The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

  ‘I was only …’

  ‘I know.’ He raised his head. His eyes were wet and red. I don’t know why it felt so indecent; hadn’t I been on the edge of crying myself? ‘It was hilarious, Martin. Now leave me alone.’

  I opened my mouth to argue. We’d got a distinction, for pity’s sake, and he was behaving like I’d murdered his grandmother. What a family of lunatics. But then he hid his face again and I think he was trying not to cry.

  I didn’t know what to do. I thought about walking out. He’d told me to go, hadn’t he? But it seemed inhuman. So I stood there, helpless. I tried to pat his shoulder but he shook me off. Actually, I knew how he felt. All these weeks … Maybe that was why I stayed. Finally I sat down on the end of the bed, at arm’s length.

  Slowly he managed to get hold of himself; I couldn’t see his expression but his breathing got steadier. He sat up straight and said, ‘You absolute weasel, Martin,’ but this time it was without rancour.

  ‘I had no idea – it was just a joke.’

  ‘I’m exhausted, that’s all.’ He blew out air, shaking his head. He peered at the piece of paper. ‘Seventy. Was it really that good?’

  ‘Better.’

  He laughed. We both laughed. I think I was only an inch away from crying, too.

  ‘I could do with a drink,’ I said. ‘They should’ve given us wine tonight, not the day we had to hand it in.’ I could’ve bitten my tongue as soon as I said it, remembering what had happened, but Carfax didn’t blink.

  ‘If only we knew where they kept it,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t believe you don’t. How many generations of your family have come here? Surely by now it should be a family secret, handed down from father to son?’

  He shook his head, with a crooked smile. ‘Nope. My father died before he could hand me anything.’

  ‘Right.’ After a second I added, ‘Sorry.’

  He didn’t answer. It occurs to me now that he was taken aback; he must have expected me to say something snide. He picked up the page and ran his finger down the marks, but I don’t think he was actually reading them. The clock struck nine; I hadn’t realised it was so late.

  ‘Well,’ Carfax said, ‘thanks for letting me know, anyway. About the marks.’

  ‘Sure.’ I got to my feet.

  ‘Good night, Martin.’

  ‘Good night.’

  I went out into the corridor and shut the door behind me.

  But I couldn’t walk away. I don’t know why. Seventy! I hated the thought of just going to bed, as if nothing had happened. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. What’s the point of a triumph if you behave like it’s nothing? Carfax was the only one who knew how I felt, who knew how hard we’d worked. So I went back into his room without knocking. He spun round – he was in his shirtsleeves, he must’ve been getting undressed – and dived for his gown. As he dragged it over his head, he said, ‘Martin, what do you think you’re—’

  ‘We’ve all seen you in your shirt, Carfax, remember?’ He carried on grumbling, but I spoke over him. ‘Let’s go somewhere. Let’s go up to the Astronomy Tower. I want to be outside. Come on.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I’ve got some cigarettes in my room. I’ve been saving them all term.’

  I thought he was going to refuse. We’ve been enemies for so long, I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. I wondered myself why I’d suggested it. After all, he’s still the same person who made fun of my games in front of the whole class. He’s still an arrogant bastard. And he probably thinks I’m still … well, whatever he’s always thought of me. But he glanced back at his desk, at his trunk, at the empty room; then he nodded and pushed past, obviously expecting me to follow.

  So we went up to the Astronomy Tower. As we were climbing the stairs I thought it was a stupid idea. It was perishing cold, and a long way up, and if we’d been caught we’d have been in trouble. But then we came out on the top, and there was nothing around us but battlements and snow and the night sky.

  We hunched down in the corner and smoked and talked about the grand jeu and made fun of the others, and agreed that we were the best players ever and he’d be Magister Ludi when I was Magister Scholarium, or the other way round. It was freezing; the air made me cough when it hit the back of my throat, especially when I laughed.

  When we’d finished our cigarettes he got to his feet and held out his hand to help me up. Bits of me had gone numb and I held on to him for longer than I meant to, steadying myself. I didn’t care how cold I was; I would have said anything to stay there for ever.

