The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

  ‘Emile—’

  ‘Hasn’t being here taught you anything at all? I can destroy you. You wouldn’t even face trial unless I wanted you to. If I give the word, you’ll disappear. An accident, a suicide, a brief illness. No one will care.’

  He feels his head spin. It’s like looking down and seeing cracks spread out under his feet, branching further and further until nothing is solid.

  ‘And there’s your mother, of course. I’d hate for her to be put under any … pressure.’ Emile taps gently on the window, as if he’s testing its strength. ‘Or perhaps … it would be a shame if Magister Dryden’s temperament turned out to be as fragile as her brother’s.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Léo says. It’s like a sudden draught of oxygen, to be angry: it gives him a rush of energy, leaving no room in his body for fear. ‘I don’t care what you do.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘If being here has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t care any more. The Party can fuck itself. The Old Man can go and fuck himself, too.’ He’s running out of breath, but the words keep coming. ‘I’ve had enough of them. And you. I’m not your creature. I’m not doing what you want. So do your worst.’

  Emile looks at him, his eyes very level. They’re enemies now; with a distant sense of shock Léo wonders if they always were. ‘Oh, I will,’ he says. ‘By all means. And with pleasure.’

  Léo walks to the door and opens it. He holds Emile’s gaze, and waits.

  Emile nods. He moves to the door, passing closer to Léo than he needs to. He pauses, his face a hand’s breadth from Léo’s. ‘Goodbye, traitor,’ he says, and smiles.

  39: the Rat

  After the black ones leave, the corridors should be quiet. But this year there are people, new people, chattering and rustling like termites, spilling into the courtyards and wandering at night. They aren’t black or grey or white ones, they are brown and green and stone-coloured. They murmur. They get lost; once, catching sight of her at the far end of a narrow gallery, one called out to ask her where the lavatories were. He had glasses that glinted moonlight; when she froze, he took them off and peered at her. She ran away, and he didn’t follow, but that feeling of visibility stuck to her skin like grime. He thought she was human. She’s not human.

  She doesn’t know what to do. A rat would eat when it was hungry, rest when it was tired, shit and scratch and yawn without thinking. But the world has changed. She can’t stop wondering about Simon, and whether he’s still alive and huddled in the room under the eaves; and about the dark-headed dangerous one, the one she recognised. They lurk at opposite ends of her mind, so whichever way she looks she is afraid. She tells herself that soon they will be gone, and it will be quiet again: the long, quiet, lonely summer, when the grey ones lock doors and cover furniture in white sheets. When the building is empty, her head will be, too.

  Then there is a morning when the bell rings on and on. It isn’t an alarm. Although it’s daylight she creeps out to look. More men than she’s ever seen are crowded in the courtyard; slowly they clump and ooze through the doorway to the Great Hall, until there are hardly any left. Black shiny vehicles arrive purring and spit out some more. These new ones are fatter and smoother. They bray and gesticulate as they follow the others. Finally a single straggler hurries across the black-and-white, and disappears after them. Not long afterwards the bell stops chiming. She imagines them in rows on the benches, surrounding that silver-edged panel of stone. But there is no way of knowing why, or what they are trying to achieve. She waits, hunched in the warmth of a windowsill, but the door is closed. Whatever arcane human mystery takes place in that hall, she is shut out. Dust swirls in the courtyard. Nothing else moves.

  She goes back to her nest. Sometime later there is a stormy feeling in the air, sounds of confusion and men’s voices, things having gone out of joint. She lets them wash into her ears and away again like a tide. Later still she emerges, turning her head from side to side as if she can hear someone calling. No one is calling. Nevertheless she finds herself creeping out into the open. She has food and water in her nest – the kitchens were well-stocked, so she took as much as she could, enough to be able to hide for days – but she can’t stay there. It is too like being small again, watching the roof inch down towards her open eyes. Is that how Simon feels? It gives her a strange, seasick feeling to wonder what he’s thinking, as if she’s spilling out of her body.

  A rat wouldn’t take the risk. But she keeps moving. And although she takes a roundabout route, she gets closer and closer to the room under the eaves. Her mind is blank; she doesn’t have a plan, or even an intention. She wants to see Simon, that’s all.

