‘I’m going to get some air,’ he told her, deafened by the speakers.
‘You’re going?’
‘I’ll be back in a bit.’
‘You can’t leave me on my own,’ she protested.
‘Come with me, then!’
She frowned at him. ‘But they’re not done yet!’
‘Gavin’s over there. Go and find him!’
Bedivere pointed, and Emily turned, looking for the tall boy. He shouldered his way through the tightly packed audience and heard an eruption of cheers as he made it through the door.
It was cooler in the hallway. How could she be so callous? Just a kiss. It had been more than that. Bedivere didn’t understand how she could have done something so intimate if her heart wasn’t in it. But it had just been a joke. She had slept with Lance.
The music started up again as the applause faded, and mindlessly he collected his coat from the cloakroom. He came out into the night, scrolling through his contacts. Maybe he should just call his mother and get her to pick him up now. He halted in the middle of the road. He would text Arthur. He and Gwenhwyfar should have left The Round Table by now. They should go out and do something. They hadn’t been out in ages.
The lot was almost deserted, filled with empty alleys and storage houses locked up for the night. He waited for a response from Arthur, but there was none. He checked the time. Gavin, he would go back and get Gavin. They could go out, they could leave Emily with Lancelot. She would be happy with that, he thought. He turned around to head back into the venue. A fist to his stomach: a knife through butter. The masked figure held him upright, whispered coldly in his ear.
‘Pop goes the weasel.’
New Moral Army
Blood. A raw taste: beaten copper across his tongue. Hector held his shoulder, pinching. The knife came out: the hand was gone. A voice barked. Not Hector’s. He fell forwards. The barbed fist struck again.
In, out. His phone slipped from his fingers and cracked on the concrete. Another hand, pushed. Folding on yielding knees.
He didn’t catch himself. Yelling, and Hector was gone. Backwards he fell, backwards and over, and for a moment he was falling eternally. Is this death? A trip, the trap below. Creeping darkness. A warm blanket on a cold night. A mother’s kiss. He saw the sky, but no stars. Blackness: above and below. Hitting the ground, falling through it. A crack. The back of his head on the concrete.
* * *
The Round Table was quite relaxed, and as it was just with the three of them, Marvin’s topic choices were much less political. They still touched on the New Moral Army and listened to Marvin remark on the press’ handling of the Mobilisation Centre scandal, but much of the session was spent discussing their futures and listening to tales of events before their time.
They were encouraged to leave early, gifting them extra time alone. As soon as the door was closed and they were shut out into the night, Gwenhwyfar felt Arthur snake his arm about her waist.
‘Do you think Marvin’s right about medical school?’ she mused. ‘I mean, I was thinking about it, but I have no idea if I’ll do well enough in my Level Fives and Sixes for that.’
‘You should try,’ encouraged Arthur. ‘How long does it take in total? Seven years?’
‘Something like that,’ Gwenhwyfar said. ‘It can even be twelve or thirteen, depending on what it is you want to do.’
‘And what is it that you want to do?’ he queried, walking beside her with mismatched steps.
‘I don’t know. I’m looking at taking a first aid course. They do them at school as an extracurricular module. It would be brilliant to go to medical school,’ Gwenhwyfar enthused, bubbling with alcohol-induced excitement. ‘I’ve been doing some research, and they all recommend getting experience as early as possible. Going to study in London would be fantastic.’
‘You’ll have to start with the work experience right away, then. Most people who want to become medics are already storming ahead by the time they’re fourteen.’
‘But that’s just ridiculous. How can anyone know what they want to do for the rest of their life when they’re fourteen?’
For a while they walked in silence, passing through the quieter streets and onto the busier roads.
‘Do you want to go to university?’
‘If I can afford it.’ Arthur squeezed her middle and then let go. They held hands instead. ‘I’ll apply for a scholarship next year. There are other bursaries as well. The problem is, Bedivere wants them too. The competition is going to be tough.’
‘You’ll get one,’ Gwenhwyfar encouraged. She found herself wondering if Tristan had ever heard about his scholarship. Now that she seemed to be safe from arrest, she wished she had asked. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Oxbridge: whichever will have me. The people who go there have the best prospects.’ They turned onto the end of Gwenhwyfar’s street, a quiet cul-de-sac with grand townhouses that seemed imposing in the moonlight. ‘I’m not even sure what I want to study yet.’
Gwenhwyfar kissed him. She drew him closer and tasted his tongue until they both pulled away, smiling in the streetlight.
‘That was unexpected,’ Arthur breathed.
She bit her lip, eying him mischievously. ‘I couldn’t help myself.’
