‘Because – Evgard –’ Michael’s throat started to ache suddenly, as though someone was squeezing it. He swallowed.
Francis frowned. Then his face cleared to a sort of neutral mask. ‘Oh . . . Evgard. I see.’ He dropped the bag on to the doorstep and kicked it delicately with one toe, as though he could hardly bear to touch it. There was a silence. Michael thought, Please, please. Just let me explain. I’m not vicious and malevolent – really, I’m not . . .
Francis sighed and looked up, like he’d suddenly got tired. He looked at Michael straight on, unsmiling. Then he put his hands in his pockets, pushed past Michael and walked down the street, towards the corner. He looked back, cocking his head. ‘Come on then, Thompson. I want to hear you apologise. Again. Oh –’ Francis stopped, as though something had just occurred to him. ‘Bring that, will you?’ He clicked his fingers at the bin-bag.
Michael thought, I’m not your bloody slave, Harris. But he picked up the bag and ran after him.
Francis turned off the pavement into a little dark alley that ran down beside the end of the terrace. It was hard to see anything, after the bright sodium glare of the streetlights. Michael followed him, trailing one hand against the wall on his right. It wasn’t like he was scared, but there was a voice in his head that said, If he was going to kill you, this would be the place for it . . . God, he couldn’t see a thing. How come Francis knew his way around so easily? Did he come here a lot? The voice in his head added, Yeah, maybe it’s a cruising ground. Maybe this is where he gets –
Michael said back to it, fiercely, Shut up, shut up. For fuck’s sake. You’re not helping anything.
Francis stopped so suddenly Michael had to do a sort of awkward sideways jump to avoid walking into him. He heard him shuffling. Then he heard the splutter of a match, and saw a flame and a cigarette-end catching and glowing in the dark. Ah. So he did come here often.
Michael thought, God, I’d kill for a cigarette. He watched Francis’s hand carry the spark to his face and away again, flicking the ash on to the ground.
It wasn’t as dark as it was. Or at least Michael’s eyes were getting used to it. He could see the outlines of Francis’s face now, the smooth pale plane of his cheek on one side, and the bruise that dissolved into the darkness on the other. It must be painful to speak with a mouth like that, he thought, maybe even to smoke. If it were me, I’d lock myself in my room until it had gone down.
‘So. Go on, then, Thompson. Explain.’ There was a hard, deliberate edge in his voice.
‘I –’
But Francis didn’t let him finish. ‘My mum took Luke to Casualty. To get him X-rayed. In case you’d broken his jaw. But don’t worry, she’s not going to tell the school. So you can relax.’
Oh God. Luke. As well as what he’d done to Francis . . . He said, in a rush, ‘Shit. Francis . . . I didn’t – did I? I’m sorry – I mean –’
Francis breathed out sharply, the air hissing between his teeth. ‘Christ. So you did hit him. I thought maybe . . .’ He laughed, without amusement. ‘I thought maybe he was lying. That it wasn’t actually you. I didn’t think you’d do that. But you did.’
‘Yes – but –’ Michael squinted, trying to see his expression. ‘Only because . . .’ Go on, he thought, this is where you explain. This is where you tell him about the notes, about Evgard. Now. But he couldn’t help himself; he said, in a rush of guilt, ‘I didn’t break his jaw, did I? I know I really laid into him – but I didn’t mean to – not that hard –’
Francis swung round, so close that Michael stepped back involuntarily. ‘Not that hard? Hitting him was fine, as long as it wasn’t that hard?’ He shook his head, over and over. ‘My God. You are – you’re – unbelievable. Astonishing. I – I just –’ He drew breath; even in the pause Michael could hear the disbelief in his voice. ‘What are you –? I mean, is that your idea of explaining? Apologising? Am I meant to say, OK, fine, as long as it wasn’t that hard?’
‘No. No, of course not, I didn’t mean – Francis, I –’
‘Do you hate me? Is that it?’
‘No –’
‘Because I don’t understand. And the other stuff, with Shitley. I mean, why –? I don’t get it . . . if you knew I was gay, and you thought it was . . . if you thought I . . . I can understand not wanting to be friends, all that stuff. It’s crap, but I can understand it. But telling Shitley – hitting Luke . . . I don’t understand what I did to deserve it, Michael.’ He paused, fractionally, but Michael wasn’t quick enough. ‘You know what? I really thought we were friends.’ There was contempt in his voice; for Michael, or himself, or both.
