The Betrayals(120)

They pause for a few final words with Dettler. Then the van drives out of the courtyard, leaving nothing but petrol fumes dispersing quickly in the clear morning air. There is a smear on the tiles where Emile lay; it looks brownish, dirty. Dettler is staring at it. He jerks his head away as if he’s trying to break his train of thought, and says something to the Magister. Or perhaps it’s intended for the porters, who swap a glance and hurry away. A few moments later Dettler and the Magister move across the court, towards the Magisters’ Entrance, and out of sight.

She’s at a loss: even the smallest decision of whether to sit down or stay on her feet seems beyond her. Last night she wanted Emile dead. When she went to confront Léo, yesterday – after she’d sat in the courtyard, trying to gather her thoughts – she heard Emile’s voice, and it stopped her in her tracks. Until he said, We’re making you Magister Ludi … and she couldn’t bear to listen any more. When she stumbled down the stairs again, she would have killed him with a click of her fingers, if she could have. She should have been pleased to see him spread out on the tiles, bleeding. But now it’s real, and he’s dead … And now there will be police asking questions. When Aimé died there was an inspector who looked at her sidelong and asked questions about where she’d been. She was lucky that it was so clear what had happened, that people had seen her arrive at the railway station – and lucky too that Aimé’s telegram had been addressed to DE COURCY, with no forename. She’d changed into a dress on the train – a little crumpled from being hidden under her mattress all term – and no one guessed that she hadn’t been with Aunt Frances, no one checked her ticket. Otherwise it might have been awkward. She was too tired and numb to be frightened; it was only later that she had nightmares about imprisonment and nooses and being naked in front of a mob. This time … She doesn’t have an alibi for last night. She couldn’t bear to be in her room, or in the Biblioteca Ludi; she was here all night, where Léo wouldn’t find her.

She has to get away. Run. Catch a train today. There’s nothing to stay for. No job, no grand jeu, no friends among the Magisters. Simon Charpentier probably left long ago.

She hurries down the stairs and along the passage towards the Magisters’ corridor. She turns the corner and Léo is outside her room, on the floor, his knees up. He sees her and scrambles to his feet.

They look at each other. There is nothing to say.

She steps around him and opens the door. He follows her in, but she ignores him and goes up the stairs. She fills a haversack with trousers and shirts, pyjamas, underwear, her washing gear. When she looks up, Léo is sitting on the bed, almost within touching distance.

‘Were you going to say goodbye?’ he says.

She swings round to stare at him. He looks back at her as though she’s the one in the wrong.

‘I don’t owe you anything,’ she says.

‘Not even a goodbye? Tell me I won’t hear about your death in a couple of days, at least.’ It’s a joke, and not a joke. Unbelievably, after everything he’s done, he sounds hurt.

She wants to pick up her bag and fling it at him. Instead she looks around. She could take a few of her books, but which ones? To go from whole libraries full, to two or three … Better not to take any. As she turns, Léo catches hold of her wrist.

‘I heard they’re sacking you,’ he says. ‘It’s not fair. But don’t blame me.’

She jerks away from him. ‘What?’

‘I could come with you. Wherever you’re going. They’re bastards, but now you’re free, and … I was serious, about … Please, Claire. Let’s leave now, together.’

Of everything he could have said … She presses her fingers against her eyelids. She doesn’t know where to start. If only she weren’t so tired. ‘You’re crazy.’

‘Possibly. Yes. Does it matter?’

She drops her hands and opens her eyes. ‘You really think I’d go anywhere with you?’

He frowns. ‘Why not?’

‘Because …’ How can he ask? Why should she even bother to answer? ‘Leave me alone, Léo. I mean it. Leave.’ He doesn’t move. She has to resist the urge to kick his legs out of the way. She wants to see him flinch.

‘Why are you so angry with me?’

She doesn’t know where to start. What does he want? A list of all the ways in which he’s destroyed her life? The cheek of it, to turn up and demand that she explain … But when she looks at him, there is a flicker of something in his face that – for a second, a split second – makes her certainty waver. He really doesn’t know that she knows.

It would be something – the only victory left to her – if at least he understood. She wants to see his self-love shaken to the foundations; his conviction that he is a reasonable, upstanding human being shattered. If only – for once – he could see himself through her eyes.

She says, ‘I thought you’d changed since we were scholars. Yesterday, I thought … I’m a fool, to fall for the same thing again. I thought you were sorry, that you understood, that you loved me. But you’ve done exactly the same thing, haven’t you? You betrayed me without even thinking twice. You’ll always be that person, Léo. The one who only cares about winning, and doesn’t care how he does it. What’s it to you, if you lie or cheat, as long as you get what you want?’