The Future King: Logres

by Mackworth-Praed, M. L.

  ‘I thought protests near parliament were only banned on May Day,’ Arthur ventured, disturbed by his teacher’s fanaticism.

  ‘No,’ snapped Marvin. ‘Every day: all three-hundred-and-sixty-five of them. All throughout London: right down to Epsom. Soon the rest of the country will be silenced too.’

  Arthur frowned. ‘But surely if people don’t want to promote extremist ideas, there won’t be a problem.’

  ‘But what’s extremist? Who decides? Do you decide, Arthur, does the individual decide? What seems perfectly reasonable to one may seem like madness to another,’ Marvin imposed, angered. ‘It’ll be Milton and the New Nationals who decide right from wrong, and one day you may wake up to find that the beliefs they’ve taken a disliking to just happen to be yours.’

  There was a tense silence. For a while both reflected, Arthur feeling wounded by the harsh reprimand. Eventually he found himself enforced to break the quiet, but only once he was sure Marvin had calmed down.

  ‘I thought you said they were protesting the poor excuse for democracy that parliament is exercising?’

  ‘Well, they were! A few people that I know, at least.’

  ‘But the news said—’

  ‘That they were all yobs? Disillusioned youths? I’m sure it did. I don’t rely on the news, Arthur. They make half of it up; either that or they don’t report it,’ Marvin said scornfully. ‘Milton is quite chummy with the head of UK Broadcasting, so I’m sure that everyone in the country was informed that they were marching against all that’s good in this world. You can’t believe everything you hear, you know.’ The clock was bringing the lunch hour to an end. Soon everyone would be swarming back in to sit through another assembly. ‘Have you fallen out with Bedivere?’ he suddenly asked.

  ‘What? No.’

  Marvin studied him closely. ‘Are you sure? This morning you both looked put out. You didn’t say a word to him or Gwenhwyfar.’

  ‘I was working,’ he countered with a dismissive shrug.

  ‘In silence? You would be the only one in the whole class, save for Morgan. Is something wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Arthur insisted, rising to leave. ‘I should probably go and find him now, actually. I said I’d meet him for assembly.’ He knew his teacher didn’t believe him, but that didn’t matter. Slinging his rucksack onto his shoulder as the bell rang, Arthur hurried towards the door. ‘I’ll see you later, Marv.’

  He felt his teacher’s eyes on him as he slipped out into the empty corridor, and they burned into his back until he turned out of sight.

  New National

  Arthur kept his head bent towards the table. The classroom began to fill with students still buzzing from their lunch hour. Frowning, he concentrated on the open Politics textbook that he’d taken from the teacher’s desk. The empty chair beside him loomed for a while, but was then disturbed as an apologetic Bedivere slunk down to fill his usual seat.

  ‘Arthur?’ There was a prolonged silence. ‘So you’re just going to ignore me, then.’

  Arthur glanced at Bedivere, and flicked to a new page.

  ‘I didn’t know, you know.’

  He clenched his jaw and kept reading.

  ‘I had no idea what was going on. I was only told that Gwen wanted to talk to you, nothing else.’

  ‘By Emily,’ Arthur pointed out, his voice rigid. ‘Why didn’t you tell me it was coming from her?’

  ‘Because! You wouldn’t have listened to me, otherwise.’

  ‘I wonder why?’ he hissed.

  Bedivere opened his mouth to retaliate, but Mr Graham silenced them all with a great huff as he rose to stand by the chalkboard. Struggling to conduct the lesson on two feet, their Politics teacher leant heavily on the edge of his own desk, which groaned under the pressure. The next hour and a half was spent in a working silence. With the eventual sounding of the bell, Arthur packed to leave.

  ‘I’m not lying, you know,’ Bedivere murmured to him, struggling to match his haste. ‘I swear I didn’t know what she was up to.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Arthur stood up.

  ‘If I had said anything about Emily, you never would’ve gone to meet Gwen.’

  ‘And then the prank wouldn’t have worked, would it?’ He grabbed his blazer.

  ‘Prank or not, Gwen wanted to meet you.’

  ‘Emily said so, did she?’

