The Traitor Game Page 12

  Michael looked up at the staircase. Shitley was still there, slouched in his vantage point, ready to trip people up as they went past. For a second Michael felt a pulse of hatred so strong it actually knocked him forward, off balance. You’ll pay for this, Shitley. And you, Harris. It’s your fault too. I hope you both rot in hell. He felt his face go blank with the force of it.

  Shitley caught his eye and waved.

  .

  .

  Eight

  Thompson’s Third Law: don’t bunk lessons, because someone will notice.

  So he went to English. He opened his book at the right page. He put his hand up, once, to ask a question. He didn’t meet Francis’s eyes across the room; he didn’t try. When the bell rang he packed his books mechanically; he had to get his stuff from his locker. Then he could go home. Thank God.

  He clung to the feeling of unreality. I’m not really here. None of this was really happening. He concentrated on summoning the willpower to get up the stairs and to the fifth-form corridor. By the time he got to the top of the stairs he was fighting his way past first-years going in the opposite direction and he felt less real than ever.

  He stood there for a moment. In the corridor beyond, Dan Holdstock was on his mobile, talking loudly, and Murray was weaving round him, throwing mock punches, dodging out of reach. Holdstock said, ‘Oi – tosser! Piss off –’ and then added hastily, ‘No, not you, sweetheart . . .’ He hissed, ‘Piss off, Murray,’ and then went back to the phone. Michael felt his face move like he was smiling. They’re real. He caught a glimpse of someone behind them, leaning forward to put something into a locker. Francis. Michael turned, ready to bolt, hating himself. Running away – because that’s what you always do, isn’t it, Thompson? You coward. He shot another glance over his shoulder, poised to leg it to the common room, and then he stopped, frozen. He’d seen a flash of white paper, skinny hands slipping it through the gap in a locker door. Michael’s locker. A piece of A4 paper, blank, folded over. Jesus, the notes . . . I’VE SEEN EVGARD . . . He felt his heart pause. He couldn’t breathe. He held himself still, because if he moved he’d trip or just collapse at the knees like a girl. What was going on? He didn’t get it. Francis? And – how had he got there so quickly, ahead of Michael? He waited for Francis to straighten up and turn towards him.

  But it wasn’t Francis. It was Luke.

  Michael stood still, watching him, letting everything fall into place around him like a ceiling starting to crumble. I’VE SEEN EVGARD. Even before Luke turned to look at him – even before Michael saw his expression – he knew. He thought, So it was Luke, it was Luke all along, the malicious little sod . . . but he wasn’t exactly angry yet, just curious, sort of wondering. He couldn’t think clearly; it was like swimming through crude oil. Why would he do that? Why would he bother? And why would Francis show Luke, of all people? What’s going on? Do they both hate me?

  Wait. He caught himself. If it was Luke. If it was Luke, then –

  It was like someone punched him. He felt it in his gut, immediately, before his brain could get there. It winded him. Oh Jesus –

  Michael closed his eyes. He made himself think slowly, carefully, as though he was writing it down; but he already knew . . . He thought, Suppose Francis took something home to work on. And he left it on his desk. In his desk, perhaps, doesn’t matter which, because he always moans about not being able to lock it. Anyway. Doesn’t matter. Luke looks at it. And Francis hasn’t shown him, doesn’t even know that he’s seen it, maybe. Until he gets the note that’s meant for me. And then – of course – he just chucks it, Christ, of course he does, he chucks it in the bin, he doesn’t mention it, because it’s just his kid brother, he’s just irritated, and that means, oh Jesus, so he hasn’t done anything wrong, he hasn’t betrayed Evgard, he never hated me, he’s still my mate, he hasn’t betrayed anything, but I’ve, shit, oh shit, what have I done, I’ve told Shitley –

  He had Luke pinned up against the lockers before he even knew he was going to move. He’d kill him. He’d fucking kill him. He felt the smack of Luke’s head against the metal, heard a dull knock as one side of his head struck the lock. Luke flailed, caught off-guard, and tried to twist away, but Michael held him tightly, fingers dangerously close to his larynx, pushing him backwards with all his strength. He felt like he could push him right through the wall if he wanted to. ‘You little – you evil little – you –’

  ‘What? What?’ Luke scrabbled at Michael’s hands. ‘Let me go! I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Michael was calm, suddenly in control. He let his hands tighten slightly on Luke’s collar. ‘You’ve been writing me anonymous notes, haven’t you?’