He stooped to kiss her again. Her heart drummed as his fingers pressed gently over her cheeks. ‘I have something to give you,’ he murmured, holding his head near hers. ‘An early Christmas present—I hope you don’t mind.’
He produced a small packet from his coat pocket. It was simply wrapped, a rectangle of some sort, and as he handed it to her Gwenhwyfar felt a pang of guilt.
‘But I haven’t got you yours yet.’
‘That’s why it’s early,’ he grinned.
She peeled the paper apart carefully, finding that it separated with little persuasion. Another small packet was revealed, still wrapped. She turned it about in her hands. ‘Chocolate?’
‘Not just any chocolate,’ Arthur stressed, ‘real chocolate. The kind you can’t get. It’s seventy percent. That means that seventy percent of it is made up of the cocoa bean.’
Gwenhwyfar’s eyes rose to meet his, comprehending.
‘I know it’s a bit of a strange present,’ Arthur continued, ‘but I thought you might like to try some.’
She moved to press their bodies closer. ‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’
He smiled with relief. ‘I was going to give you some of ours, but it seems my grandmother’s been nibbling it away over the years. There’s not much left.’
‘How did you get it?’ She hunted for the ingredients and sure enough, in place of cocoa substitute was printed cocoa beans.
‘Marvin,’ he boasted. ‘The guy he usually buys his wine off had a contact that just intercepted a shipment of chocolate. He mentioned it in passing a few weeks back, and I asked if he could get me some.’
Gwenhwyfar was stunned. Surely she wasn’t worthy of this. ‘You won’t get into trouble, will you?’
‘That’s the wonderful thing about chocolate.’ Arthur took her hands. ‘Once you eat it, it’s gone.’
‘Here.’ Smiling, she carefully opened the paper wrapping and pulled back the silver foil. She snapped off a piece and handed it to him delicately.
‘Are you sure?’
Gwenhwyfar nodded. Arthur placed it on his tongue, and she did the same. Packing the chocolate away and clutching the bar in her hands, she began to stroll thoughtfully down the street.
‘It’s best if you let it melt,’ Arthur advised.
She found it hard not to chew. It was very bitter, and at first she wasn’t sure if she liked it, but eventually her tastebuds adjusted and she began to savour the rarity of the flavour.
‘What do you think?’
‘Delicious.’ Gwenhwyfar rubbed it around her mouth and then swallowed, pleased to find a sweeter taste lingering. They stopped by the foot of her drive. She gazed up at him tenderly. ‘Thank you.’
‘You�
��re welcome.’ He kissed her again.
‘I suppose supper’s nearly ready,’ Gwenhwyfar said after a while.
‘I hope the chocolate hasn’t ruined your appetite,’ he murmured.
‘Not at all.’ Their lips connected again and then once more, before eventually they resigned themselves to being parted.
* * *
The rattle of the door reverberated around the house.
All the lights were off, casting the furniture into a gloom interrupted only by the distant glow from the street. The curtains were partially drawn and the clock by the mantelpiece announced the time with its own tune.
Unsure how she was going to top Arthur’s Christmas present, Gwenhwyfar slipped the bar of chocolate into her pocket and draped her coat over the nearest chair. She called out to see who was in. There was no answer. She found a note from her mother on the kitchen table. She had gone to the supermarket nearly two hours ago.
With the house deserted and her father probably working late, Gwenhwyfar wished she had invited Arthur in. She opened the fridge to hunt for a snack, but with the taste of chocolate still strong in her mouth, soon reconsidered. It was then she heard a high whimper.
Llew snuffled and snorted at her feet through the crack in the bottom of the back door. It was locked. Fumbling, she found the key. Soon he was upon her, panting and shaking his rear end about gratefully. When Gwenhwyfar asked him why he had been outside, the old dog whined, and there was a sound of movement upstairs. His ears pricked.
‘Mam? Dad?’
There was someone upstairs. Suddenly the thought came to her that there might have been a break-in. Llew could easily have been tempted into the garden with a slice of cooked meat. The feeling that she was in danger grew as she ascended the stairs. Her heart pulsed, and she strained to hear above the sound of her own breathing.
Another thud. For a while she froze. The disturbance seemed to be coming from her parents’ bedroom. When she came to a stop outside the closed door, her suspicions were aroused. Llew whined, and gazed up at her with concerned eyes. The lights were off.
She took a breath and flung the door open. The imposter froze.
‘Dad?’
Her father stared back at her, his hands filled with clothes and her mother’s jewellery. ‘Cariad,’ he breathed, swiftly resuming what he was doing. Llew padded into the room, wagging his tail. When Gwenhwyfar’s eyes fell upon the large suitcase on the bed her stomach folded.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Packing,’ he remarked, briskly stuffing the bundles into the case. He shoved them down.
