The Future King: Logres (17 page)

‘Oh, come on, you can’t have honestly thought he didn’t try it. How
do you think he got those scratches on his face? I don’t know why you still
hang out with the bastard,’ scowled Gavin.

‘Sorry,’ Tom eventually mumbled, ‘Hector told me he’d been scratched
by his cat.’

Gwenhwyfar huffed. They came out into the large foyer of new
Wormelow.

‘Well, he wasn’t. Gwen scratched him, and now he’s been suspended for
assault.’

‘Charlotte, Emily and Hattie, too,’ Gwenhwyfar told them.

‘Not going to the police, then?’ Gavin enquired.

‘How can I? If I did everyone would be in trouble, especially
you
, Tom.’

There was a loud crash and a series of bangs that sounded as if
something had collided with lockers. As they turned into the English corridor,
a dishevelled boy limped past them with wild hair and a bloodied lip. Alarmed, Gwenhwyfar
stared.

‘Great,’ Bedivere muttered, clearly disturbed.

‘Looks like Lance is back,’ Gavin remarked with a frown.

Tom was grinning like an idiot. ‘Yep, and he’s doing the rounds.’

There was shouting in the other corridor, but then it passed, and
faded to an excited murmur. Gwenhwyfar gazed up at them both, appalled that
they could be so cavalier. Was this Lance character responsible for what she
had just witnessed? Arthur’s description of him suddenly seemed fitting. Gavin
may have protested at Arthur’s appellation of
thug
, but judging by what she had just seen, it was now all she
expected.

Lancelot
Lawson Lake

The back corridors of
old Wormelow were nearly
emptied. Class was over, and as Bedivere had been detained to discuss his
homework with Ms Appelbauer, Gwenhwyfar was walking to their designated meeting
spot alone. She was halfway down the corridor to the assembly hall when she saw
him, a boy in her year, inappropriately dressed in a scruffy, oversized
interpretation of their school uniform. He punched the locker in front of him
with a sharp jab of his fist, and the door clattered as he struggled to
un-stick the lock.

He had dark, wild hair that curled; his loose chocolate locks messed
by a recent scuffle, and though he was not quite as tall as Arthur he held
himself with a sure-footed assertiveness gained through obvious athleticism.
His nose was proud, adding to an unusual sullen profile defined by high, sharp
cheekbones and wide surly lips.

She wasn’t sure why, but she stopped. Something about him irritated
her.

‘What?’

She quickly pulled her eyes away with the realisation she had been
staring. ‘Nothing.’

He hit the locker door again. This time it swung open with a bang.
The bruises on his knuckles were plum and blueberry, a dark smudge across his
blushed ivory skin. ‘You need to be here, or something?’

She shook her head. ‘Why’d you punch it?’

‘Lock sticks,’ he muttered, stuffing the contents of his bag
haphazardly into his locker. He slammed it shut. ‘It works.’

‘Can’t you get someone to fix it?’

He studied her with earthy eyes crowned by dark lashes. ‘Who did you
say you were?’

‘Gwen. I’m new here,’ she added.

‘Oh,’ he remarked flatly, as he tugged the key from the lock. ‘So
you’re
the new girl.’

She was expecting him to introduce himself—to perhaps make a
comment about her ‘odd
’
accent as so
many others had done—but instead he turned, and left.

For a moment she lingered, trying to figure out why she felt so discomfited.
Reluctant to retrace her steps simply to avoid him, she followed at a distance,
catching up with him at the double doors. He eyed her suspiciously.

‘You’re not following me, are you?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she glowered.

He didn’t hold the door for her. Gwenhwyfar had to catch the heavy
wood before it struck her in the face.

‘You are following me,’ he said irritably, as they turned the same
way.

‘No, I’m really not,’ she insisted. They came to another door. This
time Gwenhwyfar pushed through it as he did.

‘Go to the principal’s office if you’re lost,’ he suggested curtly.

‘I’m not lost!’ she claimed, trying to overtake him.

‘Don’t you have some friends you can annoy?’

‘Yes, that’s where I’m going.’

His face contorted to something ugly. ‘And that happens to be in the
same direction that I’m going? Yeah, right.’

Gwenhwyfar huffed. ‘You really think I’d
want
to follow you? You must have a high opinion of yourself.
Either that, or you’re crazy.’ She eyeballed him. ‘I’m heading for the
exit
, you idiot.’