  I didn’t. Say anything. Nor did he. We went down the staircase in silence. But when I glanced back at him he was smiling.

  I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy.

  Chapter 15

  16: the Rat

  She knows that the black ones are going to leave. For days before they go the air of Montverre is disturbed, the silent spaces between bells muddied by noise and bustle. She stays in her nest during the day, knotted in her blankets, but even there the sounds of their footsteps and laughter lap at her like flotsam on a tide. These are the times that scare her the most, the beginnings and endings: this is when the world is most unpredictable. Is that a human way to think? Perhaps. Perhaps a rat would have no concept of time past or future, wouldn’t feel the change in the air as the voices rise and recede. Perhaps she is already losing her grip on her rat-self. There are words in her head that should not be there: Afraid. Sorry. Simon. She endures them as if they’re a contagion. Soon they will be gone, the way the black ones will be gone, and her mind will be quiet again. But they’re heavy, like stones. When she moves her head she can feel them thunking against her skull, hard enough to hurt. Simon. The only remedy is to lie still.

  It’s night. She is thirsty. Her jug is empty. She has been waiting for too long, hoping each day that she’d hear the grumble of the bus coming up and down the road, taking the black ones away in batches. It hasn’t come. Tomorrow. But tomorrow is too far off, and she’s thirsty.

  A rat would not be afraid. (The word again: afraid.) A rat would get what it needed – careful, not afraid. Or would it? Isn’t that what a human would do? A rat, above all, wouldn’t need to think …

  She uncurls herself. It’s cold. As soon as the air hits her skin she starts to shiver. She hesitates before she wraps herself in a blanket; it’s worth it for the warmth, but it will slow her down, if she has to run. Then she creeps out on to the narrow staircase, down and through the cluttered storeroom – stiff-jointedly high-stepping over the mouldering brooms and buckets – and out of the window, pushing the jug along the windowsill before she clambers out. Her hands almost slip as she inches along the sill and she lands clumsily, scraping her back down the wall as she falls into the next room along, the jug cradled in the crook of her arm. Her defences have never seemed so elaborate, or so fragile. The blanket has caught on an uneven corner of stone and rips when she pulls it. She stops and listens, in case someone has heard her. Quiet.

  She eases her way out into the corridor and along, to the room where a row of man-size porcelain bowls gleam in the snow-and-moonlight. Each one has nubbed levers and pipes at the end; she knows – she has always known, although she doesn’t remember how – that they spit water if she turns them. Risking the noise of the pipes, she drinks until she gasps, then fills her jug. The water is so cold it makes her teeth ache.

  There’s a noise in the corridor. She slides into a cubicle, but she has left the jug on the floor, in full view. If she leaves it behind she will have to steal another one, so she waits, hoping the footsteps will pass.

  They come closer, echoing. She presses herself against the wall.

  ‘Hello?’

  A pause.

  ‘Is someone …? Hello?’ He steps towards the cubicle. She could swing the door closed, but the latch is broken and if he tried to batter it down he could. And … is there a part of her, the human, word-burdened part of her, that doesn’t want to hide? Sh
e stands still, wedged between the china hole-chair and the wall, while he tilts his head to see through the gap.

  ‘Hello.’

  There is something about the angle of his face or his eyebrows which makes an unfamiliar impulse tug at her mouth. She has only seen him once before but she would recognise him out of all the black ones with their interchangeable human faces. Why?

  ‘It is you!’ He smiles. ‘Remember me? Simon. Sorry if I scared you.’

  The words inside her head are suddenly outside her head. Simon. Sorry. It makes her blink, as if objects are materialising out of thin air. She thinks of bread and cheese and fruit, hopeful, but nothing happens.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, I’ve been walking about. Last night they came to my cell and – anyway. I was outside, then I heard the tap running, and I thought …’ Gently, he pushes the door wider. ‘I was hoping I’d see you again.’ He gives a laugh, although not much of one. It nudges at her memory: a laugh-that-isn’t-a-laugh, a twinge of misery. A woman saying don’t take any notice of me, darling, I’m all right, only being a bit silly … She bends her knees, ready to leap past him and out of reach.

