‘Right! You like Arthur, and you don’t fancy Lance. So you shouldn’t care if Emily does fancy Lance.’
‘Of course I care! I mean, he’s my friend, isn’t he? Of course I care that that harpy wants to dig her sharp little claws into him. It’s just wrong.’
‘Lance is a big boy, Gwen. He can take care of himself.’
‘But she lied. She lied about sleeping with him, and she lied about Ellie. How does she think she even has a chance?’ Gwenhwyfar began to doubt herself. She couldn’t like Lancelot, not in that way. The possibility that she might terrified her. ‘Lance and I are friends. I’m just looking out for him. You know what Emily’s like.’
Viola’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. ‘Good, because I know him. Arthur believed what Charlotte said for a reason. Ellie and Lance were close, really close. Just friends, so they insisted, but it was a complete disaster.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know how things ended up, the division it caused.’ She sighed. ‘Lance is… volatile. Just trust me.’
The two girls stared at one another, considering. Gwenhwyfar bit her lip and found her eyes shifting to the tiled floor.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry for acting weird. I’m just still a bit freaked from this weekend, you know?’
‘I know. Just be careful. What would Arthur do if he found out you were jealous?’
‘I’m not jealous,’ she countered.
‘He won’t see it that way.’ There was another silence between them. As always, the toilets of Old Wormelow smelt vaguely of cigarette smoke. A tap dripped into a clogged sink, which was half-flooded with stagnant water. ‘Do you love Arthur?’
‘I don’t know.’ Gwenhwyfar sighed, and wrapped her arms close to her chest. ‘I don’t even know if he loves me.’
* * *
‘Arthur!’
He jolted, blinking. He was sitting in Marvin’s study for another meeting with The Round Table, but at some point his mind had wandered off. Gwenhwyfar wasn’t here tonight—she had commitments with her family—and as Marvin gazed at him expectantly Arthur shifted in embarrassment and tried to guess what he had missed.
Marvin sighed. ‘Is something troubling you, by any chance?’
He looked about the room. Opposite him sat Morgan and Percy. Next to them, Gavin and Bedivere watched Marvin closely. Arthur felt his face heat up.
‘Sorry, I was thinking about what the implications are for the introduction of the New Moral Army,’ he adlibbed. ‘What was the question again?’
Marvin huffed. ‘An interesting distraction, I am sure, and it is one we will continue to cover; but right now we want to know what your opinion on the national lottery is. You know, the lottery that was called in ’twenty-one, to replenish military forces stationed in the Middle East? What do you think?’
Arthur looked to Bedivere for help, and then to Gavin, but the tall boy eyed him critically with a strident opinion that he didn’t want to loan. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I wasn’t really listening.’
Bedivere smirked. Marvin waved his hand in annoyance. ‘Well, thank you for being honest, but please let me know when you do next decide to listen to me, hmm? Morgan?’
Morgan went into a long series of arguments that, though intended to upstage Arthur, only caused him to switch off again. Gavin contested her point of view until the discussion moved on to politics, and as Marvin refilled their glasses—Morgan’s with squash, the boys’ with English wine—Arthur was pulled back to those around him.
‘It’s terribly tragic of course,’ Marvin was announcing, ‘but I can’t quite see how, in this day and age, when everything from what you eat in the morning to where you sleep at night is monitored, something like this could be organised. I mean, how could anyone evade all those surveillance methods undetected? I wish I knew.’
The wine bottle glugged as it poured into Arthur’s glass. He held the stem steady, watching the crimson swirl. ‘Gwen was on the street where one of the bars exploded,’ he remarked.
‘Yes, I was made aware of that at the start of the week. I do have one pupil whose sister died, and many others who were in some way involved, so by no means am I commending the attacks. I’m merely suggesting that they’re odd.’
‘It is odd,’ Gavin agreed, ‘but not impossible.’
‘Not impossible, no, but unusual?’ Marvin sighed. ‘We were told that the last series of attacks in London happened because the government didn’t have enough control over monitoring mechanisms. The odd blast since then was to be expected from lone wolves, but something as orchestrated as this? I just don’t know how it happened.’
