She looks back. ‘Come on.’ She spins her dagger deftly in her fist, grinning at me. Then she turns and starts to bound up the stairs. ‘So. Who do you want to kill first?’
I stand very still.
.
.
Ten
Michael stood still; frozen, trying not to breathe. Even after Francis had gone round the corner, out of sight, and he was on his own. He wondered foolishly if he could just stay there. Maybe if he didn’t move no one would notice him and he’d just fade away.
But he couldn’t keep the world out indefinitely. In the end it started to leak in, swirling up round him like cold water. He took a deep breath by mistake, and suddenly he was back, his head filled with Shitley and his gang and Francis’s face, his gut filled with a tight knot of shame and hatred and disgust. If he looked down he could see the tiny flecks of blood on the grass, the long string of red mucus where Francis had spat. Oh God. He thought, Why wasn’t it me? I wish it had been me . . . Except that he couldn’t get rid of the picture in his head – the vicious cluster of Shitley’s gang, Francis’s back curled to protect his groin – and the relief, the horrible greasy relief that it wasn’t him. Jesus, how could he be so cowardly? How could he have let it happen? He dragged his fingers over his scalp, hard enough to hurt, then dug his fingertips into his eyes. For a moment all he saw was a fizzing tide of orange, like the beginning of an explosion. He thought, I want to kill someone. I want to die.
Then, in spite of himself, a cold calm voice in his head said: Francis didn’t betray Evgard. Francis didn’t do anything wrong.
He said back, I know, but I didn’t realise – please, I swear I didn’t mean –
Francis didn’t do anything wrong. And what they did to him was your fault.
I know. I know that.
And he thinks you did it because he’s gay.
Shut up. Shut up. He opened his eyes, but it didn’t help. He could still see Francis, the blood, the bruise across his face like a map. He thought desperately, But anyway he isn’t really – I don’t believe – I know he said, but he can’t really be, surely I would have – I’d never have said it, I swear I wouldn’t have, not if he really was –
No. Francis couldn’t be gay. He just couldn’t. That was all there was to it. Michael thought, I would have known. He’s my best mate. I would have known.
The voice said, Yeah, right, the way you knew he hadn’t betrayed Evgard? For God’s sake, Thompson, you’re pathetic. You don’t know anything about him. You don’t know anything.
He wanted to argue; even if the voice was only in his head, he wanted to say, No, you’re wrong, he’s my mate, I know him better than anyone. But he didn’t believe it himself. He didn’t know anything about Francis. He never had done.
But even if . . . He still couldn’t get his head round it. He said to himself experimentally, Francis is gay. Francis is homosexual. Francis fancies blokes. Francis is gay. Surely I should feel something . . . But it was too big for him to get hold of; it didn’t mean anything. It was an excuse for Shitley to beat Francis up; it was the worst thing you could say about someone. That was all. Unless –
Michael thought, Jesus, what if he fancies me? There was a split second when the world lurched drunkenly, when he didn’t know what he felt. What if – dear God, Francis couldn’t possibly – could he –? But before he even had time to think it Michael knew it was stupid. Francis was hardly going to fancy him now, was he? That expression on his face: You slippery, treacherous shit . . . And I deserved it, Michael thought. I told Shitley Francis had come on to me. I deserve worse than that.
A kind of fatigue punched into him, unexpectedly, like concussion. Suddenly he could hardly keep his eyes open. The world went blurry and distant and submerged; everything started to get fuzzy round the edges. He thought, I have to go home. I can go to sleep and stop thinking. I need to go home, before I . . . He started to walk.
And he made it. Just. Once he’d got through the front door it was as much as he could do to get into his bedroom before he collapsed on his bed and went straight to sleep like a little kid. He had time to think, Oh, thank you, thank you. Then he was unconscious.
.
He was dreaming about Evgard. There were people with swords, and a sunset, and something good – but then there was a phone ringing somewhere, insistent, shrill, and he felt the noise suck him back into the real world. He opened his eyes and stared into the half-dark, hating whoever was ringing, hating himself for waking up. He couldn’t get back to sleep, even when his mum answered it. He rolled over and stared at the wall. Fragments of words drifted up the stairs: what? when? . . . but . . . I’m sure he didn’t mean . . .
