The Future King: Logres

by Mackworth-Praed, M. L.

  She was unnerved that they knew her location in detail. Drawing another deep breath, she calmed herself. Public, she should meet her somewhere public.

  Is there a coffee shop near by?

  Yes. How about Saturday at one?

  Sounds good.

  What’s your name?

  Gwen.

  Look out for me at one in Mocca Coffee. I’ve got light blonde hair and will be wearing a green coat. I look forward to seeing you, Gwen.

  The conversation ended itself. Suddenly there was no sign of it ever happening at all.

  For a while Gwenhwyfar continued to browse the Internet, making sure that there wasn’t anything else. Was she crazy, doing something like this? She didn’t even know if she agreed with Free Countries, but it sounded appealing to be part of a forbidden cause. Just to be safe she deleted her browser history, switching off her computer. It was just gone ten o’ clock, not quite late enough for bed, and so taking a few moments to stretch, Gwenhwyfar made her way downstairs.

  Her parents were watching the media station. She moved to sit in the armchair, stepping carefully over Llew, who gazed at her with rheumy eyes. There was a man on screen reporting world events with an emotionless expression. She glanced to her mother and father. They were both transfixed.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You just missed the announcement,’ her father said. ‘George Milton is holding a general election next May.’

  Gwenhwyfar tried to read his expression. ‘Is that good?’

  ‘It is. He was supposed to hold one last year. Parliament has to have one once every five years, or more often, depending on the Prime Minister’s discretion,’ he explained.

  ‘So why didn’t he hold one then?’

  ‘The five year time limit of a parliament can be varied by something called an Act of Parliament. Milton extended his term by six months at first, but then increased it by another six. He claimed it was due to the financial crisis. We couldn’t afford an election. Not that the New Nationals minded, of course, but there were plenty who did.’

  Eve propped her head in her hand. ‘Weren’t there all those protests about it?’

  ‘There was almost a civil war,’ Garan corrected. ‘He made a joke out of democracy.’

  ‘That’s right, I remember it being on the news.’

  Gwenhwyfar frowned. ‘When was it on the news?’

  ‘Last summer. They clamped down on the protesters quite hard. It got nasty when someone died.’

  ‘Who?’

  Eve shrugged. ‘I don’t know, just some woman. A policeman hit her and she fell. I don’t think it was his fault. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘They were trying to kettle the crowd into too small a space,’ Garan added, angered. ‘It was completely their fault. What do they think is going to happen if they trap ten thousand people in Parliament Square? They’ll panic, that’s what. No wonder they turned violent.’

  ‘They were only doing their job,’ Eve huffed. ‘You know that those boys they arrested had petrol bombs. They intended to hurt someone, police or not.’

  ‘So they said,’ Garan remarked. ‘They also said that the woman was part of the group allegedly caught with the petrol bombs. They only backtracked when her family threatened to sue for libel.’

  ‘Fine,’ Eve snapped. ‘You’re right: it was the Met’s fault. I mean, I don’t know, do I? You’re so strident.’

  Quickly, Eve’s gaze flicked back to the media station. The images changed again, and suddenly the newsreader was talking about the ongoing effects of the historical privatisation of the NHS. Gwenhwyfar bit the dry skin off her lower lip. It bled.

  As the news turned to local headlines, she wished her parents goodnight and pulled herself up the stairs to get ready for bed. She’d never really followed world affairs before; her old life at Ysgol Annwfn had consisted of little more than worries over what to wear to each social event. Now that she found her eyes opening, however, she wondered if the world had always been so frightful. Sleep welcomed her slowly that night, bringing her unsettled visions that abated when she woke.

  Quantum Models

  The lights flickered, threatening them with another blackout. It was Thursday, so the Furies were back, and the next-door table was monopolised once again, a circus routine of all three girls applying make-up, ruffling their hair, checking their reflections, then repeating all the former; until at long last they concluded their beauty routine with the toxic spraying of deodorant under their shirts and the dousing of their wrists, legs and necks in perfume. Forty-four B was again filled with the smog of strong-smelling substances in the mornings. Gwenhwyfar hated it.

