The Assassin Game

by Kirsty McKay

  Mr. Flynn puts a hand on my shoulder. My stomach jumps and I look at him, surprised. Physical contact between us is unprecedented, probably because he knows how it might seem to others.

  “Just be careful, OK?” His eyes are gray, cool. “They throw some seriously stupid stunts sometimes. Don’t get overinvolved.”

  Ha, if only you knew what I was doing last night.

  He removes the hand. “All I’m saying is, don’t lose focus. It’s an important couple of years for you, and you need to channel your energy.” The cool grays dart around the studio. “This is where you belong. We’re going to get you into art school, aren’t we?”

  I nod, smile, but inside, my heart is flipping. Blimey. How about putting the pressure on first day you’re back, Flynny? I’ve got two full years before I have to quit this joint and figure out what I’m actually going to do with my actual life. Unlike most people here, I don’t have my every move planned out for me.

  “Sure.” I nod, tight-lipped, and make a run for the door. I glance back and see him still watching me. Something’s off. Maybe he was late back because of some hideous trauma during summer break? I’d kind of thought it was just a music festival.

  As I jog past the Main House courtyard, I see crowds boarding the two buses bound for the mainland.

  I head toward the clock tower quad, which comprises the library building and the upperclassmen common room. Just off the common room there’s also a long hallway lined with doors leading to the much-envied “study rooms.” Major upperclassmen perk. I’m so stoked to finally have a study. It doesn’t look like much—a basic, teeny-tiny office shared by two students. But my study is central to my life here at Umfraville, it’s where I work, but it’s also my bolt-hole and a place to hang away from the masses.

  A few people are still milling about, but the small study I share with Marcia is empty. I dump my art stuff on my desk and take a glance at my laptop to see if I have any new IMs on the Umfraville intranet.

  Yes, intranet. Umfraville is weird and trying in many ways because it’s on an island and it’s an island that we only get off once every few weeks. What’s even worse, however, is that we are cut off from the real world in a much more significant way. We have no phones, no Internet.

  I know. Can you imagine teenage life without them?

  I’m exaggerating slightly. There is phone reception here—patchy, in the north of the island, almost two miles away from the school buildings—but use of mobiles is strictly forbidden anywhere. We have to hand our phones in when we get here, and we’re only allowed them back for the rare Saturday exeats off-island. There is a coin pay phone in the dorms and one more in a cold porch off the common room.

  Of course, we have computers…and laptops, tablets, e-readers. It’s not the Middle Ages here, and with the kind of special kids we have, it’s not like you can deny people access to the World Wide Web. However, Ezra is completely against ninety-five percent of the Internet. His view is that Umfraville is an academy of excellence, and his prodigies have no business being distracted by the junkyard of the web. We have a school intranet, set up and policed by the technology teacher, Ms. Lasillo. Through this we have instant messaging, the Loathsome Toad newspaper site, and access to timetables and shared files. And once a day during evening study time, you can get online to the rest of the world for a whole sixty minutes—send emails home and visit approved (read: educational) sites. But no social networking, no gossip pages. It would probably be easier to find information on how to build a homemade bomb than watch a movie trailer or look at shoes. Of course, if there’s something that you particularly want to peruse that is behind the firewall, you can make your case to Ezra and maybe he’ll let you have a peep. Supervised, usually. Because Ezra knows that once there’s a chink in the armor, a leak in the dam, before we know it, the whole world will come crashing down on our shoulders. And what are we, here, if not protected from the world?

  Of course, one does not run a school full of geeks and freaks and expect that someone won’t try a hack or two. Oh yes, there have been many. But Ms. Lasillo is extremely good at her job and takes a personal pride in staying two steps ahead of her pupils. According to what Marcia picks up (or what I pry out of Mr. Flynn), most of the time she’s successful, and when she’s not, it’s mainly because she wants to see just where the hacker will go. She tracks them because that’s all useful information to make the security tighter and, crucially, knowing what makes that kid tick.