His jaw clenched. ‘Why are you even here, anyway?’

She rolled her eyes, hoping they’d part ways the moment they came outside,
but they both stomped in the same direction. ‘My dad got a job here, so I had
to move schools.’

‘No, I mean
why
are you
here
?’

‘Believe me, I’d rather
not
be here, if I had the choice,’ she said, her cheeks crimson. ‘What did you say
your name was?’

‘I didn’t,’ he grunted. They passed the Wormelow wing of the canteen.
He wasn’t going there, either.

‘What, afraid I’ll start stalking you?’ she sneered, desperately
searching for her friends.

‘Aren’t you already?’ he jibed.

As they turned the corner she saw Viola and Gavin sitting on a bench,
talking. It took them a while to notice her, and when they did, they stared.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ the boy warned, as suddenly, they
started to head for the same bench.

Gwenhwyfar stared at him, dreading what she knew to be true. ‘To sit
with my friends.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘What, disappointed I’m not stalking you after all?’

They both came to the table. Gwenhwyfar dumped her bag and sat down
resolutely. She smiled at Viola and Gavin.

‘What’s this?’ the boy demanded.

‘This is Gwen,’ Viola begun, ‘Gwen, this is Lance. Gwen sits with us
now—we’re friends,’ she explained, offering a smile.

‘So you’re Lance?’ Gwenhwyfar mocked. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.
Do you beat people up as a hobby, then?’

He shot Gavin a questioning look. Viola launched straight into their
break-time conversation.

‘I just heard from the agency. They loved the photos. They’re going
to email them to me, but I can pick up the prints later in the week.’

‘Does that mean…?’

Viola nodded. ‘I’m officially on their books!’

There was a moment of shared excitement.

‘I’m sorry, what?’ Lance was still standing by the bench, his brow
knotted into a black scowl.

‘Oh!’ Viola continued, ‘and I have a casting, too. They’re going to
see if they can place me with other agencies abroad. They’ve already had a lot
of interest.’

‘Hang on. You’re both friends with her?’ Lance looked to Gwenhwyfar
with a sour expression. ‘Where’s Tom?’

‘Music rooms,’ Gavin grinned, pleased to have his friend back. ‘How
was your little holiday? Did you get to do much?’

He stuffed his free hand into his pocket. ‘No. I was grounded. Don’t
you think I’d have come to Tom’s party, otherwise?’

Viola rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, sit down, Lancelot. Stop being so
stroppy. Wait until you hear what you’ve missed.’

‘Yeah, Vi’s a model now,’ Gavin added with enthusiasm. ‘Like those
thin ones you see in magazines.’

‘
And
Bedivere’s sitting
with us,’ Gwenhwyfar added. She wouldn’t have guessed that Lance was short for
Lancelot.

‘He is?’ Gavin asked.

‘Yep!’ Gwenhwyfar enjoyed seeing Lancelot’s expression blacken. ‘He
asked if he could join us in English. Apparently Arthur’s spending lunch with
Marvin. Then again, it could be Morgan. I just found out that they went to
London together on Saturday.’

‘They did?’ Viola asked. ‘As friends, or what?’

‘Beats me.’

Resigning himself to the situation, Lancelot sat down. ‘What’s this
about that idiot Arthur?’

‘He’s not an idiot,’ Gwenhwyfar snapped.

‘Gwen likes him,’ Viola explained.

Lancelot snorted. ‘That loser? Why?’

‘He’s
not
a loser. Not
everything is because you say it is.’

He laughed at her. ‘But he’s such a moron!’

‘He’s nicer than
some
people
I’ve met,’ Gwenhwyfar remarked.

‘No way are we letting Bedivere sit with us.’

‘Come on, Lance. Bed’s all right. Besides, it’s not like it’s
Arthur
,’ Viola teased.

‘It’s too late now anyway, he’s here.’ Gwenhwyfar waved to him as he headed
their way. Soon he was amongst them, squeezing onto their bench.

‘I just saw Morgan,
not
with
Arthur,’ Bedivere announced. ‘At least he’s definitely with Marvin. I don’t
think you have to worry about them being more than just friends, Gwen.’

Suddenly the whole table descended into a discussion of the triangle
that was Arthur, Morgan and Gwenhwyfar. Lancelot observed the scene with a
black scowl.