Morgan propped herself forwards on the table. ‘Isn’t that when Lance’s parents died? I remember; it was in Year Seven. At Christmas.’
‘They were on the Tube, going out for their anniversary.’ Gavin looked up, and for a moment met Arthur’s eye. ‘They weren’t supposed to be on that train, but the line they wanted was shut due to a jumper. They had to take the Central.’
There was a long silence. Marvin sucked his teeth and ruefully shook his head. ‘We do live in such a violent world.’
‘That’s inevitable, considering we’re essentially a violent, destructive species,’ remarked Arthur, a hint of disgust in his tone. ‘If we can’t kill it off or drive it to extinction, we destroy it and exhaust it, and if we can’t fulfil either of those ambitions we murder and rape one another instead.’
‘That’s very cynical of you, Arthur. Don’t you think?’ Marvin exclaimed.
‘It is,’ Morgan agreed.
‘You would argue that we’re not a parasitic life form?’ Arthur challenged. Morgan seemed wounded.
‘Do you think I’m parasitic, Arthur?’ asked Bedivere, brows raised.
‘No, but—’
‘How about Gwen?’ he added, teasing.
‘Of course not, I didn’t say that the individual is parasitic, just our current way of life. Consumerism is destroying the planet. No, it has destroyed the planet. Why do you think half the world has starved to death? There’s not enough left to support everyone.’
‘Says who?’ Morgan snapped.
‘Says common sense.’ He could feel the wine loosening his tongue. ‘People are lying when they say things aren’t that bad. What do you think all those wars were for? We were all just fighting over who got to eat the last éclair.’
Marvin’s stomach growled, and he awkwardly cleared his throat. Morgan gazed at Arthur, her mouth downturned. Frustrated, Arthur leant into the table, gesticulating to emphasise his point.
‘It’s like farming. Once every few years, after you’ve worked the earth, grown your crops and ploughed the land, you have to let it rest. Otherwise nothing will grow the next time you try to plant something. Think of it like that. The Earth is one big field and we’ve farmed it for much too long, so all its nutrition and minerals have been sucked out. We’ve bled it dry.’
‘Yes, but we can’t just not eat,’ she countered.
‘Why not? The other half of the world isn’t at the moment.’
‘That’s no argument,’ Percy interrupted.
‘What do you mean?’ Arthur bristled.
‘The “They’re not eating, so let’s not eat either” argument. That’s like those people who use an example of a country in a worse state to invalidate the arguments and concerns of Western society. It gets neither side anywhere.’
‘But Arthur’s right to an extent,’ Marvin butted in. ‘If we weren’t all so greedy about having the latest technology evenly distributed for our consumption, it wouldn’t be such a problem. But then, consumerism suits our society. As long as we are diverted by owning the latest toy, we are kept infantile: passive, apathetic, and easily led to hatred of the vulnerable. In this world, a world where we are shielded from responsibility and are distracted by successes measured by how many trinkets we have, those who rule us can do as they please.’
‘Noam Chomsky,’ Percy pointed out, referencing Marvin’s words. Marvin n
odded.
‘Recycling may be better than it was a hundred years ago, but we’re all still encouraged to buy the latest things. Our use of plastics has not significantly declined, either. That, and nothing is built to last.’
The six of them fell to silence. Arthur sipped a little more of his wine.
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Bedivere, looking at his watch. ‘The news!’
‘The news!’ echoed Marvin, waving his arms. He cursed as his drink slopped onto the table. ‘Bedivere! Go and turn it on, immediately! Percy! A cloth! Gavin—Morgan! Come on! Arthur—!’ He grinned. ‘Let’s go and see if we can’t discover another clue to this little mystery, shall we?’
Soon they were all gathered around Marvin’s ancient television—thick, box-like and badly pixelated—listening to the dramatic music underpinning the flashing headlines.