  ‘I’m going home tomorrow. Are you …? I mean, you live here, do you? Are you a servant? You don’t look … Sorry, listen to me, I’m talking too much. I’m not crazy. It’s just that no one speaks to me any more, even the Magisters don’t … I feel like I’m invisible sometimes.’ He tugs at his collar. ‘Is it this, do you think? I don’t even know any more. I feel like I’m not human, Like a ghost.’

  He takes a step towards her. The wall presses into her back. A trap, this is a trap. His voice. If only he’d stop talking, stop filling her attention with stupid human words.

  ‘Are you all right? I don’t mean to … Please don’t look at me like that, we’re not all bad. Wait.’ He fumbles in his gown. ‘Would you like this? It’s my last bit, I was saving it.’

  He holds out his hand. There’s a square, glinting morsel in it. His fingers are open, ready to catch at her if she reaches out to take it. She knows better. The nerves in her teeth tingle. The soft flesh above his collar is exposed. If she has to bite to get away …

  He doesn’t move. At last he exhales and steps back, still watching her, until he bumps into the edge of a man-size bowl. He looks round jerkily, as if it moved on its own. Then he puts the glinting square down on the lip. ‘I’ll leave it here, shall I? It’s fruit and nut.’

  Is it bait? What does he want? She stares at him until he bobs his head.

  ‘I’d better get back. Early start tomorrow. Can’t wait to get home. I’ve got a sister about your age. I hope my family are …’

  Silence. She stays very still. Maybe if she doesn’t move, he’ll forget she’s there.

  ‘Good night, then.’ He turns away, as if something has broken. ‘And, um … happy New Year.’

  She waits a long time before she moves. He has gone – she knows he’s gone – but something lingers, a queasiness in her belly as though his questions have made her ill. Finally she picks up the thing he left for her and raises it to her nose. It has a skin of paper and metal, folded around at the top; when she unpeels it, the thing inside smells rich and creamy.

  She bites it. For a second she is not a rat (a rat would be wary). But she is nothing else, either: only the taste of chocolate on her tongue, the little soft nub of a raisin and the harder crunch of a hazelnut. Another mouthful, and another, and it’s gone. She stands in the freezing silence, light-headed, disbelieving, her mouth full of fading sweetness. Why would someone give this away? It’s incomprehensible. No one gives her anything. Not since before – food, comfort, a woman’s voice singing her to sleep …

  A trap. Of course it is a trap. That hand held out, that gentle voice, the expecting-her-to-be-human. A poison. She should have been careful. She should have known better.

  She thrusts her hand into her mouth, gags and gags. At last the sweet stuff comes back up, thick and stringy and tinged with bile. She crouches, vomiting on the floor until she is sure it has all gone. Better. Then she scrubs the dark mess with her blanket until the stain is almost invisible. But her mind is not so easily purged: the words stay there – Simon, sorry – and the memory of his hand, offering. Those are a different kind of poison.

  She gets up. She is careful as she goes out into the corridor, in case he is there; but the shadows are empty, the night silent. She tells herself that she is safe now, that she has averted whatever danger she saw in his eyes. But underneath she feels a perverse flicker of disappointment; and his voice echoes in her head, being kind, saying she’s like his sister, wishing her a happy New Year.

  PART TWO

  Vernal Term

  17: Léo

  Léo sits back in his seat and takes a deep breath. He’s alone in the carriage. The smell of steam and hot metal surrounds him, catching in his throat. The guard blows his whistle and the train judders and rattles, gathering speed. It’s like being twenty again: here’s the familiar sense of freedom, the faint guilt, the ache to stay on the train all the way to the terminal and stumble out into bustling streets and fleshpots … But he knows – as he always knew – that he won’t. He’ll change obediently for Montverre, without pausing to watch the train puff away to the capital. He stretches out his legs and crosses his ankles on the seat opposite; then he lights a cigarette and blows a plume at the ceiling. Mim hates to see him smoke. For the first few days at home she winced and coughed delicately when she came into his room, peering through the virtually non-existent tinge of grey-blue as if she could hardly make him out. Finally he gave in, and leant out of the window or stood on the terrace, staring into the drab flowerbeds with their wintry, hand-me-down air. It took the pleasure out of it, which was quite probably what Mim had in mind. She has a gift for that, for serving meals that are oddly savourless, no matter how much seasoning the cook has added; for pouring cocktails that seem to be mainly water; or for giving presents that clutch depressingly at the heart. At New Year he unwrapped a blotchy silver-paper packet that held a wilting tie the colour of mould.

