And the castle was almost empty. It was miraculous. Michael thought later that maybe it was because most of the schools had gone back already – but at the time he just couldn’t believe their luck. It was like they owned the place. Francis had talked him into buying the National Trust booklet, and they walked round arguing about where things were supposed to go. Michael had said, at first, that maybe they should just use the castle as it was, make Sangarth exactly the same; he could still remember the look on Francis’s face as he said, ‘No, there’s not enough room . . . you want an observatory, don’t you? And baths? And a torture chamber? Come on, Thompson, this place has hardly got any dungeons . . .’
Michael caught his eye and laughed. ‘That’s true. We do need some more dungeons.’
Francis looked round, his face screwed up into a sort of pensive grimace. ‘Right. Let’s think about this logically. Where can we expand?’ It was funny, the way he was so businesslike about it; Michael half expected him to run a hand over one of the walls and make that sort of whistling sound builders make when they’re about to say, ‘Dear oh dear, this is going to cost you . . .’ And he was so thorough. Later that afternoon Michael watched him pacing the courtyard, working out how much they were going to have to add to the length, and he was utterly absorbed, like a little kid playing a game. Michael remembered thinking, He takes this even more seriously than I do. Maybe Evgard is more his than mine, now. The odd thing was that Michael didn’t mind; actually, he quite liked it.
They had lunch sitting in the shade of the south wall, the National Trust booklet between them; Francis was drawing on the map with one hand and explaining between bites. ‘So if we expand here, right – then we can put the baths here –’
‘But this wall will be too long to defend properly. We should add a tower here and make the whole thing hexagonal.’
Francis put his head on one side. ‘Ye-es. OK. And then the observatory is in the ghist tower –’
Michael snorted through his mouthful of sandwich. ‘What did you say?’
‘What –? Oh. Yeah, all right. The east tower. Put the observatory in the east tower.’ Francis looked away and smiled reluctantly. ‘Oh, shut up, Michael. It’s your word.’
Michael leant his head back against the wall and gave him a sideways gleeful grin. ‘“The ghist tower”, Harris? It’s not real, you know. Evgard isn’t real . . .’
‘Piss off, Thompson,’ Francis said. He took another bite of his sandwich and stared determinedly down at the map.
Michael leant towards him and put on his wise-old-wizard-gives-good-advice voice. ‘Beware, my son, of confusing fantasy and reality; for who knows what dangers may lurk at the meeting of two worlds?’ Francis didn’t look up; but his mouth twitched. Michael leant even closer and intoned, ‘Once disturbed, who can restore the Equilibrium? And if you are torn equally between worlds, who will you owe allegiance to?’
Francis shook his head, smiling. ‘Shut up, Michael.’ He looked up, and they both laughed.
Michael was the first to look away. ‘Yeah. Fair enough.’ He sat back and closed his eyes. God, he was . . . sleepy. Warm and sleepy and full of lunch. He heard the breeze flip over the pages of the National Trust booklet. I must suggest a murder garden, he thought. In a moment I’ll open my eyes again and tell Francis . . .
But when he opened his eyes, Francis was gone.
Where was he? Michael sat up, blinking, staring round. He was probably just . . . but Michael couldn’t see him anywhere. There was just his own rucksack, on the ground, and a little ball of silver foil from his sandwiches. No National Trust booklet. No Francis.
It was cooler than it had been; the shadow at the base of the wall was longer. He’d been asleep. He looked automatically at his wrist, but he didn’t have his watch on. What was the time? He wasn’t locked in, was he? He looked round again at the courtyard. Surely, Francis wouldn’t just leave him here? Without leaving a note, or anything? But then – where was he? Michael couldn’t see anyone, not even the National Trust woman. He was completely on his own.
He gave one last look round; squinting carefully into the shadows. No. Francis had gone. Michael knelt down, put the tin foil into the front pocket of his rucksack and swung it on to his back. No point staying here, then. The warm, sleepy feeling had dissipated. Francis must have got bored, that’s all. He must have decided to go home.