  Bedivere huffed. ‘I didn’t know it was a trick, Emily just told me to pass on a message. I thought I was doing you a favour.’

  Arthur kicked his chair under the table and forced his way behind Bedivere. The other boy scrambled up.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he continued.

  ‘How do you know what I think? You don’t even know what I saw.’

  ‘I know exactly what you saw. Gwen told me.’

  ‘Oh, so you’ve been talking to her about this, have you? I bet you’re all laughing about it behind my back: you, her, and the Furies.’ He cut through the room and sped for the door. Bedivere followed.

  ‘Gwen had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Really?’ Arthur snorted. ‘Then why doesn’t she tell me that herself?’

  ‘Because you practically locked her in there with him, you idiot!’ Bedivere pushed him in the back, and Arthur caught himself on a desk. There was a loud exclamation of protest from Mr Graham. ‘I had nothing to do with it!’

  ‘You know what Emily’s like, so why did you even listen to her? Oh, wait, I know: because she let you stick your tongue down her throat.’

  ‘Boys!’ the teacher hollered again. He launched himself upwards but Bedivere didn’t linger, hid the tears welling in his eyes as he rushed out of the room. For a moment Mr Graham twitched to go after him, but with a face like thunder beckoned Arthur over instead. ‘And what, may I ask, was that about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Arthur said, surprised by how upset he felt.

  ‘Nothing?’ Mr Graham echoed.

  Arthur shrugged. ‘Just a disagreement.’

  ‘A “disagreement”?’ Purpling, Mr Graham shook his head. ‘How dare you disrupt my class? The two of you were behaving like animals. Animals!’ Angrily, he flicked through the papers on his desk. ‘I should call the principal. You’re lucky I haven’t. As it is, I have something I want to discuss with you. It’s about your latest paper.’ He drew a breath, and suddenly his demeanour was suspiciously sweet. ‘You seem to have misunderstood the question. I asked you to outline George Milton’s party policy and how he became Prime Minister.’ He waved Arthur’s work at him. It was covered in red graffiti.

  ‘But that’s what I did,’ Arthur objected.

  ‘No, you can’t have done. There’s not one reference to the article I asked you to read from your textbook. Where are your approved sources? The content is wrong. And where on earth did you find all these references?’

  ‘Archives,’ frowned Arthur. ‘Independent journals… Why? What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong with them as such, they’re just… not correct. You didn’t find any of them in the library here, surely?’

  Arthur shook his head. Scowling, Mr Graham examined the essay. ‘Claims such as this… you say that George Milton has exclusive access, along with his favoured followers, to rare luxuries such as red meat, wine and chocolate, but that argument cannot be true. Everyone knows that George Milton is a simple man, with a simple diet. And here, for example, you say, “the authenticity of Milton’s success in previous elections has been widely debated since it became apparent that Milton’s party, New National, is suspected to have enlisted votes from those imprisoned, and several voters unfortunately deceased.” Is that what it says in your textbook? That the Prime Minister is a fraud?’

  ‘No,’ Arthur replied stiffly.

  ‘Here, even! Ah yes, my favourite part. You go on to say that in relation to previous governments, Milton’s regime is dangerously close to mirroring a dictatorship, even comparing it to Ingsoc from Orwell’s 1984… “a party that has long since us
ed threats of national security to exterminate the liberties of its people in return for their perceived safety.” If I didn’t know any better, Arthur, I’d say you were in severe danger of sounding like a separatist. Not to mention the issue of where you found a copy of 1984 and why on earth you’ve read it.’

  Arthur felt a moment of inward panic. ‘My grandfather read it to me before it was banned,’ he lied, fervently hoping Mr Graham wouldn’t ask to see what was in his bag.

  ‘And what about the rest of this nonsense?’ he asked, suddenly livid. ‘Where on earth did it all come from?’ Again the paper was flapped around, its stapled pages cackling.

  ‘I thought it would be beneficial to do some external research.’

  ‘Beneficial?’ snorted Mr Graham, his jowls flapping. ‘The school could get into trouble for this, don’t you realise? If this had been an exam? All our funding, gone!’