His door banged open. Someone turned on the light. Michael sat up, blinking, protesting automatically, but then he saw the look on his mum’s face.
‘What the hell is going on, Michael?’
‘What?’ He shook his head, looking at her wide-eyed. But he already understood, in spite of himself. She knew, somehow. She knew.
‘That was Mrs Harris on the phone. About Luke.’
Michael pressed down on the duvet with his hand, watching the way the fabric dented round his fingers. ‘What about him?’
‘Did you hit him today? At school?’
He thought about lying to her. He could say, ‘No. Why would I? He’s making it up. He’s got it in for me, I don’t know why . . .’ Half of that would be true, at least. But he wouldn’t get away with it, not for long. ‘Yes.’
He heard her breathe out. He didn’t want to look at her, but he had to. She was staring at him, so white and tense that it was like he’d hit her. ‘How could you, Michael? How could you?’ Her voice was odd. It didn’t sound like her.
‘Luke –’ It would be so easy to tell her. But he couldn’t. Evgard was sacred. It was all he had left; all he’d ever had. And how could he explain it, anyway? Me and Francis have this imaginary country . . . He shrugged stiffly. ‘He deserved it. He’s a poisonous little bastard.’
She tilted her head to one side, as though she wasn’t sure she’d heard properly. Michael tried to hold her gaze, but it was too much for him. That disbelief, that shock – as though Michael wasn’t himself any more, as though she didn’t recognise him . . . She said softly, ‘He deserved it?’
He couldn’t stop himself. ‘Yes. He did.’
She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. ‘Did he hit you first?’
‘No – he –’ But what could he say?
‘Did he . . . he took something? He stole something from you?’
‘No – Mum – it wasn’t . . .’
She nodded slowly. ‘He was picking on someone else. You stepped in to help someone else.’ God, it was horrible, the determination in her voice, like just saying it would be enough.
Michael forced himself to look her in the eye. ‘No.’
‘Then . . .’ She was pushing at her hair with one hand, pushing it back over and over again. ‘Then, what happened? Why did you do it, Michael?’
‘Because –’ For a long, mad second he thought, I’ll tell her, she’ll understand. I’ll tell her. But a voice in his head said, Yeah, right, because it worked last time, didn’t it? When she went to the comp and told the teacher you were being bullied – that really made things better, didn’t it? You know what happened then. You remember that last day . . . That’s what happens when you tell the truth.
Michael stood up and walked past her to the window. He could feel his heart pounding. He tried to keep his voice level, deliberate.
‘Because he asked for it. That’s all. Because he deserved it.’ He didn’t turn round. ‘I hit him because he’s a horrible nasty little kid.’
She gave a small incredulous gulp. ‘Michael –’
He spun round to face her. ‘What?’ Half of him couldn’t believe that she’d think that, that she’d believe he’d just hit someone for no reason. I’m not like that, Mum, you know I’m not, you must know there’s more to it . .
. But the other half was so angry he could have hit anyone. ‘I hit him because I could. Why shouldn’t I? What’s wrong with that?’
She shook her head. Jesus, the look on her face. ‘My God, Michael. You of all people. You of all people should know what’s wrong with that.’ She moved towards him; he felt himself back away automatically. ‘What about what those kids at the comp did to you? They did that because they could. Didn’t they?’
Michael pressed his back teeth together. He wasn’t going to think about that.
‘Michael, for heaven’s sake! I don’t understand – can’t you see . . .’ For a moment it was like she was pleading with him; she reached out to touch his arm. ‘That poor little boy. Why did you hit him, Michael? There must have been a reason, darling.’
Evgard, he thought. Evgard. And I’ll never betray it, I’ll never tell anyone, because I don’t have anything else. I’d rather Mum hated me.
He took hold of her hand and detached it from his arm. She clutched at his fingers and he shook her off. ‘No. There wasn’t any reason. I just don’t like him.’