‘Where’s Hector?’ he blurted out, bored.

‘Hector’s been suspended,’ Gavin explained. Gwenhwyfar surveyed
Lancelot’s profile, trying to comprehend why he was so antagonistic.

‘Suspended?’ he snorted. ‘Why?’

‘He attacked Gwen,’ Viola explained.

Lancelot’s eyes shot to Gwenhwyfar. ‘Attacked how?’

‘You know,
attacked
. Tried
to… y’know…’ Gavin’s words trailed off with an uncomfortable shrug.

‘Hector? Really?’ He looked to Gwenhwyfar again, disbelieving. ‘Says
who?’

‘Me,’ Viola snapped.

‘And me.’

‘No one asked you anything, Beddy,’ Lancelot flared.

‘Don’t talk to him like that,’ Gwenhwyfar cautioned. ‘No one asked
for your opinion, either.’

‘And no one asked for yours,’ he sneered.

‘What is your problem?’

‘Nothing. I’m just not accustomed to having two berks sit at my
table.’

‘Lance!’ Viola’s eyes flashed. ‘Either shut up, or bugger off, all
right?’

His gaze was uncompromising. Gwenhwyfar glared at him while Bedivere
tried to make himself less conspicuous. Eventually Lancelot expelled something akin
to a hiss, got up, and took his bag with him.

The four watched him lope away. After a few moments of mutual
irritation, Gavin sighed. ‘I’d better go and see what’s bothering him.’ He
pushed himself to his feet grudgingly. ‘I’ll see you at lunch. Just ignore what
he said. He’s always moody after a suspension.’

Gwenhwyfar didn’t think she’d ever met someone so argumentative. As
conversation resumed, she propped her chin in her hand and gazed after Gavin as
he hurried to catch up with Lancelot.

‘Did you hear about Hector?’

Julie Appelbauer stood with her tea in one hand and her satchel over
her right shoulder, fat and full with papers. As Mr Slow shook his donkey-like
head, Agnes Brolstone went on.

‘The principal is trying to keep it under wraps. Rumour has it he’s
been suspended for attacking a female student.’

Mr Slow frowned. ‘What? When—?’

‘Two weeks ago, off school grounds,’ Agnes whispered, not quietly. Mr
Slow cast his sullen gaze across the room as if he wasn’t entirely sure he
should be party to such information. ‘I heard it from Jason. The principal made
the decision last week. What I want to know is this: why weren’t we informed?’

Julie shifted the strap of her bag as it dug uncomfortably into her
shoulder. ‘I’m sure the principal has his reasons,’ she theorised. ‘Student
safety?’

‘Exactly,’ Mr Slow agreed, loudly. ‘He probably just felt it
inappropriate to circulate the details.’

‘Oh, come John; we all know why he’s keeping this schtum,’ Agnes murmured.
Julie eyed the clock. Third period on a Tuesday was always a challenge, as it
was the bottom set: Year Nines who couldn’t care less about Chaucer or
Shakespeare. ‘It’s outrageous, really. What if one of us had left the boy
unsupervised with a female student? It would’ve been our fault, not his.’

‘If you’re dissatisfied with things, Mrs Brolstone, I suggest you
take your complaint to the principal.’

They turned, surprised to find Marvin Caledonensis had joined them. Mr
Slow immediately ducked out of their company. Agnes drew herself up, her old
willowy frame strengthening. She looked at Marvin with contemptuous eyes.

‘You do, do you? I had not taken you to be a supporter of the
principal’s methods, Marvin.’

‘You misunderstand me, Agnes.’ He cast his eyes calmly across the
room to where Andrew Graham was sitting, his large stomach barely contained by
the arms of the chair that bore him, and to Mr Eaves who sat opposite,
projecting the illusion of working when in fact he too was listening. ‘I am
merely suggesting you speak to the principal about your concerns, before
someone else does
,’ he murmured. ‘You
remember what happened to Martell.’

Paling, Agnes nodded curtly and made a brisk exit as the first bell marked
the start of their shift.

‘Julie,’ Marvin said warmly. ‘I had thought you wiser than to be
involved with Agnes’ gossip.’

‘I thought so too,’ she admitted. ‘But she got me on my way out with
her granddaughter again. You know what she’s like.’