The Future King: Logres (41 page)

‘Did you get hold of your dad?’

‘Yes. He should be here in a minute.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Not too bad,’ Viola responded. ‘Killer headache, though.’ She
smiled, and Gwenhwyfar did too. ‘Did they sort you out at least?’

She nodded. ‘I only cut my knees.’

‘Viola!’

Gwenhwyfar looked behind her. It was Viola’s father, Samuel. She had
met him a few times before. He strode into the building, his tall, slight frame
bent with worry. As Viola tried to greet him he hurried over and urged her back
down. ‘No, no, don’t move—stay where you are. Are you all right? What did
the doctors say?’

‘They’re taking her for x-ray,’ Gwenhwyfar told him.

‘I’m fine,’ Viola murmured gently. ‘Just tired, and headachy.’

‘Gwen.’ Her father leant between them. ‘We should get going. Your
mother will be worried.’

Gwenhwyfar nodded and looked to Viola, reluctant to leave. ‘Will you
be all right?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said quietly. ‘The doctor will be back in a
moment.’

‘Let me know when you get home. Call me if there are any problems.’

‘I will.’

‘It’s all right; she’ll be fine. You go home, Gwen. Get some rest,’ Samuel
urged. The doctor returned to the cot.

Gwenhwyfar squeezed Viola’s hand, but then she was wheeled away and
their fingers parted. ‘I’ll see you on Monday,’ she promised, watching her
vanish through the hospital doors.

She followed her father out of the emergency room into the night, which
was noisy with the arrival of fresh casualties. She was relieved to finally be
within the safety of the family car. Ring-fenced by concrete, a solitary tree
stood before them in the car park: a lingering blood vessel to a mortal earth. Silently
her father arranged himself in the driver’s seat.

The drive home was long as the city was filled with diversions and
temporary checkpoints. Her eyes played tricks with the shadows in the dark. It
was almost sunrise when they pulled into their driveway, and a faint eastern
light quelled the moon. Weary and aching, Gwenhwyfar stumbled out of the car.
Despite being notified of their safety, Eve ran out of the house to greet them
in a panic born of exhaustion.

Just before bed, Gwenhwyfar received a text from Viola stating she
had been discharged and was on her way home. She then sent Arthur a message
announcing her safe return, hoping he was still all right.

Old
Friends

Sunday morning
passed with
Gwenhwyfar in
bed, and had Arthur not called in around twelve she would have slept for the
rest of the day. Her parents had never met Arthur before and were surprised to
learn of her interest in him, but both were grateful for his ability to encourage
her to spend a little time downstairs.

The media station was ablaze with the incident. Garan’s account of
the situation had been accurate. There had been three bombs: one in a club, one
in a bar and one in a hospital, but the third had not detonated. The fourth
attempt was on the Thames Barrier to coincide with the chaos of a congested
city. The mystery, however, was not where, but why, and who.

The montage of images flashing across the screen halted, the
broadcast interrupted by a speech from George Milton. He sheltered from the
drizzle under a black umbrella, his grey suit still dry despite the rain.
Camera bulbs flashed like strobe lighting. Milton was a man of average height,
softening with middle age, his dark hair starkly receding at his temples.

Gwenhwyfar gazed at her Prime Minister, secure in the crook of
Arthur’s arm, with her mother’s hand tightly clutching her own. The newsreader
mentioned further developments in the government’s response to the attacks,
described the scene, and was then silenced by George Milton’s opening words.

“Thank you all for being here with me. There are some people out
there who are not going to like what I have to say today, but given the
severity of the situation, I am going to give it to you straight. Last night,
two hundred and seven British citizens were murdered in a set of mindless
attacks that struck at the very heart of our great nation. Two hundred and
seven men and women: fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters. My heart, and
indeed the hearts of all of us here today, goes out to the relatives of the
victims: the bereaved, the cheated. There is nothing that I can do that will
bring those lost back to us, but as a father and a husband, I understand the
pain that many of you will be going through today. I remember my own pain when
I lost my beloved Macy, who died of leukaemia when she was only seven, and I
remember that I, too, felt cheated. Cheated out of all those years, and days,
that we never had.

Over the past few years the British way of life has repeatedly come
under attack. It was only a few months ago when our cities were terrorised by
riots, and more recently when London was assaulted again during a violent
protest, which resulted in the death of a celebrated and much loved police
officer. Our country is still in shock. The war on terror has been long.

