The Traitor Game Read online

  He wasn’t sleeping, either. Not that the nightmares had come back, thank God, but he just couldn’t fall asleep. After the second night it really started to get to him, because didn’t you go mad, eventually, from sleep deprivation? And in the daytime the other Michael was finding it harder and harder to take control. He had to fight to keep the mask from slipping. Francis was sharp: Michael couldn’t afford to let him notice anything. But it was like he was trying to hide something in his hand – like a magic trick, like he was cheating at cards – and it was getting heavier and heavier, and all the time he was trying to pretend he was fine when really he was nearly dead from tiredness. By Saturday morning, when they were on the train to Canterbury, he wished he could just stay on the train for ever, letting it carry him all the way to Ramsgate and back again to London, over and over again until they found him years later slumped in his seat with long hair and a beard like a prisoner from the Bastille. He leant against the window, staring out, without talking. That was OK because he was always a bit spaced on train journeys, and Francis was never the kind of person who talked for the sake of it, just to fill the silence. Michael let the landscape slide through his head. He thought dreamily, Maybe I should just tell him now, tell him everything, and whatever he says I’ll believe it. But he kept his mouth shut.

  It was better once they got off the train and started to walk. Francis was smoking and Michael could almost taste the bitterness of the cigarette smoke; it made him feel a bit sick, for some reason, but at least he felt like he was really there. It was good, because everything else was still a bit blurry. He felt weird – like every time he passed a doorway there was someone there, watching him, disappearing as soon as he looked at them straight on. And Evgard was there too, nearly close enough to touch, not letting him forget. Nudging at him, infecting the real world. They walked past a section of the old city wall and for a moment Argent was there, inside his head, staring at the wall of Arcaster Castle, sick with misery and shame. It felt more real than the real world, somehow: dragging Michael in, like a current. He could feel the momentum of it, the clarity, so that it was hard to resist the voice inside his head. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Anything was better than this, here, now. But he had to concentrate, so he pushed Evgard away, struggled against it, like sleep. God, he was so tired; and every time he blinked he could sense Evgard surfacing. He dug his hands into his pockets and said aloud, ‘Not now, not now.’

  Francis looked at him sharply sideways and Michael felt himself flushing. He thought, For God’s sake, Thompson, pull yourself together. Think about real life for a change. But he didn’t want to. Real life hurt too much. Francis had betrayed him; Francis had been laughing at him, all along . . .

  They passed a chip shop and bought two bags of chips. Come on, chips, Michael, you don’t get more real than that . . . He forced himself to smile at the girl behind the counter while Francis ordered. Then they found a bench and sat down. Michael could see the outline of the cathedral roof. He started to eat his chips mechanically. Francis ate his quickly, smearing ketchup over the paper. Michael thought, distantly, It’s like he wants to keep his mouth full, so he doesn’t have to say anything. He ate his own without tasting them. He hadn’t been hungry for days.

  Francis screwed up the paper and threw it at the bin opposite them. It was one of those covered ones, with just a slit in the side to stick your hand through. Michael thought, I wonder if he actually practises throwing things into bins. Maybe it’s his party trick.

  Francis said, ‘OK, Thompson, spit it out, what’s wrong?’

  Michael would have loved to frown convincingly and say, ‘What?’ But the other Michael, the one who could have done it, had obviously given up in disgust. He looked down at the mound of drab yellow chips and felt his face go stiff and hot. His fingertips shone with grease. ‘Nothing. I didn’t sleep very well.’

  He was expecting Francis to raise one eyebrow sceptically and say, ‘Yeah, right. So really what’s wrong?’ but he didn’t. He gave Michael a long look – direct but distant, as though he was behind glass – and then turned away, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘Fair enough.’

  Michael felt a rush of disappointment, then anger. Jesus, he was pathetic, he was like a kid. Pretending he was doing all this tactical, strategic stuff when all he really wanted was someone to look at him like he mattered and say, ‘Come on, Michael, tell me what’s wrong.’ He felt like he was five years old, telling his mum to go away just so that she’d see how upset he was and put her arms round him. Not that he wanted Francis to put his arms round him – but it was the same thing, really. He couldn’t help himself: he said, ‘I’d explain, only you can probably guess.’ He didn’t know why he said it; except that he knew, deep down, he knew that Francis would think for a moment and look perfectly, casually baffled, and then the weight in Michael’s stomach would lift and he’d want to laugh with relief.

  Francis looked up. Just slightly too sharply. Just slightly too warily. Then he frowned and shook his head, and smiled, like, Sorry, Michael, am I missing something here? But Michael felt cold, because he’d seen the tension in Francis’s neck as he turned his head. He was hiding something. He was definitely . . . Michael cleared his throat and swallowed and licked his lips and thought, Go on, say something. Now. But the pause carried on. Francis tilted his head back and raised his eyebrows. ‘I suggest you just assume I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  It was almost spot on. It was almost what Francis would have said, if he didn’t know what Michael meant. But there was a hostile edge to his voice, a sort of precision. Michael noticed his accent for the first time in weeks: the private-school tone that said, I’m in control here. Don’t mess with me. For a split second Michael considered hitting him. But this was it. He’d planned it, and this was his moment. Even if, somehow, he already knew there was something wrong. He took a deep breath and said carefully, ‘I’ve been thinking about Evgard.’

  What was it on Francis’s face? Confusion? Embarrassment? It looked like relief – only why would it be? Whatever it was, it was gone before Michael had time to understand it. Francis was looking smoothly away at the pigeons squabbling round the rubbish bin. ‘Right.’

  ‘I think I might give it a rest for a bit. I mean, it’s basically pretty puerile. Just kids’ stuff. I mean, for Chrissake, it’s an imaginary country.’ Michael heard his own voice, heavy with contempt, and thought, What am I doing? I’m sorry, Evgard, I’m sorry, it’s not true . . .

  ‘Maybe.’ Francis’s voice was so quiet Michael wondered if he’d imagined it.

  ‘You can carry on with it if you like. But I’m sick of it. You know, when you think about it, it’s just really lame. Really sad. Kind of pathetic. There must be better things to do at the weekend.’ Desperately Michael thought, He’ll look at me in disbelief. He’ll say, don’t be stupid, what’s happened? You were enthusiastic enough last week . . .

  Francis was still watching the pigeons. Michael thought he hadn’t heard; but then Francis brought one hand up to his mouth and bit pensively on the thumbnail. After a while he turned his head and smiled. He wiped his hand on his jeans. ‘What did you have in mind? Hanging out in the park drinking Strongbow?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Not really your scene, is it, Thompson?’ Francis’s gaze was level, unsympathetic.

  Michael stared straight back at him. ‘You mean, I’m the kind of person who stays in all Saturday making up their own rubbish fantasy worlds? You think that’s where I belong? With the other saddos and weirdos and losers?’

  Francis raised his eyebrows and stared at him. ‘Like me?’

  Michael thought, That wasn’t what I meant. But he was too angry to say it. And anyway, Francis was a bloody loser. Why else would you bother to lie to someone for weeks and weeks, just so you could laugh at them? He looked at the ground, scared of what Francis would see in his eyes.

  When he didn’t answer Francis laughed. ‘Right. You know what, Mi
chael? I think that’s exactly where you belong. With the other losers.’

  It was so close to how Michael had imagined it that it shouldn’t have hurt. But it did. It was like being kicked in the kidneys. Francis thought he was a loser. Francis, who had always seemed . . . Michael couldn’t speak. He laced his fingers together and stared at them.

  Francis took a deep breath, letting the air hiss out through his teeth. He said, ‘Sod it. I don’t care . . . Whatever you say. God forbid you should do anything pathetic.’ Michael didn’t understand what he meant, but he felt like he was somewhere else, where the words didn’t really matter any more, didn’t mean anything. Francis rubbed at the knee of his jeans with a fingertip, over and over again. ‘But what did I –?’ He broke off. ‘So, you sussed it. What happened, how did you –?’ He glanced up suddenly. He looked oddly young, somehow. ‘That’s right, I mean, it’s because you found out –?’