‘That’s not enough. No one – you’d have to be mad, to think that was enough –’
‘I’m mad, then, obviously.’ He wanted to say, Wow, that’s what Luke said: you psycho, Thompson . . . You two must have a lot in common. ‘There you go. That’s why. Because I’m mad.’
‘Stop it! Michael. Please. Talk to me. Tell me.’
He didn’t know what it was, about her face, about her voice, that made him want to hurt her. Maybe it was the way she didn’t want to hate him. ‘Tell you? Why? So you can fuck my life up even more? The way you did when I was at the comp?’ He watched her face change. ‘That’s why all this gets to you so much, isn’t it? Because you know you just make it worse? Because you know that everything that’s happened – it’s all your fault. If you hadn’t been such a stupid, meddling, interfering cow –’
It was almost a relief when she slapped him.
Although it hurt. Christ, it really did hurt. His whole head turned to the side with the impact. It took him a second to feel it, but then it spread across his face like a burn. When he opened his eyes his mum was staring, not at his eyes, but at his cheek. As though she could already see a handprint there. He wouldn’t be surprised if she could. He felt like it was branded into his skin; he’d be walking round for the rest of his life with his mother’s hand in red on the side of his face. Well, that makes three of us, he thought, me, Luke and Francis . . .
‘Oh Lord,’ she said helplessly. Then she started to cry.
He didn’t know what to do, so he left her there, standing in the middle of the carpet, with tears running down her chin.
*
The thing was: when you didn’t have anything to lose, you could be brave.
He didn’t know what it was – desperation, courage, that dream of Evgard, as though it wouldn’t let him go – that made him stumble down the stairs. But that didn’t matter. All he could think was, Francis, I must explain to Francis . . . He blocked out that memory of Francis’s face, you slippery, treacherous shit, and forced himself to believe there was a chance. Just a chance. If he could explain – and Francis knew what he was like, better than his mum did. Francis would forgive him. He had to. Michael thought, I’ll do anything. Because if it’s over, if Francis really does hate me . . .
He thought he’d left the bag of Evgard stuff in the alcove next to the bin in the kitchen, but it wasn’t there. He couldn’t think straight. Oh, come on, Michael . . . of course. It’d be in the wheelie bin outside the back door, ready for the bin-men tomorrow. He was in luck: there it was, slumped at the bottom of the bin. He hoisted it out as he went past, and staggered out of the back gate. The bag smelt sickly, like it had been in the bin for too long. Michael knew he must look stupid, sprinting with a bin-bag in one hand, hair all over his face, in his slept-in school uniform. His cheek still felt like it was bright red. But he kept on going – past the girls’ school, the traffic lights . . . All the way, he was thinking, Evgard. Francis might care about Evgard.
Then he was standing outside Francis’s front door with his finger on the doorbell, wanting to turn and run. But he didn’t.
The little ginger one (Catherine, was it? Elizabeth?) opened the door. The hall light wasn’t on, so he could barely make her out – only her eyes . . . She gave a great mucus-filled sniff. Then she said, ‘Hello, this is the Harris household,’ like she was answering the phone.
‘Is Francis in?’ Michael heard his voice shake.
‘Yes.’
‘Can I see him?’
She put her hands on her hips and stood on tiptoe to look into his face. ‘Who are you?’
He wanted to say, Come on, you know I’m his mate. You’ve seen me loads of times. ‘Just say it’s Michael. Please.’
She tilted her chin and regarded him sternly. ‘Michael Thompson?’
Jesus, she was going to ask for ID next. He felt his other cheek begin to tingle under her stare. ‘Yes. Michael Thompson.’
‘You hit Luke.’ She narrowed her eyes even more, until Michael could hardly see her pupils. ‘Luke said Michael Thompson hit him. And Mum’s On The Warpath. And Francis fought someone and I think he lost. Was that you too?’
‘No, look, can I just – is he here? I need to talk to him.’
She put her head on one side. ‘Mum says you’re a selfish evil bully.’
‘Right.’ It was like a slap in the face. Exactly like a slap in the face. He hated himself for how much it hurt.
‘She says you should be ashamed of yourself, hitting someone who’s smaller than you. She says you’re vicious and mareverent –’
‘Malevolent,’ Michael said automatically.
