The Traitor Game

by B. R. Collins

  ‘Do come in, have a cup of tea or something. I’m sure Michael’ll be glad to see you. It’ll take his mind off his wrist.’

  ‘Um. Yeah, thanks.’

  Michael didn’t move. He was still standing there, in the middle of the kitchen, when Francis came in. He waited for his mum to follow him in, but she didn’t. He cleared his throat. He didn’t want to be the first to speak. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea? Or something?’

  ‘No. Thanks.’ Silence. Francis had his hands in his pockets. He hunched his shoulders. ‘I just wanted to check you were still alive.’

  ‘Well. I am.’

  ‘Right. Good.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Another pause. Michael opened a cupboard and took out a packet of biscuits; he wasn’t hungry, he just wanted something to fill the silence. Without looking back at Francis, he said, ‘What happened about Shitley?’

  ‘They’re having an inquest tomorrow. Father Bennett walked in just when he pushed you – did you see that? Or were you too busy falling out of the window?’

  ‘Yeah, I saw.’

  ‘With any luck he’ll get suspended. Or expelled, preferably. I’ve got to talk to them too, tell them what happened.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell them the truth. But –’ He stopped, and swallowed.

  Michael put the biscuits carefully down on the side. ‘But what?’ He made himself breathe. ‘But – I shouldn’t have stood up to him? I shouldn’t have defended you?’

  Francis laughed: a brief harsh huff of disbelief. ‘Is that what you think you were doing? Defending me?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You thought telling Shitley he was as much of a pervert as I am would make me feel better about the whole thing?’

  ‘I didn’t say –’

  ‘Yes, you did, Michael.’ Francis really laughed, this time. ‘You don’t even remember?’

  ‘I just wanted to get to him. I didn’t mean – oh, for God’s sake, Francis! I didn’t mean it like that. I just wanted – look, if I’d said, Hey, Shitley, you’re gay, but don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong with that, it wouldn’t have wound him up, would it?’ Silence. Jesus, why couldn’t Francis see the only thing that mattered was standing up to Shitley . . . ? ‘Yes. Actually you’re right. I wasn’t defending you. It was for me, for myself. I thought you’d be on my side – but it really doesn’t matter. And it wasn’t true, it’s not what I actually think . . . but I don’t care if it was out of order. I’m really glad I said it.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I just wanted him to –’ Michael caught himself. I just wanted him to hit me. But it wasn’t that, not exactly. I wanted him to fight me. Even though I knew I’d lose. I wanted to – hate the right person . . .

  Silence again.

  He said, ‘It wasn’t about you. Not really.’

  Francis met his gaze, steadily, not giving anything away. ‘Not about me. Right.’ Then, slowly, he nodded, without smiling. ‘You know, Michael, it’s weird. If you’d been trying to fuck me up, I can’t think of anything you could have done better. But . . .’ He dug at the scab on his lip with two fingers, his eyes still on Michael’s face. He said again, slowly, ‘But – it wasn’t even about me . . .’

  ‘I didn’t mean –’

  ‘What?’ For a second – a split second – he thought Francis was going to hit him. ‘You didn’t mean what? Fuck it, Michael! Stop telling me what you didn’t mean. Why don’t you say something you do mean?’

  Michael swallowed. ‘All right. Give me a second.’

  Francis blinked. Then he stood very still, waiting, like if he made a sudden movement Michael might run away.

  ‘I mean, I got it wrong. I thought you were laughing at me. About Evgard. I thought you always had been. That we’d never been mates at all . . .’ It wasn’t that his voice cracked; just that he stopped in case it was about to. ‘Evgard – meant a lot to me.’

  Francis screwed his mouth up on one side, like he was testing whether his scab still hurt. He said, ‘And me.’

  ‘Jesus, Harris, you let me burn it – for fuck’s sake –’ He smacked his good hand down on the sideboard. ‘You haven’t got a clue. It wasn’t just something to do on Saturdays, it was . . . You think it was some childish crappy game. You think it was disposable. Well, it wasn’t. It mattered. It mattered more than anything else. More than anything.’

  ‘More than anything?’ Francis turned back to look at him. ‘Do you still think that?’

  No. More than nearly anything . . . But he couldn’t say it. Wasn’t it a betrayal, to admit that Evgard wasn’t as important as something in the real world?

  Francis frowned, watching him, as if he was trying to work something out. Then, suddenly, there was a kind of movement in his face, like he’d stumbled. ‘Oh, fuck, Michael. Oh, Christ, I’m sorry. You still think –’ He rubbed his forehead with one hand, half laughing, half grimacing. ‘Shit.’ He breathed out through his teeth. ‘I let you think . . . oh, Thompson, I’m sorry. It wasn’t – you didn’t – that bin-bag you set fire to. It wasn’t Evgard. It was just a bag of rubbish. I thought you’d realise as soon as you got home. I didn’t tell you, because I was pissed off, and I thought it was funny. Shit. I’m really sorry.’ He gave a sort of penitent half-smile.