Michael walked across the courtyard towards the keep, without looking back.
‘Michael! Oi! Michael! Thompson!’
He swung round. Where –?
‘Michael! Up here!’ And Francis was waving at him from the top of the south-ghist, the south-east tower. Michael stood and gazed upwards like an idiot. He raised an arm to wave back, then let it drop again. Francis hadn’t deserted him. He was glad. Of course he was glad.
‘Come up!’ Francis beckoned, with an exaggerated gesture, like a spin bowler.
Michael did as he was told. The tower wasn’t that high, as towers go, but he felt like the stairs were going on for ever. His T-shirt was sticking to him underneath his rucksack.
Francis was bending forward, squinting at the moat, but he turned round when Michael reached the top. ‘Where were you off to? Doing a runner?’
‘I wasn’t going anywhere.’
‘I thought you were going home without me.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Good.’ Francis held his gaze. Then he turned back and peered down at the moat. ‘God, it’s hot.’
Michael went and leant on the wall a little way off. The water at the bottom of the tower was a dull, muddy green-blue, like jade. You could see grey fish just under the surface. He thought, How high up are we, I wonder? Fifteen metres? Twenty? High enough, anyway . . . He looked down at the drop and caught himself thinking, out of habit, All you’d have to do is jump.
‘Looks good, doesn’t it?’
Michael spun round and stared at him. Did everyone feel like that, then? Did everyone look down and calculate the distance and think, It’s good to know I could, if I wanted . . . ? He started to laugh; he wasn’t a freak, then, if Francis felt the same. ‘That’s just what I was thinking. Not seriously – I mean, just, you know . . .’ He glanced back down at the murky water, the sinuous fish. ‘The moat might break your fall, though.’
Francis turned to look at him; there was something odd in his expression. Michael thought, What did I say?
Francis said carefully, ‘That’s what I meant. I could do with a swim.’
‘Oh.’ Michael was grateful for his sunburn; it meant Francis couldn’t see him flush. He turned away. He thought, You’re a loser, Thompson. You’re a loser and a freak. Even Francis thinks so.
‘That wasn’t what you meant, though, was it?’ He couldn’t have been more skilful: his voice was perfect, casual and gentle and solicitous . . . but Michael didn’t answer. He heard Francis start to say something else, then check himself. There was a pause. ‘We should go, I suppose.’
‘Yeah.’ Michael started to walk back to the doorway.
But Francis hadn’t moved. ‘I wish . . . Oh, bloody hell, I wish I didn’t have to go home.’ He ran his fingers back through his hair and clasped his hands at the back of his neck. ‘I wish I could just stay here.’
‘Right.’
Francis slid his hands back over his head and dragged his fingers down over his face. ‘Michael, are you . . . ?’ He stopped speaking and took a breath. Then he turned to look at him. ‘Are you – happy?’
Michael stepped backwards idiotically. He shrugged. ‘I guess.’ He looked down at his feet and tried to think of something to say to change the subject.
‘You don’t sound very sure.’
‘I dunno.’ He put his thumbnail in his mouth and bit it. ‘I –’ He was going to say, Well, you know, I could do with a bit more money . . . But he didn’t say it. There was something about Francis’s eyes: like he really wanted to know. It wasn’t like his mum, just needing him to be OK. It was real interest. Michael fe
lt his face go rigid. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
Francis nodded and peered down at the moat. Michael couldn’t tell if he believed him or not. He rubbed at the wall with a finger, like there was writing there that he wanted to get rid of. He said softly, ‘I hate being at home. I feel like – like there’s no room. I mean, physically, but every other way as well. You can’t breathe . . . And Evgard – it’s sort of the opposite. Like there’s more there than I know what to do with. And it’s great. I really . . . it’s cool.’ He took another breath; Michael could see his shoulder blades moving.
Michael said, ‘Right.’ What was he supposed to say? It was the same for him – that was how he felt too – but he couldn’t say that. ‘That’s good.’
Francis turned round and looked at him straight on. ‘I’ve had a really nice day.’
