The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

  Then a bell rings, and it’s too late. Out of nowhere there is a glass wall between Léo and the rest of the room. He knows that he is trapped, and something appalling is going to happen, and he is going to have to watch.

  He wakes in a panic. He’s been left behind, behind glass. He has done something terrible. Something stupid. He has to sit up and wipe the sweat off his face before he knows what’s the dream and what’s true. Carfax is dead but Chryseïs has gone, and please let her be in hiding or on her way to safety. He draws a long breath. Only a nightmare, the remains of the fever combined with too much to drink.

  He gets up, a little shakily, dresses and shaves. He has been getting better at shaving without a mirror, but today he manages to nick himself and the blood stains his cuff before he can get it to stop. He pauses to stare at the drop of scarlet spreading into the weave of the fabric. Red as the Red game, red like—

  He kissed the Magister Ludi.

  The memory comes from nowhere, so vivid that for a moment he thinks he’s dreamt that too. But no, it’s real, it really happened: his mouth against hers, hot breath and smooth skin, the moment where he thought she was going to kiss him back. Before she pushed him away. He grimaces.

  He has to see her. He splashes his face, blinking and gasping, until the cut on his chin has stopped stinging. The water in the basin is pink. His face wavers in it, a ruddy ghost. He’s glad to turn away from it; although as he leaves the room he imagines his reflection still there, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for him to return.

  It’s late, long past breakfast. The corridors are mostly quiet, although here and there grey-clad servants are sweeping or dusting. They move aside silently to let him pass. As he turns into the Magisters’ corridor there’s the sound of an engine, and a khaki police van drives through the gatehouse into the courtyard. He stops to watch. Surely it’s an emergency, if it’s been allowed into the courtyard itself? But the bell is silent, and no one hurries out to meet it. Instead the porter who has waved it through slouches back into the lodge, and a single policeman gets out with a weary groan. He has a sheet of paper in one hand, and he consults it. There’s something in the gesture that reminds Léo of his dream. He leans closer to the window so that he can listen unobtrusively.

  The clock strikes ten. As if on cue, a scholar hurries out of the far tower with a suitcase. He isn’t wearing a gown, and he looks out of place and awkward, like a tourist. A cloth cross is tacked crookedly to his waistcoat. The policeman gets a pencil from behind his ear and says, ‘Charpentier or Throckmorton?’

  ‘Throckmorton.’

  The policeman nods and makes a mark on the paper. He opens the van door and gestures to Throckmorton to get in. Then he leans against the bonnet and waits. After a few moments he lights a cigarette and passes the packet in through the van window to his colleague.

  Nothing is happening; the policemen smoke, and Throckmorton sits quietly on the bench in the dim space behind them, only his legs and suitcase visible. But Léo’s unease grows, prickling up and down his spine. He has never seen the police at Montverre – no, that’s not true. He has seen them once, after that servant fell from the Square Tower, not long after the news about Carfax; then they came to scrape up the body and certify the death as an accident. This is different.

  What are they waiting for? One policeman mutters something to the other and laughs. Léo wants to turn away, but something keeps him at the window, watching. As if being a witness can prevent – whatever it is he’s worried about … He remembers Sara Paget and Pirène talking about the new Purity Laws.

  Footsteps echo at the far end of the corridor. He looks round. A figure in a shabby jumper and trousers is knocking at Magister Dryden’s door, a suitcase in the other hand and an armful of books balanced in the crook of his elbow. Another scholar. This time Léo recognises him, vaguely: Charpentier, the other Christian. He has a hangdog look that makes Léo want to shake him; and the brownish clothes make him look even weedier, like grass that’s been flattened under a rock. He knocks again, with a defeated air, as though he already knows that Magister Dryden is elsewhere. At last he sags to a crouch and piles the books next to the door. Then he picks up his suitcase again and walks towards Léo, towards the exit to the courtyard.

  ‘Hey!’

  Charpentier flinches. ‘Sorry,’ he says reflexively.

  Léo despises himself. He should let this pathetic young man go. ‘There’s a police van out there. Is it you they’re waiting for?’