  He didn’t need to finish the question. Michael met his gaze and nodded. So it’s true. Jesus, it’s true. You admit it. You bastard, you fucking bastard . . . He saw Francis’s face freeze over, saw it go white and rigid and strange. It was like this was the other Francis, the way Michael had changed into the other Michael. And the other Francis looked him casually up and down as though he despised him. One corner of his mouth tightened. ‘Well. Now you know. Pleased with yourself, are you?’

  Michael couldn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could move. He nodded, jerkily, feeling the resistance in his neck muscles. He wanted to say, Why? What did I do to you? Why would you do that? Do you really hate me that much? But there was no point, because he knew the answers. Or rather, he knew that there weren’t any. What did I do? You were there, Michael, that’s all. You were an easy target. If you’re different, if you’re vulnerable, if you’re weak. If you’re a victim. There’s no way out. He felt the inevitability of it sitting in his throat like a lump of dirt. He wanted a drink of water.

  Francis got up from the bench and yawned, stretching his arms above his head. Michael wanted it to be theatrical, a sort of see-how-relaxed-I-am gesture, but it wasn’t. It was as though Francis was really bored. Game over. Time to think of something else. ‘Nothing much to be said, then, is there?’ He wasn’t expecting a response. ‘Shall we go home?’

  Michael glanced up, surprised – what, walk back to the station together? – and Francis smiled, without warmth. ‘Oh, come on, Michael, get over it. I thought you didn’t want to be pathetic?’ His voice was loaded with malice. It made Michael wince.

  ‘Fine.’ Michael had won. He’d done it. He’d got Francis to admit it; he’d seen the look on his face when he realised he’d been sussed. But he felt humiliated and confused, like he’d lost, like he hadn’t even been playing the right game.

  They started walking back, in silence. There wasn’t anything to say. Part of Michael wanted to ask: Who sent me those notes, then? Who else has seen Evgard? Were you laughing at me all along, or only recently? Or just, What did I do to you? What did I do? But he knew he didn’t really want to know, because he had to keep something intact. Somehow he had to start again; he had to get out of bed tomorrow, and Monday, and the day after, and on and on and on. He didn’t want to know more than he had to.

  They stopped at a pelican crossing. Francis stood off to the side, leaving an exaggerated space between them, like Michael was contagious. The lights were taking ages to change. Michael watched the cars going by. They were pretty fast, for a main road. Normally on a Saturday they were almost at a standstill. Jesus, he was tired. The cars went swoosh . . . swoosh . . . swoosh . . . like the sea. He almost closed his eyes. He turned his head and stared down the road to where it curved. Blue BMW. White Ford Fiesta. Black two-seater. Red 4x4. He felt like he was actually falling asleep. Swoosh –

  He didn’t mean to step forward. He really didn’t. It was just that the lights were taking so long to change, and he was dead on his feet, and the cars weren’t going that fast. And it wasn’t a huge step – down off the kerb, not even far enough to cross the path of the 4x4, or only just. And it wasn’t like he was running out into the road. He was actually moving really slowly. So slowly that he felt like the whole world had stopped spinning and was holding its breath, waiting for his foot to hit the ground. He was just crossing the street.

  He was jerked back, almost off his feet. There was a car horn blaring and a sort of shriek, like there was an animal under the tyres of the 4x4. There was red metal in front of his face, close enough to touch. And Jesus, the noise, filling his whole head. His heart was pounding like someone was hitting him in the chest, again and again, and he was gasping for breath. His upper arm ached and burned. He stumbled backwards, found the railing and held on with a slippery hand. His knees, where had his knees gone? He slid down until he was crouched on the pavement, gasping. Someone was shouting at him. His trainers were dirty; they blurred and wavered like they were underwater. He heard the breath catching in his throat. His face was wet. Either the ground was shaking or he was. He held on tight and waited for everything to calm down. One of his shoelaces was fraying at the end. Someone was still shouting. He didn’t know if it was the same person or not; he just let them get on with it. More car horns. Consonants spitting at him, whtthfck, jststppdtntthrd . . .

