The Traitor Game

by B. R. Collins

  Francis was there, standing at his locker, tapping his fountain pen against his teeth. Michael felt a jolt of hatred, like electricity; for a second he lost the untouchable feeling. He was real. He didn’t want to be, but he was.

  Then Francis looked round at Michael; and straight through him.

  Michael thought madly, Christ, I have, I have gone sterdark . . . He can’t see me. I’m invisible. He felt the shock of it, the disbelief, the weird humiliation. For a split second he felt like he could stand in the corridor stark naked and no one would take any notice. He swallowed. Francis had seen him – Michael knew that, he’d swear to it – but he carried on getting his books out of his locker as though he were on his own.

  Michael’s first instinct was to hit Francis. The way he stood there, calm, cold, acting like Michael had done something unforgiveable to him. It was infuriating. And the way he slid his books into his bag – precise, competent, utterly self-assured. Michael had a vision of smashing Francis’s head into the locker door, the face-shaped dent it would leave, the blood . . . He took a deep breath and walked over to his own locker. He had to stand next to Francis to open it, and he felt himself flinching away as though Francis was twice as wide as he really was. That was when Francis did notice him: he gave Michael a swift, contemptuous sidelong look, like, I’m not infectious, tosser, and then turned away again as though even that was too much energy to spend on him. Michael felt that look in his gut; he didn’t want to care, but he did. He wanted to grab Francis’s arm, turn him round, say, You bastard, what did I do? I really thought you liked me . . . God, he was pathetic. He stared at the grey metal of his locker door. In his mind’s eye he saw the black bin-bag of Evgard stuff that he’d put next to the bin at home. He couldn’t move. He felt, more than saw, Francis shut his locker and swing his bag up on to his shoulder. Go on, then, Harris, piss off . . .

  Behind him, someone said, ‘Hey, Harrisss . . .’

  Michael knew it was Shitley even before he looked round. There was something about the voice that made his stomach twist.

  Francis turned sharply, then leant back against his locker as though he were perfectly at ease. ‘Hey, Shitley,’ he said, the mockery in his tone so subtle Michael wasn’t sure if Shitley would even notice it. ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘Not trying to pick up any third-years today?’ Shitley leered meaningfully at Francis. He was standing in the middle of the corridor, blocking the exit.

  For a moment Francis looked completely blank. Then he glanced away; a muscle flickered over his jawbone. He said, imitating Shitley’s inflection exactly, ‘Not torturing any third-years today?’

  Shitley laughed, with a sort of nasty gurgle that set Michael’s teeth on edge. ‘Don’t take it all so seriously, Harris. Your friend Bent Dick’s used to it.’

  ‘Right, and that makes it OK? Go to hell, Shitley.’ Francis turned to pick up his bag and started to walk towards the doorway, but Shitley moved to block his path. ‘Get out of my way.’

  Shitley leant back on his heels and stayed where he was. ‘Why are you so worried, anyway? He’s just a little faggot, Harris. Just a little bender-boy. He’s not worth worrying about. You seem very . . . protective.’ He drew out the consonants.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Shitley smiled, curling his lips obscenely. ‘Well – you and Thompson here . . . you’re pretty close, wouldn’t you say? I just wondered if you had, well, you know, a fellow feeling.’ He slid a malicious glance at Michael.

  ‘Screw you, Shipley,’ Michael said. He turned back to his locker and pretended to be sorting through his books. His hands were shaking. He had to fight to keep them steady.

  ‘Sorry,’ Shitley said, a bubble of satisfaction in his voice, ‘have I touched a nerve?’

  Silence.

  ‘Wow. So you two are . . . not that I’m surprised. Everyone knew.’

  Michael punched the locker door so hard that the whole block rocked back against the wall with a clang. He swung round; Shitley and Francis were both staring at him. ‘Fuck you. Go fuck yourself. Go to hell.’ He hardly knew what he was saying. He looked straight at Francis. ‘And you can fuck off, too.’ Francis held his gaze: neutral, uncompromising.

  Shitley whistled softly. ‘Language . . .’

  But it was like Shitley wasn’t even there. Francis tilted his chin slightly, so that he was looking down at Michael; they stared at each other. Then Francis shrugged. ‘Oh dear,’ he said coldly, ‘I hope nothing’s bothering you.’ When Michael didn’t answer, he laughed. It sounded painful. He said, ‘My God, you’re a wanker, Thompson.’

