The Future King: Logres

by Mackworth-Praed, M. L.

  ‘Any Tom, Dick or Harry can print a false document like that and pretend it’s legitimate,’ he said, slamming the salt and pepper down as Eve carefully put out Gwenhwyfar’s supper. ‘How did you know they weren’t going to take something? They could’ve hurt you. Did you not think of that?’

  ‘What’s this?’ Gwenhwyfar asked, sitting down.

  ‘Your foolish mother didn’t think twice about letting two policemen into the house, that’s what,’ he snapped. Eve’s lips pursed shut in anger. ‘And with that attack on that woman that happened last week, too! Did you not think?’

  ‘I told you, I called the local police station before I let either of them past the threshold,’ she retorted, her eyes blazing. ‘I’m not an idiot, Garan! I checked their registration numbers—they were happy for me to. They even encouraged it.’

  ‘The police were here?’ Adrenaline bolted through Gwenhwyfar. ‘Why?’

  Her question only seemed to incense her father further. ‘To search the property, that’s why. I can’t even begin to get my head around that one. What were they looking for? What did they take?’

  ‘They didn’t take anything.’

  ‘Did you let them into my office?’

  ‘Of course I did!’ she exclaimed. ‘They had a warrant. How many times do I have to say it?’

  ‘You’d think they’d have more important things to do,’ Garan hissed, livid. ‘Like arresting sexual predators.’

  Gwenhwyfar looked to her mother. ‘Why did they have a warrant?’

  ‘That’s what I want to know.’ Garan cut into his supper, forked a mountain of it into his mouth, and chewed noisily. ‘What in God’s name could they be looking for? We’ve just moved in, for Christ’s sake!’

  Eve snatched up her glass of water. ‘It’s nothing we’ve done,’ she insisted. ‘Milton’s introduced spot checks on residents new to an area. It’s the government’s way of tackling housing of illegals and the homeless. It seemed perfectly standard.’

  ‘Standard?’ Garan repeated, appalled. ‘Standard my arse! They probably singled us out because we’re Welsh,’ he bit, his face distorting to an angry sneer. ‘That house opposite us has just been sold. I’ll bet whoever’s bought it won’t be receiving a “spot check” when they move in.’

  Eve’s cutlery clattered as she dropped it onto her plate. ‘I’m not Welsh,’ she argued, ‘as your mother always liked to remind me. Nationality has nothing to do with it. I think it’s good that the police are checking up on who is moving into the area. For all we know there could be six terrorists next door plotting to blow something up.’

  ‘Such people know how to avoid getting caught,’ Garan countered. ‘At the end of the day it only impacts the average citizen. Me. You.’ Suddenly he leant forward, urgency in his eyes. ‘You didn’t let them out of your sight, did you? Tell me you didn’t do that.’

  ‘Why?’ Eve’s eyebrows arched. ‘Have you got something to hide?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t,’ he grumbled. His back snapped straight. ‘It’s outrageous, can’t you see it? It’s a massive invasion of privacy! They have time to search our house but they can’t be bothered to look out for our daughter? For all we know they’ve bugged us.’

  ‘I told you—I didn’t let them out of my sight! They barely touched anything. They had a sweeping look around each room, and were mostly interested in the attic and the cellar. They were just checking for illegals.’

  ‘What were they going to do with them if they found them, exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know! Send them off to Hastings? Isn’t that where they all go? With the asylum seekers before they get shipped back home?’

  Gwenhwyfar swallowed the mouthful she had been chewing, and looked to her mother. ‘They didn’t touch anything in my room, did they?’

  ‘No, they just had a look. They left after ten minutes, even warned me of burglars operating in the area. It was legitimate, one hundred percent.’ She fired a glance at Garan. ‘So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t treat me like I’m some kind of idiot.’

  ‘I’m not treating you like an idiot,’ he insisted. ‘I’m just alarmed. I had no idea this was happening. I mean, when did that start?’

  ‘Last year, apparently.’

  ‘I suppose we wouldn’t have known, would we?’ He offered them both an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry. I just wish I had been here. I feel like my home has been violated.’