  Yeuch. I think it’s all rather creepy, and even if I were clever enough to do it, I’m happy to stay put in my cage. The drug of aimless surfing is a hard habit to break, but you certainly have a lot of time on your hands for worthwhile stuff.

  No messages for me. I’ll wait until this evening and see if either of the parentals has fired off an email to me. I doubt it.

  What with Art Coma and the prospect of the Summoning, I’m too buzzed to be hungry for lunch. But I’ll show my face. Pushing some pasta around a plate is one way to kill time before I have to head down to the caves. I shut the door to my study and head back toward Main House.

  The sun is out, but there’s a chill in the air, and the smell of salt hangs heavy. I breathe it in deeply. I ease earphones in and crank up the volume. This feels great. So very great to wander around this place and actually have something happening.

  The buses depart just as I pass through the courtyard, and there’s not another soul around. But I know my fellow assassins are here—somewhere. I watch the last bus disappear down the road that leads to the causeway. A bubble of excitement fizzes up inside me, and I quiver with nerves and delicious anticipation. I turn and head for the Main House—

  —and walk into someone standing directly behind me.

  He yells; I yell, partly from shock, partly with embarrassment. I drop my bag and actually fall forward on to my hands on the gravel, bum in the air, earphones popping out.

  I crouch, brush the grit off my palms, scrabble to collect my stuff.

  A hand appears. I look up, and see a stranger’s face staring at me.

  “Cate.” The face smiles. “Bet you thought you’d never see me again.”

  Chapter 4

  I stare at the face.

  Familiar and strange at the same time; I like this face. It’s slim but not gaunt, just too long to be cutesy, with high cheekbones and a straight nose that has a boyish tilt at the end. The skin is a warm brown and hair a glossy almost black, hacked short at the sides and back, but with longer waves on top that move slightly as the boy laughs at me softly.

  “Hello.” He speaks again. That mouth…full lips are stretched across white teeth in a friendly, open smile. But it’s his eyes that are unmistakable: greeny hazel with flecks of gold; they dance at me, delighted.

  “You remember me, don’t you?” His pale eyes—so startling against his brown skin—twinkle with barely disguised amusement.

  I smile back shyly before I really know what my face is doing, but inside I’m frowning, confused. Looking at him is like looking at an old photograph that has warped in the sun or a puzzle that I’ve completed…but still can’t quite make out the picture. Familiar and yet strange.

  Oh God. The picture refocuses, the pieces of the puzzle finally make sense.

  Bet I thought I’d never see him again?

  That’s an understatement.

  The shock subsides, and as it does, a different emotion seeps in, something uncomfortable, something I can’t quite identify.

  “Vaughan?” His name comes out as a gasp; it almost feels forbidden. I haven’t said that name in such a long time.

  “Phew.” He sighs, relieved. Then the soft laugh again. “That could have been extremely awkward.” His outstretched hand reaches lower, toward me. “Help you up?”

  Before I can think better of it, I’m grasping the hand with the smooth, brown skin and letting it pull me to my feet. The han
d is so much bigger, so much stronger than I remember. I stand in front of him, uncomfortably close. He is taller—well, he would be, he’s not a little kid anymore, but he’s seriously tall—and the face, the face is still weirding me out. I can’t think why, and then I realize it’s because there is a shadow of stubble. Oh fudge. I’m not sure I can process this. How long has it been? Seven, eight years?

  “You were a skinny eight-year-old, the last time I saw you,” he says, reading my mind. He looks me up and down. “There have been some changes…”

  It doesn’t sound creepy, just pure statement of fact, but that doesn’t stop me from being doused in hotness, not knowing how to respond.

  “And with you too,” I say, and it almost sounds like an accusation.

  “We’ve both changed for the better.” He leans forward, conspiratorially. “Hormones, eh?”

  I concentrate really hard on not dying from embarrassment. It’s partly that voice he has now: deep and earthy. I remember his preteen whiny tone that was always telling me he knew better or laying out the craziest plots and plans, and now the voice is…it’s a man’s voice. It’s…nice. But it sure as bananas freaks me out.