  ‘But other teachers encourage us to read outside the textbooks,’ Arthur reasoned, ‘to find alternative truths.’

  ‘I don’t care about the truth, I just care what’s in the syllabus!’ Mr Graham snapped, standing with a jolt. The desk creaked under his podgy hands. ‘And so should the other teachers! Who’s been telling you otherwise?’

  The sudden change in tone caused Arthur to bolt up. He stared back into Mr Graham’s receding eyes, his own distant.

  ‘No? Not going to share? Fine!’ A crisp rip sounded as his chubby fingers tore apart the paper, pieces falling to the desk as he shredded it again and again. ‘You are to rewrite this paper in the correct fashion for tomorrow afternoon. If you do not, I will be sending you to the principal’s office to be punished for your knowledge, use, and reference of a banned book and for your questionable research into sources supportive of such ludicrous ideas. Do you understand?’

  Arthur nodded, quelling his rising anger.

  ‘Oh, and some thought to my job security would be appreciated before you pull another stunt like this. I shouldn’t have to expect it from you, Arthur.’

  Arthur nodded, and when that failed to satisfy his purple-faced teacher he cleared his throat. ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Go on; get out of my sight. I don’t want to see you again until you’ve redone it, you hear me?’

  Arthur hurried out of the classroom into an empty corridor. The voice of Mr Graham followed him down the hall.

  ‘And don’t forget! Rewrite it for tomorrow!’

  * * *

  The streets felt empty, sparsely populated with residents sitting purposelessly on front doorsteps and lingering on street corners. Lower Logres was the lesser-funded part of town; littered, tired, and rarely ventured into by people who did not live there. Its separation from the bustle of the ever-constant centre was absolute, which existed as a tidy labyrinth of chain stores and big businesses. Arthur turned his head against the wind as a cloud of grit rolled along the un-swept street. Water was short, and cleaning was only possible after heavy bouts of rain.

  The residents were grey, with grime worked into their browned clothes and dirt rubbed deep into their skin. The dust got everywhere, and Arthur washed it off every night with gratitude that he could. When their water had been cut off he had collected rainwater when it came, filling up bottles from the water fountains at school. This had meant he could wash at least, but less often; and every day he had arrived at Logres with the self-consciousness of someone aware of their own odour.

  The kiosk was one of the few smaller establishments left open. Whenever he had the time Arthur took advantage of the cut-price meals left over from the previous day, and purchased two pre-packaged lunches, not yet stale. Sometimes he brought food that he had prepared at home, but it seemed wrong to deplete the supplies that had to last him and his grandmother the week. He missed days, of course, and the guilt for skipping a drop was usually heavy in his mind. This was his cost, his responsibility, and now that he had started he didn’t think he could stop.

  He selected something large, cold rice with lumps of meat that promised to be chicken, and a hefty sandwich. Protein was good. He always chose the meals with the highest calorie count. Arthur went to the checkout with a feeling of guilt, snatching a chocolate bar as he waited in line. The till beeped, the cash machine pinged. He handed over two hours’ wages and got just over half back. Wrapping the bag into a tight bundle, he tucked it under his arm and ducked outside.

  The sky seemed heavy. Posters were layered like cards along the peeling walls of the houses running parallel to the road, some messages long-concealed, some reappearing under newer sentences that had been half torn down. A few were community notices, a couple were slogans, but most were New National speak, the words of which jumped out at him in angry letters as he hurried by.

  Smile and the world smiles with you, read one. A happy worker is a happy person, read another. You have the things in life you deserve, proclaimed the next. And, Would you know if your neighbour is housing illegals?

  The occasional police officer frequented the main road that led to the clock tower, but running into one at this hour was rare, and Arthur was fairly confident he would not get stopped. He fished for the chocolate bar he had bought himself and ate it absently, stuffing the empty wrapper back into the bag when he was done.

  There was a quiet park two streets away. Opposite it ran a small road with second-hand charity shops and bookies. At the end of this road by a disused bus stop was a bin, open-topped and skirted with iron grating. The movement was so rehearsed that he needn’t think to do it. As he passed the bin he dropped in the whole carrier bag with the food, and then nipped across the road to cut through the park.

