‘What’s his problem with you, anyway?’ Emily asked.
‘He’s annoyed that Bedivere told the principal what happened at Tom’s, and that I spoke to Ravioli about it. Apparently it’s my fault that he can’t go to college.’
‘Boys can be such beasts, can’t they?’ Emily said. Her blue eyes wandered off to some unseen point.
‘I still think you should tell someone,’ Viola murmured. She bent her head low, and Gwenhwyfar moved closer. ‘That’s not the only thing worrying me. It’s the New Moral Army. What if someone catches on to the fact you all went to that march?’
‘You don’t think…?’
‘I won’t tell, Marvin won’t, and neither will Tom. But what if someone does find out? You heard what Milton said. I mean, after the explosions, I thought it might be a good thing, but now that I’ve had time to think about it… Gavin’s right. Whose morals? The New Nationals are hardly ones for freedom of expression. I’m worried that in looking for members of Free Countries, they’ll find out who went to the protest, too.’
‘What can they do? We wore disguises. We were careful. I don’t know about Gwen but I made sure no one could link me to that march. I even made sure I had an alibi.’
‘Free Countries wasn’t actually involved,’ Gwenhwyfar told them quietly. She glanced to the door, but Miss Barnes was still absent, and the noise of their classmates blanketed their whispering.
Viola frowned at her. ‘How do you know?’
‘Gavin told me,’ she lied. ‘He read it on one of those encrypted websites of his. Besides, they blamed it on the separatists first, remember? It’s only now they’re saying it was Free Countries. All they did was raise awareness for the event through flyers.’ She hesitated, and glanced over her shoulder. Miss Barnes returned to quieten the buzz. The lights were still out. ‘As far as I know, Free Countries don’t even take part in protests. They’re too concerned about keeping themselves off the heightened surveillance list.’
‘But if the New Morals think they are…’
‘They can think all they want,’ Gwenhwyfar insisted, ‘but if it’s not true, and if there’s no physical link between the two, we’re safe.’
Safe. Her heart began to race at the thought. The others were safe, but she wasn’t. For a moment she wanted to confess to everything, as if that might make the fear go away, but the words stuck like thorns in her throat.
She couldn’t tell anyone, not ever. She thought perhaps if she changed the events in her mind, they would change in reality, too. It never happened. She had never heard of Free Countries. As Miss Barnes settled the class she repeated the thought until she fooled herself into believing it was true.
* * *
The day had been long, but at last it was over. Eager to get home as quickly as possible, Arthur hurried through the outskirts of Logres, his lips stinging with each cold breath. It was dark now, but the streetlights were lit, staring gloomily down at the pavement with their yellow eyes. He stopped off at the kiosk on his way through town and bought what was left from the day’s lunch run: a chicken salad with a wrap and, feeling generous, a chocolate sundae with a packaged spoon. Absently Arthur wondered if the homeless woman had somewhere to sleep, one of those shelters perhaps that were struggling to stay open.
Should he bring an extra blanket next time? He wasn’t sure if his grandmother had one that wouldn’t be missed. Perhaps he should just ask the woman if there was anything he could do to help, but he was weary of the risk. The police patrolled these streets on a regular basis, and after work the Watchmen were usually out in anticipation of their late-night shift.
He was walking down a quieter side road on his way to his drop when he saw them, a group of boys a few years older than him, clustered together on the pavement. A quick survey counted five. They were jeering.
Instinctively Arthur crossed the street. It was best not to get too close. Even if such groups weren’t looking for trouble, they were often aware of their presence and took delight in intimidating others. The laughing greatened. One of the lads pushed at something with his foot.
‘Illegal scum,’ the youth said unashamedly. ‘What you doing sitting on our doorstep? We own this doorstep, it belongs to the British.’ He bent down and reached for something. Quickly he retracted. ‘God, she stinks.’
‘Stinks of piss,’ said another.
‘Did you piss yourself? Probably did. Old bag.’
‘Show us your tits—come on,’ demanded the third. He reached for something. The others laughed.