  ‘This is giving me a headache,’ Bedivere complained, sinking low to keep his head beneath the hanging cloud. ‘I can barely breathe with that stuff in the air. It stinks.’

  Gwenhwyfar looked across to the Furies. Word had spread about what had really happened the night of Tom’s party, and as a result she now endured renewed whispering and rumour in times of recess. Charlotte gave Gwenhwyfar a sidelong glance that suggested she had heard Bedivere’s complaint. ‘How is it even allowed?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s not,’ he murmured back. ‘Miss Ray banned it ages ago, but she’s stopped dealing out the detentions. They don’t work, so she pretends not to notice.’

  ‘How can anyone not notice this?’

  ‘They’d all shrivel up without their smellies,’ Viola declared loudly. ‘I think she knows she’d be liable.’ Smirking, she folded her arms and leant back in her chair. ‘So have you spoken with Arthur?’

  ‘Not since Tuesday.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I didn’t want to bring it up. He says they’re just friends.’ Gwenhwyfar looked over her shoulder, but Morgan wasn’t at her desk yet. ‘I don’t know if I can say anything without seeming weird.’

  ‘He did hide it from you,’ Viola reminded her. ‘Why didn’t he mention it, if it was so innocent?’

  ‘It was just an outing. It’s not that weird, is it?’

  ‘You seemed to think so on Monday,’ Bedivere remarked.

  ‘I’ve had time to think about it since then. Besides, she knows he likes me.’

  ‘And he knows she likes him.’ Viola’s brown eyes settled on Gwenhwyfar. ‘I don’t care what he says, that’s weird.’

  Suddenly her resolve unravelled. ‘It is weird, isn’t it?’ she fretted. ‘I mean, who hangs out with someone that fancies them if they don’t like them back?’

  ‘I don’t know why they’re suddenly such great friends,’ Bedivere muttered. ‘Before you got here, Morgan followed me everywhere, yet when I was with Arthur she barely said more than two words to him.’

  She scowled. ‘So what am I supposed to do?’

  Viola shrugged. ‘Nothing. What can you do? Arthur says they’re friends, so you’ll just have to trust him. If he does like you, he’ll soon forget about Morgan. When’s your next lesson together?’

  ‘Second period.’ She now knew her timetable by heart. ‘Science. Then History this afternoon.’

  ‘Make sure you get to sit with him in Science, then,’ Viola advised, her voice low. ‘And make sure it’s clear to Morgan how close you and Arthur are. She’ll soon back off.’

  ‘I think I can manage that,’ Gwenhwyfar murmured. She turned her eyes to the door. Morgan came into the classroom with her tatty sketchbook pressed close to her chest. Gwenhwyfar felt no sympathy for the doe-eyed girl as she sat alone. Morgan clearly had a strong dislike for her. It was a mutual feeling, and once again Gwenhwyfar found herself wondering what on earth Arthur saw in Morgan other than a pretty face.

  * * *

  As she joined the queue outside her Science room, Arthur greeted her with a lavish smile.

  ‘Gwen,’ he expelled, uncrossing his arms. ‘Is it still all right if we sit together?’

  ‘Of course! If Mrs Paxton will let us get away with it. You know what she’s like.’

  He grinned
boyishly. ‘She won’t mind. I think she likes me.’

  The door was opened to grant them access to their lesson. ‘So what are your plans for this weekend?’ she teased. ‘Any more secret trips with your stalker?’

  ‘She’s hardly a stalker, Gwen,’ Arthur said as he followed her to her seat. ‘Actually, she’s quite nice. I think you’d like her, if you got to know her.’

  ‘Well, that’s not going to happen.’ Gwenhwyfar slipped her bag off her shoulders and pulled out her exercise book. ‘She hasn’t said a word to me since I started here. Or haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true,’ he frowned. ‘She’s probably just shy.’

  ‘Being shy is no excuse for being rude,’ she said, unzipping her pencil case. She offered a good-natured smile. ‘I’d be perfectly happy to talk to Morgan. I’m not the one ignoring her.’

  Arthur watched her surreptitiously. Gwenhwyfar waved her arm and expelled half a laugh.

  ‘All right, you just wait until History, and you’ll see. When has she ever done anything but hiss at me?’

