The Betrayals(20)

Léo sat through the rest of the lesson without moving. The furious heat of humiliation burnt through his body, leaving a dull inertia; he said nothing about Matthieu’s game, even though he could see quite clearly what was wrong with it. It didn’t matter, when the thought of his own games made him feel sick. If only Carfax hadn’t got it right … After a long time he looked up to see Felix standing over him, and the classroom half empty. ‘Come on, Martin, I’m starving. Poor old Matthieu, what an act to follow. Who would’ve thought Carfax had a sense of humour? Amazing. Magister Holt didn’t look too pleased, though, did he?’ Felix peered into his face. ‘Are you all right? You look like you’re going to throw up.’

‘Fine,’ Léo said. ‘I’m fine.’ At least Felix hadn’t spotted it; but then, Felix was never the sharpest observer in the room.

‘I don’t know why he didn’t let us discuss it. I’ve never seen a comic game, it was fantastic. We could’ve had some real arguments about that – you know, the place of laughter in worship, the – who was it, who said laughter is what distinguishes men from beasts? Was it Socrates?’

‘Aristotle.’ Léo got to his feet. ‘He said we laugh at people we feel superior to.’ He pushed past Felix and out of the classroom. He wove through the current of people in the corridor until he reached the bottleneck at the top of the stairs; then he had to slow down, resisting the urge to shove. The group in front of him were laughing. Behind him, Felix was saying something, but he didn’t look back.

‘Hey – Martin – where are you going?’

He turned aside, ducked into the lavatories and stumbled into a cubicle. He had time to slam the door and slide the bolt across. Then he vomited.

He raises his head, blinking away the memory. It was a long time ago. It’s absurd that he still remembers the taste of bile and the splash of freezing water on his face. And the way he strode into the refectory a few minutes before the end of lunch, glanced at the smouldering damp fire in the hearth and said, ‘Hey, de Courcy, can’t you find a couple of books to throw on that?’ He grimaces, and somehow the grimace turns into a long shuddering exhalation, not quite a laugh. It’s loud in the moonlit classroom, and it brings him back to himself. He rubs his thumb over the L on the desk. He doesn’t know if he wants to erase it or finish his name. It doesn’t matter now; he can’t do either.

For days afterwards he dreamt of killing Carfax. He found the idea coming back to him again and again: some silent poison, or – no – a pillow held over Carfax’s face. There would be pleading, then a spasm of terror, a final gasp – or maybe flailing hands, if the pillow made gasping impossible – and then Léo would walk out, shut Carfax’s door gently behind him and stand in the corridor brushing non-existent dust off his sleeves, smiling to himself. It was easy to imagine: so childish, so like the villain of a melodrama, so satisfying. No retribution, no guilt: only that orgasmic moment of power, and then he could walk away. It comes back to him now so vividly it sends a shiver down his spine, as if it really happened. Abruptly he stands up, stumbles to the dais, and turns back to face the rows of empty desks. Carfax’s desk was the other side of the room, next to the aisle. He looks at it now: or rather, at the emptiness where Carfax would be. How many times did he stand here, meeting Carfax’s eyes? And hating, wishing him dead?

He jabs his thumbnail into the base of his thumb, where there’s still a tiny scar. It was stupid of him to come up here, especially when he hasn’t slept. He has to pull himself together. If he goes on like this he’ll have a nervous breakdown. Carfax is long gone; there’s nothing to be gained in thinking about him.

He goes out into the corridor. He’s clumsy when he picks the lamp up and he nearly drops it. He fumbles, steadies it and puts it back carefully on the windowsill; then immediately has to bend over, trembling, trying to get the breath back into his lungs. What’s happening to him? If he wanted to burn himself alive …

‘Who’s there?’

He jolts upright. There’s a slim figure at the end of the corridor. ‘It’s me – Léo Martin.’

‘Martin? What on earth are you doing up here?’

His vision steadies. White gown, bare head, a rope of dark hair falling over one shoulder. Magister Dryden – of course – with her plain square face, the narrow shoulders and hips … Of all the people in the school, the one he least wants to see him like this. She’s not wearing those thick bottle-glass spectacles, and it makes her look quite different; in the jumping, treacherous lamplight he almost thought—

He shrugs. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

She doesn’t reply. A wave of intense fatigue goes through him. He could be at home now, in bed with Chryse?s; if he was lonely he could pull her into his arms, bury his face in the space at the base of her neck while she muttered and went back to sleep. Instead he’s in a chilly stone corridor, staring at this plain lanky woman who thinks she owns the place. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, too weary to defend himself. ‘I’ll go back to my rooms.’ He picks up the lamp with both hands.

‘Were you meeting someone?’

‘What?’ It takes him a second to understand, and then he can’t believe what she’s suggesting. ‘No. Of course not. There’s nothing up here but the classrooms.’