The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

  A bell was ringing. Not the clock striking. A tinny, angry bell, like a metallic wasp. She went to the window, careful to look both ways before she crossed the open space. A van drove into the courtyard, squat and mud-green. A cluster of people – some grey ones, some white ones – was waiting for it; one of the white ones hurried to the van. The others split apart, conferring: and she saw what they’d been huddled around. At the foot of the highest tower, spread out on the flagstones. Grey and red – more red than grey – a thing, a person-shaped-but-not thing, a person-but-not – an orange-gold plait of hair, a foot, a little way away a shoe …

  Perhaps it was then that she became not-a-person, too. It was like the unlocked door, only worse, because she knew then that Mam wouldn’t come back.

  She staggers to her feet. She should never have come back. It hurts too much. Memory like arsenic. Burns out your insides. Dries you to a cinder. She’ll gnaw off her own paw rather than—

  ‘Where are you going?’

  She freezes.

  ‘Please don’t go. I’m so lonely. I’m going mad. I don’t feel real. Please—’

  He’s an enemy. What she’s feeling now is his fault. She wants to pick up the candle and put it out on his hand. He would yell and let her go. She’d run. She’d be safe.

  ‘Please stay. Please. I’m not angry. I won’t hurt you.’

  But this is a trap. His reaching out to her – she knows that trap, the human hand, a hand that might stroke your hair or slap you but one day will not be anything but broken bits on stone—

  He is still reaching. What does he want? For a second she’s full of blind, unexpected terror. It’s like being the child she was. Stay silent or bad things. Whatever you do you must not. The walls closing down. The ceiling.

  She turns and runs. The room-trap gapes open behind her. He says something but she is already too far away, under the star-spread hole in the roof. Then down the stairs, down more stairs, breathless, sweating. Get away. There has always been danger but never danger like this. Never something wrong inside her, like this.

  She won’t follow him again. This was a mistake. This was unratlike. She crawls into her nest and draws her blankets up to her chin.

  She tells herself that soon he will die. But when she closes her eyes she can see him in that little room, the same place where she waited for Mam to come back, and there is no comfort in the thought at all.

  27

  Ninth week

  It’s done. Mostly. Oof.

  I finished the main theme this afternoon, in the library. I remember looking up and suddenly, suddenly being present. The last strains of the theme echoing in my head, but fading. My grand jeu in front of me, almost done. The symbol of fermeture at the bottom of the page. The window open and grass-scented air blowing in, the blue not-quite-dusk. Spring has sneaked up on us. The servant beginning to light the lamps at the far end of the room. And Carfax finishing his phrase, glancing up at me, then pedantically dotting in his diacritics before he put his pen down. ‘Finished?’

  ‘The theme,’ I said, and then I had to stop. I took a deep breath and stared out of the window. Stupid to be so relieved. But until it’s there, you don’t believe it will happen at all. No matter how many games you write, you’re always afraid.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I went on smiling. He went on smiling back.

  Later

  Thought I’d sleep like a baby but I woke up again. Not anxious, but utterly unsleepy. Got up and looked over what I’d done today. I didn’t expect it to be as good as I remembered, but it’s really not bad. Not a work of genius, but that’s all right, somehow. Next year.

  Anyway, Carfax’s won’t be that much better.

  That thing I wrote, a couple of weeks ago … I was wrong. I was imagining it, of course. I haven’t seen any hint of it since. Just as well, considering.

  Sunday, ninth week

  Carfax knocked for me this morning, early. I stumbled out of bed, swearing, thinking it was a maid who’d forgotten it was Sunday. When I opened the door he blinked at the expression on my face. ‘Martin,’ he said, ‘I wondered if you wanted—’

  ‘I’m taking the day off, Carfax.’

  ‘I guessed that. I wondered …’ He stopped, and shook his head. ‘No. Sorry I got you out of bed.’

  ‘What did you wonder?’