‘Yes – and so did I – until I found out – I mean, I didn’t find out, I just –’
‘Until you found out I was gay.’
‘No – it wasn’t like that –’
‘And then you told Shitley I’d come on to you. And then you look at me like you’ve never seen me before and you say you’re not gay like you really think it. Like you really thought . . .’ He swallowed. ‘Jesus, I can’t even . . .’
Michael felt his face burning. His whole body was tingling with shame. He drew in a long breath, trying to keep his voice steady. He said, ‘I didn’t know you were gay. I really didn’t. What happened was – it was because Luke – I mean, I was only – because I thought you’d . . .’ Oh, for fuck’s sake, Michael! ‘I only said it – because it was the worst thing –’ He heard himself just too late. Oh, Jesus, no, that wasn’t what I meant, really it wasn’t . . .
‘The worst thing?’ Such a quiet voice.
‘Not like that – I just meant – with Shitley –’
‘That’s why you said it.’ So blank, so relentless. ‘Because it was the worst thing you could think of?’
‘I didn’t mean – not the worst like that, not –’
‘Not repulsive? Not grotesque?’
‘No . . . just because I knew you’d get – that they’d –’
‘What? That they’d what?’
‘It isn’t the worst – of course – not for me – only – because you’d said – about getting, at my old school, you said you weren’t surprised I got –’
‘I’m not. I’m not surprised. In fact I’m amazed you’ve survived this far at St Anselm’s.’ His voice – it wasn’t sharp, that wasn’t the word, because nothing sharp would hurt so much, so quickly. ‘Christ . . . Maybe if we’d known what a little rat you are.’
Yes. This time Michael deserved it. Francis could have carried on, and Michael would have taken it all without arguing. He’d just stand there and nod. But Francis didn’t say anything else. He leant back against the fence and finished his cigarette. Michael could hear him breathing.
He had to explain. He had to. ‘Francis –’
Francis said softly, ‘Fuck you, Michael. Fuck you.’
‘I thought – it was about Evgard –’
‘And Evgard. Fuck Evgard too.’ His voice was so quiet, as though he hardly cared whether Michael heard him or not. But he meant it.
No good. It wouldn’t be any good; whatever he said, even if he tried to explain about Luke, the anonymous notes . . . Michael closed his eyes; stood there for a moment, trying to shut out the dark. He made himself say, ‘Do you want me to go?’
Silence.
‘I’ll go. If you tell me to, I’ll go.’
Still nothing. He thought stupidly, What if he’s slunk off? Maybe I’m talking to myself. But when he opened his eyes he could just about see the outline of Francis’s face, his head tilted back against the fence, the eyes almost on a level with Michael’s. Go on, he thought, tell me what to do, and I’ll do it – anything you want. Or you could hit me. I wouldn’t mind. Although he could see Shitley now, after Francis had hit him, could hear the crunch of bone – had Francis actually broken his nose? – and that choking, drowning sound as Shitley spat out his own blood. On second thoughts . . .
He still couldn’t get over it, though. Francis had punched someone. He’d never seen
Francis punch anyone. It wasn’t his style. Even now, staring into the dark, trying to make out his face, Michael could feel the shock, and the admiration. It was stupid to admire someone just because they’d hit someone else, he could see that; and most of the time it wasn’t admirable. Like when he’d hit Luke: he knew, deep down, he shouldn’t have . . . But all the same, sometimes . . . It took a kind of bravery. People always said that it was harder to be a pacifist, and maybe it was, but that wasn’t the point. Not hitting someone, even though you knew you should, because you were scared – that was cowardly. That was what the comp had taught Michael, and he hated himself for it. Maybe, he thought unexpectedly, maybe that’s what Shitley will teach Francis, in the end: not to fight back . . .
He thought he felt bad already. But the guilt hit him at that moment, all of a sudden. There was nothing he could say. Luke sent me anonymous notes. I thought you’d despised me, all along. I only did it because I thought you hated me . . . It didn’t change what he’d done. He took a deep breath, and then, because he didn’t have anything to lose, he said, ‘I know it doesn’t help. But I’d do anything . . . to put it right . . . if I could. I promise you. I’d do anything.’
