The Future King: Logres (45 page)

‘That’s very cynical of you, Arthur. Don’t you think?’ Marvin
exclaimed.

‘It is,’ Morgan agreed.

‘You would argue that we’re not a parasitic life form?’ Arthur
challenged. Morgan seemed wounded.

‘Do you think I’m parasitic, Arthur?’ asked Bedivere, brows raised.

‘No, but—’

‘How about Gwen?’ he added, teasing.

‘Of course not, I didn’t say that the individual is parasitic, just
our current way of life. Consumerism is destroying the planet. No, it
has
destroyed the planet. Why do you
think half the world has starved to death? There’s not enough left to support
everyone.’

‘Says who?’ Morgan snapped.

‘Says common sense.’ He could feel the wine loosening his tongue.
‘People are lying when they say things aren’t that bad. What do you think all
those wars were for? We were all just fighting over who got to eat the last éclair.’

Marvin’s stomach growled, and he awkwardly cleared his throat. Morgan
gazed at Arthur, her mouth downturned. Frustrated, Arthur leant into the table,
gesticulating to emphasise his point.

‘It’s like farming. Once every few years, after you’ve worked the
earth, grown your crops and ploughed the land, you have to let it rest.
Otherwise nothing will grow the next time you try to plant something. Think of
it like that. The Earth is one big field and we’ve farmed it for much too long,
so all its nutrition and minerals have been sucked out. We’ve bled it dry.’

‘Yes, but we can’t just not eat,’ she countered.

‘Why not? The other half of the world isn’t at the moment.’

‘That’s no argument,’ Percy interrupted.

‘What do you mean?’ Arthur bristled.

‘The “They’re not eating, so let’s not eat either” argument. That’s
like those people who use an example of a country in a worse state to
invalidate the arguments and concerns of Western society. It gets neither side
anywhere.’

‘But Arthur’s right to an extent,’ Marvin butted in. ‘If we weren’t
all so greedy about having the latest technology evenly distributed for our
consumption, it wouldn’t be such a problem. But then, consumerism suits our society.
As long as we are diverted by owning the latest
toy
, we are kept infantile: passive, apathetic, and easily led to
hatred of the vulnerable. In this world, a world where we are shielded from
responsibility and are distracted by successes measured by how many trinkets we
have, those who rule us can do as they please.’

‘Noam Chomsky,’ Percy pointed out, referencing Marvin’s words. Marvin
nodded.

‘Recycling may be better than it was a hundred years ago, but we’re
all still encouraged to buy the latest things. Our use of plastics has not
significantly declined, either. That, and nothing is built to last.’

The six of them fell to silence. Arthur sipped a little more of his
wine.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Bedivere, looking at his watch. ‘The news!’

‘The news!’ echoed Marvin, waving his arms. He cursed as his drink
slopped onto the table. ‘Bedivere! Go and turn it on, immediately! Percy! A
cloth! Gavin—Morgan! Come on! Arthur—!’ He grinned. ‘Let’s go and see
if we can’t discover another clue to this little mystery, shall we?’

Soon they were all gathered around Marvin’s ancient television—thick,
box-like and badly pixelated—listening to the dramatic music underpinning
the flashing headlines.

Arthur did his best to lean elegantly on the sofa arm, careful not to
disrupt the artefacts pinned to the wall behind him. Morgan sat beside him, with
Percy closely wedged against her, and Bedivere sat at the opposite end of the
suite with Marvin in the middle. Gavin sat in the armchair. The introduction
ended. They were greeted by a stern woman gazing out at them from her strangely
two-dimensional studio. It had taken Arthur a while to get accustomed to
Marvin’s television set, and now he was used to the older technology.

“Good evening,

Tonight, the Prime Minister has announced that the security services
have reason to believe the terror cell
Free
Countries
bears responsibility for the bombings last weekend. Evidence has
been found linking the group to this horrific attack through their
communication records, provided by independent companies across the UK. The
Prime Minister’s Head of Security stated in an interview earlier today that
such evidence was only discoverable due to George Milton’s personal dealings
with UK Telecom, with whom he has been working closely since the inhumane
attacks on Saturday night.”

Arthur frowned. Marvin let loose an exclamation that startled those
nearest to him.

“Linked to the separatist
New
Celtic Rebels
,
Free Countries
is a
terrorist organisation believed to have been involved in the riots of September
and November this year. According to our sources, they stand for anarchism and
an end to our current governmental system. The security services are still
trying to locate the main leaders of
Free
Countries
, but this group is the terror cell believed to be responsible for
the death of hundreds. The general public have been asked to stay vigilant
against any hint of activity from this highly dangerous extremist group.”

