The Betrayals(91)

‘What? Who?’ She looks down. The Magisters have moved away; now she has a clear view of the men in suits.

‘That’s Emile Fallon,’ he says.

Emile Fallon. She feels her stomach lurch. For a moment she can’t think clearly: would she recognise his name, if she had never read Martin’s diary? Has she ever seen a photo of him? The easiest thing is to stare down at him and keep her expression blank. He seems older than Martin, with a bulging belly and a double chin, although his hair is still dark and slicked close to his skull. He glances up at the window and nods to them like an actor acknowledging his audience. He has a sly, close-mouthed smile. Instinctively she turns her back. It’s to hide her face, not to look at Martin, but he seems to take it as a question.

‘He was in my year, when I was a scholar,’ he says. ‘He works for the Ministry for Information, these days. You wouldn’t know him, he’s not … it’s all pretty hush-hush. He must have been invited to the Midsummer Game. Why has he turned up so early?’

She doesn’t respond. The thought of Emile here, again … She focuses on her face, keeping the muscles still. She has already revealed too much of herself. Remember. She’s never heard of him. She isn’t meant to know who he is.

Martin raises his hand. In spite of herself she glances over her shoulder. Emile is waving with a languid motion, like seaweed in a tide. Then he reaches into his jacket and takes out a gold cigarette case. He lights a black-and-gold Sobranie, still smiling up at the window. He flicks the match away. She can feel his attention on them both, like a cobweb clinging to her cheeks.

‘I suppose he’s come to settle in …’ Martin trails off. He was friends with Emile, years ago. Perhaps they’re still friends. Why not? Swapping intelligence between their ministries. Having lunch on the tax-payer. Evidence of the old boy network flourishing, the way it was always meant to. And yet he doesn’t look exactly pleased.

‘I must go,’ Magister Dryden says.

‘Yes,’ he says, and his eyes narrow. ‘Listen – I wanted to say, I know you’re angry with me, but please listen.’

‘No need.’

‘Yes, there is. I’ve been trying to find you. You’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you?’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘What happened – I was drunk, I didn’t mean to insult you.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says.

‘It does to me. Is it because of your brother, that you—’ He stops, as though she’s interrupted him. But she hasn’t; at least, not aloud. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘For everything. I’ve already said I’m sorry. Can’t we go back?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘Goodbye, Mr Martin.’ She refuses to make space as she slides past him; her robe brushes his jacket and he’s the one to step sideways.

She walks away, expecting every moment to hear his voice. But it doesn’t come, and when she throws one last look behind her, he’s gone. It ought to give her some satisfaction, to have dismissed him so easily.

Emile is still in the courtyard, alone, now. As she watches, he blows out smoke through rounded lips. An O floats up, dissipates. Then he throws the cigarette butt away. He doesn’t bother to stub it out before he drifts towards the Magisters’ Entrance. It sits like an insect on a white tile, a narrow black-and-gold hornet, smoking.

She looks round for a grey-clad servant to hurry across the court and pick it up. But no one comes. The fag-end sits there. The thread of smoke unreels and unreels, as if it’ll go on for ever.





29


First day, fourteenth week Seventh day thirteenth week

It’s late. My head’s going round and round, like I’m drunk. But I have to get this down as exactly as possible. I don’t want to forget a single detail.

They were meant to announce the marks this evening, before dinner. But they didn’t. They put a notice up that said, Due to unforeseen circumstances, the Gold Medal and other marks will be announced early tomorrow morning.

I didn’t wait around, after that. I didn’t go to dinner, either. The idea of food made my stomach turn – let alone having to listen to the others while they complained and speculated. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Magisters; it was like I could hear them still arguing, on the edge of audibility, in high, scratchy voices like a bad recording. I couldn’t decide whether it was a good sign that it was taking so long. I always knew Red would be controversial – it takes everyone a while to come round to genius, after all – but they should have decided by now. I kept thinking, surely if they were going for Berger’s latest offering it would have been a quick decision? Or not. Maybe not. Giving the Medal to a second-year would be pretty contentious – especially for Red, which will be contentious anyway – but maybe too contentious, maybe it was stupid to hope … I was so restless I couldn’t even sit down. The only thing I wanted to do less than stay still was run into Carfax; I was so wound up I knew I’d give myself away. So I paced round my room for ages, tidied my papers, etc., etc. (I buried the Tempest right at the bottom just in case, don’t want Carfax to turn up and see it hadn’t been handed in, it’d spoil the surprise). I heard a group of the others come back from dinner – Felix shouted, ‘I can’t bear the suspense!’ and I had to bite my tongue to stop myself yelling back, ‘You’ll have got something between forty-one and forty-five, now relax,’ – but when it all went quiet again I still couldn’t settle down. There was no breeze and it was hot in my room. I was only in shirtsleeves but I was drenched in sweat.