As your Prime Minister I assure you: this terror will not be tolerated.
This reign of fear will not last. Together we will fight these terror-mongers
head on. To this purpose a new special force has been enlisted, dedicated to
counter extremism on every level of society. These servicemen will ensure your
safety and keep our loved ones from harm. They will target the beliefs that
feed extremist ideas and, by wiping out terrorism for good, secure the future
of our children.

Despite our losses, there is hope. We stand together as citizens under
one banner with the rallying cry that we will not be bowed by terror. As
Churchill said: ‘It is no use saying, “We are doing our best.” You have got to
succeed in doing what is necessary.’ Well, I, your Prime Minister, will do what
is necessary. We will hunt down those responsible. We will dismantle those who
would harm us. Together, we will see the rise of a New National Britain,
through the hard iron fist and the justice of the New Moral Army.”

A flurry of commotion
commenced upon screen. Reporters fired out questions as George Milton edged
sternly away and someone else took the stand. Garan hissed a sound of
irritation.

‘New Moral Army?’ he growled, his thin frame hunched over. ‘New
morals: whose morals? Or does that not matter?’

‘It can’t be a bad thing,’ her mother said. ‘What would we have done
if Gwen had been closer to the blast? We would have been desperate for something
like this to be in place already. We have nothing to worry about.’

Arthur lingered close to Gwenhwyfar for the rest of the day. A
rigorous discussion on the news preceded a quiet afternoon in her bedroom, one
during which both her parents hovered downstairs anxiously, calling up to see
if anything was needed. When Gwenhwyfar had told her mother she was fine for
the fourth time, she gently closed her bedroom door and went to join Arthur on
the bed.

The sheets had been straightened, though it was not her doing.
Silently she sat next to him, their sides touching. After a few moments Arthur
wrapped his arm around her, pulling her into a close hug. The room smelt of
sleep and perfume. Her dirtied dress lay over a chair.

‘I’m glad you’re all right, Gwen.’ He drew his other arm about her.
‘I don’t know what I’d have done if something had happened to you.’

‘I know.’ She inhaled deeply, and his scent calmed her. ‘Thanks for
coming over. I know you were busy today.’

‘It’s nothing,’ he told her. ‘We went to see my grandfather this
morning, and my grandmother insisted I come here afterwards.’

‘Do you always visit your grandfather’s grave on Sundays?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

In the silence she stroked his side. ‘Do you ever visit your
father’s?’ Arthur nodded, and Gwenhwyfar looked up. ‘How much do you remember
of him?’

‘Not much,’ he admitted, trailing his fingers along her back. ‘I was too
young. He’s buried next to my grandfather.’

‘How did he die?’

‘Car accident.’ Arthur shrugged. ‘He liked to drink. He always used
to sit up late with bottles and cans around him. I saw my grandparents once,
dragging him up the stairs in the morning. I think they moved him so I wouldn’t
see him like that when I woke up.’

They sat in silence. Idly, Gwenhwyfar’s fingers worked under Arthur’s
shirt and caressed his skin. The result was instantaneous. As she looked up to
him he firmly took her cheek, drawing her into an eager kiss.

‘Arthur,’ she murmured into his lips. His hands tugged her closer,
drew her against him, and suddenly he was all over her; kissing, tasting,
touching; though mindful in his passion of the wounds she bore. His large hands
slipped beneath her top and slid along her spine, and as she collapsed into him
they toppled onto the mattress, kissing furiously.

Arthur quickly became frustrated with her clothes. The barrier of
fabric ground between them as he pulled away her top, his need consuming. He kissed
and sucked at her skin, feeling the contours of her bra, and as Gwenhwyfar
straddled him she found her thoughts go bounding into chaos.

They didn’t explore one another further. Tongues wrestled and hands
wandered, but as the hour wore on they found themselves lying half dressed across
the bed with their limbs entwined. The nervous tension had not been dispelled,
and as Gwenhwyfar lay in the nook of his arm her fingers played restlessly
across his skin.

They said goodnight at six, on the front doorstep with another long
exchange. They found their lips hard to separate, and they parted with a
promise that they would see each other in school. Smiling up at him, with the
ache of her knees still present, Gwenhwyfar thanked him again in earnest. She
waited at the end of the driveway, gazing after him as he walked down the
street, her longing eyes fixed upon him until he had vanished from sight.