  ‘I just don’t understand it,’ Arthur said. ‘She’s perfectly nice to me.’

  ‘Of course she’s nice to you,’ Gwenhwyfar replied, writing out the date. ‘You’re a boy. She’s clearly one of those girls.’

  ‘Which girls?’

  ‘You know, the ones that are nice as pie to anything male, and that turn into a harpy the moment they’re on their own with something with any form of ovaries.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ He dropped his bag on the floor. ‘But no, I’m not going on some secret outing with her. I only didn’t tell you about last weekend because I thought it wasn’t important.’

  ‘I know.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s not. Really, I don’t care who you hang out with. I just thought that when you said you weren’t going out with her, you weren’t going out with her. In whatever context.’

  His jovial demeanour collapsed. ‘And that was my fault, I know. I should have mentioned it. Sorry.’ Gwenhwyfar felt a flare of inward irritation, and she hated herself for bringing it up.

  ‘Look, I don’t particularly want to talk about Morgan all lesson, do you? If you say you’re just friends, you’re just friends. I trust you.’ She sent him a winning smile. ‘So what are you doing this weekend?’

  ‘I have a Saturday shift at the library. Then I’m spending Sunday with my grandmother. You?’

  Her mind jumped to Free Countries and immediately her pulse quickened. ‘Just meeting a friend,’ she lied. ‘We’re going shopping.’

  Mrs Paxton silenced the class with the clap of a wooden ruler against her desk. Her grey eyes honed in on Arthur and immediately she asked him to move. Gwenhwyfar sent him an apologetic smile as he ambled back to the front of the classroom, quietly and without protest.

  He waited for her once the bell rang, and together they came out into the corridor.

  ‘So where are you off to now?’ she asked, moving closer as they streamed with the crowd, at a pace that annoyed others.

  ‘Marvin’s.’ His palm brushed the small of her back as he guided her through the masses. ‘You?’

  ‘Cafeteria,’ she called up to him. ‘To sit with Vi. Want to join us?’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t.’ He seemed to sense her disappointment. ‘I’ll walk you there though, if you like?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Though the sun shone outside, the cold wind sapped all warmth from the pale rays and left her fellow pupils shivering in inadequate coats. They made their way down from Wormelow in silence, and stopped together just outside the canteen on the cut grass, which lay a good distance from the congested doors.

  ‘So I’ll see you in History?’

  ‘Of course.’ He stood a little closer. ‘Maybe… if we’re not so busy next weekend… we could hang out, or something?’

  ‘Or something…?’

  ‘You know, go out together… go and do something.’

  She smiled up at him. ‘Are you asking me out?’

  Immediately he coloured. Saving him from the embarrassment of trying to formulate a response, she stepped towards him and clasped his hands gently.

  ‘I’d love to. We’ll work something out?’

  A pleased grin split across his lips. ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Want my number?’

  They fumbled for their phones. ‘Thanks,’ he murmured, once he had it. Gwenhwyfar looked up at him, reluctant to go.

  ‘I’ll see you later?’ He nodded. Standing on her tiptoes, she cupped his neck and planted a feather-light kiss upon his cheek. A group of boys saw it and ambled by, whooping. As Gwenhwyfar blushed Arthur did too.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ he promised, half-stunned by the gesture. Eventually they parted, and his eyes shadowed her until she found her way through the throng and into the cafeteria.

  Her friends were all sitting at their usual table. Lancelot was there too, and looked just as moody as he had been the day before. Since first meeting him on Monday, he had thawed very little towards her.

  Gwenhwyfar scoured the crowd as she joined them. Hector was nowhere to be seen, despite the fact his suspension ended today. ‘Everyone all right?’ There were varying positive noises, and a grunt from Lancelot.

  ‘Viola was just showing us her pictures from Saturday,’ Tom announced. Before the couple sat a smart-looking folder.

  ‘I was going to show you this morning,’ Viola added. ‘I went into the agency after school to pick them up. I’ll be on the website soon.’