  ‘Oh – yes. I’m going home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Yes, I was returning the Magister’s books.’ He hunches, like an animal making itself small.

  ‘The police are taking you home?’

  Charpentier jerks his head as though a wasp has flown at him. But he’s used to being spoken to roughly; he doesn’t protest. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘We had a letter … They’re updating the Register. Only for a few days, we’ve been told to pack night things and our papers but nothing else.’

  Léo looks at the suitcase. It’s small and battered, with chipped initials painted on the side. SC. It was expensive, once; now it inspires him with pity that’s tinged with distaste. He glances out of the window to where the policeman is checking his watch. Smoke drifts on the air. Throckmorton’s feet haven’t moved.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he says, and before he can stop himself he has grabbed Charpentier’s arm and pulled him around and back down the corridor, towards Magister Dryden’s door and the cairn of books.

  Charpentier tries to pull away. ‘What? But I have to.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool. They’re not taking you home.’

  ‘We were told—’

  ‘Yes, you said, but I’m telling you otherwise.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’ Charpentier jerks his arm out of Léo’s grip. Suddenly he’s flushed, his eyes wide with his own daring. It’s all very well, but why, for goodness’ sake, why is he choosing to do it now, when someone is finally on his side? ‘We had an official letter. From the Ministry for Information. I’m only doing what it said.’

  ‘Don’t be so naïve!’ He takes hold of Charpentier again, trying not to lose his temper. He doesn’t want to think about how he knows – what he knows, or why – or his own part in it; it’s only important that Charpentier listens, that whatever happens he doesn’t get into that van. Léo tries not to think about Throckmorton, who is already beyond help. ‘You can’t go. Look …’ He hesitates. The urge to shake him is so strong he can feel the muscles in his forearms twitching. ‘All right, you don’t trust me. Why should you? But think. Don’t you read the newspa— no, of course not. But you know how things are, out there. You must have heard. So please. Please don’t let them take you away.’

  Charpentier stares at him, his mouth open. His eyes slide to the window and back to Léo’s face. He looks frozen, stuck, like a rabbit watching a weasel dance. For a moment Léo thinks he’s not going to listen. But then doubts flicker across his face; he seems to crumple. ‘But … where do I go? I can’t stay here. What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Hide.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Anywhere!’ He manhandles Charpentier to the end of the corridor. On one side, there’s a door to the Scholars’ Tower; on the other, a narrow staircase leads down into the murk of the cellars. He shoves Charpentier towards the stairs. ‘Find somewhere out of sight. If they look for you I’ll say I saw you run off. I’ll leave some food in my room and the door unlocked. Just go.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go.’

  Charpentier gives him one last look of appeal, as though he’s hoping this was all a joke. Then – as Léo is raising his hand to give him another shove – he scuttles down the steps into the shadows. His suitcase bumps against his legs. There’s the sound of his footsteps disappearing, and then nothing.

  Léo is sweating. Outside, the policemen are waiting. Someone calls distantly, someone laughs. What has he done? Aided a fugitive from the state. If
he’s still being watched – if anyone gets wind of it … And he’ll have to go on helping; now he’s taken responsibility, the kid’s life is in his hands. He’s an idiot. And all on a hunch, he doesn’t even know that the danger is real, maybe he’s overreacting from months of exile …

  No. He does know. He refuses to look again at the van, and Throckmorton’s shabby, patient feet. Instead he puts his hands in his pockets and whistles a few bars of a song. Magister Dryden isn’t here; he’d do best to go to the library, and try again later … But as he leaves he can’t stop himself turning back to stare at the dark archway and the steps beyond, and there’s an odd quietness in the air, as though something has been swallowed alive.

  26: the Rat

  The Rat knows that something has changed before she knows what it is. As if there are invisible strings which extend through the corridors and halls and empty spaces, and now they tremble, brushed by a distant, clumsy hand. She lifts her head halfway through a gulp of water, suddenly uneasy; she wakes for no reason, as if someone has called her name. Not that she has a name: she is the Rat.