  Shitley said gleefully, ‘Lovers’ tiff?’

  Francis turned, wearily. ‘And you’re a cock, Shitley. Christ, I don’t know why I’m wasting time on you. Either of you.’ He spun on his heel, and this time Shitley let him past.

  Michael’s hand hurt. He had to pick up his bag with his left; there was a smear of blood across his knuckles. He flexed and unflexed his fist without looking up, hoping that Shitley would just go away. Jesus, he felt awful, like he was about to cry. That was the last thing he needed: but he kept seeing Francis, that look on his face, My God, you’re a wanker, Thompson . . . He said to himself, Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. And the worst thing was, he just didn’t get it. It didn’t make sense – even though he knew what was going on. It didn’t add up. It was horrible, and it was all wrong.

  Shitley said, ‘So, is he a poof?’

  ‘No, of course he bloody isn’t,’ Michael said. He almost added, ‘He’s a complete shit, though,’ but something stopped him. Francis might be a shit – well, he was – but that didn’t mean he was as bad as Shitley. He kept his mouth shut.

  Shitley moved aside to let him pass. ‘He’s not too keen on you any more, is he?’ His tone could have been friendly, except for the look on his face. The Shark Look: he’d scented blood.

  ‘Get stuffed, Shipley.’ Michael was determined not to look at him. He kept his gaze on the carpet. He watched a dark brown stain, unblinking, until the edges of his vision blurred.

  ‘What did you do? Steal his boyfriend?’

  Michael looked up; stared straight into Shitley’s eyes. ‘Look, piss off, will you? Leave him alone. Just because he stopped you bullying that kid . . . It’s none of your business, anyway.’ For a moment he heard himself – sad middle-class accent, crack in the voice, stumbling over the words – and felt a pulse of pride even so, that he’d said it, when it needed saying . . . and it took another few seconds before he remembered that it was pointless. Because Francis wasn’t his friend, hadn’t ever been his friend. He wasn’t worth defending.

  Shitley looked away, glancing over his shoulder. Then he turned back to Michael, head on one side. ‘Ah . . . how touching. What loyalty.’

  Michael didn’t answer. He hoisted his bag on to his shoulder and walked past Shitley without meeting his eyes. He didn’t bother to look where he was going.

  He walked straight into someone. He felt the impact of his shoulder on their chest and threw himself back like he’d walked into an electric fence. He said, ‘Sorry, sorry . . .’ before he realised it was Francis, coming back the other way. He stepped to one side, to get past. Francis didn’t move.

  ‘Did I scare you? Or are you frightened of catching something?’ Francis’s voice was icy. ‘I thought only fleas jumped like that. Fleas, and other vermin . . . But then, maybe that’s pretty appropriate.’

  ‘Sorry . . .’ Michael said again, helplessly.

  ‘Not at all,’ Francis said. He still didn’t move. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’ His eyes flicked to Shitley, then back to Michael. ‘After all, you’re going to need some new friends.’ It sounded like an accusation.

  ‘I wasn’t . . .’ Michael didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Please. As if I’m interested.’ Francis went to his locker, opened it, got out a book, put it in his bag. Michael and Shitley stood in silence, watching him. When he turned back, he loo
ked Michael briefly up and down, ignoring Shitley completely. For a second his face was sort of regretful – almost pleading, Michael thought, although it didn’t make sense. ‘It’s a pity you’re such a loser, Michael. If you weren’t so spineless . . .’ There was a long pause, as though Francis had asked a question and was waiting for the answer. Then he shrugged, tightly, and walked past Michael.

  It must have been as an afterthought, the way he turned, just as he’d got clear of Shitley. The way he looked at Michael, met his eyes, and waited for a split second, until Michael was on the point of saying something. The way he said it, so offhandedly, as though it hardly mattered, just loud enough for Shitley to hear. The way he said it.

  ‘I expect that’s why you got battered at your old school. Not surprising, really.’

  Silence.

  Michael waited for his ears to tell him he’d heard wrong. He waited for the words to mean something else. Francis hadn’t said that. He just hadn’t. That was all there was to it. Francis couldn’t know – Michael had never told him – and anyway he wouldn’t, he just wouldn’t . . . except that this was a different Francis. Who hated him; who obviously did know, somehow . . . But Michael still waited, too incredulous to be angry.