‘Yes, and you must be full of hatred and misery.’
There wasn’t much he could say to that. It was true, after all. He was full of hatred and misery. ‘Thanks for telling me.’ He thought, And am I really vicious and malevolent? Jesus, what if I am?
A voice behind her said, ‘Mary. Get out of the way. Go on. Scat.’ She turned reluctantly – like she hadn’t finished with Michael – and left, scuffing one foot against the skirting board.
It was Francis. He waited until Mary had shut the door of the kitchen at the end of the passage. Then he flicked the light on.
God, his face. It looked worse, even, than when it was covered in blood. His eye had gone a shade of purple that clashed with his hair, and his mouth was swollen on one side. There was a dark scab capping the bulge on his lip. Michael wondered wildly how he’d managed to pass it off as a fight. Surely even his mum could see . . . ?
He leant sideways against the wall and looked at Michael. ‘What do you want?’
‘I just . . .’ Michael struggled for words and gave up. Did Francis think he was vicious and malevolent? Of course he does, his brain said. Of course he does.
‘Right.’
Michael suddenly realised he was clutching the bin-bag of Evgard stuff so hard his hand hurt. He thought, Say something, please, mate, say something, anything, you bastard would do . . . but Francis didn’t say anything else, didn’t even meet his eyes. As if he was waiting for something. But Michael didn’t know what. He said in a rush, ‘I need to talk to you –’ and knew he’d blown it.
‘Don’t come back, Michael. There’s really no point.’ Francis started to close the door.
‘Wait – Francis – please –’
‘What?’ A pause. ‘Oh Christ, Michael . . . what could you possibly say?’
‘I’m sorry. Really. I’m so, so sorr—’
‘Shut up.’ Francis turned his head to the side and started to play with the chain on the front door. Michael felt a mad urge to rub his hand across Francis’s face, as though he could wipe the bruise away like paint. ‘Is that all you can think of?’
‘No – I mean, I can –’
‘On second thoughts, forget it.’ Francis looked him straight in the eye and mimicked his intonation. ‘Sorry.’ He stepped b
ack and started to close the door again.
‘Please – Francis – I can explain –’ The door shut in Michael’s face. Shit. He pressed his fists against the wood. ‘Francis – I brought the Evgard stuff – d’you want it?’
Nothing. He thought Francis had gone away. Then he heard the latch. He pulled himself back just in time to stop himself falling forward as the door gave way under his hands.
Francis glanced at the bin-bag at his feet. Then he looked back up at Michael and shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t get you at all, Thompson. I just . . . I really don’t. You’re a complete fucking mystery. Why didn’t you just throw it away?’
‘I thought . . . I didn’t want . . . maybe, we could still . . .’ Francis’s eyes flicked to Michael’s face; his expression was so odd Michael couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
‘Go back, you mean? Forgive and forget?’
‘Not – yes, but – no, I don’t mean . . .’ God, surely he could do better than this? He took a deep breath and started again. ‘I know it sounds lame –’
‘Damn right.’
‘OK.’ He stared at Francis. ‘Yes. It’s lame. It’s really lame. But I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – I can explain – if you’ll let me – please – I’m sorry –’ Oh yes, great one, Michael. A brilliant bit of rhetoric. Well done. But what else was he supposed to say? ‘It was a misunderstanding, I never actually meant to screw your life up irrevocably’? ‘Forgive me, O lord and master’? ‘Please, Francis, I’ll do anything you want, please just be my mate again’? Christ . . . He bent and picked up the bin-bag at his feet, holding it in both arms like an animal. It felt lumpy and awkward. ‘Do you want this, or shall I throw it away?’
Michael actually saw Francis think, You loser, Michael, I should tell you to stuff it. But then he held out a thin white hand. ‘Give it here.’ His voice said, This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you. He took it, untwisted the top, and looked into the bag. His face was impassive. After a moment he twisted the bag up again. He shot a glance at Michael. There was something funny in the way he looked at him, something that didn’t quite fit: a kind of tension around his mouth and eyes. ‘Why would I want this?’
The Traitor Game Page 16