  ‘If you wanted … I know you mostly go round with the others on Sundays. Emile and Felix and … But I thought – listen, it was only an idea, forget it.’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘I wanted to show you something. Take you somewhere.’ He didn’t give me time to answer. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said, ‘I’m not awake yet. All right. Give me a second to get dressed.’ I left him at the door and dragged on my clothes. When I came back he’d turned his back, as usual. ‘Right then. Lead on. Where are we going?’

  He strode ahead of me. He had a canvas bag across his shoulder, and I caught the whiff of garlic and cheese, and saw the shine of apples. It made me want to laugh, somehow. ‘You’ll see,’ he said. But instead of going down the staircase into the courtyard, he led us along the corridor and up, turning at a half-landing and then pushing open the door to a storeroom. He held aside a leaning broom and ushered me forward.

  ‘What on earth …?’ I stumbled over a bucket. ‘What’s all this about, Carfax?’

  ‘This way.’ He slid round an old tallboy at the far end of the room, disappearing into the shadows. There was a thud, and I heard him swearing; then the creak of a door. I squeezed after him and into a low, dusty passage. For a second I wondered whether it was some kind of ploy, and they’d find my desiccated body there months later. Then Carfax held his hand up to stop me banging my forehead on a low lintel. ‘All right? Careful.’

  ‘This is – are you—’

  But he’d already moved on. There was another flight of stairs – I think, I was finding it difficult to keep track – and another passageway, with small grimy windows and dust in drifts like snow. It was much quieter, as if we’d left the scholars’ wing completely, and neither of us spoke. I found myself trying to walk as softly as possible. Once, at the intersection of two little tunnels under the eaves, I thought I heard a child crying. It was hard to tell which direction it was coming from. I paused, remembering Jacob last term, and his insistence that his room was haunted; but then Carfax caught my sleeve and beckoned me forward, and I was glad to leave the sound behind.

  All this time, I thought he was taking me up to the roof. We inched through a stuffy triangular space that smelt of woodworm and hot wood, ducking to get past the bare joists, and I was sure of it. But then he stopped right in front of me, and said, ‘Here.’

  He stepped aside. We were at the edge of a huge, dim space. The roof met in an angle above us, seamed with threads of sunlight. In the far corner a shaft of gold sliced down, so thick with dust it looked solid. There were fragments of blue above us, where slates were missing.

  The floor dipped and rose in front of us, the curves meeting in a central spine. It was disconcerting, like standing on the hull of a stone ship. Carfax glanced at me. ‘What do you think?’

  We were above the Great Hall, looking down on the vaulted ceiling. I laughed – I couldn’t help it – and the echo seemed to skim over the ribs of the floor like a pebble. ‘It’s amazing,’ I said. ‘How did you know …?’

  ‘Sometimes I come here when I can’t sleep.’

  I looked round. In the daytime it was odd and impressive, but I didn’t fancy being there at night. Clearly he’s got stronger nerves than I have.

  He followed the curves of stone towards the long spine. Then he sat down on the slope, slung his bag on to the floor next to him, and leant back on his elbows. I followed him. My knees felt tingly and loose; I knew the floor wouldn’t give way, but all the same I made myself tread carefully. If he hadn’t been there I might have turned round and gone back.r />
  ‘Here.’ He passed me the bag. It wasn’t lunchtime yet, but suddenly I was ravenous. For a while we ate sausage and cheese and fruit without speaking. I was conscious of the hall and the empty benches and the terra underneath us, as though silence was welling up between the silver lines, flooding the whole space until we were breathing it in.

  He didn’t say anything else, and neither did I. At first my head was full of the grand jeu and bits of my game; but by the time we’d finished eating I was in a dream, watching the shimmer of the sunlight where it came through the gaps in the roof. No words came. It was the sort of interior peace they’re always telling us to aspire to in the Quietus, but I’ve never felt it before. As if the world was enough. I closed my eyes and put my hands behind my head. I think maybe I dozed off.