Arthur did his best to lean elegantly on the sofa arm, careful not to disrupt the artefacts pinned to the wall behind him. Morgan sat beside him, with Percy closely wedged against her, and Bedivere sat at the opposite end of the suite with Marvin in the middle. Gavin sat in the armchair. The introduction ended. They were greeted by a stern woman gazing out at them from her strangely two-dimensional studio. It had taken Arthur a while to get accustomed to Marvin’s television set, and now he was used to the older technology.
“Good evening,
Tonight, the Prime Minister has announced that the security services have reason to believe the terror cell Free Countries bears responsibility for the bombings last weekend. Evidence has been found linking the group to this horrific attack through their communication records, provided by independent companies across the UK. The Prime Minister’s Head of Security stated in an interview earlier today that such evidence was only discoverable due to George Milton’s personal dealings with UK Telecom, with whom he has been working closely since the inhumane attacks on Saturday night.”
Arthur frowned. Marvin let loose an exclamation that startled those nearest to him.
“Linked to the separatist New Celtic Rebels, Free Countries is a terrorist organisation believed to have been involved in the riots of September and November this year. According to our sources, they stand for anarchism and an end to our current governmental system. The security services are still trying to locate the main leaders of Free Countries, but this group is the terror cell believed to be responsible for the death of hundreds. The general public have been asked to stay vigilant against any hint of activity from this highly dangerous extremist group.”
Arthur licked his lips, still able to taste the wine. The woman on screen blinked with every other word, and it annoyed him.
“The head of Milton’s private security firm joins us in the studio now. Good evening, Sir Bennett. Tell me; is it true that, as yet, no real suspects have been detained?”
Morgan leant back in the sofa, her arm brushing against Arthur’s thigh. He sat still for a moment, but then shifted away uncomfortably, the heat from her body seeping into his own.
‘Free Countries?’ Bedivere asked. ‘I got a flyer in the post from them about the Mobilisation March.’ He turned to face the others. ‘We all went to it. Does that mean we’re now involved with a “terror cell”?’
‘I don’t think so—I get flyers from them all the time,’ Morgan said, curling her hair around one finger. ‘And in terms of the march, no one knows we went, right?’
‘Right,’ Gavin assured them, his voice calm.
‘What sort of terror cell advertises themselves using flyers and leaflets anyway?’ Arthur mused, emptying his glass.
‘I don’t know,’ responded Bedivere. ‘Were they even involved in the September protest? I thought they blamed the separatists.’
‘They did. But they’ll blame them both if it suits them,’ Gavin said.
‘What if it was Free Countries that organised the bombings, though? How would we know?’ Morgan looked up to Arthur. ‘They could easily be telling the truth.’
‘Right,’ Bedivere fretted. ‘For all we know Free Countries could be filled with psychos and extremists.’
‘Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t, but that doesn’t affect us.’ Arthur looked at Percy. The sixth former was gazing at the box-like screen, his eyes and ears fixed on Sir Bennett, straining to hear above their chatter. ‘What should we do?’
Marvin was standing now, his fingers pressing into his lips as he gazed fixedly at the carpet. ‘Do—? Why, we do nothing. The news has just given us a scapegoat for the atrocities committed on Saturday. Whether it is true or not, you never went to that march; you were never there. If you get any more flyers, burn them. We weren’t involved in anything, no matter what happens.’
‘You don’t think it was Free Countries, then?’ Percy asked suddenly.
‘I don’t know,’ Marvin replied. ‘If it was, you want to wash your hands of them, and if it wasn’t, well; the need is the same. They’re a fairly ambiguous group, small I imagine, and pose little to no threat to Milton himself… so what reason would the New Nationals have for falsifying their involvement? I know I never usually take the news at face value, but in this instance… I am inclined to.’
Nodding stiffly, Percy turned back to the screen. Gavin downed the last of his wine and stood up. Morgan shifted, and Bedivere seemed to think over everything in silence. Arthur detached himself from the sofa. It was late, and their hour was up.
The Warning
She didn't know what to do.