  ‘It wasn’t the Evgard stuff.’ It was hard for Michael to breathe in; like he’d been hit.

  ‘No.’ Francis pushed his hair off his face and squinted at Michael underneath his wrist. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Right.’ Michael turned away and closed his eyes. He’d just grabbed the bag from next to the bin – just assumed . . . Not Evgard.

  For a moment all he felt was scalding embarrassment, like a wave of boiling water. Oh, dear God, what an arse, what a tosser . . . He could see himself now, staring at the burning bag as though it was a funeral pyre. No wonder it stank of rubbish. Oh God, what a prat.

  ‘It was an easy mistake to make.’ Francis’s voice was soft, almost sympathetic.

  Michael turned to look at him. Francis was looking determinedly at the ground, biting his lower lip. His face was very still.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Of course.’ Still that low, considerate tone of voice. ‘Anyone could have thought . . .’ Then he looked up.

  For a second Michael thought he was going to finish his sentence. But as their eyes met Francis broke off. His mouth twitched.

  Michael couldn’t help it. He had time to see Francis start to hunch over, his shoulders shaking, struggling for breath, before he’d lost it too, giggling hysterically, clutching at the sideboard with his good hand for support. He heard himself saying, ‘Oh, God, you fucker, Harris, you bastard –’ before he was choking and too breathless with laughter to speak. His whole body was shuddering, jarring his wrist, but he didn’t care.

  Francis gasped, ‘The look on your face, Michael –’ and then he’d gone again, bending over with his hands on his knees like an athlete after a race, his whole ribcage heaving.

  Michael nodded, swallowed, managed to say, ‘What a tosser –’ but he couldn’t get any further either. He clung on to the sideboard and laughed and laughed.

  After a while Francis glanced up and caught Michael’s eye. Michael felt himself grin like an idiot and looked away before Francis set him off again. Jesus, Thompson, pull yourself together. It’s really not that funny.

  And then he thought: Evgard. Evgard isn’t burnt.

  He ran halfway up the stairs before he realised he wasn’t thinking straight. He had put it with the rubbish – so . . . He turned round and sprinted downstairs again, to the cupboard under the stairs where they put the stuff for recycling. It was paper, wasn’t it? Please, God, let it be there, let it not have been put out yet. Please God . . . He pulled the recycling box out with one hand, yanked at the bin-bags behind it, trying to open them and twisting the plastic the wrong way. Come on, come on . . . Please.

  It was th
ere. The papers were all crumpled, battered at the edges. A couple were ripped. And they looked different from how he’d remembered, more amateurish, less real. But Evgard was there, in a bin-bag, under the stairs. He dragged it out; the bag ripped, and everything slid out over the floor. He knelt down and looked at it, waiting for the rush of relief, the jubilation. Imagine thinking your home had been burnt, then finding it intact, ready for you to go back to. Imagine that. You could go home.

  But he didn’t feel anything.

  There was a shadow on the floor. He glanced up and saw Francis standing in the doorway, looking down at him. He said, ‘I’ve found it.’

  ‘Good.’

  He started to gather up the papers one-handed and shove them back into the bag. He thought, Why do I feel so tired? He looked up again; saw the same look on Francis’s face that he knew was on his own. He swallowed. Then he said, ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’

  ‘Finished, maybe.’ It was funny, the way Francis could say finished so you knew he meant complete, accomplished. Not just defunct.

  ‘Yeah.’ Michael walked past him and swung the bag on to the kitchen table. He stared at it and thought, I don’t live there any more. He felt empty.

  Francis was behind him, at his shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine.’ Then he turned round, so they were face to face. ‘I dunno. I’m not sure.’

  Francis was the first one to move. He took a few steps to the table, reached out a hand and pulled the bin-bag open so he could see the pile of stuff. He tugged at the corner of a sheet of paper, laid it flat on the table. The great Judas floor at Calston. For a moment he gazed down at it. Then he reached into the bag again and again, spreading out the papers carefully in front of him. Arcaster Castle. One of the Fabianus Letters. A map of the Flatlands showing where the main battles were fought. The Duke Columen’s account of the Glacies campaign. The Book.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Francis didn’t turn round; he carried on spreading papers out on the table. He said softly, ‘Don’t throw it away.’

  Michael looked at the back of his head and wished he could see his face. ‘Why?’ He wanted to say, What would we do with it? It’s finished, you said so yourself. It can’t ever be the same.