  When I opened my eyes again the sun had moved and the air was bluish and soft, all shadows. I could feel the warmth of Carfax’s body next to me, although we weren’t touching. He was breathing so lightly I thought he was asleep, but when I turned my head I saw his eyes were open.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said, as though he was answering me, ‘when I come up here, I’m afraid that I’ll fall asleep, and when I wake up, everyone else will have disappeared. Afraid … No, maybe that’s not the right word. But I have this conviction that I’ll go down to the scholars’ corridor and every cell will be empty. And I’ll look out of the window, and I’ll see that Montverre is starting to fall into ruin. No smoke from the chimneys, no one in the courtyard … The walls already crumbling. Gargoyles smashed where they’ve fallen off. Rain stains and piles of mouldering leaves. No lights, no voices, no clock bell. Nothing. As if I’m the last person left on the entire planet.’

  There was a silence. It’s crazy, but there was something about his voice, as if he was casting a spell. As if we were the last people left.

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘I’d go home,’ he said. ‘I’d get into an empty train, and it would start to move, and I’d check the other carriages because I wouldn’t quite believe what was happening. And there’d be no one, and I’d sit down and try not to panic. And maybe there’d be an old newspaper on the seat beside me, and I’d read that, and there’d be nothing that explained … And when the train stopped, I’d get out and I’d walk the long way up, past the vineyards. And there’d be no one at home, either. And I’d call out, for – for my sister, and she wouldn’t be there, there’d be all the family portraits on the wall and not a single living thing in earshot. And then …’ He stopped.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then,’ he said, smiling at the slope of slates above us, ‘what else? I’d go into the library and I’d start a grand jeu.’

  After a few seconds I began to laugh. ‘You’re mad, you know that? Absolutely crackers.’

  ‘I know.’ He rolled over to look at me, leaning on one elbow. In the dimness it was hard to make out his expression. The edge of his sleeve brushed against mine and I swear I felt it all the way down my backbone. I thought: now. Neither of us moved.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what do you have nightmares about?’

  ‘Was that a nightmare? It sounded like a fantasy.’

  ‘Come on.’ He tilted his head back and squinted at me. ‘You must be scared of something. Is it getting a lower mark than me at the end of term?’

  ‘Shut up.’ I could tell he was still waiting for an answer. I tried not to think about the heat of him, the soft air around us, the sense of being alone together, in a different world. ‘I suppose Montverre disappearing would be pretty bad. Or getting chucked out. That would be worse.’

  He kept staring at me, very intent. ‘What would you do?’

  I looked up into the rafters, because I couldn’t hold his gaze. And in spite of myself I thought about what my life would be like without Montverre. Going home to Mim and Dad, with my life mapped out for me. A job in the scrapyard. Or with one of Dad’s acquaintances. An office. Exports or law or – if I fought for it – journalism. Like being shut in a stuffy little room, for ever. Without the grand jeu …

  I said, ‘I think I’d kill myself.’

  He shifted. I slid a glance at him. After a second he pulled himself up and sat with his hands around his knees, further away than before. He looked at me and nodded, with the shadow of a smile, as if we’d been arguing over a motif, and finally reached a resolution.

  My heart sank. I scrambled to my knees. ‘I didn’t mean that the way it—’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re right. Montverre, the grand jeu … that’s what makes life worth living.’

  I swallowed. I didn’t want to agree with him. I wanted him to think there were things worth risking Montverre for. But I left it too long to argue. He bent and collected the apple cores, and slung the bag over his shoulder.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’d better get back. I’ve got an essay for tomorrow.’ He reached out to help me to my feet. I took his hand. We stared at each other for an instant. Then I gripped his wrist and hauled myself to my feet.

  Later

  I couldn’t concentrate this afternoon, so I did my Historiae notes and then went to the gatehouse to get the letter from Mim that’s been waiting there for days. I’ve been looking at it and putting it back. How long has it been since I’ve written to her?

  Emile was there, leaning against one of the uprights, idly peering into the other pigeonholes. ‘Had a nice time with Carfax, then?’ Emile said. ‘Did he show you where he goes to howl at the moon?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘You be careful, now. What if he flips when you’re alone with—’ He stopped. I glanced round at him. He slid a piece of paper out of his pigeonhole, and unfolded it. The muscles over his jaw flickered.