  And then she rounds a corner and the fat dark-haired man is standing there. She turns to stone, except for her heart. She is safe in the bars of light and shadow, camouflaged by a cage of moonlight. In a moment he will look away and she will run.

  Then he speaks. He says, ‘Simon Charpentier. Yes?’

  A split second. A wave of vertigo goes through her as though he might be addressing her. No. But for the first time she feels the absence of her own name. She isn’t Simon, but who is she? Her mother’s voice: darling, sweetheart. But those aren’t names. She has time to feel a kind of human, unfamiliar panic. What injury is this, that she hasn’t noticed before?

  Another voice answers.

  ‘I – yes. Who are you?’

  Simon. He’s there, at the far end of the passage. His voice is thin and hoarse, as though his windpipe has begun to corrode. He steps into a patch of light. He is shaking, and pale; his shirt is spattered with bile-coloured flecks. What is he doing here? He should be hidden. She wants to call out to him, to warn him: the only clever thing is to run. But he won’t.

  ‘You know people thought you’d got lost in the mountains?’ The man leans his elbow on the banister and looks at him sideways. ‘Where have you been lurking? I suppose someone’s been helping you. Bringing you food and so on.’

  ‘I’ve been … I found some. Enough.’

  ‘Ah, I thought Léo Martin was taking an interest. Or was it Magister Dryden?’

  ‘No.’ His croak barely reaches the Rat’s ears. Run, she wants to say, run.

  The man smiles. ‘In any case,’ he says, ‘I’m glad I’ve finally tracked you down. How about we get you to the infirmary? No offence, but you don’t look like you’re in tip-top condition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t go on like this, Simon, can you? Now don’t worry, I’m not going to get the police involved. They’re thugs. I understand why you wanted to avoid them.’ He chuckles, and the Rat’s lips curl away from her teeth. ‘Let’s get you checked over, and then we’ll see what we can do to get you home.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Ah yes, your papers. That’s all sorted out.’ He laughs, extends his hand to Simon, white fingers like maggots in the moonlight. The Rat wants to bite them off. Surely Simon won’t be foolish enough to trust him? ‘Come on, old chap. It’s all right now. Think of me as a Good Samaritan.’

  Simon’s eyes are wide. He shifts from foot to foot. He looks like a child.

  An ache sweeps from the Rat’s feet to her gut and into her throat. This is her fault. She should have helped him. If she had done more, he wouldn’t be standing there, hovering on the edge of danger. The fat man with yellow teeth is going to eat him alive. She should have given in sooner to the silent call in her head. Should have. Her fault. No rat would think like this, but she can’t stop herself.

  ‘Come on then.’ The man clicks his fingers. ‘So when did Léo Martin spot you? Bit of a cold-hearted bastard, isn’t he, to let you struggle like this?’ Somewhere – beyond human hearing – the Rat hears the faint soft sound of a trap being set.

  ‘He promised to help. He said he’d get me some more papers,’ Simon says. ‘He was the one who told me not to go with the police.’

  ‘Oh?’ The man grins. ‘It was Martin, then. Splendid.’ The invisible trap snicks shut. Then he reaches
out. His plump pale fingers are alert, thirsty.

  She doesn’t mean to move. A rat wouldn’t move. But it’s as though the floor collapses under her feet, and the only way not to fall is to throw herself forward. She stands between Simon and the fat man, breathless, exposed.

  There’s a silence. She has her back to Simon but she can feel him staring. She wills him to take the opportunity to run away; but he doesn’t.

  ‘My word,’ the man says, and he laughs. It’s a bubbling spasm of laughter, full of bravado. ‘I thought I saw you … You survived this long, did you?’

  She doesn’t move. She doesn’t want him to touch her with those maggoty fingers; but she won’t get out of the way. She lets him look at her, even though every rat-instinct is screeching in her ears.

  ‘Ha!’ He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. When he speaks again it has a grating, jocular note. ‘I must say, if you had a bit more flesh on your bones you’d be the spitting image of your mother. And a bony thing like you won’t have to worry about taking precautions … If someone gave you a going-over with a scrubbing brush, I wouldn’t say no.’

  She hears Simon draw in his breath. She’s glad. It’s the sound of him realising that he’s in danger.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ the man says. ‘Get – out – of – the – way.’