  It’s possible, of course, that he’s being unkind. He’s nearly forty – well, over thirty; he can’t bear the wet-wool sensation of being a child again. The afternoons, airless and muffled, while he tried to read in his room or made desultory notes on Magister Dryden’s essay questions. The evenings spent alone with Mim, or, worse, with her guests. The pretty but fatuous cousin in her high-necked blouse, asking earnest questions. The spinster of a certain age who acts as Mim’s unofficial companion, who somehow gives the impression that she’s wearing an unravelling cardigan even when she isn’t. The pigeon-breasted local bureaucrats that Mim imagines fondly are the sort of people Léo was used to meeting, when he was Minister for Culture … It should have been touching, at least, that she tried to entertain him like some visiting dignitary; but it only reminded him of the old days of being home from Montverre, when Dad would show him off to his friends. Here is my son, a credit to me. Léo would put on an act, affable and charming and a bit self-deprecating, to try to take the edge off Dad’s bonhomie-filled resentment: and now, even though Dad is dead, he finds himself donning the same mask. This time he doesn’t know whose resentment he’s trying to defuse. His own, maybe.

  But the nights he spent in town were worse. One evening he went to an enormous party at the Winter Palace, and as soon as he crossed the threshold he had to steel himself not to turn around and leave; the noise and the light were like a fever. He shoved his cloakroom ticket into his pocket and made his way to the main ballroom. He plucked two glasses of champagne from the nearest waiter, drank one down in a gulp and slid it back on to the tray before the waiter had time to move away. He forced himself to sip the other as he navigated his way from group to group, smiling and nodding at acquaintances, pausing for a few minutes to swap pleasantries with businessmen or Party officials before moving on. He hadn’t expected to see the Old Man or the Chancellor, of course, but he found himself scanning the crowds for Emile
Fallon; he wasn’t sure if he was pleased or disappointed not to see him.

  At last he disentangled himself from a group of industrialists and ducked into a quiet, carpeted alcove. He’d drawn aside a curtain and was wrestling with the catch on the window, desperate for a breath of air, when a voice behind him said, ‘Léo! Long time no see.’

  He turned. He knew her a little: Sarah Paget, was it, or Sara? She’d never been in the Ministry for Culture, fortunately, she was one of the Chancellor’s underlings. Or was she at the Ministry for Justice, these days? She was wearing a tuxedo and a monocle, her short hair slicked back. ‘How are you, old chap?’ she said, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘Looks like the monastic life agrees with you, at least.’

  ‘Thanks. You look well, too.’

  She gave him a dry smile. ‘It’s strange not to see your lady friend – no, wait, she isn’t your lady friend any more, is she? Never mind, you know what I mean – not to see her here. She did attract attention … I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything?’

  Léo shook his head. Chryseïs knew Sara, and despised her; he remembered her saying contemptuously, ‘She’d rather be an honorary man than speak up for other women,’ rolling her eyes before adding, ‘and that hair is simply grotesque.’

  ‘Just as well, I expect. Better to keep your distance.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh – you hadn’t heard?’ She flipped open a cigarette case and offered it to him before she took one herself. ‘She walked out on Marco Boyer. Packed her bag, no sign of foul play. She hasn’t been back to your flat, either. She’s disappeared.’ She lit both cigarettes with a flourish; the flame drew Léo’s gaze, while a part of him registered without surprise that the Party had been watching his flat.

  He didn’t answer. Clearly Chryseïs had found someone new, someone better.

  ‘She got wind of the new Purity Laws, I imagine. I must say, you had a lucky escape, didn’t you? There was gossip last year that you’d get engaged … Did you know she was on the Register?’