  In the quiet that followed the argument dissolved, and suddenly it was as if he hadn’t lost his temper at all. He asked Gwenhwyfar how her day had been, to which she answered the usual ‘fine’, with a bit of information about teachers and her homework. Soon they were eating in silence again, interrupted by a low grumble from Llew.

  Eve put her fork down. ‘I’m not sure if it’s anything to worry about, but I went to the market earlier. Usually on my way I run into that little boy—do you remember? The one with the rotting teeth—but today he wasn’t there.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that he’s there every day, is he?’ said Garan.

  ‘But that’s the thing, I’ve taken to buying him soup. I always see him without fail at the exact same time each weekday. Last time he brought his sister.’ Eve caught the disapproval in Garan’s eyes, and scowled. ‘It’s only soup, Garan.’

  ‘If you get caught—’

  ‘He’s a child. I know you’re not supposed to give them anything, but it’s not like it’s money. Olivia Rose is always giving them money.’

  ‘Maybe he’s moved to a different area?’ Gwenhwyfar suggested, battling with the urge to check her computer, just to be sure that the police definitely hadn’t interfered with it.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up,’ Garan remarked through a quick smile. ‘Really Eve, you’re too kind for your own good. You shouldn’t feed them. What if we go on holiday? He’ll become reliant on you.’

  ‘He’s not a wild animal,’ Eve reminded him sharply. ‘What was I supposed to do, ignore it? Let him starve?’

  ‘You’ll be wanting to bring him home, next. He has parents.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Like I said—’

  ‘It’s a scam, right. I see him every day. I was considering calling social services, for him and his sister.’

  ‘If you think it will help.’ There was a long silence. Eve stiffly rose to clear the plates. Gwenhwyfar stood to lend a hand.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up, Mam. Maybe social services have picked him up already?’

  ‘I would have liked to have known about it,’ Eve said. Smiling, she shook her head, and turned the taps on full blast. ‘Never mind. I just thought it was odd, that’s all. He’s probably just found someone who buys him sweets instead.’

  Gwenhwyfar put the condiments back in the cupboard. The legs of Garan’s chair scraped across the floor. Garan kneed his way past Llew, who was hovering for scraps. ‘I’m going to check my office,’ he declared, stalking out of the room. Gwenhwyfar looked to her mother, who offered a sympathetic shrug.

  ‘He’s just stressed,’ she excused. ‘Work’s a bit hectic for him at the moment. He’ll be back to his old self in no time, I’m sure.’

  Gwenhwyfar hoped so. There wasn’t an evening since they moved here that hadn’t involved some sort of spat between her parents. Most of it was passive-aggressive, but it was draining, and she didn’t know how to rectify it or why it was suddenly a continuing problem.

  * * *

  French had traditionally been a lonely affair until Lancelot returned to school, and unfortunately for Gwenhwyfar the empty table she had chosen to sit at just so happened to be his. It was Friday, and encouraged by the last few break times she had decided to try and get to know him a little better. Finding a topic he didn’t immediately explode over was difficult, and whenever she did his responses were either venomous quips or amounted to Neolithic grunts.

  They were sharing a textbook, attempting to translate sentences such as J’ai un stylo rouge and Où est la piscine, s’il vous p
laît? when Lancelot finally asked her something without being prompted. Taken aback, Gwenhwyfar had to ask him to repeat it.

  He huffed at her. ‘I said, how did you become friends with Gavin and Vi?’

  She wasn’t certain if this was curiosity, or a jibe. ‘I don’t know really,’ she admitted. ‘It just sort of happened.’

  ‘Was it after that party?’ Lancelot enquired, staring intently at his exercise book.

  Nodding, Gwenhwyfar abandoned her pen. ‘They helped me fend off Hector.’ Maybe he just took longer than the average person to adjust, she mused. She studied his profile, suddenly noticing the rich chestnut spun throughout his curling hair. Her prolonged gazes were becoming an unconscious habit. ‘I’m sorry if you think I’ve hijacked all your friends while you were gone or something, but it really wasn’t like that. They’re just nice people.’ She had been expecting a snarl, but instead he shrugged. ‘So how long have you known them?’

  ‘I’ve known Gavin since primary school. He wants me to join the Royal Marines with him when we graduate.’