  Francis closed his eyes. When he opened them again his face was blank; he didn’t meet Michael’s look. He walked away. Michael watched him go.

  Then the fury hit him, as suddenly as an express train, so hard he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had lifted him off his feet. Jesus, Francis had really said that! Bastard, bastard, bastard . . . Michael couldn’t think straight. As if the stuff at the comp was just – as if Francis knew – as if – and – not surprising – as if Michael had deserved . . . And in front of Shitley . . . He was paralysed by it, breathless, winded. So Francis knew, he’d known, all the time, he knew – and he said that . . . You fucker, Harris, you evil bastard shit . . . Michael was so angry he didn’t know what to do. He had to concentrate to take a deep breath. OK, calm down, Thompson. Go and get a coffee. Don’t punch anyone.

  Shitley said slyly, ‘And normally he’s such a nice guy . . .’ He laughed, pushed his hair off his forehead, put one hand on Michael’s shoulder. ‘Guess you really got to him.’

  Michael almost turned and hit Shitley. Instead he pulled away, roughly, and started to walk. Then, without really meaning to, he turned back. Suddenly he felt absolutely calm. He wasn’t going to let it upset him. He heard himself speak like he was talking about the weather.

  ‘Actually, Shipley, he is gay. Made a move on me. I said no, of course. That’s why he’s in such a paddy. He said not to tell anyone – but I think it’s disgusting, frankly. I think he deserves all he gets.’

  Shitley looked confused for a second. Then it was like Christmas had come early. ‘So he is a poofter? I knew it!’

  Michael felt sick. What was he doing? He thought, Stop it, Michael, shut up, what the hell . . . ? But he was still talking, like he didn’t have any choice. ‘Yeah, well, I should have guessed, I suppose. Bloody pansy.’ Jesus, Thompson! He wasn’t even homophobic, for God’s sake. He didn’t even know why he’d said it – except it was the worst thing, the only thing he could say that would make Francis’s life a total misery. Especially in this school. And then Michael could say, Expect that’s why you got battered. Not surprising, really.

  Shitley chuckled. ‘Yeah. Bloody perverts. Repulsive.’

  ‘Right.’ Just walk, Michael. Left foot, right, left. Don’t let yourself think.

  Shitley said warmly, ‘You know, Thompson, you’re OK. I have to say, I thought Harris had you exactly where he wanted you – but actually you’re all right.’ He grinned at him artlessly. ‘Don’t worry about Harris, he’s a loser.’

  ‘I know.’ Michael didn’t look at Shitley; he stared at the wall across the corridor and thought, Evgard. Francis betrayed Evgard. He pretended to be my friend. Now he’s acting like he hates me.

  He thought, So I haven’t betrayed anything. There wasn’t anything to betray.

  I haven’t betrayed anything.

  .

  For the rest of the day he kept his head down. He just looked at his exercise book and tried to ignore the space next to him where Francis normally sat. He didn’t let himself look round to see who Francis was sitting with. He didn’t care. He was fine, sitting on his own. He even got through lunch; he played a mindless, infuriating game on his mobile until the bell rang and it was time for afternoon lessons.

  In Maths he worked quicker than normal, but when he finished the questions Father Markham had set he went straight on to the next chapter without even looking up. He almost didn’t have time to think: If Francis was here we’d be pissing around. He turned over another page and tried to forget that it would have been his turn to ask the Timewaster Question and that he needed four minutes thirty-three seconds to beat the record. That was over now. He had to pretend all that stuff had happened to someone else, ages ago. Not him.

  And it worked, kind of. He felt OK. He got through the lesson, anyway. He stayed at his desk for as long as he could after the bell rang, but in the end he had to leave, wandering lazily after everyone else like it was just lethargy that had stopped him rushing out to get a coffee the way he normally did. He strolled along behind everyone else. He stopped to tie a shoelace. As he knelt he was thinking, OK, five minutes at the drinks machine, five minutes for a cigarette . . . He said to himself, Yeah, OK, that should be enough. I hope. Then English, and I can go home. He straightened up – not quickly – and carried on walking.