Arthur licked his lips, still able to taste the wine. The woman on
screen blinked with every other word, and it annoyed him.

“The head of Milton’s private security
firm joins us in the studio now. Good evening, Sir Bennett. Tell me; is it true
that, as yet, no real suspects have been detained?”

Morgan leant back in the sofa, her arm brushing against Arthur’s
thigh. He sat still for a moment, but then shifted away uncomfortably, the heat
from her body seeping into his own.

‘
Free Countries
?’ Bedivere
asked. ‘I got a flyer in the post from them about the Mobilisation March.’ He turned
to face the others. ‘We all went to it. Does that mean we’re now involved with
a “terror cell”?’

‘I don’t think so—I get flyers from them all the time,’ Morgan said,
curling her hair around one finger. ‘And in terms of the march, no one knows we
went, right?’

‘Right,’ Gavin assured them, his voice calm.

‘What sort of
terror cell
advertises themselves using flyers and leaflets anyway?’ Arthur mused, emptying
his glass.

‘I don’t know,’ responded Bedivere. ‘Were they even involved in the
September protest? I thought they blamed the separatists.’

‘They did. But they’ll blame them both if it suits them,’ Gavin said.

‘What if it was
Free Countries
that organised the bombings, though? How would we know?’ Morgan looked up to
Arthur. ‘They could easily be telling the truth.’

‘Right,’ Bedivere fretted. ‘For all we know
Free Countries
could be filled with psychos and extremists.’

‘Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t, but that doesn’t affect us.’ Arthur
looked at Percy. The sixth former was gazing at the box-like screen, his eyes and
ears fixed on Sir Bennett, straining to hear above their chatter. ‘What should
we do?’

Marvin was standing now, his fingers pressing into his lips as he
gazed fixedly at the carpet. ‘Do—? Why, we
do
nothing. The news has just given us a scapegoat for the
atrocities committed on Saturday. Whether it is true or not, you never went to
that march; you were never there. If you get any more flyers, burn them. We
weren’t involved in anything, no matter what happens.’

‘You don’t think it was
Free
Countries
, then?’ Percy asked suddenly.

‘I don’t know,’ Marvin replied. ‘If it was, you want to wash your
hands of them, and if it wasn’t, well; the need is the same. They’re a fairly
ambiguous group, small I imagine, and pose little to no threat to Milton
himself… so what reason would the New Nationals have for falsifying their
involvement? I know I never usually take the news at face value, but in this
instance… I am inclined to.’

Nodding stiffly, Percy turned back to the screen. Gavin downed the
last of his wine and stood up. Morgan shifted, and Bedivere seemed to think
over everything in silence. Arthur detached himself from the sofa. It was late,
and their hour was up.

The Warning

She didn't know what
to do.

The terror that gripped her upon seeing the news had turned her blood
to ice. How was this possible? Not once had Isolde mentioned anything to do
with terrorist activity, and she hadn’t heard of it through the grapevine,
either. Gwenhwyfar paced back and forth, wearing an erratic line into the
carpet from her bed to her door. She hadn’t yet shut the curtains. The cold
glass loomed in the night, a portal through which she came to stare for a
moment, replaying the news anchor’s words in her mind.

Free Countries is a terrorist organisation… they
stand for anarchism… extremism…

Responsible for the death of hundreds
, she thought, her head pounding. What was she going to do? What
could she do? She could barely fathom the implications of what she’d become
involved in, let alone comprehend the consequences. What if the police found
out she was a part of the most wanted terror group in Britain? What if they
found out she’d even recruited a member? The grapevine had to be traceable to
her. It wouldn’t be difficult to track her down, and it wasn’t as if she’d ever
been careful. Thickly, she swallowed down the bile that gathered in her throat.

How could
Free Countries
be
responsible for this? Surely they would have known there’d be a chance of
murdering their own members. Abruptly, another paralysing revelation hit her.
She had been at one of the crime scenes—was on record for being treated
at the nearest hospital—and had walked away just as the bar had exploded.

But no, she had been attending a party—was there all night—and
there were hundreds of witnesses. For a few moments she calmed herself, swiftly
running through all the solutions she had to hand. She would swap phones and
destroy her old mobile. She would cut contact with Isolde. She almost leapt a
mile when her phone rang. She didn’t recognise the number, but on the fifth
ring, she picked up. The voice wasn’t familiar, and she felt a wave of panic.
What if it was the police?