  “I suppose so.” I get it together, trying to shake off the awkward. It has started to rain—that fine, unthreatening drizzle that has the power to soak if you underestimate it. “So, um, Vaughan…what—what on earth are you doing here?”

  “Aha!” he booms overly loud, and I find myself looking from left to right to see if anyone’s around to witness this. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” He points to the woods. “Still like climbing trees?”

  “What?” I glance behind me, at the woods up the path beyond the courtyard. “Those ones?” I say stupidly, like it makes a difference and I’m picky about which trees I scale.

  “Hmm.” He looks me up and down again. I really wish he’d stop doing that. “I’m not so sure you can climb anymore. Let’s see. Race you!” And then he takes off, full speed, toward the woods.

  What? I look around again, for a second feeling very silly and worrying that someone is watching us—Alex? Daniel? And then, ridiculously, my feet are stirring up the gravel, and I’m pounding the ground chasing him, trying to catch up, wanting to beat him just like I did when we were eight. Only this time it doesn’t look like I’m going to. He reaches the grass before me. It used to be I was the faster one. It used to be him following me, at least when it came to physical stuff, but like he said, it looks like we’ve changed. I go flat-out, I really try, and it feels better to be moving—legs pump, mind ceases to spin, banishing that uncomfortable feeling that I can’t put my finger on, and I cannot shake. He’s almost at the woods, this random visitor from my past, this complication I didn’t need, back in my life…and I’m chasing him.

  He darts off path, dodging around the trees like he knows where he’s going, like he’s come this way before. Still he’s faster, and after a minute I guess where he’s headed. He slows down as he reaches the big oak and jumps at it like a mountain goat, using his long arms to pull himself up on the pieces of half plank that still stick out of the thick trunk at intervals. Four, five yards up into the tree there are branches, sturdy and easily climbed. As I reach the bottom of the tree, Vaughan has eased himself onto the dilapidated tree house in the oak’s boughs above.

  I follow. I try to make it look like I’m climbing easily, but the branches are slick with rain, which slows me down. When I reach the broken-down tree house, I try not to puff and pant or give away that I don’t love the height up here, no longer the fearless eight-year-old. This used to be a meeting place for the Guild, many moons ago, but now only the floor is solid; the walls are mainly gone and only a small section of roof remains. Vaughan is not looking at me anyway, stretched out on his back on the planks in the middle of the floor, one knee bent, chest heaving.

  I sit down, as far away as I can get from him, my legs dangling over the edge like I don’t care, which I profoundly do. I look down; we’re pretty high up. It’s a little creaky up here, but at least we’re sheltered from the drizzle.

  “A ‘pleased to see you’ would have been nice.” Vaughan’s voice floats toward me.

  “What?” We’re swaying gently, but it looks like the ground below is moving.

  “You know, after all of this time,” he says fake casually. “A ‘how have you been?’ I didn’t expect a hug—we’re practically adults, after all. It would be awkward—but I did expect a more enthusiastic welcome.”

  Now the adrenaline of the chase is dissipating, his words bring back the feeling I’ve been trying to suppress. The feeling comes back with a thud, a kick in the stomach, and this time I know exactly what it is.

  Guilt.

  “It’s fine, you know, Cate,” Vaughan continues. “It’s not like I’m expecting you to apologize for abandoning me.”

  And there it is. The reason why this is not the wonderful reunion of childhood best friends. Guilt turns to anger, so strong and sudden it shocks me. This is not fair, just not fair of him. I swivel around and look at him, still lying there, gazing up into space.

  “What did you say?”

  “An apology is not needed.” Vaughan sits up and gives me an almost sympathetic half smile, as if I’ve accidentally spilled his cup of tea. “Although an explanation of some variety at some point would be appreciated. But all in your own time.”

