The Future King: Logres (34 page)

The New National banner lit up in one great
woosh
, the flames licking the white stone of the building it hung
from. The popping of plastic bullets clicked to the pop of metal, and the
screaming was cut short; a dozen were down.

‘Gwen!’

He grabbed her by the hand and yanked her away so hard she thought
her arm might come off. He started to run, and she ran with him, looking back
on the warzone; another Molotov burst and another banner lit up; rocks and
stones bounced off riot shields, whilst the furious kin of the dead howled in
handcuffs or were beaten to the ground.

She didn’t realise she was crying until tears beaded on her lashes,
blurring her vision. She stumbled, but Arthur dragged her up, and for a moment
he was swinging her forwards with one arm until she found her feet again, and
ran with him.

‘We need to get out of here,’ he urged, though the chaos was
unfurling ahead of them now, too, and shots could be heard in Trafalgar. ‘We
need to get to Marvin.’

There was no way forwards, no way back. With determination Arthur
pushed his way along the road, past Downing Street. It was packed here, as each
street either side of Whitehall was gated shut, but there was some protection
in numbers, and they were shielded.

‘We’ve got to keep going!’ Arthur shouted, dragging her, pulling her
between other bodies and through gaps so small that she thought she might pop.
‘A little further!’

They came to the next junction, blocked by cattle gating. The crowd
was thinner at the side of the river. One of the gates had toppled and people
crashed through it like water. Another gate near it was unguarded—an
opening. Arthur turned Gwenhwyfar to face him, but she couldn’t see his eyes.

‘We’ve got to run for it! If I get caught, keep going, got it?’

She nodded, and then shouted when she remembered he couldn’t see.

They ran at the fence together. Arthur was first over, Gwenhwyfar
second. Someone grabbed at her overall and tripped her up mid flight. She
landed on the gating with a painful crack, half over, and then it toppled, too.
Immediately people were running around her, stepping on her, and she was pulled
backwards, up and by the foot like a dead rabbit. Arthur grabbed her in the
nick of time. She kicked herself free. Every inch of her throbbed as Arthur
tugged her loose from the crowd, and suddenly she was running with him again
out onto the Victoria Embankment.

‘All right?’

Adrenaline coursed through her. ‘What do we do?’

After a second’s breath they were moving, sprinting with those who
had managed to escape. The public stared. Others averted their eyes, as if
looking at them was in itself a crime. Gwenhwyfar didn’t like the attention
they were attracting.

‘We should change!’

‘We can’t change.’

‘People are looking at us. What about the police?’

‘We’ll have to risk it,’ Arthur said. ‘We can’t show our faces, not
yet. Marvin said we should protect our identity at all costs.’

He hurried again, faster, and soon they had lost the other protestors
and were running over Waterloo Bridge. Gwenhwyfar didn’t think she could keep up
the pace much longer. She was near to suffocating in the mask, each impact with
the concrete sent painful shots up her shins, and she had a burning pain in her
side; a stitch or a more serious injury, she couldn’t tell.

They outran and hid from two more police officers before they made it
to Marvin’s rendezvous. He was waiting for them on the Southbank, parked in a
back-alley out of sight of pedestrians and cameras. He got out of the driver’s
seat when he spotted them, slamming the door.

‘Don’t tell me what happened, I already know,’ he barked, ushering
them around to the rear of the transit van. Quickly he opened the doors, and
they jumped inside. ‘The others aren’t back yet. If they’re not here in half an
hour, we’re leaving.’

He shut them in before they could utter a word. The van was lit by
torchlight. Gwenhwyfar took her mask off immediately, wishing she could have
had at least one gulp of fresh air. Arthur did the same. His brow was glazed in
sweat.

‘Made it, then,’ Bedivere smiled. He looked pale but seemed
unscathed. ‘Where were you when it happened?’

‘Right by Parliament,’ Arthur said, huffing. He drew in a sharp breath.
Heaving, Gwenhwyfar sucked in as much air as she could. ‘You?’

‘Closer to Trafalgar,’ Bedivere said. ‘They almost got Gavin.’