Michael nodded, feeling stupid. ‘Great.’
‘I really enjoyed it. Thank you.’
‘No problem.’ He tried to grin, but Francis wasn’t smiling. There was another pause, just slightly too long. What was this about? Why was he being so polite, all of a sudden? It made Michael uneasy; politeness was a prelude to other stuff. Nice weather we’re having, aren’t we, Clever Boy? You don’t mind if we walk home with you? He swung his rucksack off his back and fumbled at one strap.
‘Michael . . . I –’
‘What?’ He pulled viciously at the fabric; it had got twisted.
A tiny silence. ‘Never mind.’
He looked up. Francis was still looking at him strangely. He waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. ‘Let’s go, then.’
Francis nodded, his face sombre, almost stern. ‘Yes. Let’s go.’ And he strode past Michael without saying anything else.
Michael remembered feeling something niggle at him, like he’d missed something. It was like, he thought dreamily, it was like crossing a Judas floor without falling through it – taking the right path, just by chance, so you didn’t even realise it was a Judas floor. And you might never know that you’d avoided certain death, you might never find out how fragile it was . . .
At the time he’d shaken his head and followed Francis down the stairs, thinking, You’ve got an over-stimulated imagination, Thompson. It must be the heat.
Now, with his eyes closed, dropping to his knees in the dark, sick with disgust and self-hatred, he thought: Here we go, then. This is what was underneath.
.
He felt Francis put a hand on each of his shoulders. Then, suddenly, he was gripping so hard it hurt. Michael gasped at the violence of it; thought, You bastard, tried to pull away – so that it was a second before he realised that Francis was pulling him up, dragging Michael roughly back to a standing position. Michael lost his footing, stumbled backwards, and fell against the wall. The pain in his shoulders flared up and faded slowly.
‘Jesus, Michael –’ Francis let go of his shoulders. ‘Jesus, Michael, you were going to – you were actually going to do it, weren’t you?’
Michael couldn’t speak. Yes. Yes, I was going to do it. Yes, I was going to lick your shoes, because you told me to, you shit, you fucking bastard . . . He swallowed, trying to clear the nausea out of his throat.
‘My God. You really thought I . . . didn’t you? And you were going to do it.’ Francis shook his head. ‘Why would you . . . ? Why would anyone . . . ?’ He carried on shaking his head, as though he couldn’t stop. ‘I never really thought, for a moment . . . Sweet Jesus, Michael – why didn’t you tell me to get stuffed?’
Michael thought, I’m never going to speak again. I wish I could die here, now, against this wall in the dark.
‘You stupid sod, Michael, what the hell d’you think you were doing? How could you? How could you even think –? Jesus Christ . . .’ Why was Francis so angry?
‘I wasn’t going to.’ Michael was shaking; he hadn’t noticed before, but now he could feel it, like the wall was vibrating under his hands.
‘Why the fuck, Michael . . . why don’t you stand up for yourself, just once in a while, stop being such a –’ He stopped, like he’d caught himself on the edge of saying something.
‘Such a what? A loser? A victim? A spineless pathetic target?’ Francis didn’t reply; he didn’t need to. Michael tried to keep his voice steady. ‘I wasn’t going to, all right?’
‘Then why –? You didn’t say no, did you, like any sane person would have. You didn’t tell me to fuck off.’
Michael heard himself say, ‘It was just a – I was just taking the piss –’
A long pause. ‘I see.’
‘I knew you didn’t really mean – I was bluffing –’ Michael thought, Oh, for God’s sake, it wasn’t a game, we both know it wasn’t a game . . .
‘Right.’
Michael wanted to say, I wouldn’t have done it, don’t be stupid, of course I wouldn’t. But the words wouldn’t come. He turned his face away and spat.