  After a pause, I said, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘News from home?’ But it can’t have been, it didn’t have an envelope.

  ‘No. Nothing important.’ He ripped it in half, and then half again. He went to throw it into the rubbish and then checked himself, crumpled it into a ball and shoved it into his pocket.

  ‘Love letter, then?’

  ‘Shut up, Martin.’

  ‘You’re blushing,’ I said. ‘It’s not still your unsavoury liaison with a below-stairs beauty?’

  ‘Shut up, Martin,’ he said again, and pushed past me so hard I smacked my elbow on the corner of the shelving. ‘Oh, and talking about unsavoury passions,’ he added, without turning his head, ‘you know everyone’s gossiping about you two?’

  I caught his arm. ‘What are you talking about?’

  He swung round and shoved me backwards. He was so close I could smell his breath. ‘You breathe one word to anyone about that servant,’ he said, ‘and I will go straight to the Magister Scholarium and spill the beans about you and Carfax. You think because he’s a de Courcy they’ll turn a blind eye?’ I was still gripping his elbow. I forced myself to let go. ‘I don’t care what you get up to,’ he said. ‘Boys, girls, who cares a toss? But you can bet the Magisters do. They’d overlook my little peccadillo – but not yours. So watch your mouth.’

  ‘I haven’t laid a finger on Carfax,’ I said, ‘and I don’t intend to.’

  He raised his eyebrows. I held his look.

  ‘You’re so naïve,’ he said, finally. ‘You really think it makes a difference?’

  I feel sick. Who does he think he is?

  But they’re wrong. They’re wrong. It isn’t like that. Carfax and I aren’t … We haven’t broken a single rule. There is nothing, nothing we’ve done which brings the school into disrepute. Emile is being bloody-minded. All he wants is to stir up trouble. There’s no danger.

  Second day, tenth week

  Sometimes I could strangle him. Honestly. Carfax, I mean.

  I spent all the time between lessons and dinner trying to sort out my game. Writing the first draft of a grand jeu is like mining, chipping away for days and days, sometimes hitting a rich vein and sometimes a flat wall of adamant. Editing i
s more like staring at a bit of machinery and wondering why it won’t work. Finally I collapsed forward onto the desk with a sort of groan.

  Carfax said, ‘Want me to have a look?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I’m not working on anything important.’

  I raised my head. ‘Are you saying the Tempest’s not important? Could’ve fooled me, you were begging me to look at it the other day—’

  ‘That’s not what I’m working on.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re doing the essay for Magister Holt. It’s not due in until …’ But he shook his head. I grabbed his notebook and wrenched it away from him. ‘What, then?’

  It was hard to read. Or hard to take in, anyway. I had to blink at it.

  It was a game. A grand jeu. But … not. It was utterly sparse, utterly austere. Hardly anything on the page, only the one principal mark. Like a single slash across a canvas. Red.

  He swallowed. ‘I’m just playing with it, really,’ he said, after a pause. ‘I want to know how much space I can leave. Can one move be a game? Can you compose a grand jeu without maths or music or words?’

  I said, keeping my voice very flat, ‘Well, clearly you know the answer to that.’

  He frowned, trying to work out whether I meant yes or no. But I didn’t help him out.

  ‘Writing one game to submit for the Gold Medal isn’t enough for you,’ I said, in that same expressionless voice. ‘You have to write an extra one. To show me how easy it all is. Right?’

  ‘I won’t submit this.’

  ‘Why are you writing it, then?’

  He shook his head. ‘For fun. Don’t be stupid. You know how it is, you get an idea and … anyway, what’s wrong with that? I’ve finished the Tempest, more or less. That’s the one I’m going to submit.’

  ‘You’ve finished it? For God’s sake, Carfax.’ I stood up. All that time he’d been watching me sweat over my Reflections. He must have been giggling merrily away to himself.