The terror that gripped her upon seeing the news had turned her blood to ice. How was this possible? Not once had Isolde mentioned anything to do with terrorist activity, and she hadn’t heard of it through the grapevine, either. Gwenhwyfar paced back and forth, wearing an erratic line into the carpet from her bed to her door. She hadn’t yet shut the curtains. The cold glass loomed in the night, a portal through which she came to stare for a moment, replaying the news anchor’s words in her mind.
Free Countries is a terrorist organisation… they stand for anarchism… extremism…
Responsible for the death of hundreds, she thought, her head pounding. What was she going to do? What could she do? She could barely fathom the implications of what she’d become involved in, let alone comprehend the consequences. What if the police found out she was a part of the most wanted terror group in Britain? What if they found out she’d even recruited a member? The grapevine had to be traceable to her. It wouldn’t be difficult to track her down, and it wasn’t as if she’d ever been careful. Thickly, she swallowed down the bile that gathered in her throat.
How could Free Countries be responsible for this? Surely they would have known there’d be a chance of murdering their own members. Abruptly, another paralysing revelation hit her. She had been at one of the crime scenes—was on record for being treated at the nearest hospital—and had walked away just as the bar had exploded.
But no, she had been attending a party—was there all night—and there were hundreds of witnesses. For a few moments she calmed herself, swiftly running through all the solutions she had to hand. She would swap phones and destroy her old mobile. She would cut contact with Isolde. She almost leapt a mile when her phone rang. She didn’t recognise the number, but on the fifth ring, she picked up. The voice wasn’t familiar, and she felt a wave of panic. What if it was the police?
‘Hello? Is that Gwen? It’s… it’s Tristan.’
Her relief was only momentary. ‘Tristan! Are you insane?’
‘I didn’t know what else to do!’ he hissed, voice urgent. Something that sounded like reinforced glass was beaten down upon by what had to be rain. ‘I’ve been thinking.’
Gwenhwyfar was thinking, too. As far as anyone knew, Tristan could just be an acquaintance. They had only spoken once, she hadn’t asked him to recruit anyone, and his involvement in the cause had been minimal. ‘Did you get my letter?’ she blurted, shaking.
He didn’t get it. ‘What letter?’
‘The letter I sent you, explaining everything we talked about. I s
aid I’d send you one, ages ago. Did you not get it?’
‘I don’t quite… you mean the thing?’
‘Yes,’ she affirmed. ‘About the thing.’
He made a sound of comprehension. Gwenhwyfar hoped desperately that he understood she meant the information pack sent out by Free Countries.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘I didn’t get it.’
‘Good.’ Sighing, she turned about on the spot. ‘I don’t think we should speak to one another again, Trist. I mean I know I gave you my number and things, but I have a boyfriend now.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes, it’s official. So I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to never call me again, understand? That’s what the letter said, that it’s over. I’m done.’
‘I see,’ he murmured. ‘So it’s over?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m to never contact you again?’
‘That’s right, we’re done.’ There was a short silence. ‘Where are you calling from?’
‘A payphone.’
‘Right, well, I have to go.’
‘Gwen,’ he hesitated. ‘Did you know?’
‘Know what?’ she added, weary.
‘You know.’
‘No. I found out myself,’ she remarked. He fell silent, and it seemed they understood one another.
‘You’re letting me go? Are you sure?’
She nodded, drawing up a thick sigh. ‘I’m sure, Tristan. It’s for the best. I’m with someone else.’
He hung up, and so did she. Her hand trembled as she examined the number on her phone. It wasn’t from a mobile, and for some reason that comforted her. Tristan was safe at least, but what of her? She wanted an escape too, and wished she could wipe Free Countries from her mind.
She launched herself at her desk, ripped open the drawers and pulled out the brown envelope she had almost memorised. She shredded each document frantically. Still she didn’t feel safe. Gwenhwyfar seized the scented candle and matches she kept on her dresser and hurried them back to her desk. She flung the candle away and threw the tatters of paper into the rounded dish, set them alight and rushed to open the window. When she returned she fed the final few shreds to the flame, and blew softly upon them, until it had all turned to ash.
The Future King: Logres Page 39