  Giving aid to the homeless was an offence, he knew: particularly as many of them were illegals. He didn’t know if the older woman who scavenged through the bins in this area was an immigrant, only that so far she had avoided arrest, evading the ever-constant risk of being moved out of the area.

  He couldn’t help himself. Quickly he stole a glance over his shoulder as he threatened to turn out of sight. The particularly grimy woman half-vanished into the bin to fish out what he had dropped, and then hurried off into a side street, trusting that she had been given something good.

  * * *

  The next morning arrived with a sky the colour of dull lead. September was slipping by with cold winds and the promise of heavy rain, forcing students to don thick, navy jumpers beneath their summer blazers. Arthur, escaping the sudden drop in temperature, was sitting in Marvin’s classroom. With Bedivere now avoiding him completely, he was using his newfound unpopularity as an opportunity to churn out Mr Graham’s mindless essay. The traditional glowing praise of Britain’s prosperity as a conclusion allowed his mind to tend to other thoughts: his destroyed relationships, his unwelcome solitude and worries over the price of heating his grandmother’s house.

  At about twenty to nine, when most students were still arriving, Marvin appeared with a mug of coffee that slopped onto the already stained carpet. ‘Ah! Good morning Arthur,’ he chirped, putting his papers down on his desk. ‘In early, I see?’

  ‘I had a paper to finish. It’s for Politics.’

  ‘Politics?’

  ‘Could you read it?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Did Mr Graham set you some surprise homework?’ He collapsed into his chair. The foam padding protruded through the rips in the cover.

  ‘I had to rewrite it,’ Arthur explained. He dropped his essay onto Marvin’s table. It slid across the slick surface and met his teacher’s curious hands.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just read it.’

  Marvin’s eyebrows contracted to a thick line as his pupils scanned the page. After a while he held it out, and Arthur retrieved it expectantly.

  ‘Well…’ Marvin began, chewing his words. ‘It’s… well-written.’

  ‘Well-written?’ echoed Arthur. ‘I wouldn’t call it that. I know it’s rubbish—that’s the whole point.’

  ‘Not rubbish, as such… but yes… I can’t say I agree with this per
ception of George Milton. Which references did you use? Not those propaganda books?’

  ‘We always have to use those. Either that, or anything else on the reading list.’

  ‘And why did you have to rewrite it?’

  ‘Because I took your advice,’ Arthur shrugged. Marvin stared at him blankly. ‘Remember, to use different sources when writing a paper?’

  ‘Oh, I see. Mr Graham didn’t like seeing things from another perspective, then?’ A smile played at the corner of his lips.

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you lucky you didn’t decide to experiment for an exam? I knew you had access to other sources, Arthur, but I thought you were just reading up on them, not utilising them for school papers.’

  ‘I got bored of always writing the same nonsense. The amount I’ve discovered just from looking at other sources is incredible. None of it is covered in any of my classes. It makes me wonder what else is being kept from us, and why. Even History—what you teach is better than most, but it’s not complete, is it? You miss things out, don’t you?’

  Marvin leant back in his old chair, and sighed. ‘Not because I want to, heaven knows! I encourage students like you to read around because I can’t teach you everything. I’d be out of a job if I didn’t respond to the syllabus. I sometimes think I should just go back to lecturing. The universities used to be more lenient.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be overlooked, if we all just said what we have to in the exams?’

  ‘I can’t control what people write if I start putting alien ideas in their heads,’ countered Marvin. ‘Besides, Ravioli’s a stickler for doing things by the rules. He’d crack heads if he discovered any freedom of information in his classrooms. His brother’s a New National.’

  The shrill school bell ended their conversation as it had done so hundreds of times. Marvin glanced to the clock on the wall, though he knew the time to the exact minute. ‘By all means read around, Arthur; but for goodness’ sake, don’t put anything you learn from any external research into your schoolwork. And watch who you talk to about such things, too,’ he advised. ‘Times aren’t what they used to be, and you never really know what people are thinking, or who else might be listening.’