‘She’s an illegal,’ said the first again. He kicked something, hard. ‘Shouldn’t be here. Lazy cockroach. Ugh, she smells more when you kick her. Disgusting.’
There was a person huddled at their feet, wrapped up in an old blanket. Arthur stopped, stayed by shock, and then anger. He stood planted to the spot as the boys laughed again. One had an umbrella and was poking at the unfortunate human as if it were already a corpse.
He crossed the road without looking. ‘Hey!’ They didn’t hear. ‘Hey!’
Two police officers appeared at the end of the street. Arthur flagged them. They hurried over, flanking him as he brought them to the scene. The boys split, but stood their ground. Arthur’s heart dropped the moment he saw the terrified woman’s face. It was the woman he’d been helping.
She probably looked older than she was. She was weathered from excessive wind, sun and rain, and her wiry hair had greyed before its time. Her chin was square, and she had a tired, gaunt face that stared up at them all with yellowed eyeballs.
The two officers left no room for intervention. The first stepped into the circle and eyed the teenagers.
‘What’s going on here?’
‘Rough-sleeper,’ one of the boys said, matter-of-factly. ‘Probably an illegal.’
‘No,’ Arthur objected. ‘They were kicking this woman, and spitting on her.’
‘We were not,’ the first boy said.
‘What were you doing, then?’ the officer asked.
He shrugged. ‘She’s an illegal.’
The police officer looked from the boy to Arthur. His colleague helped the woman to her feet. She dropped the few belongings that she had been clutching onto the concrete.
‘She might be an illegal,’ the second officer said. He took a sniff near the woman’s head and drew back sharply. ‘Definitely homeless.’
The first officer stepped closer, his manner stiff. ‘You got an address?’ The woman eyed him without comprehension. ‘Proof of address—you got proof of your address? B.I.D.? Where’s your B.I.D. card?’
This produced no results. The officer turned to the rest of them.
‘B.I.D.s, now.’
Arthur fumbled for his identity card as the other boys made sounds of protest. The officer pulled out a reader hooked in his belt and scanned each one. When he was done, he waved Arthur and the teenagers away.
‘You can go.’
‘But wait—they were kicking her. I saw it.’
‘Were they kicking you?’
‘No, but—’
‘Did they spit on you?’
‘No, they—’
Shaking his head, the officer waved the group onwards. Emboldened, they sauntered down the street. One or two of them made crude gestures for Arthur’s benefit. The officers gathered about the woman like crows, one tapping on his scanner, the other holding her arm so that she couldn’t leave.
‘What’s your name?’
Silence.
‘Where are you from? Do you speak English?’
‘She’s retarded,’ claimed the second officer. ‘Doesn’t understand a thing.’
‘Probably just not speaking so we don’t hear her accent,’ the first officer drawled. He sighed, as if he had been put at great inconvenience. ‘Definitely an illegal. Come on then, you’re coming with us.’
They manhandled her away from the step. Her blanket fell to the floor and was stepped on. Suddenly the woman caught Arthur’s gaze and her eyes were filled wit
h panic.
‘Wait!’ Arthur trailed them as they marched up the street. ‘She’s not an illegal—she has an address. She has my address. She lives with me.’
The officers ignored him. They were taking the woman to their patrol car. She stumbled with each forced step.
‘She lives with me! She just can’t talk because she’s mute. We have the papers for her and everything. She’s on medication—’
‘You’re willing to vouch for this woman?’ The first officer turned to him. His partner opened the back seat passenger door.
Arthur nodded fervently. ‘Yes, I know her.’
‘You know her?’ The first officer pointed a clean finger at the grimy woman. ‘You live with her, you have papers for her.’
He wanted to say yes, but words failed him. Instead, Arthur nodded.
‘You understand that attempting to prevent the arrest of an illegal is a felony.’
He said nothing. Suddenly his heart was racing and his palms were sweating. The officer squared closer.
‘You understand that giving false information to a police officer is cause enough for us to take you in with her.’