  ‘No.’ Luke’s eyes flickered away. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Tell me the truth, you vicious little bastard, or I’ll strangle you.’ Michael heard himself speak and thought, My God, I mean it, I actually mean it. I will strangle him.

  ‘I haven’t –’ Luke choked and pushed frantically at Michael’s chest. ‘Stop it, you psycho! I haven’t done anything!’ He tried to wrench himself away. Michael braced his feet and let his hands take the weight of his body. He felt the sinews in Luke’s neck under his thumbs. Luke gasped for breath and shook his head. ‘All right, all right, stop, I’m sorry –’ He coughed, his eyes watering. Michael relaxed his grip, but only a bit, not enough to let him get away.

  ‘Tell me what you did.’

  Luke had stopped struggling. He cleared his throat and coughed again. ‘It was only a joke. Just a joke. What’s the big deal?’ He stared sullenly at Michael as though he expected him to look away first. Michael held his gaze, levelly, until Luke’s eyes dropped. He muttered, ‘There’s no need to get all queeny about it.’

  Michael opened one hand, like a pianist stretching for an octave, until the ball of his thumb was on Luke’s larynx. He pressed gently. ‘A joke?’

  Luke swallowed. Michael felt his throat bulge and contract under his hands. ‘Just so you got a bit rattled, you know. Like, nothing serious. I mean, chill out. It’s not like anyone got hurt.’

  Except me, Michael wanted to say. Except your brother. Except that you’ve screwed up the only thing in my life that I could bear to think about. You vile, obnoxious, poisonous little bastard. You don’t have a clue, do you? But he couldn’t speak. His throat constricted as though he wanted to laugh.

  Luke pulled ineffectually at Michael’s fingers. ‘Now will you let me go?’ His voice was high and hoarse. ‘Let me go. You’re crazy.’

  ‘Right.’ Michael let him struggle. It was like someone else was holding him there, at arm’s length, digging their thumbnails into his neck; Michael was just watching. ‘Let me get this straight.’ He waited for Luke to stop squirming and meet his eyes. ‘What did you see? A map of Evgard? And did Francis show it to you or did you steal it?’

  Luke had given up trying to get loose. Suddenly he was a dead weight, limp and unresponsive; only his eyes were alive. He tilted his chin mulishly. ‘I dunno. Just a map. Francis left it on his desk. Anyway, why would I steal it? It’s, like, so sad. You and my brother are real losers.’

  So why bother to screw up our lives? But Michael knew the answer to that. Because we’re there, that’s all. Because he can. He stared at his thumbs and thought, If I brought my hands seven centimetres closer together . . . With an effort he loosened his grip. He said, ‘So the notes haven’t got anything to do with Francis.’

  Luke shrugged. Now he could breathe properly the cocky glint was coming back into his eyes. ‘You should leave him alone. He was cool before you came along.’

  It was true. Michael knew it was true. He couldn’t even have a mate without it going pear-shaped. He stared at Luke, wishing there was something he could say to defend himself. ‘So you thought you’d just try and – what? – scare me off?’

  ‘Maybe.’ It was a challenge.

  ‘Well, tough. I’m not going anywhere. So get over it.’ It would have
sounded good; except that Michael knew how lame it was. It was too late, he’d already gone somewhere. Somewhere he didn’t want to go. He pushed the thought away and looked straight into Luke’s eyes. They were so like Francis’s he felt sick. The same odd metallic brown, the same shape. God. He blinked and forced himself to keep looking. ‘From now on, you leave me, and Francis, alone. Got it? You fuck off like a good little boy and never come near me again. If you ever, ever do anything else like this –’

  ‘You’ll what?’ Luke tilted his head back belligerently.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ Michael said, and meant it. ‘Understand?’ And there must have been something about the way he said it, because Luke just bit his lip and nodded briefly. Slowly Michael let go of him, feeling the blood start to tingle in his palms as he unclenched his hands. The collar of Luke’s blazer still held a web of creases where Michael had pulled it. He started to turn away.