News of the bombings was already common knowledge at Logres, and the
moment she and Viola appeared in their tutor room on Monday morning they were
hounded by their classmates. Charlotte, Hattie and Morgan all treated their
dressings as if they were badges of honour, uttering words of horror at their account
of events, but it was Emily who was the most sympathetic. As she arrived, late,
she appeared at their table with wide, white eyes.

‘How
horrible
!’ she
enthused, once she had caught up with the tale. ‘Are you all right? How’s your
head?’

‘It’s OK,’ Viola told her, clearly unsettled by her strident concern.
‘It’s just a bump. I’ve got stitches, though.’

‘Four,’ Gwenhwyfar added, eyeing her bandage. ‘They were pretty
worried. They had her in a neck brace, and
insisted
on doing an x-ray.’

Viola gave her a look, as if to say that she shouldn’t encourage her.

‘That’s
awful
,’ Emily
exclaimed, grasping Viola by the arm and squeezing it. ‘You will let me know if
you need anything, won’t you? Either of you. I can carry your bags, if you
like.’

Bedivere was keeping his attention diverted in the hopes that Emily
wouldn’t engage him.

‘Or if you feel unwell, let me know. I have a
ton
of painkillers in my bag.’

They expected her to return to her table, but with one seat spare she
stayed at theirs, awkwardly sitting next to Viola throughout the register.

History passed, as did English, and as the morning wore on versions
of their story circulated around the school and became more fantastical.
Bedivere walked with her to the canteen, where she waited at the usual table
for someone to rejoin her. The sun bleached the world outside, presenting to
all the illusion of warmth, its foolish worshippers shivering in the frigid
air. Lancelot’s absence would have alarmed her had Gavin not assured her he had
seen him on Sunday. A small number of students were absent due to the loss of a
loved one.

‘Gwen?’ Her eyes drew back from the window. Arthur was standing
beside her. Nervously, he offered a smile. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Good, thank you.’

‘And your knees?’

She looked down to the white dressing partially concealed beneath her
tights. ‘Getting better. My arms hurt more, really.’

He hovered uncertainly for a moment, but then to her great surprise
sat down. ‘And Viola?’

‘She’s fine,’ Gwenhwyfar assured him. ‘She’s getting some lunch now.
She’s only got a bit of a headache.’

Arthur put his bag next to hers on the table. ‘You know, I’ve been
hearing all sorts of rumours about Saturday. I think my favourite version involves
you carrying Viola out of a burning building.’

Her cheeks bloomed crimson. ‘Not a rumour started by me, I can assure
you.’

‘I know.’

‘In all honesty, I had no idea what to do. I completely panicked.’

‘Most people would,’ he pointed out.

‘I didn’t help with anything. And I definitely wasn’t heroic.’

Arthur eyed her, and Gwenhwyfar had the feeling that he thought she
was being modest.

‘There
were
people pulling
other people from burning buildings, though.’ She folded her sore arms, and
unfolded them again. ‘People keep talking about it like it’s something from a
movie, but it’s not, it’s real. People died and I didn’t help anyone.’

‘Sorry,’ Arthur apologised, ‘I didn’t mean to annoy you.’

Gwenhwyfar detected irritation in his tone, and battled a flare of it
herself. ‘You’re not annoying me,’ she snapped. ‘It’s just that everything else
is.
You
could never annoy me.’
Forcing a smile, she flicked her hair, tossed her head and exuded confidence
that everything would be all right. ‘Lance isn’t in today. So you can sit with
us if you like.’

‘I was going to anyway.’ Unzipping his bag he produced his lunch and
offered a lopsided smile. ‘But I’m glad he’s not in—it means I don’t have
to try to be civil, at least.’

She brightened at his words. ‘But what about Marvin?’

‘I’m sure he’ll cope without me for a little while,’ Arthur said.
‘Lately he’s just been trying to get me to join a political party. I’m not even
sure if I want to.’

‘You don’t want to be a politician, then?’ Gwenhwyfar teased.

‘Who does?’ Her friends began to regroup at the table. ‘It’s corrupt,
anyway. The system’s a poor excuse for democracy. They call it that, but it’s
not really. Once you elect someone, they can do anything they like, including
the exact opposite of everything they promised in the first place.’

‘What’s this?’ Gavin sat down, his face a picture of curiosity.