  ‘Really?’ She was surprised to think Gavin would be interested in such a path, and the idea of Lancelot obeying any rules seemed far-fetched. ‘Don’t you want to go to university?’

  ‘Not everyone can afford to go,’ he snapped, his shoulders hunching. ‘Though I suppose you can. You look like you’ve got rich parents.’

  He’d fired it out like it was an insult. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you look like you’ve got rich parents,’ he repeated, his dark eyebrows knotting.

  ‘They’re not that rich,’ she objected, suddenly feeling as if she had to apologise.

  He snorted again. ‘You have to be rich to have ended up hanging out with Emily and Charlotte. They’re like metal detectors.’

  ‘Don’t be such a snob.’ She picked up her pen to resume the translating activity.

  ‘I’m not a snob,’ he disagreed. ‘Only rich people can be snobs.’

  ‘Is that why you’re so grouchy all the time? Because you’re not a snob and you don’t have rich parents?’

  The space around him seemed to darken, and lightning sparked through his eyes. Sensing she’d gone too far, Gwenhwyfar found she couldn’t correct herself because she didn’t know how. She waited for the onslaught, but none came. For a while she enjoyed Lancelot’s silence, but eventually the tension buzzing within him was just too taut to ignore.

  ‘Sorry,’ was her eventual attempt, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘I’m not upset.’

  ‘Even so, I’m still sorry,’ she pursued.

  ‘So what?’ Lancelot scribbled in each rectangle in the margin of his exercise book. His hiss was enough to convince her to leave it, so she resumed her schoolwork. She moved on to something more challenging, French poems they weren’t supposed to be examining until next year. The final word of one sentence eluded her. As Lancelot sat brooding beside her, she repeated it in her head methodically.

  L'ombre se transforme en nuit, et de la nuit à la poussière.

  The Round Table

  Arthur had never seen anything like it.

  It was a small town house, pocketed away at the end of a long road, tall in stature and deceptively thin. It wasn’t the exterior that had him wondering, however, it was Marvin’s apparent obsession with unusual things. The walls were cluttered from floor to ceiling with them.

  Arthur guessed that at some point in his life, Marvin had travelled extensively. Exotic pots, carvings, wind chimes, musical instruments and obsolete weapons covered the walls, interrupted by the odd oil painting. The unpolished floor groaned beneath their feet as they moved deeper into the house. Overlooking the staircase was the head of a great stag, grey with age.

  ‘That’s Rudolph,’ Marvin explained as he took Arthur’s coat. ‘My great-great-grandfather shot him sometime in the 1930s. I should dust him, really, but I like that he looks his age.’

  Marvin left Arthur to hang his coat out of sight. Noticing an old photograph by one of the closed doors, Arthur bent down to inspect it, realising that it was of Marvin in his early twenties. Next to him was another man similar in age and stature.

  ‘The others should be here soon, no doubt.’ Marvin reappeared from the closet, and clapped his hands together. ‘Let me show you around. I was thinking of using the study. What do you think? Will it do?’

  It wasn’t the biggest room of the house, but Arthur suspected it might have been, had the walls not been lined from floor to ceiling with books. Most of them were coated in thick dust, but a few had recently been read.

  ‘I think this is where we’ll sit,’ Marvin said, circling the room excitably. ‘I have to say that I’m rather nervous. I just hope the others will find it as interesting as you do, Arthur. Would you like a drink?’

  He nodded dumbly, and was surprised when Marvin unlatched a compartment in the bookcase. Inside was an old bottle with several glasses.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This? Oh, this is where I keep my consumables,’ Marvin grinned. He took out a corkscrew, and placed the bottle on the round, polished table. ‘Have you ever had wine before, Arthur?’

  ‘Once,’ he admitted. He picked the bottle up with interest, wiping the grain-like sawdust away to clear the label. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘The black market.’ Marvin closed the hatch in the bookcase and commandeered the wine. ‘This particular label is my favourite. It’s too expensive to drink on a regular basis, so I save it for special occasions. It used to be abundant on the market but the drought and dry winds of ’forty-eight damaged Europe’s wine supplies. Now most of it goes to parliament, and what little is left to be sold on the sly has more than tripled in price.’ The cork popped as it came struggling out of the bottleneck. Once the glasses were dusted, Marvin poured Arthur a small taster. ‘I know you’re not legally allowed to drink until you’re twenty-five, but I thought this would be a good way to start our sessions. To demonstrate to you what else is being forgotten.’