  He wasn’t really paying attention to anyone else. But as he went into the main building he saw Francis going up the stairs and he felt his gut twist. Shitley was slouching artistically against the banisters. Michael knew Francis had seen him – his jaw was clenched, and his freckles stood out against his temples – but he was acting like Shitley didn’t exist. He walked carefully up the stairs, looking straight ahead, not meeting Shitley’s gaze. Michael didn’t want to stand there and watch him, but somehow he couldn’t help himself. There was something in Shitley’s eyes as he looked at Francis – a steady, gleeful light – that made Michael feel sick. He saw Shitley stretch one leg out to stop Francis getting past and told himself not to care. Relax, Michael. It’s not your problem. But he couldn’t stop himself staring.

  Francis barely glanced up. He stepped over Shitley’s trainer in one smooth movement like it was always there. He knew how to handle himself, you had to give him that. He gave Shitley the briefest of glances; then he carried on walking. Michael felt his heart give a tiny treacherous leap. Nothing was going to happen. He was just being paranoid.

  Then Shitley said, ‘Pervert.’ It was almost under his breath. Michael could tell Francis had heard, because he flicked a casual, contemptuous V-sign over his shoulder, but he didn’t stop walking.

  Shitley turned to look after him. ‘At least, that’s what Thompson says . . .’

  A fractional pause. Then Francis turned so quickly it looked like he’d stumbled. For a second Michael thought, He’s going to hit him. Jesus, Francis is going to hit someone . . . but Francis was stock-still, staring straight at Shitley. Michael saw him swallow. He said, ‘What did you say?’

  Shitley smiled, letting it hang in the air. He whistled softly between his teeth. Michael counted five, slowly, before Shitley said, ‘Sorry about that . . . ’Fraid Thompson spilt the beans. Told me everything . . . That’s right, isn’t it? You’re a poofter?’

  Michael felt the words drip into the pit of his stomach like acid. Oh God, oh Jesus, what did I say? Shitley leant back even further against the banister, his hands in his pockets.

  Francis blinked. Michael stared up at his face and waited for him to come back with something clever and disdainful. Go on, he thought bitterly, you do a great line in effortless contempt. Just pretend Shitley’s me. At the very least you can tell him to screw himself. But Francis just stood there, face blank, as though he’d misunderstood.

  Shitley started to lau
gh. And you could see why, because in a bizarre sort of way it was funny – Francis standing there with that look on his face, like he’d died standing up . . . Shitley leant forward. ‘What’s the matter, Harris? Not come out yet? Trying to keep it quiet?’ His tone was insinuating, confidential. It was weird, the way he made it sound worse than poofter or pervert. It set Michael’s teeth on edge.

  Francis said, ‘No.’ It wasn’t an answer to anything. It was like he was talking to himself, about something else.

  Shitley looked momentarily confused. Then his face went back into the feral grin. ‘Oh no,’ he said, and flapped a limp-wristed hand. ‘Have I spoilt your surprise?’

  Francis looked straight at him, as though he’d only just remembered he was there. ‘Get lost, Shitley.’ But he sounded defeated, like his heart wasn’t in it.

  Michael thought, Come on, Harris, you can do better than that, for God’s sake, don’t be so pathetic. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Francis’s voice, cold, precise, I expect that’s why you got battered . . . not surprising, really . . . but in spite of himself he didn’t want Francis to get rattled, didn’t want to see that odd, lost, deadened look on his face. Especially when it was his fault. It was all wrong.

  Shitley cowered back, mock-afraid. ‘Oooo. I’m scared.’ Then he stood up straight and laughed, brushing his hair back with one hand. He could smell blood: now he could relax. Magnanimously he beckoned him through. Francis turned his shoulder away and slid past, quickly, without looking at him. Michael didn’t believe it, somehow, the way Francis walked past Shitley, eyes on the ground, like he’d lost in a fight. Jesus, what was wrong with him? He’d called Shitley a sadistic bastard, for God’s sake, he’d called him Shitley to his face, just that morning he’d told him to go to hell, and now he was slinking away like . . . well, like something had changed. It didn’t make sense. It made Michael uneasy. Just because Shitley had said, Thompson says . . . It was strange. But anyway, no one could say he didn’t deserve it. Francis was probably going to see his mates now and laugh at Evgard, laugh at Michael, the way he’d been laughing for ages. He was even more of a bastard than Shitley. Anyone who could betray you like that . . . He had it coming.