  She swings round. She grabs at Simon – whiff of vomit and empty-stomach-sour breath – and pushes him ahead of her. He gasps and staggers and she slams her hands into his back, driving him onwards. At the bottom of the stairs he starts to stumble upwards: but that leads to his lair, and a dead end. It’s not safe any more. She grabs the back of his clothes in her fists and drags him back down and along. He makes a sound of protest, but she ignores it. Why is he so stupid? He’s saying something now but she doesn’t stop to listen. Behind them the fat man is laughing.

  It’s hard to keep them both moving. She shoves Simon sideways and through an archway. She isn’t thinking clearly. Panic flares, exploding in bright colours as she fights for breath, catching at her heels. A rat would know where to go but she has left her rat-self in the fat man’s hands and now she is cloudy-headed and helpless. They climb a winding staircase, up and up and up, and the bright blood-flowers in her vision are blinding her. Another step, another breath. The man is gaining on them. She swerves to one side, through a little door and a dusty felt curtain, and beside her – she can’t keep him in front – Simon trips and fumbles in the dark. Her arms ache as she steers him past her. Another staircase, a stone spiral with no exit. A trap. She should have known better. There is nothing to do but keep going and hope.

  They pass a narrow window. At their backs there’s heavy breathing and the clip of leather soles on stone. And then, abruptly, they come out into the open air. The flat roof is bare, surrounded by low battlemented walls. Simon bends over, puts his hands on his knees, and stares at her, panting.

  ‘What are we doing here?’

  She stares back. And then the fat man appears in the doorway. His cheeks are shiny with sweat. The sly good humour has left his face: now his eyes are like needles.

  ‘You little wretches,’ the man says, breathless. ‘Charpentier, come with me now. And as for you …’

  ‘No.’ Simon’s voice is faint. ‘Leave me alone. I’m not hurting anybody.’

  ‘Conspiracy to conceal a registered dissident, procurement of false papers, obstruction of police duty. Do you want to go to prison for that? Or shall we put Léo Martin there instead? Your choice.’

  Simon shakes his head. He glances at the Rat and away again, a tiny movement. It’s an appeal for help. But what can she do? She feels the burn of failure in her lungs and eyes.

  ‘You’d rather go yourself? You’ll change your mind. Be a good chap now and do what you’re told.’

  Simon clenches his fists. A gust of wind catches his shirt and presses it against him, showing his ribs. She knows he is trying to be brave. He knows he’s in danger, but he is trying to be good. Whatever you do, darling, you must not. Then she looks at the fat man and she can see how he was, when Mam – when – before … Avid. Malicious. There are too many things in her mind now, too many things that aren’t real, aren’t here. She rubs her eyes.

  The man sighs. Simon takes a step back, into the wall. There is nowhere left for him to go.

  ‘My goodness, you are pathetic,’ he says. ‘The sooner we get rid of you, the better. You lot – you’re like rats.’

  He reaches for Simon’s arm. His hand opens like a jaw.

  She puts her head down and charges at him. Her whole weight is in the impact. His body is warm and solid. He spits bitter air into her face. His arms flail and grab at her shoulders. She pushes, ramming her shoulder into his chest. He is a door, a wall, a prison. It is his fault Mam is dead and now he wants to hurt Simon too. He drags at her hair, trying to wrestle her away. Her scalp burns.

  She punches him. He staggers, stumbles against the low part of the battlement, clutches too late at the stone, and falls.

  It’s very quick. One moment he’s there, with chaotic hands, loud breath, a not-yet-a-scream; then he’s gone. The silence swallows him with a gulp.

  Simon is staring at her. A rat would stare back but suddenly she can’t hold his gaze. She turns away. Her heart is beating too hard. She feels sick.

  She’s killed someone. Not for food. Not even because she was in danger. Because of a feeling, because of how she felt when she looked at Simon and imagined him hurt, because of what the man did to Mam all that time ago. She is a murderer. It is a funny word, a word she has never used. Rats can’t be murderers. This must make her human. She looks down in spite of herself. A body. Blood on the tiles. Broken arms like wings.

  ‘Did you …?’ Simon’s voice wobbles. He is clinging to the wall, hands flat against it as though he wants to get as far away from her as possible. He swallows, hesitates. Then he says, ‘Thank you.’