He saw Francis turn towards him. ‘Oh, really? Would you, Michael? Anything?’
‘Of course.’ For a moment Michael was glad it was dark. Even his voice was pathetic: eager, sycophantic . . .
‘Anything?’ There was something very deliberate in the way he said it.
‘You know I would.’ He added, ‘I mean, if it would make a difference –’ but Francis had already cut him off.
‘So. I could tell you to do anything. And you’d do it.’ It was like the way he’d start an argument in English, setting out the facts coolly, making you agree to things that seemed obvious, when you knew that he’d shoot you down five minutes later.
‘Yes . . . I mean –’ Michael felt a stab of unease. But he could hardly say, Well, within reason, mate, you know what I mean . . . He swallowed. ‘Yes.’
‘Hmmm. Interesting.’
Michael had never disliked anything about Francis. There’d never been anything, not that he could remember, that made him draw back, nothing that put him on his guard. But there was something in his voice when he said interesting that made Michael go cold. In spite of himself, he started to say, ‘I only meant –’
‘So I could tell you to . . .’ Francis paused, took another cigarette out of the packet, lit it. ‘Yes . . . I could tell you to burn your precious Evgard stuff. For example. Or pick a fight with Shitley. Or – what else . . . ?’ The smell of smoke was making Michael feel queasy. ‘What about you, Michael? Any brainwaves?’
‘Stop it. You know I didn’t –’
‘Anything, you said.’ A pause. ‘I rather like the idea. There’s a kind of justice in it, wouldn’t you say?’ Michael didn’t answer. ‘You screw up my life, for no reason –’
‘It wasn’t – no, wait – I need to tell you – explain –’ It sounded hopeless, unconvincing, even to his own ears.
Francis didn’t even look at him. ‘And then you want to make amends. By doing anything. All right. Suppose I let you. Suppose I give you something to do.’
He’s going to tell me to kill Shitley, Michael thought. He’ll tell me to kill Shitley, and I’ll do it. He waited.
‘How about . . .’ Francis spoke very slowly, like he wasn’t quite sure. ‘OK, Michael. How about the worst thing? I wonder what that would be . . .’ Michael heard him take a drag of his cigarette, a deep deliberate breath that prolonged the silence. ‘What was it you said again, Thompson, about the worst thing?’ His voice was so soft it could have been inside Michael’s head.
‘Francis –’
‘Shut up.’ Another breath; another silence. ‘Anything. Crikey.’
Michael thought, Please. Please don’t. Please, stop this . . .
‘I know . . .’ His voice trailed off. He took a final drag on the cigarette and flicked it away; cleared his throat. ‘Seeing as you’re my slave, apparently . . . Kneel down, Thompson.’
‘Is that it? Just kneel –’ but before he’d even got to the end of the question he had time to think, No, oh Jesus, you idiot, Thompson, he means –
‘No, Thompson, that’s not it. But it’s a start.’
Silence, and the smell of smoke. Nothing else: only the shadows around him, growing like mould, too deep to look at, and the night sky. For a moment Michael felt the world falling through space, felt the speed, the sickening horrible spin of it. He heard the roar of the earth’s orbit in his ears and thought, Make it stop, please, make it stop. It was hard to breathe.
He said, ‘Francis . . .’
‘What’s the matter? You did say anything, after all.’ Francis’s voice was clear as glass, precise, unfamiliar.
Oh God, this isn’t happening. Not Francis; not this. Michael’s throat was suddenly too tight to speak properly; he heard himself say, ‘Please. Francis. Please don’t . . .’ He couldn’t carry on. He thought, Come on, you shit, say something. Put me out of my misery. But Francis didn’t do anything; he just stood there and watched him squirm. Michael took a deep breath. ‘Do you mean – you don’t – what do you –?’
‘I want you to lick my shoes, Thompson. Obviously.’ His voice had an edge of something like malice, something like triumph. A tiny, split-second pause. ‘Why? Did you have something else in mind?’