Gavin lifted his right arm. It was cuffed. ‘Don’t suppose anyone’s
got the key?’

‘What happened?’

‘One guy got me in a lock, on his own. Lance rugby tackled him.
Almost didn’t make it, either. We got out just in time.’

‘You assaulted a police officer?’

‘He was bludgeoning unarmed protesters. He was no police officer,’
Lancelot said in a low voice, looking to Arthur.

‘You’re lucky neither of you got shot,’ Gwenhwyfar told him, still
out of breath. ‘They were shooting people where we were.’

‘With rubber bullets, I know,’ Gavin remarked.

‘No. Not rubber.’

‘Jesus,’ he cursed. ‘Are they—?’

‘Dead? I think so.’

‘Christ.’

The door opened, and they were blinded by the dwindling light of day.
Two more people clambered into the van, joined by a third. Panting, Morgan took
off her mask, and Percy struggled out of his. The doors were shut as the third
figure removed her veil.

‘
Emily
—?’ She looked
at them all sheepishly. ‘What are you doing here?’ Gwenhwyfar demanded.
Suddenly all her pain seemed to have gone.

‘What do you think?’ she remarked, sitting down and crossing her
legs. ‘I ran into Morgan and Percy. They said they knew a safe way of getting
home.’

‘But how—?’

‘We were looking for a way out, hoping to find some toilets or
something. Emily was being harassed by some men,’ Percy said, calmly. ‘It was
clear that the police weren’t going to do anything, so we intervened.’ He
looked to Morgan proudly. ‘Morgan walloped them with someone’s drum.’

‘You’re the one who chased them off. One against three?’ She smiled
at him. His lip was bloodied. ‘It was pretty impressive. It started a massive
fight.’

Gwenhwyfar looked to Arthur, who frowned and said nothing.

‘We didn’t know it was Emily though, not until we spoke to her,’
Morgan added. ‘Talk about coincidence.’

‘It’s a small world,’ Gwenhwyfar said, Emily’s presence sitting
uneasily with her. ‘I didn’t think you were the sort to go to this kind of
thing.’

‘Me neither,’ Gavin admitted.

‘Why not?’ Emily dropped her mask on the floor, and scowled at them
all. ‘What they’re doing is
terrible.
’

‘Did you come by yourself?’

She set her blue, cat-like eyes on Gwenhwyfar. ‘
Yes
. I couldn’t find anyone else who cared enough to bother. Though
I don’t want any of you talking about this to anyone, you hear? I didn’t see
you, if you didn’t see me.’

‘We didn’t see you, if you didn’t see us,’ Gavin agreed. Emily sent
him an unfriendly smile.

‘Good.’ She pulled off her gloves, and shook out her golden hair.
Gwenhwyfar watched her suspiciously, and the dull ache returned, settling deep
into her joints.

The engine started, and then they were moving. Percy sat down, nearly
falling over, while Lancelot, Gavin and Bedivere were already wedged against
the back wall of the van. Lancelot had a shallow head wound and the graze
running down Gavin’s left arm was long and angry. Gwenhwyfar settled next to
Arthur, linking arms with him so that she wouldn’t slide about, and Emily sat
beside her. They were driven out of London in silence like cargo, until at last
Marvin dropped them off one by one, and they each hobbled home.

It was dark by the time Gwenhwyfar got back. She was cold and shaken,
but did her best to suppress the fear that was creeping within her as she took
off her coat and prepared herself to lie to her parents. She came into the
living room to find that they were sitting on the sofa watching the media
station, a cushion apart.

‘How was Viola’s?’ Eve asked, looking over her shoulder.

‘OK. We went to the cinema.’ The station was tuned into the period
drama that they had been following last year. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Didn’t you eat?’

Gwenhwyfar shook her head. ‘Vi said she wasn’t hungry. I think she’s
on some kind of diet.’ She offered her mother a quick smile and went into the
kitchen, mindful of her need to check herself for bruises. Getting up, Eve
followed her.

‘I hope that doesn’t mean that you’re on one, too. With all that
running you do, you need to keep your calories up.’