  The first voice that meant anything was Francis’s. ‘You OK? Michael, are you OK?’

  He managed to nod. ‘Yes.’ His voice wasn’t very steady.

  ‘Then what the hell were you doing?’ It was Francis’s hand on his arm that was hurting. It hurt now, because Francis shook him, hard. ‘You could have killed yourself, you could have been killed.’ He was so close Michael could feel his saliva on his face. ‘You idiot, Michael. Christ. What the hell were you thinking? I mean, Jesus. Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to cross a road?’ He was still shaking Michael, but not so violently. Michael heard him breathe out heavily in a long rush of air. ‘You’re meant to wait for the little green man. Not walk under a bloody car.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Michael. Fuck.’ Francis laughed jerkily and let go of his arm. ‘Don’t do that again, OK? I don’t think my nerves can stand it.’

  ‘I won’t. Sorry.’ He looked up. The traffic jam was clearing. The 4x4 had gone; a string of cars was waiting for the last stationary car to drive off. There was a woman waiting to cross the road; she met his eyes and then looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘If you’re going to kill yourself, do it some other way, all right?’

  ‘All right.’

  Francis stood up slowly, shaking his head. ‘You’re a bloody psycho, Thompson. If you’d been on your own you would have died.’

  Michael wiped his face with the palms of his hands and tried to smile. Francis grinned at him reluctantly, like, I don’t know why I like you, and held out a hand to help him up.

  Michael nearly took it. Then he pulled his hand back. He looked up at Francis and saw him understand. Francis shook his head slightly, like he didn’t believe it; his mouth moved as if he was about to speak. Then his jaw clenched and he let his hand drop to his side. He watched as Michael drew himself shakily to his feet and started to walk away. Michael heard him swallow.

  ‘I think I just saved your life, Michael.’ It was a statement of fact – but colder than that. Measured, not giving anything away, the way you’d speak to someone who had betrayed you. Michael wanted to laugh at the injustice of it. The sheer bloody balls of it. He stared at his trainers, the place where his jeans had frayed at the bottom. But Francis waited until he had to look back and meet his eyes. Then he smiled, in a weird, pinched way Michael had never seen before. ‘You owe me. Remember that. You owe me your life.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Michael felt sick. The idea of it . . . He’d rather die. He wished he had died. He stared at Francis, at that strange, horrible, triumphant look on his face, and turned and stumbled away. He ran blindly, trying desperately to get away, not knowing where he was going.

  At least, he didn’t think he knew where he was goi
ng, until he found himself at the entrance to the cathedral grounds, digging around in his pocket for the entrance money. He was struggling for breath; he could feel sweat down the small of his back. When he gave the man the money for the ticket his hand was trembling.

  He went in and sat on a bench in front of the altar where Thomas à Becket was killed. He sat forward and put his head in his hands. He closed his eyes. Suppose he could just fall asleep here, and wake up not knowing who he was, like someone out of a film. Or wake up in Arcaster, open his eyes and be there . . . No. His throat ached. He took deep breaths and let himself fade away. There were people moving around, tourists . . . Once someone came down the steps behind him, talking loudly about the sculpture on the wall. He stayed still and ignored them and they left.

  When it was quiet again he didn’t know how long he’d been there. Maybe half an hour, maybe three hours . . . the light from the window had changed, but maybe that was the weather. Something was different. The voices from the crypt had faded. He opened his eyes and stared at the sculpture on the wall in front of him. Swords like lightning, like scrap metal. There were worse places to die.

  He glanced to his left. Francis was there, sitting at the end of the bench. For a split second he thought he was dreaming, then he blinked and saw how the sunlight outlined the hair on his neck in a coppery S-shape. He wouldn’t have imagined that. He wanted to say, How long have you been here? How did you find me . . . ? Please, leave me alone, you’ve done enough, please just leave me alone. But he was too tired. He met Francis’s eyes and looked away again. He waited for him to say something.