all treated their dressings as if they were badges of honour, uttering words of horror at their account of events, but it was Emily who was the most sympathetic. As she arrived, late, she appeared at their table with wide, white eyes.
‘How horrible!’ she enthused, once she had caught up with the tale. ‘Are you all right? How’s your head?’
‘It’s OK,’ Viola told her, clearly unsettled by her strident concern. ‘It’s just a bump. I’ve got stitches, though
.’
‘Four,’ Gwenhwyfar added, eyeing her bandage. ‘They were pretty worried. They had her in a neck brace, and insisted on doing an x-ray.’
Viola gave her a look, as if to say that she shouldn’t encourage her.
‘That’s awful,’ Emily exclaimed, grasping Viola by the arm and squeezing it. ‘You will let me know if you need anything, won’t you? Either of you. I can carry your bags, if you like.’
Bedivere was keeping his attention diverted in the hopes that Emily wouldn’t engage him.
‘Or if you feel unwell, let me know. I have a ton of painkillers in my bag.’
They expected her to return to her table, but with one seat spare she stayed at theirs, awkwardly sitting next to Viola throughout the register.
History passed, as did English, and as the morning wore on versions of their story circulated around the school and became more fantastical. Bedivere walked with her to the canteen, where she waited at the usual table for someone to rejoin her. The sun bleached the world outside, presenting to all the illusion of warmth, its foolish worshippers shivering in the frigid air. Lancelot’s absence would have alarmed her had Gavin not assured her he had seen him on Sunday. A small number of students were absent due to the loss of a loved one.
‘Gwen?’ Her eyes drew back from the window. Arthur was standing beside her. Nervously, he offered a smile. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Good, thank you.’
‘And your knees?’
She looked down to the white dressing partially concealed beneath her tights. ‘Getting better. My arms hurt more, really.’
He hovered uncertainly for a moment, but then to her great surprise sat down. ‘And Viola?’
‘She’s fine,’ Gwenhwyfar assured him. ‘She’s getting some lunch now. She’s only got a bit of a headache.’
The Future King: Logres Page 36