  I breathe heavily, looking down at the rough planks and spreading my hands over them, trying to push the anger down. And the guilt too. The guilt is the tricky part. Everything always stems from the guilt.

  “Or let’s do it now. Get the hard-core emotional stuff out of the way.” He pauses. “You can just give me the bullet points, if you’d rather.”

  I laugh, a single, strangled burst that’s gone instantly. Deep breath. OK, let’s try this again.

  “Vaughan, I was a kid. I never abandoned—” I can’t quite say it. “Look, this is so weird! Why are you here? You still haven’t answered my question. What the hell are you doing here on Skola? Did you come to find me?”

  There’s a pause. He’s thinking about it.

  “I am enrolled as a student here, of course.” He gets up, tests a wall plank with his boot, reaches up to tag a branch above us, the platform shaking as he lands. “Well, I won’t exactly be in all of your classes, as I finished with all the normal exams some time ago—but I will be studying here for the time being. Cambridge said grow up and come back in a year.” He jumps for a higher branch.

  “Cambridge? As in Cambridge University?” I stare at him. “Studying what?”

  He shakes his head. “Not a degree, been there done that. I’m doing research now. But Cambridge wanted me to have…a little break. Hey-ho. I might tell them toodle-oo and take myself off to do my PhD at the AI lab at MIT. See how they like that.”

  “PhD, AI, MIT?” I shake my head. “Is any of what you just said English?”

  He chuckles. “I do computer science, Cate. I’m researching cognitive architecture, particularly looking at hybrid systems—”

  “Sounds great.” I cut him off. “Truthfully, you lost me at ‘computer.’ And you still haven’t told me why you’re at Umfraville.”

  He chuckles. My head is whirling, and he just sits there, chuckling to himself. Damn, he’s annoying. Damn, he’s good-looking too. There’s something about him—somehow it all works together, that face and those eyes, and that stupid mop of hair. Vaughan’s like an advertisement for something wholesome and happy. Not how I remember him at all.

  The last time I saw Vaughan, he was crying. The removal van full of our modest possessions was in the driveway of our semidetached home, and my mother was making a big show of locking the front door for the final time.

  “Good luck and good riddance!” I remember her saying. Well, I don’t really know what she said for sure, because, come on, I was eight, but I do remember the
sentiment behind it. The curtains were a-twitching; they’d all heard the rumors about us coming into money. But at 4 Burnfield Avenue, there was a face at the window. A boy’s wan face. Hands pressed to the glass. Streaks of tears.

  I was in my father’s car. The first thing he did when he got the money was buy this hideous red sports car and drive it up and down our old neighborhood with the windows rolled down. What an idiot. He wouldn’t do that nowadays, so I suppose the money has finally bought him a little class. Anyway, this car—there wasn’t even a proper-sized backseat, so I was kind of hanging out of the window.

  “I’ll see you soon!” I waved to Vaughan. I do remember saying those words because I never forget telling a lie. I knew then he was out of my life. My mother had made it abundantly clear that our lives—and our friends—were going to be very different now we had money. Vaughan had a Jamaican mother and an Irish dad, so in my mother’s eyes, that was a perfect recipe for lazy and stupid. Now I have a sudden urge to call her and tell her about the Cambridge stuff. That would blow her racist mind.

  Vaughan and I were best friends, brother and sister from the time we were bashing each other over the head with blocks at playgroup. We cut teeth together, went to school together, built dens in the back garden, and played practical jokes on the neighbors. It was like Halloween all year round. Vaughan was clever, scarily so. He designed the pulley system to lower the ghost from the big sycamore tree on unsuspecting passersby; I shinned up said sycamore to nail the thing into the branch. Whatever it was, Vaughan invented; I instigated. He set ’em up; I knocked ’em down.

  But then my family inherited the money, and I left.

  That day in the car, I cried so hard that my father was worried about his leather seats. I meant to keep in touch, meant to have Vaughan around for playdates at the new, palatial house in the posh end of town. But I was eight. Without my mother on my side, I had no way of keeping in contact.