‘No. Nothing. I just didn’t understand –’ But he couldn’t get to the end of the sentence. You stupid tosser, Michael, you fucking loser . . . He heard himself stammer and thought, This is what he wants. The bastard.
‘Go on, then, Thompson. I’m waiting. Lick my shoes.’
It should have been funny. Lick my shoes . . . like he was eight, for God’s sake, like they were both kids. But it wasn’t . . .
And he meant it. Didn’t he? Michael thought, No, not Francis, please, this is all wrong . . . but he saw Francis’s face, white and rigid and unforgiving, like a statue in the darkness, and knew he did mean it. Of course he meant it. Michael felt dread rise in his gut, scratching upwards. He’d been here before. He knew how this worked. But Francis –
‘What are you waiting for, Michael? Go on . . . don’t you want to make it up to me? Don’t you want me to forgive and forget?’
Nausea filled Michael’s whole body now, as though he was breathing it in. He swallowed frantically, trying to quell the sickness, trying to hold on to reality. He could feel the world sliding away beneath his feet, dropping through space like a dead weight. The panic grew deep inside him, swelling like cancer, as familiar as an old enemy. No – please . . . But he knew it made sense. He couldn’t escape. He had it coming. Like the stuff from the comp, like when – he thought desperately, Shut up, shut up. He said, ‘Francis . . .’
‘Michael . . .’ He mimicked Michael’s tone, bouncing it back to him like a mirror.
Michael thought, I can’t do this. I’m not going to do it. I promised myself – after that day – I swore I’d never – I can’t –
‘What’s the matter, Michael? I thought you wanted to be my friend again?’ His voice was like snow: gentle, deadly cold.
The earth’s orbit didn’t slow down. The world didn’t stop falling.
Slowly, very, very slowly, Michael started to sink to his knees.
.
.
Eleven
There are two water fountains in Sangarth Castle. One inside, for the Evgard nobles, and one on the outer wall, for the peasants. It was one of the first places in Evgard to have running water – powered, of course, by a slave on a treadmill in the dungeons forty hycht below – and the first by fifty years to have a fountain for the peasants to drink from. When it was built it was held up as an example of the indulgence with which the nobles treated the peasants in South Evgard. The fountain in the courtyard bubbles up into a carved stone wellhead; the surface of the water is so smooth that the ladies of the court claimed to use it as a mirror. The water for the peasants tr
ickles down over a slick mould-encrusted statue of an Evgard lord; the only way to drink from it is to suck at the moisture where it drips off the statue’s boot.
Michael didn’t know why he was thinking about Sangarth. He tried to push the thought away. Jesus, why was he thinking about that now, for God’s sake? He shouldn’t be thinking at all, about anything. He felt another surge of nausea, of black disgusted sickness – you loser, Michael, you worm – and thought, Shut up, keep your mind blank, pretend you’re not here, you’re not alive . . . But he couldn’t help it; Sangarth Castle was there, suddenly, sitting in his mind’s eye like a tiny, perfect model of itself. He could see it exactly, the towers, the tapestries and fireplaces and dovecote, the arrow-slits and murder-holes and machicolations. As though he was trying to remember, as though he wasn’t on his knees in an alley, squeezing his eyes shut against the dark. He fought the vision, the clarity, the mad unnecessary details: Not now, Jesus, please, not now . . . but it didn’t go away. And at the same time, superimposed, he could see the plan he and Francis had drawn, three pages stapled together, each one showing a different storey; and behind all that he could see the real castle they’d based it on. And he remembered the day they’d spent there, right at the end of the summer holidays, the week before the autumn term started. He tried to push the memory away. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t . . . But it was no use. He didn’t have any choice.
It was the hottest day of that summer: blinding blue sky, breathless heat, sunshine that made your skin smell different. They’d walked to the castle from the station, following the path until it gave out, then navigating by the sun and Francis’s OS map, wading across a river when they realised they were in completely the wrong place. By the time they got there they were already sunburnt and knackered and hoarse from thirst. They walked the last half-mile in silence, and Michael remembered thinking, God, he must be really pissed off with me, this was a stupid idea . . . but when he sneaked a look at Francis’s face he was smiling; he caught Michael’s look and grinned back at him without saying anything.
The Traitor Game Page 17