Arthur felt powerless. He couldn’t get arrested, what would he do? Who would bail him out? Who would look after his grandmother? There was a thick silence. Both officers eyed him critically.
‘You’re just a young lad, so I’m going to ask you again.’ The door was shut; the woman was jerked away from his partner and presented for Arthur to inspect like some ad-hoc line up. ‘Do you know this woman?’
Her eyes were deep-set, ringed in hollowed sockets that made her seem sadder. She was appealing to him, appealing for help; though clearly not sure of the finer workings of the situation; only that she was in trouble, that she was in the hands of those who she should avoid; that she was there because someone had called the police and flagged them over. That someone was staring right back at her.
‘Well?’
‘No,’ he said, so quietly that he had to clear his throat and repeat it. ‘No, I don’t know this woman.’
They didn’t say anything as they bundled her into the back of the car. Arthur stepped away from the vehicle as both police officers got in the front, screwing their faces up with distaste the moment they were but half in.
‘Fucking stinks,’ they muttered, as they slammed the doors shut. Arthur lingered to watch as the car pulled away from the kerb. How had this happened? But he knew what they were like—of course they would take her in. He was an idiot. He should have intervened himself, got into a fight—perhaps then she would have had time to slip away while the police broke up the ruckus. Perhaps he should have done nothing at all.
He would think of this many times in the years to come, his failure, his cowardice and self-interest. He should have made more of a fuss. He should have been outraged. He should have done something.
The Campaign
‘To me, to me!’
Gavin huffed as the ball shot straight at him, and with a kick he sent it flying past the goalkeeper. An eruption of victory cries sounded from his team. Not quite able to mimic Lancelot’s somersault, he ran about screaming. Lancelot met him mid-pitch, hooked his neck and violently ruffled his hair.
‘Gav, that was brilliant!’
‘Cheers,’ he laughed.
They shoved one another and staggered apart. Lancelot surveyed the field. ‘Where the hell is Tom?’
‘Taking a break.’ Gavin brushed off his uniform. ‘Oi, Tommy! Get back on the pitch and stop being such a pansy!’
Their friend waved at them, then held his hand to his ear, taunting.
‘I said, “Stop being such a pansy!”’ Gavin bellowed, his words booming across the sparsely populated field. The gesture was replicated and, scowling, Gavin cast out a profanity that Tom also claimed not to hear.
They jogged briskly to join him at the other end of the pitch. Overhead, a military aircraft thundered past. Tom sat huffing, his arms draped over his knees.
‘It’s the New Morals, Gav. Coming to get you.’
‘Don’t even joke,’ Gavin remarked, watching the jet get smaller and smaller as it passed over the horizon. ‘It might well be.’
‘Told you we shouldn’t have gone,’ Lancelot muttered, crouching down to the compact earth. ‘It was idiotic.’
‘It was necessary. What else were we supposed to do?’
‘Do? It did nothing. Just got some scapegoats fired.’ He shrugged, and pushed at Tom. ‘Come on, the game’s not over yet. We’re winning, for once.’
‘I’m fine here!’ Tom insisted. ‘I’m an artist, not an athlete.’
‘You’re a slob, that’s what,’ Lancelot countered. ‘You should at least try. Just run around a bit.’
‘Or stand still on the pitch, if you prefer.’ Gavin sat and sucked in a deep breath. Despite the biting chill, his back was glazed in sweat and his shirt stuck uncomfortably to his skin. Lancelot sprang up, as controlled in his movements as a wild cat.
‘Don’t you want to keep in shape? You know, so you can hold on to your model girlfriend.’
‘Yeah, you can’t protect her like this,’ Gavin bantered.
‘Protect her?’ Tom’s voice filled with concern. ‘From what?’
‘From better-looking men, of course,’ Lancelot mocked. ‘The guys have been going on about her all week.’
‘Who told them?’ he barked.
‘Rupert, I think,’ Gavin remarked, still following the game.
‘I told him not to say anything!’
‘The whole school probably knows by now,’ said Gavin. ‘Well done.’