‘I know, Mam.’ She opened the fridge, at the sound of which Llew
clambered up from his chewed old bed.

‘There’s some leftovers on the top shelf. I’ll warm them up. Are you
in tomorrow?’

Nodding, Gwenhwyfar took out a glass and poured herself some orange
juice. She could feel her back throb, but drew in a deep and long breath to
expand her ribs, and was comforted to feel no sharp or stabbing pain. ‘Have you
spoken to Dad yet?’

Eve shook her head. ‘Soon,’ she murmured after a moment. ‘He was busy
today. He had a lot of work to do.’

‘He always has a lot of work to do,’ Gwenhwyfar complained.

‘I’m a busy man.’

They both looked round as Garan came into the kitchen, offering them
an oblivious grin. He pulled a beer from the fridge. ‘Adverts. Horribly long.
It’s all drivel to brainwash you into buying this or buying that.’

‘Isn’t
Poplar Park
just
brainwashing you into accepting the ongoing implementation of a class-driven
society?’ Gwenhwyfar teased, hurrying out of his way for fear he might sense
what she had been up to.

‘We’re British,’ Garan quipped, ‘we’re already conditioned to accept
a class-driven society.’

As he exited the room Gwenhwyfar gave her mother an encouraging look,
one that she ignored.

Later, she made her parents switch on the news, eager to see the full
scale and impact of the march. The countdown to live broadcast began and then
the headlines were rolling: a stern voice accompanied by the flashing,
eye-catching images.

“Tonight:

Chaos in Central London as an illegal protest orchestrated by separatists
turns violent. A police officer has died and several have been seriously
injured after protestors opened fire during a march to demonstrate support of separatist
dissidence. Eyewitness accounts describe how officers at the scene were forced
to engage the offenders, killing two gunmen in the process. Four other
protestors were wounded and are also in a critical condition. This was a bloody
end to a day of violence sparked by the border row. Derek Peters reports.”

The scene changed to Derek, who stood grim-faced before Parliament,
his eyebrows twisted, his brow heavy, his shoulders drenched with rain.

“Earlier today this square was a scene of chaos and destruction.
Arson attacks damaged iconic buildings and four New National banners. Water
cannons helped to disperse protesters, most of whom were wearing full body
suits and head masks to avoid identification by police. Several police officers
have been injured, one has died. Police killed two gunmen at the scene and four
rioters have been seriously injured. After dark, the rioters turned to looting
shops and desecrating monuments. The Metropolitan Police announced earlier today
that they have made over two hundred arrests, but that number is still rising.”

‘Do they think we’re stupid?’ Garan asked, pointing his beer bottle
at the screen. ‘We all know it was about those Mobilisation Centres, not the separatists.’

‘Does it matter what it was about? They were armed,’ Eve pointed out,
‘they shot at the police. They could have avoided this, if they’d picked people
up on route.’

‘There must have been at least five thousand people attending. They
couldn’t arrest them all.’

‘They weren’t
armed
,’ Gwenhwyfar
interrupted, upset. ‘The police just fired into the crowd.’ Both her parents
looked at her with surprise. ‘That’s what Viola said,’ she added quickly. ‘She
heard it on the radio.’

‘Let me guess, on a local station?’ Garan shook his head. ‘They’ll
get done
for that.’

‘There were more than five thousand, too. I’ve seen photos on
Youconnect
. There were at least thirty
thousand.’

‘That many?’ Eve asked.

Gwenhwyfar nodded. ‘Probably more—it could have even been fifty.’

‘I haven’t seen anything online,’ she frowned.

‘The images have all been removed now,’ Gwenhwyfar lied. ‘No one’s
reporting it properly. The separatists had nothing to do with it.’

‘It doesn’t matter what it was about,’ Garan said, looking back at
the screen. The image changed, and suddenly the newsreader had moved onto the
ongoing threat from the Slavic Union. ‘Or how many people attended, or how many
people died. This is why I don’t protest. What’s the point? If the news doesn’t
cover it, it never happened. If the news only shows ten percent of the crowd,
only ten percent went. If the news says it turned violent and a police officer
was killed, that’s what the public will hear. That’s it.’