  ‘Please.’ He still didn’t turn round. ‘Please don’t throw it away.’

  Michael stared at his back. Please. As though he wasn’t sure Michael would say yes. Michael stepped forward; not close enough to touch him. ‘Do you want it?’

  Francis rubbed a fingernail across the lines of Arcaster. ‘Yes.’

  Michael stood still. Suddenly he felt an uninvited pang of possessiveness; a memory of what Evgard meant. No. Better to throw it away than give it to someone else. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘You can take it, if you want.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  When he opened them again Francis had turned round. God, the look on his face: like he understood. Like it would be all right for Michael to say, No, I’m not sure . . . But all of a sudden, looking into Francis’s eyes, he was. He was sure. He grinned, almost effortlessly. ‘Yeah. Take it. You’re welcome to it.’

  Francis said quietly, ‘Thank you.’ He smiled back.

  Michael held his gaze and then had to look away; he could feel himself blushing. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He held his hand out like an idiot, like they’d just met, how-do-you-do . . . God, he was such a tosser. He could feel his face burning. He was about to turn the gesture into something else – as though he was about to scratch his nose or something – but suddenly it was too late, because Francis had taken his hand.

  For a second they just stood there, still, looking at each other. Michael thought, This is weird . . . He felt the warmth of Francis’s palm, the smooth bony fingers, and felt his cheeks flare red again. He thought, I’m touching Francis’s skin. But he didn’t take his hand away.

  He waited for Francis to move, or say something, but he didn’t. He held Michael’s gaze, his eyes steady, unreadable.

  Michael cleared his throat; said, in a rush, ‘Francis – you know, don’t you, you know I’m not –’ He stopped.

  One of Francis’s eyebrows lifted, very slightly. Jesus, that look – a smile, almost . . . ‘Not what, Michael? Not attracted to me? Not gay? Not very bright? All of the above?’ Then, unexpectedly, he grinned. ‘Yes, I do know. I’m not a bloody idiot, Thompson.’

  Michael said, ‘You mean, unlike some people you could mention.’

  For a second – so briefly Michael thought he’d imagined it – Francis’s grip on his hand tightened. Then he nodded, still grinning. ‘Unlike some people I could mention.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It was funny, how easily Michael could say it. ‘I’m really sorry. I mean, about –’

  ‘Shut up.’ Francis shook his head. ‘Forget it, OK? Oh –’ he gestured at the bin-bag. ‘Could you keep hold of that, just for a bit? I don’t want Luke going through it.’ He didn’t wait for Michael to answer. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow for Shitley’s court martial, if you’re up to it.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘See you, then.’

  Michael said, ‘See you,’ and watched him go. Francis paused when he got to the door, and looked back at Michael; then he left.

  Michael picked up the papers on the table, put them in the bin-bag and walked upstairs with it bumping against his leg. He was too tired to think; he knew he was smiling, but he wasn’t sure why. His wrist hurt. He put the bag down beside his bed and stared at it, letting his eyes go out of focus. It was weird, not having Evgard any more, not living there . . . although he still had it. It was still there. It just wasn’t – real. He was here, instead.

  He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He was so sleepy. He drifted on the edge of being awake, letting his mind wander, letting the world rock him to sleep . . . like a boat, he thought, like a boat in the dark, like Columen escaping across the Underlake . . . and he smiled into the blackness behind his eyelids. Evgard was still there, still safe; not tugging at him, any more, not demanding . . . but still there. And Columen had got away.

  And . . . distantly, like something starting to itch, he thought, There was something I thought of, something I was proud of, that I wanted to remember. Not that it matters, but it was good; we could use it, maybe . . . What was it? Something that . . . like you’re playing some kind of game, that no one else knows the rules to . . . Damn, what was it? He dug for it, trying to get the thought out whole. Oh – yes. Some kind of game . . .

  He was too tired to get up and write it down, but that didn’t matter. He could tell Francis tomorrow.

  .

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  .

  I’d like to thank Rosemary Canter, Sarah Ballard and Jodie Marsh at United Agents; everyone at Bloomsbury, especially Emma Matthewson; Mara Bergman; Nick Manns; the Arvon Foundation; Philip Gross, for his past help and advice; Linda Newbery, for her generosity and encouragement; Emily Collins, for her wise feedback and suggestions, most of which I ignored; and my parents, for their (almost) unstinting support. Thank you.

  .maps

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Imprint

  Also by B. R. Collins

  Epigraph

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Ter

  Four

  Five

  Ef

  Seven

  Eight

  Llas

  Ten

  Eleven

  Rhopt

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Acknowledgements

  Arcaster and Evgard maps

 

 

 
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