‘I didn’t think it would be an issue if one person knew,’ Tom countered. ‘He shouldn’t have told anyone.’
‘Well then, go and chase Rupert down instead,’ Lancelot added. ‘That’ll sort you out. He’s even on the other team.’
‘I can’t, I have to rehearse for tomorrow. This is an important gig. I’ve booked the practice rooms for tonight. Can we do another run-through?’
Lancelot shrugged. ‘Sure.’
There was a moment’s silence. Gavin looked up at Lancelot as he half-danced about on his feet. ‘So what are we going to do about Hector?’
‘Nothing. It’s up to Gwen if she wants to report it or not.’
‘Except the threat was directed at you.’
‘Yeah, but it was obviously meant for her,’ Lancelot disputed.
‘I kind of feel like this whole thing just got blown wildly out of proportion.’
Lancelot and Gavin both looked to Tom. Gavin frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Hector. I mean, as far as he knew Gwen was up for it. Seems unfair he should be suspended over something he didn’t go through with.’
Gavin looked at Lancelot. He was still now, completely still, and he watched Tom intently.
‘He went for her at Lance’s party—remember? There was no misunderstanding then. Lance said he had another boy with him.’
‘I know that,’ Tom added, ‘and I’m not saying what he did was right, not at all. It’s just… this is the second time this has happened. She must have done something to encourage it.’
‘What, you mean that she was asking for it?’ Gavin said, appalled.
‘No! Of course not, but—’
‘Then what?’
‘All I’m saying is that she should be more careful. There are things women can do to avoid it.’
Lancelot shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’m sorry, do you walk around wearing a Kevlar vest?’ he asked, his voice laced with anger. ‘No? Well, I guess by your logic, it’s your fault if you get murdered, then.’
‘Tom?’
Scowling, Tom looked up. ‘What?’
‘You’re an idiot.’ Gavin pushed him, and Tom shoved him back. Gavin pushed him again, and this time Tom fell over. As they sat in silence, Lancelot stalked about with hunched shoulders. Eventually Gavin stood up to rejoin the game, and stretching, glanced towards Logres, which stood bruised under the hangin
g clouds. ‘Who’s that?’
Hawk-like, Lancelot studied the approaching figures. Tom twisted round in an effort to see, though his frown only thickened. ‘Is it the girls?’
‘Emily,’ Lancelot breathed, his voice filled with dread.
‘Maybe she’s come for a snog?’ Tom’s eyebrows curved up sardonically.
‘Who else?’ Gavin asked.
‘Viola,’ Lancelot added. His voice wavered. ‘And Gwen.’
‘Should I be worried?’ Tom asked as he stood next to Gavin. The three girls began to run.
‘Something must have happened,’ Lancelot said. ‘Do you think it could be Hector?’
Exchanging glances, they set off. The girls tore towards them, and soon Viola was flying ahead. Tom only had a second to brace himself before she jumped into his arms. Laughing, she let go as Emily and Gwenhwyfar caught up.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she gasped, ‘I just had to tell you!’
‘Tell me what? Is everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine. It’s brilliant! You’ll never guess.’
‘Guess what?’
‘Do you remember that casting for Bare Make-up? Well, I got it! I got the job! It’s a campaign! They’ll be paying me twenty-eight thousand; can you believe it? Oh, but you mustn’t tell anyone, you hear me? I’m serious Tom, no one can know. I don’t want everyone thinking I’m rich now.’
‘But you are rich,’ Emily pointed out. ‘What if this is just the first job of many? You’ll be loaded, Vi.’
‘I just wish I had that much!’ Gwenhwyfar exclaimed. ‘You’re so lucky!’
‘Twenty-eight thousand?’ Gavin repeated, astonished. He looked to Lancelot, who frowned, but said nothing.
Grinning, Tom snaked his arm around her waist. ‘That’s brilliant, Vi. I’m proud of you. Well done.’
Viola smiled, and pressed into him with a happy kiss.
* * *
‘Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’
The Future King: Logres Page 41
