The Betrayals(76)

She looks calm, but her pulse is beating hard against his hand. He can’t remember the last time he was so conscious of being made of flesh, of being nothing but a collection of chemicals and nerves and electricity.

He kisses her.

It’s as though he has split into two men: one of them is surprised. One of them would advise caution if it weren’t too late; one of them knows that it’s useless, messy, that it can only lead to trouble. One of them has known for weeks that he wants her, and has ignored it – has shut down every dreamy night-thought, every fantasy, smothering the heat. He’s the one who, as he leans in, has the time to notice the complex agate-brown of her eyes, the short lashes, the fine freckles on the curve between her cheek and nose; whose throat tightens at her resemblance to Carfax, who is lifted on a tide of memory … But the other Léo is living too quickly to pay attention: he has jumped from one heartbeat to the next like a broken record. One moment he is holding her wrist, looking at her, and the next he is mouth-to-mouth, tasting alcoholic sweetness on their combined breaths.

And the next, he is stumbling backwards, his face blazing.

For a moment he is blinded, deafened by his own humiliation; he can’t hear what she’s saying, or take in her expression. All he knows is that she thrust him away. What was he thinking? It’s not as if she’s a proper woman anyway, it’s not as if he really wanted … Oh, but he did. He has done, for a long time. It’s too late to lie to himself. ‘I apologise,’ he says, ‘I don’t know what—’

‘Please go.’

‘The brandy—’

‘Yes, you’re drunk. Is that your excuse?’ She rakes her hands through her hair until hanks of it stand out from her head. ‘You think, because I’m a woman, I must want you? Or because I should be grateful for the offer of help? Is that what you want, a gratitude fuck?’

‘I never—’

‘Get out.’ She’s gone pale.

The jumping lamplight and his doubling vision are making him feel queasy; he closes his eyes. Really, it was only the slightest, clumsiest brush of his lips. Anyone would think he’d shown her his cock. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I misread—’

‘Misread what? Me? For goodness’ sake, you’ve never paid attention to anyone, in your whole life! You didn’t misread me, you’ve never looked at me. Not properly. If you had …’ She stops. She’s breathing hoarsely, as if his mouth on hers was his hands round her neck. ‘Now get out.’

He nods. He makes his way into the corridor. His eyes are stinging; the lamp must have started to smoke. He’s still holding her glass. He puts it down on the nearest windowsill. A few steps later it occurs to him that he could have thrown it against the wall.

He goes out into the courtyard. A damp breeze is blowing; clouds are building up on the horizon and creeping like mould over the stars. He fumbles in his pocket for cigarettes, but all he finds is a single match rattling in a bent matchbox. He strikes it, and the wind blows the flame out immediately, leaving a scratch of purple on his vision. He flicks the matchstick away.

What a fool. What a blind, reckless, stupid … He should have known better. He did know better. As if she would let him … But – for a moment he thought … perhaps he was imagining it, perhaps it was the brandy, or her shock, there’s no reason to suppose that there was a split second before she pushed him away, an instant when her mouth responded to his. He shuts his eyes and tries to remember, and it makes something swell behind his breastbone, a crazy impulse of joy. And then she pushed him away.

He knows this feeling. All at once he’s back in the scholars’ corridor, ten years ago. He blinks, hard, as if the memory is a smarting speck of dust, but the dark behind his eyelids is hardly distinguishable from the looming shadows of the courtyard. He can see it like a photograph – no, clearer even than a photograph, in full colour – eyes open or closed: the corridor dim, distant voices and laughter in the courtyard, the blue sky paling in the windows as the summer sun climbed the far slopes of the mountains. Himself, dizzy with fatigue and dread, on his way to find Carfax. Hurrying as though he knew that it was too late. Passing his own cell, and finding the door ajar.

There was black on the floor, footprints, a smear. He stepped over the puddle, his mind still lagging behind. Ink. It was ink. There was a broken inkwell on the floor, a spatter of drops in an arc across the wall next to the bed. Someone had knocked it flying. On the desk there was another wet tract of black, smeared at the edge, seeping into the grain of the wood. No papers or stained notes, which was something, although had he left his diary out?

He glanced up, and then he didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it the moment he came in.

BASTARD.

The letters started above his eyeline and extended down to the height of the desk. They were formed from four-fingered swipes of ink, dark at their beginnings and fading to grey. Black trickled down from the upright of the B, the stem of the T, the underbelly of the D. The word was too big to identify the handwriting. How long had it been there? He touched it, and his fingers came away stained. Still wet.

He never saw Carfax again. The next day, or the day after, the Magister Scholarium stood up in front of the school and said, ‘I’m afraid, gentlemen, I have some very bad news.’

Ten years have passed since then. But right now – standing in the dark, with his eyes closed – he feels as if nothing’s changed.