  Luke muttered, ‘Tosser.’

  Michael looked back at him. Jesus, those eyes, it was uncanny. ‘You think so?’ He waited, staring at Luke until his face blurred and he could have been someone – anyone – else. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  Then he smacked Luke across the face, as hard as he could.

  *

  He had to find Francis.

  He knew – rationally – he knew the best thing was just to wait by the lockers for Francis to turn up. Chances were Francis would need to pick up some books or something for his homework. So he stood in the space between the corner of the block of lockers and the wall and waited; a couple of people clocked him and said hello, but then there were too many people around for anyone to notice him properly. And it was just as well, because he could hardly breathe, let alone talk to anyone. He thought, This is stupid. This is really stupid. What if he doesn’t turn up? I have to talk to him. I have to explain. He was jumping around like an idiot, craning to check that Francis wasn’t somewhere in the scrum of people round the lockers, looking from side to side like he was watching a tennis match. Come on, Harris, come on . . . He waited there, until pretty much everyone had gone, and there was just Tom Townsend and one of his mates pissing around with a ball of screwed-up paper, and then they left too, and he was on his own. By that time he knew Francis wasn’t going to turn up. He must have gone straight home. Shit.

  It was OK. He’d just tell him tomorrow. He’d make sure he cornered him tomorrow morning. After registration, if he had to. It would be fine. Michael tried to ignore the urgency that sat like a supernova in his stomach saying, You have to tell him, you have to tell him now . . . Jesus, what could happen between now and tomorrow morning? He said to himself, Stop being a tosser. Chill out. It’ll be fine. He pushed aside the thought of Luke’s face, and what Francis would think of him when he saw it. For God’s sake, Thompson, don’t worry about that! Luke asked for it, the little bastard. Forget it. He had it coming.

  But Michael would have done anything, anything in the world, to be able to explain to Francis. He couldn’t get rid of his own voice, ringing in his ears like a dream: Actually, Shipley, he is gay. Made a move on me . . . It haunted him. Francis hadn’t done anything to deserve it. And it was the worst thing, the absolute worst thing he could have said, especially to Shitley. Oh, bloody hell. If only he could talk to Francis now, if only he hadn’t gone home already . . .

  It was a mad, irrational hope. But all the same Michael swung his bag on to his shoulder and started to sprint down the stairs. Maybe, just maybe, he’d gone to have a cigarette before he went home. He did that sometimes. Michael had seen him occasionally down in the belt of trees after school; he couldn’t smoke at home because his mum would have gone mad. Maybe that was why he hadn’t come up to get his stuff yet. Maybe he was there. Michael started to run, thinking, Please, come on, please, Harris, don’t have gone home already, please be there, I can explain, I can explain everything . . .

  He pelted down the stairs, swung himself round to his left and through the door without slowing down. He hurried across the lawn, then broke into a run towards the music block. Francis would be down by the trees. Michael knew he would. He had to be. Michael felt relief like a wave, catching up with him, pushing him forward, because they could talk properly there. They’d be on their own; no one could overhear and take the piss. He could explain everything. It was going to be all right. He ran as fast as he could, past the music block, past the cricket pavilion. Almost there.

  If he hadn’t stumbled, catching his shoe in a tangle of long grass, he might not even have noticed them. It was as he fell, twisting awkwardly, that he caught sight of them, just out of the corner of his eye, and it took him a second look, pushing himself up on his hands, before he was sure. Shitley and his mates. He struggled to his feet. They were a long way away, the other side of the music block – too far away to notice Michael – but all the same he didn’t like having them there, at his back. He carried on towards the trees, but slowly now. The fear in his chest uncurled like a hand, digging into him. There was something nagging at him, wordlessly. Pull yourself together, Thompson, stop being such a girl . . . But what was it? There was something. Something about Shitley, about his gang. Had he seen . . . ?