  Something has changed. There is something new, now, haunting the places that should be hers. Along with the scents of earth and pine, the elusive promises of spring, there is … something else. Perhaps her senses are sharper than she knows, and she sees the swirl of dust in a shaft of moonlight, hears a footstep, catches the vibration of air, all unconsciously: or it may be simply that something deeper has shifted. She finds herself looking around as if her own shadow has detached itself from her heels and slipped away, become her enemy, her rival, her friend.

  But as time goes on, there are clearer signs. A sink gleaming with moisture when all the others are dry. A trace of vapour on a windowpane, evaporating as she watches. She trails her hand along the sill and there’s one place where the stone is warmer: someone sat here, his head against the glass, staring down into the courtyard. Someone who disappeared moments ago, just before she arrived. There is no more food missing from the storeroom, no blankets stolen from the linen cupboard with the broken lock; nonetheless she is sure, almost sure … It makes her uneasy. Someone else might betray her, alert the servants: she has nightmares of grey-clad figures, throwing open doors, calling to one another, shining torches into dusty corners. She has been free, because she’s invisible, but if the balance tips … A cold, shivery feeling prickles in her toes, her scalp, and between her shoulder blades. If someone discovers her … She has been a rat for so long that she can’t imagine what would happen: only that it would be bad. Not sharp teeth, or trap, or poison, but worse. Human worse.

  She will be careful. She will be even more careful than she normally is. But her unease makes her awkward, unratlike. Her feet make more noise than they should. She runs out of breath faster. She’s slowed down by thoughts rattling around in her head. They hurt. Like fragments of bone that have broken off, with sharp edges. She has to stop and wrap her arms around herself, trying to remember what it feels like to be safe.

  For three days she hides. She has gone without food for longer than that, and this time she has some hoarded crusts and fruit. She stays in her nest, curled on her blankets, only venturing out for water. For the first days and nights she isn’t even hungry: her stomach feels like a bunched drawstring bag. When she finally drops off to sleep she has vivid labyrinthine dreams. The last one sweeps her sideways and down, like a current of water in a pipe. Then it spits her onto the floor.

  She sits up. She is wet with sweat; she can smell herself. Possibly she has a fever. Certainly she’s hot, on a cool night. If only there was a draught, sliding in under the slates … but the air is like glass. She stands up, a little giddy, and goes to the door. She pauses at the top of her narrow flight of stairs, breathing. Then she makes her dazed way down, clambering through the broom cupboard and out into the bigger corridor. The momentum of the dream is still with her, so that she feels out of control, half cradled and half drowned. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, but she comes out into the moonlight and drifts along the black-and-white of it, unafraid. She is still not hungry.

  Then she sees him. For a second, seeing his pale shirt, she thinks he is one of the white-robed ones, and she checks mid-step, suddenly aware of her own danger. Then, with a jolt of relief, she recognises him. Simon. How does she know that he is the one who has been hiding? Maybe it’s only instinct; or the way he’s moving. He’s stumbling from shadow to shadow, hasty and furtive. The sounds his shoes make (scuffle clickclickclick drag, pause) would be enough to make someone frown and turn around to look. Of course, he has never had to hide before. She almost expects to see him close his eyes to try to make himself invisible. But she is not surprised: somehow she has always known he was prey, he was different from the other young ones, he was cowed and pecked bare long ago. There is a bleak animal logic in his being here now, hiding. She might have guessed as soon as she saw his breath on the window.

  He sets off again. She follows. The clock strikes. He is carrying a bundle against his chest. At first she thinks he is going back to his cell, but he doesn’t. He might be taking another roundabout route, as if he’s trying to shake her away; but she is sure, too, that he doesn’t know she’s there. Once he freezes and scrabbles backwards into the depth of a doorway, catching his breath. But the only sound is the clock winding up to strike. He sags and waits for the chimes to pass, like a squall, before he launches himself again. By now they’re on the other side of the courtyard from the scholars’ corridor. The Rat lets herself drift closer, nearly catching up with him: he won’t look round. Although part of her – a sneaky, human part – wishes he would. She has never been the hunter, instead of the hunted: it’s exhilarating.