‘In the dark?’
‘The power’s out,’ he excused.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Just away for a few days.’ He hurried to the wardrobe and flung it open. Splitting the clothes on the rail, Garan bent to a safe concealed at the back. Gwenhwyfar hadn’t known it was there.
‘How long is a few days?’
The safe clicked open. He pulled out five thick rolls of money. Most of it went into his briefcase, but then he hesitated, crushing two packets into Gwenhwyfar’s hands. ‘Be a darling, would you, and go put that under the stairs? There’s a hatch under the floorboards. Tell your mother it’s there when she gets home. It’s for emergencies.’
Alarmed, she clutched the heavy bundles to her chest. ‘Why are you going?’
‘Business trip.’
‘At a weekend?’
‘A colleague’s been taken sick,’ he explained. ‘I’m already late—my plane is leaving in a few hours.’
‘You’re going abroad? Does Mam know about this?’
‘I’ve tried calling her. I’ll be back soon, don’t worry.’ He zipped the case up and closed his briefcase. He was taking more than he needed for just a few days. Garan pulled his bags off the bed, kneed Llew to one side and then attempted to get past her. They were at the bottom of the stairs when he put his cases down again. Thinking they were going somewhere, Llew cantered past them, ready for adventure.
‘I’m sorry Gwen—I know this is a bit of a shock, but it can’t be helped.’ He closed his hands around the money she held, nervously striding to hide it himself. ‘Remember, under the stairs in the hatch. Llew needs feeding too. Tell your mother I’m sorry, that I love her, and that I’ll speak to her soon.’
She watched as her father vanished into the cupboard beneath the stairs and then emerged to grab his coat. Her suspicion of his extramarital affair immediately resurfaced. She expelled a terrified sob.
‘Are you leaving us?’
‘No, of course not.’ He came to her briefly, offering a short hug that gave her little comfort. ‘Don’t be silly. And don’t cry, either. I’ll be back. I’ll call you when I get there. I promise.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I love you, cariad.’
A firm kiss on the forehead was all he left her with. She stood tear-stricken as he struggled with his case to the front door. She barely heard the tyres crackle over the driveway. Suddenly he flew back past her with his briefcase, through the kitchen and out the back door.
The sound of splintering wood crashed through the house.
‘New Morals!’ Torch beams lanced through the dark. ‘New Morals!’ they roared again, their camouflage turning them to shadows. They swarmed through the house, stripping curtains and upturning cabinets. A gunman marked her. She raised her hands to the ceiling. He shouted and jerked his gun, and she knelt in the middle of the kitchen floor, trembling.
Her father reappeared, bound and blindfolded. Llew yelped, his howls silenced with the butt of a gun. Gwenhwyfar cried for her father from the floor. He shouted back, his voice frantic through his shroud.
The gunman left her. Scrambling, Gwenhwyfar ran after Garan. A white van stood in the drive, its back doors gaping and hungry. A bound, oversized Alsatian snapped at her legs as she hurried past the threshold. They threw her father into the van. She tried to follow, pleading, but she was pushed back. There was a woman in there too, her hair sticking out like straw from the bottom of her hood.
‘Gwen? Gwenhwyfar? Is that you?’
‘Mami!’ she howled, tears running from her nose. Someone hauled her away and suddenly she was crumpled on the front doorstep, knees aching. Neighbours who had emerged to watch the scene vanished behind their curtains. Doors were slammed shut, engines roared. She wasn’t aware whose hands she pushed at as she tore after the van, only of the pain in her shins and the burning in her heart. She made it to the end of the street and halfway down the next road, but finally the unmarked vehicles turned out of sight. Gasping for breath, Gwenhwyfar fell sobbing to the concrete. They were gone.
Acknowledgements
Going it alone on a project like this is not possible without the help and support of others. Thank you to Kristof, Madlen, Mark and Martin for being involved in the final proofread before publication; and to Cat and Holly for putting the idea of self-publishing in my head. Special thanks again to Madlen for answering my questions about the Welsh language and for your invaluable advice and encouragement. Thank you also to my sample readers and to everyone who offered to help out during this process—your kindness will not be forgotten.
Kristof, thank you always for your continued investment and support in this and in everything I do, for your advice and patience, and for providing the platform I needed to write this book. Most especially thanks to Anna, who read through every draft and helped make this novel what it is—I could not have done it without you. Last but not least, to my family and friends—for your support and interest in The Future King: Logres and for not getting too bored with my most recent obsession: thank you.
Note from the Author
Thank you for reading Logres: Volume I, the first installment in The Future King series. To keep up to date with my work and upcoming titles, please visit The Part-Time Blog or follow me on Twitter.
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