  He slowed down. He tried to make himself keep going, one foot, the next, but there was a kind of dread, dragging him backwards. Just suppose . . . Francis. Had he caught a glimpse –? No. He was being paranoid. Francis would be down by the trees. Michael could see it, as clearly as a photo. He’d be smoking. He’d have his jacket hung over a branch. And when he saw Michael, he’d look round, with that expression of, What do you want? Michael squeezed his eyes shut as he walked, willing Francis to be there, on his own, cool and solitary and self-sufficient, the way he always was. Please, Harris, please . . . but all he could think about was Shitley’s gang in a straggly, ominous circle; the flash he’d seen of dark red hair, a familiar turn of the head. He opened his eyes again. He was close enough to see the space where Francis should have been, between the trees, silhouetted by the sun. There wasn’t anyone there.

  He closed his eyes again, opened them. As if he could magic Francis into existence. Please. Please. But it didn’t work.

  He turned; ran back the way he’d come, sprinting like his life depended on it. The dread in his stomach was burning him now, pushing up, filling his lungs with fire. He flung himself forward, half sliding on the grass, struggling to keep his balance. He’d got it wrong. He was seeing things. He had to be. This wasn’t happening. But even before he got there, throwing himself round the corner towards the music block, he knew what he’d seen, knew he hadn’t been imagining it. His heart was going like mad: go on, go on, go on . . . He had to force himself to slow down, so he didn’t run straight into Shitley’s gang. He walked carefully, fighting for breath, over to the corner of the building, and peered round. Please, God, let Francis not be there. Please. I’ll do anything. Let Francis not –

  But he was. He was there.

  Michael could see him now, almost surrounded, standing stiffly with his hands in his pockets. Shitley was standing in front of him, smoking, just too close. And the gang. Michael saw, with a kind of sick horror, that there were more of them than before, like this was a bigger deal. They were standing around, ready to close ranks, still waiting for the signal. Before they moved in for the kill. For a second Michael wanted to turn and run. It wasn’t Francis in the middle of that circle, it was him. He had to get away. He could taste his own fear. But he held himself there, hanging on to the edge of the wall with his fingers, because he knew if he ran away he’d hate himself for the rest of his life. He gritted his teeth and made himself hold on.

  Shitley rocked back on his heels, staring at Francis. ‘So, gay boy, shouldn’t you be on your way home? Or did you stay late to suck a few dicks?’

  ‘Piss off, Shitley. Stop being such a creep.’ God, his voice. It was so close to the way Francis normally talked: except for the strain underneath the casual tone, the strident note that said he was scared and trying to cover it. Michae
l thought, appalled, He’s really afraid. He’s shitting himself.

  ‘Not denying it, then.’ Shitley laughed; a ripple of mirth spread out through the gang like a disease. ‘Or don’t you even get that far? Maybe you have to get your kicks on your own.’ Shitley took a long, pensive drag of his cigarette. ‘I heard something about a faggot once. He put a hamster in a freezer bag, right, and shoved it up himself. Apparently as it dies it’s very titillating . . .’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’ Francis met Shitley’s gaze head-on; suddenly you could see he was angry. ‘You’re repulsive, Shitley.’

  Shitley smiled. ‘But it’s not people like me that do things like that, Harris. It’s people like you.’

  Francis gave a weird, tight, incredulous laugh. ‘I don’t have time for this.’ He glanced round as though he was going to make a break for it, but as he looked the gang moved subtly together, blocking his path. He set his jaw and stared resolutely forward. ‘For God’s sake, Shitley. What’s your problem?’

  Shitley tilted his head to one side and regarded Francis thoughtfully. His eyes were half closed. He took another drag of his cigarette. ‘It’s not my problem, Harris. It’s not me that’s queer. It’s not me,’ he added, breathing out smoke, ‘who’s been coming on to other blokes and getting turned down. I mean, how sad is that?’ He smirked.

  Francis frowned. Then his eyes widened. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ But his voice was flat, as though he’d already understood.

  Shitley tapped his cigarette delicately with one finger, watching the ash fall. Then he glanced back to Francis as though for a moment he’d completely forgotten he was there. ‘Your friend Michael Thompson. That’s right, isn’t it?’ An infinitesimal silence. ‘Told me all about it. He seemed to think it was all pretty grotesque. What was it he said about you . . . ? Repulsive, I think.’ He smiled, showing his teeth. ‘Must be disappointing, being turned down like that. Bet you’re kicking yourself. Especially now Thompson knows what a hideous little pansy you are.’