He should go home. There was nothing else to say; nothing left. He looked at Francis’s shadowy, blurred face, and thought, He hates me. He’s like the others. He thinks I’m a contemptible, pathetic, vicious, malevolent, arse-licking –
He turned to leave. A feeble, childish corner of him waited for Francis to say something, but all he heard was a shuffle as Francis shifted his weight from one foot to the other. As Michael turned his foot kicked against something; it budged slightly, inert as a corpse. He looked down. It took him a second to remember what it was. Oh yes. The bin-bag of Evgard stuff. The kind of world where you could stop being a victim. He stared down at it: just a clot of deeper black in the dark. Useless. Worse than useless. He reached for it and then drew his hand back, instinctively, like it could bite him. Oh God, he thought, Evgard . . .
He jabbed at it with his foot. He was going to leave it there. Let Francis do what he wanted with it.
No. He said, ‘Give me your matches.’
For a moment he thought Francis was about to say something, but he dug silently in his pocket and held them out, holding the box carefully between his thumb and forefinger as if he wanted to make sure Michael didn’t touch him by mistake.
Michael was thankful for the dark. It meant Francis couldn’t see how much his hands were shaking as he got four or five matches out of the box and struck them all together. He let the flame trickle upwards towards his hand, until the matches were almost burning his fingers. Francis didn’t move.
Michael held the matches poised above the bag of Evgard stuff for a long, absurd moment, like he was waiting for Francis to call his bluff. He thought madly, Come on, Harris, don’t let me do this, surely Evgard means something to you. Surely you don’t want to watch it burn? Please don’t let me do this. You didn’t let me –
The flames licked maliciously up over his fingers and he dropped the matches. The edge of the plastic bag folded down on itself, melting; for a second he thought the flame had gone out. He leant forward to stare. In the corner of his eye he saw Francis make a slight movement, as though he was doing the same. So he did care; maybe he was about to say, Wait, Michael, don’t . . .
A tiny ripple of fire peeled upwards and then bloomed, suddenly confident, as though something in the bag had caught fire. Michael could smell burning plastic. It hit the back of his throat and made him cough. He drew back. Another tongue of flame licked up, stretching out mockingly into the air, then sank again and slid along one side of the bag. The whole thing had caught, now. The flames inched further down the bag, breathing out black smoke, making the edges of the bag tremble in the heat. The smoke was thick, blacker even than the dark, billowing out now like something haemorrhaging into the air. Michael hadn’t expected it to be so acrid; it smelt bitter and plasticky.
Francis still didn’t say anything. Michael could see the light from the fire playing on his face. God – was he smiling? Like he had a private joke. Like he knew something Michael didn’t. He looked like he was enjoying himself.
Michael said, ‘What’s funny?’
Francis glanced up from t
he fire and looked straight at Michael. The light danced sideways across his face, turning the plane of his cheek gold, making his swollen lip glint evilly. He was smiling; smiling at Michael, as if the joke was something in Michael’s expression, as if he was glad to see the look Michael knew must be on his face. ‘I never knew you had such a penchant for the dramatic, Thompson.’
Michael heard himself choke. He closed his eyes, but he could still see the blazing mess of melting plastic and flame inside his eyelids. He could hear it and taste it too. What a way for Evgard to end. A stinking pyre in a back alley, and Francis laughing.
He turned and ran. He heard, or thought he heard, Francis say, ‘Michael. Oh, shit . . . Michael! Wait, you tosser –’ but he didn’t turn back. The smoke was making his eyes stream already, making him cough and choke, wet-faced. The smell of it followed him, all the way home. He stopped and spat in the gutter, over and over again, but his mouth still tasted of burning grease and rubbish; when he wiped the spittle from his lower lip he heard Francis, the way he’d said, I thought you wanted to be my friend again . . . He rocked forward, felt his knees hit the pavement, and retched. He wanted to throw up but nothing came. For a while he stayed there, hanging his head. Then he got up and ran.
Even later that night he couldn’t get rid of it. When he closed his eyes it was there on his skin. Like the whole cavity of his skull was full of smoke.
That’s the smell of Evgard, he thought. That’s Evgard, burning.
.
.
Rhopt
. . . in the lands of my birth, where the marshes are mirrors,
The Traitor Game Page 18