  She can’t bear it. Something closes dull teeth around her larynx. She runs away from him. All the way back to her nest she feels the way he looked at her, like a wound.

  40: the Magister Ludi

  The sunrise is glorious and bloody. It blazes across the sky, streaks and streamers of cloud in shades of scarlet and crimson, although the sun itself is still hidden behind the mountain. The Magister is awake to see it, standing by the window, her eyes stinging. She is in her classroom, staring out of the single window opposite the Magister’s dais. From here you can see across the valley; the village is hidden by the slope, but she can catch a glimpse of the railway line, the metal reflecting the red sky like a thread of fire. Soon she will be on the train. On the train, and then … but her mind is a blank, as though the world simply stops beyond Montverre village. Where will she go? To Aunt Frances? But overseas travel is tricky; it will take weeks to get a permit. Thank goodness she has enough money to live on. That’s something.

  She turns to face her desk. No, not her desk. The Magister’s desk. Soon to be Léo’s desk.

  She doesn’t want to imagine him in her place. But it’s so easy. He’ll be confident, casual, he’ll make the scholars laugh, they’ll respect him. They’ll talk in undertones about his political career, and the sacrifices he made for the grand jeu. She takes a deep breath. She has been crying all night; she’s tired. She doesn’t want another wave of fury or loss to catch her by the throat. She doesn’t want to think about what Léo’s done.

  Did he know, when he called her my love? Did he know that the letters he’d written would be used to get her out of the way? He must have done: he knew he’d written them, he knew what they said. He was a spy, all along. So when he held her, when he said Carfax and corrected himself, when he offered her the rest of his life, laughing and tender and avid all at once … When she let him fuck her on the floor of the Biblioteca Ludi. He knew. Everything he’s done has been to get the better of her. The humiliation is so strong she feels nauseous.

  Ten years ago she stood at the front of this room and parodied Léo’s game sty
le. She can remember the heady, fierce pleasure of it, seasoned with a piquant pinch of shame. Is that how he felt today, when Emile told him he could be Magister Ludi? He’s won, on every count. Again.

  There’s a noise outside. It’s an alarm, but not the clanging handbells that warn of fire. It’s more like the cacophonous electric bell of a police car. She goes to the door and hesitates. She must be a mess: swollen eyes, sticky cheeks, straggling hair that’s half in and half out of its plait. She hasn’t washed or brushed her teeth. Part of her wants to show herself as she is, but they’d think it was shame, not defiance. So she rinses her face and neatens her hair before she steps into the corridor and goes to the window.

  From here she can see out over the courtyard. There are porters and grey-clad servants grouped around something in the far corner, at the foot of the Square Tower. Someone hurries towards them in shirt and trousers, and with a shock she sees it’s the Magister Domus, without his robe, unshaven, his hair uncombed. Another servant is trailing in his wake. He calls out something and the porter nods, replies, and shoos some of the servants away.

  A police van drives into the courtyard. The bell stops as the policemen get out. The group spread out, leaving space for the police to get through, and at last she sees what it is they were staring at.

  A body. Black and white and red. Like a joke, she thinks. In fact, there is something clownish about it: the fat man with his skewed legs, his intact face looking up in surprise. It’s Emile. Or rather, it was. She stares at the open eyes and sagging jowls, feeling nothing. She pulls back from the window as a policeman looks round, his hands on his hips. By the time she peers out again, the body has been covered up and the other policeman is talking to the Magister Domus, their heads close together. More and more people are stepping out into the court; a few seconds later the Magister Domus turns, his eyes wide, distracted by the growing crowd. A man in a greenish suit pushes a greying academician out of his way and strides across. He says something to the policeman and all at once the police are chivvying everyone away, barking out orders. She recognises him as he turns: it’s Dettler. He looks wan and panicky, but no one questions his authority, not even the Magister Domus. Hardly any time seems to pass before it’s only the policemen, the porters, and Dettler left by the body, while the Magister hovers by the police van, reluctant to admit he’s been dismissed. There seems to be some kind of argument going on, but when the policeman takes a camera out of the van Dettler stoops to help flick the sheet aside from the body, brisk and relieved. There are four or five flashes, just bright enough to make a difference in the growing morning light. Then the two policemen put the body on a stretcher and load it into the van.