The Betrayals(119)

The man sighs. Simon takes a step back, into the wall. There is nowhere left for him to go.

‘My goodness, you are pathetic,’ he says. ‘The sooner we get rid of you, the better. You lot – you’re like rats.’

He reaches for Simon’s arm. His hand opens like a jaw.

She puts her head down and charges at him. Her whole weight is in the impact. His body is warm and solid. He spits bitter air into her face. His arms flail and grab at her shoulders. She pushes, ramming her shoulder into his chest. He is a door, a wall, a prison. It is his fault Mam is dead and now he wants to hurt Simon too. He drags at her hair, trying to wrestle her away. Her scalp burns.

She punches him. He staggers, stumbles against the low part of the battlement, clutches too late at the stone, and falls.

It’s very quick. One moment he’s there, with chaotic hands, loud breath, a not-yet-a-scream; then he’s gone. The silence swallows him with a gulp.

Simon is staring at her. A rat would stare back but suddenly she can’t hold his gaze. She turns away. Her heart is beating too hard. She feels sick.

She’s killed someone. Not for food. Not even because she was in danger. Because of a feeling, because of how she felt when she looked at Simon and imagined him hurt, because of what the man did to Mam all that time ago. She is a murderer. It is a funny word, a word she has never used. Rats can’t be murderers. This must make her human. She looks down in spite of herself. A body. Blood on the tiles. Broken arms like wings.

‘Did you …?’ Simon’s voice wobbles. He is clinging to the wall, hands flat against it as though he wants to get as far away from her as possible. He swallows, hesitates. Then he says, ‘Thank you.’

She can’t bear it. Something closes dull teeth around her larynx. She runs away from him. All the way back to her nest she feels the way he looked at her, like a wound.





40: the Magister Ludi


The sunrise is glorious and bloody. It blazes across the sky, streaks and streamers of cloud in shades of scarlet and crimson, although the sun itself is still hidden behind the mountain. The Magister is awake to see it, standing by the window, her eyes stinging. She is in her classroom, staring out of the single window opposite the Magister’s dais. From here you can see across the valley; the village is hidden by the slope, but she can catch a glimpse of the railway line, the metal reflecting the red sky like a thread of fire. Soon she will be on the train. On the train, and then … but her mind is a blank, as though the world simply stops beyond Montverre village. Where will she go? To Aunt Frances? But overseas travel is tricky; it will take weeks to get a permit. Thank goodness she has enough money to live on. That’s something.

She turns to face her desk. No, not her desk. The Magister’s desk. Soon to be Léo’s desk.

She doesn’t want to imagine him in her place. But it’s so easy. He’ll be confident, casual, he’ll make the scholars laugh, they’ll respect him. They’ll talk in undertones about his political career, and the sacrifices he made for the grand jeu. She takes a deep breath. She has been crying all night; she’s tired. She doesn’t want another wave of fury or loss to catch her by the throat. She doesn’t want to think about what Léo’s done.

Did he know, when he called her my love? Did he know that the letters he’d written would be used to get her out of the way? He must have done: he knew he’d written them, he knew what they said. He was a spy, all along. So when he held her, when he said Carfax and corrected himself, when he offered her the rest of his life, laughing and tender and avid all at once … When she let him fuck her on the floor of the Biblioteca Ludi. He knew. Everything he’s done has been to get the better of her. The humiliation is so strong she feels nauseous.

Ten years ago she stood at the front of this room and parodied Léo’s game style. She can remember the heady, fierce pleasure of it, seasoned with a piquant pinch of shame. Is that how he felt today, when Emile told him he could be Magister Ludi? He’s won, on every count. Again.

There’s a noise outside. It’s an alarm, but not the clanging handbells that warn of fire. It’s more like the cacophonous electric bell of a police car. She goes to the door and hesitates. She must be a mess: swollen eyes, sticky cheeks, straggling hair that’s half in and half out of its plait. She hasn’t washed or brushed her teeth. Part of her wants to show herself as she is, but they’d think it was shame, not defiance. So she rinses her face and neatens her hair before she steps into the corridor and goes to the window.

From here she can see out over the courtyard. There are porters and grey-clad servants grouped around something in the far corner, at the foot of the Square Tower. Someone hurries towards them in shirt and trousers, and with a shock she sees it’s the Magister Domus, without his robe, unshaven, his hair uncombed. Another servant is trailing in his wake. He calls out something and the porter nods, replies, and shoos some of the servants away.

A police van drives into the courtyard. The bell stops as the policemen get out. The group spread out, leaving space for the police to get through, and at last she sees what it is they were staring at.

A body. Black and white and red. Like a joke, she thinks. In fact, there is something clownish about it: the fat man with his skewed legs, his intact face looking up in surprise. It’s Emile. Or rather, it was. She stares at the open eyes and sagging jowls, feeling nothing. She pulls back from the window as a policeman looks round, his hands on his hips. By the time she peers out again, the body has been covered up and the other policeman is talking to the Magister Domus, their heads close together. More and more people are stepping out into the court; a few seconds later the Magister Domus turns, his eyes wide, distracted by the growing crowd. A man in a greenish suit pushes a greying academician out of his way and strides across. He says something to the policeman and all at once the police are chivvying everyone away, barking out orders. She recognises him as he turns: it’s Dettler. He looks wan and panicky, but no one questions his authority, not even the Magister Domus. Hardly any time seems to pass before it’s only the policemen, the porters, and Dettler left by the body, while the Magister hovers by the police van, reluctant to admit he’s been dismissed. There seems to be some kind of argument going on, but when the policeman takes a camera out of the van Dettler stoops to help flick the sheet aside from the body, brisk and relieved. There are four or five flashes, just bright enough to make a difference in the growing morning light. Then the two policemen put the body on a stretcher and load it into the van.