‘Hello? Is that Gwen? It’s… it’s Tristan.’

Her relief was only momentary. ‘Tristan! Are you insane?’

‘I didn’t know what else to do!’ he hissed, voice urgent. Something
that sounded like reinforced glass was beaten down upon by what had to be rain.
‘I’ve been thinking.’

Gwenhwyfar was thinking, too. As far as anyone knew, Tristan could
just be an acquaintance. They had only spoken once, she hadn’t asked him to
recruit anyone, and his involvement in the cause had been minimal. ‘Did you get
my letter?’ she blurted, shaking.

He didn’t get it. ‘What letter?’

‘The letter I sent you, explaining everything we
talked
about. I said I’d send you one, ages ago. Did you not get
it?’

‘I don’t quite… you mean the thing?’

‘Yes,’ she affirmed. ‘About the thing.’

He made a sound of comprehension. Gwenhwyfar hoped desperately that
he understood she meant the information pack sent out by
Free Countries
.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘I didn’t get it.’

‘Good.’ Sighing, she turned about on the spot. ‘I don’t think we
should speak to one another again, Trist. I mean I know I gave you my number
and things, but I have a boyfriend now.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes, it’s official. So I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to
never call me again, understand? That’s what the letter said, that it’s over.
I’m done.’

‘I see,’ he murmured. ‘So it’s over?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m to never contact you again?’

‘That’s right, we’re done.’ There was a short silence. ‘Where are you
calling from?’

‘A payphone.’

‘Right, well, I have to go.’

‘Gwen,’ he hesitated. ‘Did you know?’

‘Know what?’ she added, weary.

‘You know.’

‘No. I found out myself,’ she remarked. He fell silent, and it seemed
they understood one another.

‘You’re letting me go? Are you sure?’

She nodded, drawing up a thick sigh. ‘I’m sure, Tristan. It’s for the
best. I’m with someone else.’

He hung up, and so did she. Her hand trembled as she examined the
number on her phone. It wasn’t from a mobile, and for some reason that
comforted her. Tristan was safe at least, but what of her? She wanted an escape
too, and wished she could wipe
Free
Countries
from her mind.

She launched herself at her desk, ripped open the drawers and pulled
out the brown envelope she had almost memorised. She shredded each document frantically.
Still she didn’t feel safe. Gwenhwyfar seized the scented candle and matches
she kept on her dresser and hurried them back to her desk. She flung the candle
away and threw the tatters of paper into the rounded dish, set them alight and
rushed to open the window. When she returned she fed the final few shreds to
the flame, and blew softly upon them, until it had all turned to ash.

She didn’t know what to do with the remnants. Contemplating burying
them or feeding them to Llew, she eventually flushed them down the toilet. At
last, when she had destroyed her SIM card and taken her mind through every
other eventuality, she tried sleeping, but found it impossible to switch off.
Hundreds of scenarios raced through her head. What if
Free Countries
had been responsible? Did that make her a murderer?
She didn’t know what she had been thinking when she had considered joining them
to be a good idea. She had been seduced by the secrecy, and it had led her
blindly into danger.

She awoke several times during the night, something keeping her
restless, but not until the early hours of Saturday morning did she realise
what. She was chewing slowly on toast with a glass of orange juice, surfing the
Internet, when the revelation descended. The unfortunate timing of things determined
what she did next. A window popped up. It was
Free Countries
.

Her reflex was instantaneous. Angry sparks spat from her computer as
the orange juice cascaded into it, frothing. Gwenhwyfar squeaked as the glass
shattered upon the table. A horrible, twisted noise crooned from the sagging
machine. It cracked, a thunderous bellow, and then everything fell silent.

Cowering on the floor, she heard exclamations of surprise sound
throughout the house.

‘Gwen, what in God’s name happened? Are you all right?’

She pushed herself up as her father rushed into her bedroom.
Immediately he hurried over to the power outlet and snatched the plug out of
the socket, swearing as he burnt his fingers.

‘What the hell happened?’

‘Nothing!’

‘It doesn’t look like nothing,’ he contested, waving his arms through
the smoke. He opened the bedroom window and tried to waft the fumes outside. ‘Are
you hurt?’ He helped her off the floor and sat her on the bed.

Gwenhwyfar shook her head. ‘I’m fine. I dropped my drink. My arm
just… I lost my grip.’

‘You lost your grip?’ he repeated, sitting next to her. ‘Which arm?’

She didn’t know which one to choose.