  They climb a flight of stairs, and another. He pauses, panting. Then he goes on. Finally they come to a narrow slant-roofed passage, under a gaping mouth of missing slates. The far end of the passage is clogged with darkness. All she can see is the jagged field of stars above, and Simon’s ghostly shirt. There’s the sound of a door scraping as he pushes it open, and he disappears into the blackness beyond.

  Somehow she knows that the room beyond that door is tiny, with no other exits. It could be from the way the noise echoes as he drops to the floor, heavy on old floorboards; or because of the sloping roofs that join in a V above her, the looming chimney against the night sky. She hasn’t been up here before. They’re right at the top of Montverre. If she climbed out, she could stand up and see for miles, down to the scattered lights in the valley. But why would she want to? All her attention is focused on Simon’s breathing. It’s the only thing that breaks the silence, apart from her own heart. She tells herself that as soon as he does or says anything human, she’ll go. But he doesn’t. He sets something down on the floor – the bundle – and a second later she hears him eating. It’s over very quickly. Whatever he had, it wasn’t enough. He breathes, and she can hear that he’s still hungry.

  She takes one step backwards, and another. She can’t feel his hunger, can she? She can’t. It must be her own. He is over there, and she is here: there’s no way hunger can cross the gap. Hunger is inside you. Like sadness. It isn’t catching. So: she is hungry. She knows what to do. Food. Simple. She is a Rat. Rats eat when they’re hungry. But what she wants more than anything is to give him something. A memory of sweetness floods across her tongue.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  She doesn’t answer. She’s doesn’t know how to, even if she wanted to. But she can’t move. Abruptly there’s the scratch of a match and a flame jumps into life. The Rat flinches and covers her face.

  ‘It’s you! Oh thank goodness, I thought … Sorry, I …’ But his voice is rusty. He begins to cough, and when he gets his breath back he doesn’t say anything else. The light doubles and halves again.

  Gradually, blinking away the gold dazzle, she peels her fingers away from her eyes. He has lit a stub of candle. He is on his knees, staring at her. Yes, he is hungry. But it is a different thing, the hunger in his
eyes, it wants something from her. Wants her to be human. To be kind. It calls to the treacherous thing inside her that wants to help him. But she isn’t kind. She isn’t kin. He is human; she is the Rat. No.

  The candle flame reaches up, stretching. She looks away from it, from him. There’s a crack in the wall, over the bulge of the chimney. This room—

  The realisation snaps shut on her, like jaws. This room is—

  Not hers. No. Not the Rat’s. It was the room where she lived before, when she was human, when she had a name. This is the room she never wanted to come back to. This is the room where she lay on the floor and waited for her Ma— for the woman who used to feed her and sing to her. Where the ceiling used to swell as if it was about to fall, and the dark scuttled and crept. Where suddenly the panic got too much, feeding on the memory of something too gentle in Mam’s kiss, the extra food she’d left, don’t eat it all now, sweetheart, this is for tomorrow too, until in desperation she flung herself against the door and it swung open, easily, giving way as if nothing was solid any more. She remembers that wash of terror, when she understood that she could leave; it was like acid, wiping her out. After that, she was no one. Not human, anyway.

  And then … when was it? The memory of – a memory that’s been locked in this room, in the stale air, a dormant germ – of that morning, trying to look for Mam but knowing that she had to keep out of sight because Mam had always said you must not leave, no one can hear you, whatever you do, darling, you must not – but bewildered, almost hoping that one of the grey ones would run into her – wandering the corridors with tears dripping off her chin but being good, keeping quiet – and then—

  She crept from corridor to corridor, all of it unfamiliar, a labyrinth of stone. She had never been so far from her room. It was still early. The emerging morning was grey but her eyes stung from being in the dark so long. Her lips were pressed together, one long silent M; she was afraid that if she opened her mouth she’d cry out and Mam would be angry. But the door had been unbolted, Mam had never unbolted the door—