The Betrayals(47)

Later

I hardly slept at all last night. We finished our fair copies at past midnight, and swapped to proofread and correct. By the end, my copy must have had as much of Carfax’s handwriting on it as mine. Then we went to bed, but my head wouldn’t stop spinning. Finally I dropped off, but I jolted awake at five, convinced I’d left out the main theme. After that I had to get up. I took the opportunity to have a long solitary wash and shave, and came down to breakfast feeling almost human.

Everyone looked exhausted. It was like the day after a battle: we were all dark-eyed and gaunt and stubbly (except for me, obviously, and Carfax, who clearly thinks a bit of stubble is some kind of abomination). The table was covered in files. We were all contorting ourselves, trying to keep butter and crumbs away from them while keeping them within arm’s reach. (Because, after all, if we left them in our rooms they might spontaneously combust. Or someone might steal them, which I suppose is more likely.) When the bell rang we all stampeded for the office. I ended up at the back, too tired to fight, and Carfax and I went in together. We didn’t say much to each other. Not surprising, given that we’ve been talking non-stop for weeks. When we came out, finally empty-handed, he grinned at me. I started to grin back, until I realised he was probably looking happy because he knows he never has to speak to me again.

We had wine with dinner. (Second-years only.) It’s been so long since I had a proper drink that it went straight to my head. I was sitting between Felix and Emile. They were in high spirits, and it should’ve been natural to mess about and make jokes. But it wasn’t. It felt like an act. It was like I’d been on a long sea-journey: part of me was still reeling, struggling to remember how to walk on dry land. I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept going to the Danse Macabre, tinkering with it in my head, thinking of things to say to Carfax. Then I’d remember that it was done and handed in. After a while they noticed, and started teasing me. That feeling of being in a foreign country, again.

Carfax turned up late, after we’d had the soup. I think he was hoping he’d be able to sit down unobserved, but the only free seat was halfway down our table, a couple of spaces from Felix. He hesitated, as if he was hoping for a better offer. Of course some wag made a snide comment about choosing from a set of one, and then there was an ironic cheer when he clambered over the bench to sit down. It wasn’t exactly unfriendly – we would have done it to anyone – but Carfax takes it all so bloody personally. If he could take it like a good sport it’d die down, but he doesn’t, he goes all white and hard-faced. It’s like he never went to school as a child. Maybe he didn’t.

After that first glance I didn’t look at him. I was talking to Paul about his joint game – sounds good, better than ours, so I was badgering him, hoping he’d reveal some enormous flaw that would set my mind at rest – and didn’t let my gaze wander in Carfax’s direction for a second. Now I wish I hadn’t, because I don’t know if he was trying to catch my eye. Although, let’s face it, why would he? We don’t have anything to talk about, now the game’s done.

Then someone poured half a carafe of wine over him.

I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know whether it was an accident. It probably was. We were all fooling around, weren’t we? There was a smash of pottery on the floor and a burst of noise, and when I looked round Carfax was on his feet with a big wet stain down the front of his gown. It didn’t show up all that much against the black, but his collar was red, and his hair and face were dripping. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. People at other tables craned over to see what was going on. Someone said, ‘Oh. Ah. Oops.’

There was a silence. Not complete silence, but enough to hear what wasn’t being said. Carfax shook himself and spattered drops on the floor.

‘Accident, old chap,’ the same voice said. It was Freddie, I think. He sounded drunk. Or stupid. ‘Never mind.’

Carfax went on standing there. I didn’t understand why, and then I did. He was expecting an apology. I wanted to stand up and shout at him not to be an idiot, that the longer he stood there the worse it was going to look. I took a sip from my glass and had to force myself to swallow.

‘Was that the last …?’ Freddie reached across a couple of people for another carafe, but when he tilted it over his glass nothing came out. ‘Oh dear, what a shame,’ he said to himself, and then to Carfax: ‘Come over here and drip in my glass, will you?’

Carfax said, ‘You stupid shit.’

People looked round. Thank goodness it was the table closest to the door; the Magisters at the High Table hadn’t noticed.

‘There’s no need to be like that,’ Freddie said. ‘I mean, you got more than your fair share. You can suck your gown.’

There was a split-second pause; then someone gave a huge snort of laughter. And then we were all joining in – Freddie braying, other people choking and clutching their ribs, even Emile giggling helplessly. It was the image, I suppose: Carfax bundling his gown into his mouth, his eyes bulging, drips running down his chin … Or the words, and Freddie’s innocuous tone, and the way what he really meant by ‘your gown’ was clearly ‘my cock’.

It was sheer bad luck, I think, that Carfax happened to look at me.

‘Fine,’ he said. He fumbled with his gown, pulled it over his head, and dropped it on the table on top of Freddie’s plate of food. The fabric of his shirt was purple and clinging to his shoulders. ‘You suck it, Freddie,’ he said. ‘And the rest of you can kiss my arse.’ This time his voice did carry to the High Table. I saw Magister Holt look up with a frown, and the Magister Motuum blinked heavily. For a moment I thought they’d tell him to leave, and my heart gave a lurch. But he was already stalking out of the hall.