  ‘Can I see?’ Gwenhwyfar reached for the portfolio. It was heavy with a soft, matte cover. The letters QMS were embossed in the middle. She opened it. ‘Oh Viola, these are gorgeous!’ she exclaimed. Her friend took the compliment in silence, while everyone around her craned their necks for a second look. ‘Your hair looks amazing… I’m so jealous!’

  ‘Me too,’ Gavin said, and everyone laughed.

  She turned the page and studied the second and third picture with just as much awe. The portfolio was empty after that, but Gwenhwyfar could tell that Viola, along with everyone at the table, was made proud by the content.

  ‘You’ll go far, I think,’ she encouraged, closing it carefully and handing it back to her. ‘I wish I could be a model.’

  ‘I think you could be, if they didn’t have this silly height restriction. One of the girls at the agency told me that her friend was dropped for being too short. She was fourteen when she started, so her agency thought she’d grow. When she didn’t, they stopped promoting her effectively. That was after they told her to quit school to model full time.’

  Tom’s face contorted. ‘That’s a bit unfair.’

  Viola shrugged. ‘That’s the industry.’

  ‘Did your agency do that?’ Gwenhwyfar asked, thinking that perhaps modelling wasn’t for her after all.

  ‘No,’ Viola said, clutching her book to her chest. ‘That was Fashion First. She couldn’t find work with other agencies after that. She was too short, and too old.’

  ‘How old was she?’ Gavin enquired.

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘I thought you were going to say thirty, or so,’ he confessed.

  ‘Not that thirty’s exactly retirement age,’ Lancelot snorted. They all looked to him. It was the first contribution he’d made in days.

  ‘I suppose they prefer working with girls when they’re younger and thinner,’ Gwenhwyfar theorised.

  ‘Only because most of them haven’t finished puberty yet.’ Viola stowed her portfolio away. Gwenhwyfar was beginning to play over her arrangement on Saturday. She was experiencing second thoughts.

  ‘Do any of you know anything about a group called Free Countries? I got a flyer about it in the post the other day.’

  ‘I think I’ve had one of those before,’ Bedivere confessed. ‘I usually just throw them away.’

  ‘Apparently they have a website.’

  ‘They do?’

  ‘Yep! That’s what I’ve hea
rd, at least.’

  ‘I heard they were some extremist organisation,’ Tom remarked. ‘Apparently they were involved in the rioting the night of my party. Did you hear about that?’

  ‘Yeah, I was there,’ Gwenhwyfar reminded him.

  ‘I don’t think they were involved in the riots,’ Gavin said. ‘All I know about them is that they’re some kind of collective that’s completely anti-Milton.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them doing anything.’

  ‘We probably shouldn’t be talking about them really,’ Bedivere said, half-jokingly. ‘What if we’re overheard by a spy?’

  ‘A spy?’ Gwenhwyfar asked.

  ‘Yeah, you know how the government likes people to inform for them. I hear they like the young.’

  ‘Usually it’s the farter who first smells the fart,’ Tom mused. ‘Like the spy who suggests there’s a spy.’

  Bedivere laughed. ‘Me? Funny, Tom.’

  ‘Why do you want to know about Free Countries, anyway?’ Lancelot was quite handsome when he wasn’t scowling. Finding that suddenly they were locked in each other’s stare, Gwenhwyfar shrugged uncomfortably.

  ‘I was just curious. We did get a flyer through the door. I don’t want the police thinking our house is radical.’

  ‘They shouldn’t,’ Bedivere shrugged, ‘I mean, everyone has the right to free speech, don’t they?’

  The blare of the cafeteria seemed to amplify. ‘Hypothetically,’ Lancelot muttered.

  Curiously Gwenhwyfar observed him, wondering what he meant.

  * * *

  ‘Gwen! Supper!’

  The call was sharp and impatient. Frowning, Gwenhwyfar abandoned her half-finished Maths homework and hurried down the stairs. Her parents were already at the dining table as she joined them, her father still on his feet, helping her mother to dish up.

  ‘You should’ve called me,’ he was saying, as he took the plates off the side and dumped them on the large kitchen table. ‘You shouldn’t have let them in.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do?’ Eve snapped, her cheeks burnished. ‘They had a warrant, Garan. I couldn’t very well send them away.’