The Betrayals(87)

After a while I pushed my chair back and linked my hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling. Carfax watched me. Finally he put his book down on his chest and said, ‘It’s only an idea.’

I took a deep breath. ‘It’s brilliant.’

He snorted. Then he sat up. ‘Seriously? Do you mean that?’

‘I said so, didn’t I?’ I leant back until I could see his face. ‘Oh, come on. You must have some idea how good it is.’

‘I wasn’t sure.’

‘I’ve never seen anything like it. I bet the Magister Ludi hasn’t, either. Wonder what they’d make of it.’

‘I was only playing around.’

‘Oh, shut up.’ I let the front legs of my chair thud back on to the floor. ‘You’re a de Courcy, I should’ve known that you’d turn out to be a genius. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

He was silent for a moment. At last he said, ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I shut the book and passed it to him. He took it, started to say something, thought better of it, and left.

How do I feel? Am I jealous? Yes. Of course. Part of me wants to burn it. Or write something better. Find a way to beat him, once and for all. Show him he’s human.

But also … at least it’s him.

First day, tenth week

Two weeks to go. Reflections is nearly done. This morning I caught myself wondering if I might actually manage to finish it before the day it has to be submitted. And it’s good. I’m moderately pleased with it. Although, after seeing the Red game, some of the shine has gone off it, to be honest.

Fifth day, tenth week

We had a late one last night. Carfax was helping me with the last (last!) bit of tangled thinking in Reflections. Now it’s as smooth as a mirror. As I was packing up my books – the clock had just struck two, I think – he said, ‘Thank you, Martin.’

‘What for? You’ve been helping me.’

‘I mean …’ He gestured, a wide ouverture-like movement. ‘Not only tonight. All of it. I know I can be a bit … It means a lot. I never thought I could be so happy here.’

‘Don’t be soppy.’

‘I’m not.’ He laughed. ‘All right, I am.’

Things have been going round in my head. The Red game, Carfax, Reflections, the Gold Medal … But today in the Quietus it all stopped. Suddenly I was full of happiness. As if the real me was somewhere above, weightless, hanging in the shaft of light like the dust-motes.

Third day, twelfth week

Done. Early.

Seventh day, twelfth week

Last night we stayed up late, talking. Sometimes it’s like the ideas catch fire, and he gets up and paces, as if the room’s filling up with smoke and heat. But yesterday it was easy, relaxed, the opposite of that. I’ve never felt so comfortable before, like it didn’t matter if I said something stupid. Carfax was lying on his bed, his hands behind his head, smiling at the ceiling, while I leant furtively out of the window to smoke the last cigarette from the packet that Emile gave me when he apologised for losing his temper, a couple of weeks ago. Somehow the conversation got on to the Red game. He said, ‘You know I got the idea from you?’

‘No. Did you?’

‘I was watching you once in Factorum. It was while we were working on our joint game, last term. When you still hated me.’

‘I didn’t—’

‘You made this … picture. It was just a panel of red paint. It surprised me. It wasn’t like you.’

It was weirdly flattering, to think that he thought he knew what was like me. ‘Oh?’

He shrugged and slid a glance at me under his eyelashes.

‘So I was your inspiration,’ I said.

‘Well, not exactly you.’

‘You should dedicate it to me. “To Léo Martin, without whose scintillating intellect and visceral act of imagination …”’

He got up. I didn’t realise what he was doing until he was at his desk. He leant over the folder and wrote For Léo across the front.

I sort of laughed. He looked at me.

I licked my lips. For some reason my mouth had gone dry. ‘I wasn’t serious,’ I said, ‘it’s your game, I didn’t—’

He passed it to me. I took it.

At last I said, ‘Thanks. That’s … Thanks.’

This morning, when I got up, Carfax wasn’t at breakfast. Everyone else was there, clutching their games, waiting for the clock to strike. I asked if anyone had seen him, but no one had. I squashed a roll into my mouth and sprinted up to the scholars’ corridor, nearly choking myself. When I knocked at his door I wasn’t sure if he’d answered, so I pushed it open and peered in.

He was on the floor, sitting against the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest. He was paper-white, and when he looked up he hardly seemed to register that I was there.

‘What’s the matter? Are you ill?’ He shook his head, but I crouched beside him. He gave off a sweaty, metallic scent. ‘Come on, I’ll take you to the infirmary.’

‘No! I’m fine.’ He knocked my hand away. ‘I – need to rest. Dodgy stomach. It’ll go off.’