‘Was it the arm you fell on in London?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘Maybe
we should get you to a doctor.’

‘I’m fine. Just shaken, that’s all.’

He frowned at her. ‘You didn’t shock yourself, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Try squeezing my hand,’ he instructed sternly.

Gwenhwyfar did so without much effort. ‘Really, I’m fine.’

‘I don’t know what we’re going to do about this.’ He inspected the
computer. ‘It’s a mess, Gwen!’

‘I know, Dad.’

‘What on earth were you thinking?’

He wasn’t usually this short with her. ‘It was an accident! It’s not
my fault I dropped the drink.’

‘No, but you shouldn’t have had it at your desk to begin with,’ he
maintained.

‘I know—I’m sorry.’

Garan sighed. ‘I suppose we can get it fixed.’

‘Fixed? But it almost killed me! Look at it; it’s practically melted
anyway. Can’t we just get a new one?’

‘Do you have any idea how expensive they are?’ Garan exclaimed. ‘I’ve
told you hundreds of times not to have drinks at your desk, and now look!’

‘But I don’t need that one again, just any sort of thing will do. I don’t
care if it’s old or cheap—I only use it for homework.’

‘Oh, do you? And what happened to you wanting the upgrade to this
model?’

‘That was
before,’ she
insisted. ‘Now I know it’s not that good. I mean it’s
good
, but I don’t need it, really. I’d rather just get something
older, they’re more reliable. You say so yourself.’

‘Reliable, yes; waterproof, no.’ He stood up. ‘Look, I might be able
to get something through work, but I’m not promising anything. First you’ll
have to learn not to keep liquids at your desk, understand?’

Gwenhwyfar nodded furiously.

‘I think it flipped the fuse—the power’s out.’ He ambled
stiffly to the door. ‘Don’t touch this,’ he ordered, turning to Gwenhwyfar and
pointing at the machine. ‘The last thing I need is you getting electrocuted.’

Gwenhwyfar observed him with glassy eyes. She heard her mother call
up the stairs. Garan went into the corridor and told Eve to flip the fuse
again. As she did, Gwenhwyfar’s bedroom was once again illuminated.

Though
Free Countries
was
mentioned often in the news, the further Gwenhwyfar made it into the second
week of December the safer she felt. For many, the horrors of the attacks were
forgotten as the festive season unfurled, with decorations going up and lessons
passing with scores of old movies. Though Gwenhwyfar had successfully destroyed
all evidence linking her to
Free
Countries
, news had emerged of members coming forward and trading
information in return for clemency. The “terror cell” was disbanding.

The dry winter air froze the earth solid. Any conversations she had
with Lancelot were brief, and though Emily still flirted outrageously with him
Gwenhwyfar did her best to ignore it. Emily, it seemed, was there to stay; and
despite any initial frostiness caused by her presence relations were starting
to thaw. Gwenhwyfar took solace in Lancelot’s apparent indifference to the
bubbly blonde girl, and even began to enjoy seeing her making a fool of
herself.

She found Arthur waiting for her halfway between Badbury and
Wormelow. She strode up to him and planted a firm kiss upon his lips. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’ He kissed her again, and for a long while she forgot they
were in school. When they finally parted, they strolled towards Wormelow. ‘Did
you get up to much last night?’

‘Just a bit of Christmas shopping. I’ve decided what I’m getting my
parents. My dad’s needed a new coat for ages, and I’m going to treat my mum to
a really nice dress I found.’ She swung his hand with excitement. ‘Have you
figured out what you want yet?’

‘You don’t have to get me anything,’ he told her again.

‘But you’re getting me something, you said so. Besides, I
want
to get you a present. I’ve already got
a few ideas.’

‘What are they?’

‘Don’t you trust me?’

He looked at her and smiled. ‘No list, then?’

‘If you think of one, but I like to buy early, and December is late
enough for me.’

He lifted her hand to his lips, and then held open the door to New
Wormelow.

‘So what did you get up to? You never replied to my text.’

‘Sorry. I had work, then Bedivere came round.’

‘He did?’

Arthur nodded. ‘It made me realise that the last time he came over
was in the summer holidays. I hardly see him anymore.’

‘Only because he’s sitting with us,’ Gwenhwyfar pointed out. They
passed through the lobby and scaled the stairs to the upper corridors. ‘You can
still join him, you know. I mean, I understand if you don’t want to, given what
Lance did…’

‘He still sits with you?’

‘Barely. We see him, but usually he’s out on the field with Gavin. I
think he’s avoiding me. I had a real go at him for what he said.’