  The doorbell rang. Marvin shoved the bottle into Arthur’s hands. ‘Ah! Squirrel this away if that’s not our other two members, would you?’ He hurried to answer the door. Curiously, Arthur read the date on the label. France, 2021. His nose hovered over the neck, and he inhaled. The smell was overpowering, but that was to be expected for something that was thirty-one years old.

  ‘Come in, come in. I was just telling Arthur about enjoying things long forgotten. Would you both like some?’ He hurried to the glasses, and reclaimed the bottle.

  ‘You mean that’s actual wine?’ Bedivere seemed more eager than Morgan, who hung back, afraid of doing something wrong.

  ‘Yes, it’s actual wine, one of the many things being withheld by Milton. I suppose you’ve never heard of his particular weakness for French red?’

  The burgundy liquid glugged into each glass, and Morgan and Bedivere received them tentatively.

  ‘No, no I haven’t,’ Arthur grinned. He smelt it again, and found it was less potent than before.

  ‘We should have a toast.’ They all looked to Marvin and mirrored the raising of his glass. ‘To truth, and knowledge.’

  They murmured the words uncomfortably, waiting for their cue to drink. Bedivere coughed, and Arthur winced. Morgan screwed up her face then raised her glass again to discreetly spit it back out.

  ‘It does take some getting used to, freedom. I believe it is an acquired taste, one that develops the more you’re subjected to it.’ Marvin sat, his pale eyes scanning across the nearly empty table. ‘Before we begin, we should decide on a name. Are there any suggestions?’

  No one wanted to go first. Morgan stared at the books opposite, and Bedivere swirled his glass.

  ‘Arthur! You’re usually the first to come up with such things,’ Marvin tried. ‘Have you thought of any possibilities?’

  Arthur racked his brain, concentrating on his little-used creativity to try and think of something witty. ‘History Club?’ he eventuall
y shrugged. Morgan looked at him, and smirked.

  ‘We can do better than that. Anyone else?’

  Encouraged, Bedivere cleared his throat. ‘How about Marvin’s Maniacs?’

  ‘Clever, very clever… though I don’t think that’s quite appropriate, do you, Bedivere?’

  Morgan’s eyes rose up to meet Arthur’s. ‘How about… how about Round Table?’

  ‘Round Table Club?’ Bedivere questioned, not getting it.

  ‘No: The Round Table. We’d say; we have another meeting with The Round Table.’

  Marvin seemed pleased.

  ‘Well, the table is round,’ Morgan pointed out.

  ‘How about Tabula Rotunda, to make it less obvious?’ Steeling himself, Arthur took another sip of his wine.

  ‘Tabula Rotunda could work. A bit of Latin never hurts.’

  Morgan looked to Marvin. ‘But it’s too hard to pronounce. Why not just stick with The Round Table? No one will know what we’re talking about, anyway.’

  ‘We should have a vote,’ Arthur insisted.

  ‘A vote! Ah yes, our first attempt at democracy. All in favour of The Round Table?’

  Bedivere and Morgan both raised their hands.

  ‘All in favour of Tabula Rotunda?’

  Marvin and Arthur raised their hands. The others looked displeased.

  ‘Well, that’s no good.’ Bedivere dipped his finger in the warm wine, tasting it on his lips. ‘So much for democracy.’

  ‘This won’t do,’ murmured Marvin, scraping his scalp with blunt, bitten nails. ‘Won’t someone relent?’

  Silence ensued. All eyes looked to one another, Morgan adamant, Bedivere shy. Eventually Arthur gave in. ‘I suppose The Round Table will do,’ he muttered, irked. Marvin beamed.

  ‘That’s settled then. Now, I thought we’d begin with the darker side of human cloning—there are longstanding rumours that Asia and the States have been using clone technology to test biological weapons. Or we could look at the politics of Milton’s party, and those preceding it. Arthur’s been reading a rather interesting book on surveillance. 1984 is a good one too—you must have heard of that.’