Dan Vyleta - Smoke

As he sits at dinner, sawing forlornly at the lukewarm cutlet in front of him, Charlie watches an invisible wall spring up between him and his fellow students. Already he is set apart: they just don’t know it yet. Thomas would understand this feeling, but Thomas isn’t here. Charlie has not seen him since breakfast. There is no one to help him make sense of his fall, from good boy to pariah.

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Charlie arrives early at the headmaster’s door, then sets to pacing, up and down the long empty corridor. Dust balls attend him with the solicitude of pets, withdrawing some inches as he draws close, then following in his wake, sometimes as much as a yard. The moment he becomes conscious of this game, the headmaster’s door swings open and the fat, rosy dome of Trout’s head leans into the hallway.

“Cooper!” he calls and is answered by the prattle of footfalls.

“Here, sir.”

Charlie’s haste scatters the dust.

Past the door and the antechamber, logs smoulder in the fireplace, spreading the smell of pine. Two armchairs have been arranged before it, inclining to each other confidentially, as though they are in conversation. Trout pats the seat of one, before sitting down on the other. His weight is such that this is a delicate operation: he stands in front of his chair like a diver on the platform, his fundament thrown back and the chest forward for balance, then topples backward with a grunt. Charlie draws closer suspiciously, sits on the edge of the other chair, his weight still in his thighs. A coffee table fills the narrow gap between the two chairs’ armrests. It holds a decanter and a silver tray with glasses.

“Port or sherry?” Trout asks blandly. Behind the blandness, and the fatty half spheres of his cheeks, the headmaster’s eyes are shrewd.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Nothing? Nonsense. Some port then.” Trout fills two glasses. “Taste must be cultivated. Just like good habits. A gentleman appreciates his wine.”

Trout seems intent on waiting until Charlie has taken a sip before saying anything further: he sits with his own glass raised halfway to his lips, sniffing at the liquor. For a mad instant Charlie grows convinced that the headmaster is trying to poison him. But even if he is, Charlie has no choice but to drink. Unlike a pill, you cannot hide liquid under your tongue or in the pocket of one cheek.

“Well?” Trout asks when Charlie puts down the glass.

“It’s sweet.”

“Yes. Hints of plum. And something earthier. Truffle, perhaps.”

Charlie cannot tell whether he is making fun.

“I suppose you have guessed why I invited you here.”

Trout does not say summoned . There is no need. They both know the truth.

Charlie manages a nod.

“It is an unusual situation, Mr. Cooper. Unusual. I cannot recall the last time I had to ask a boy for such a tête-à-tête.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But then, what is to be done? After all, you are his closest friend.”

Charlie looks up, confused. “Whose?”

“Argyle’s.” Trout eyes him suspiciously. “Do I have the wrong boy?”

It takes Charlie three breaths to adjust his expectations. He tries to ward off the feeling of relief, but it is there. His body slides deeper into the armchair.

Perhaps, though, Trout is merely toying with him.

“No, sir. I mean I am. His best friend.” A new worry takes hold of him, its texture different from the old. “Is he in trouble?”

“You know he is. But perhaps you don’t understand the full extent of it. He may have been ashamed to share it.”

Trout wets his lips. Fat lips and a fat tongue; the glow of spittle on soft pink skin.

“We are worried about Argyle. There is something growing, you see. Inside him.”

“He is sick?” His own voice sounds normal in Charlie’s ears, controlled. But his stomach is a knot. No, not his stomach. His entrails, from colon to diaphragm. A knot. It will take hours to unpick.

“Sick? In a manner of speaking. There is a darkness growing in him. Corruption. No, more than that. Evil. Yes, I think we cannot do without the word. Evil. It’s like your friend is carrying a bomb. When it blows, well. .” Trout swirls the wine in his glass. “Dr. Renfrew has found evidence, you see. In his Soot. It’s scientific .”

The word is given a certain weight, a certain note. Not resentment, exactly. Wariness?

“And it can’t be stopped?”

“We mustn’t lose hope. Mr Swinburne recommends prayer. It has been known to help. For instance—”

But Charlie is not listening now. He is thinking, remembering Thomas’s conversation in the coach back from Oxford, picking through its terms. Smoke is a symptom , Renfrew said.

What then is evil?

Trout sits watching him. His tongue is restless within his mouth. Charlie can see it move around, probing his teeth, his gums, the insides of his cheeks. Or haunting them. It distracts Charlie.

“If it’s a disease,” he asks at last, forcing his thoughts into words. “Evil, I mean. Then it can be cured.”

Trout spreads his hands on his thighs. “Dr. Renfrew believes so.”

“You don’t?”

“Can we cure tuberculosis? Cancer? The common cold?”

“We might, one day.”

Trout sighs. “One day. Perhaps. But you go out there, whisper it. That there is a cure . Watch the world go up in flames.”

They both lapse into silence, each draining his glass. The heat from the fireplace is so intense, it climbs up their limbs, filling them, consuming their strength: a fat man and a boy, sprawling side by side.

Charlie fights it, sits up again, returns to the edge of the seat as though preparing his departure.

“Headmaster,” he asks, sounding adult to his own ears, “sir. Why did you call me here?”

“Ah, that.” Trout reaches into his coat pocket, produces a sheaf of papers. “Your friend Argyle has received an invitation. From his uncle, in Nottinghamshire. Asking Argyle to join him and his family for Christmas. He insists, in fact.”

Charlie stares at him, shocked.

“You open our mail?”

Trout flushes, laughs. “God, no. That’d be against the law. He wrote to me, naturally. Baron Naylor. Argyle’s uncle.” He waves the envelope at Charlie, too briefly to see to whom it is addressed. “I’d like you, Cooper, to go with him. As his friend. Keep him out of trouble. In light of things, I mean.”

A gaggle of questions rises up in Charlie. They spill out unsifted, in fragments, each word very fast.

“But I have already written to my mother to ask whether Thomas can come— Besides, won’t he want to go home— And after all, I can’t simply invite myself, can I?”

“Order, Cooper, order. One thing after the other. No, Argyle won’t be going home. It’s quite impossible, he’ll tell you so himself. And as I’ve already said, his uncle insists . So there cannot be any question of his spending the holiday at your parents’ house. As for you, all it will take is another little letter to your parents. After all, Baron Naylor is the head of one of the most prominent families in the country. Just like your father. Your people will approve of your wishing to make social connections. They will send a letter to Baron Naylor explaining that you and his nephew are very fond of each other and had hoped to spend the holidays together. All it takes is a hint. He, no doubt, will respond with a formal invitation. It’s all very simple indeed.

“Naturally,” Trout adds, so casually he does not even feel the need to look at Charlie when he speaks, “naturally, there is no need to alarm Baron Naylor about young Argyle’s predicament. His condition . Nor yet your family. It would make it harder for Ar — that is, for Thomas. Once stigmatised, it will be twice as hard for him to. . especially given his father’s disgrace. But I don’t need to go on. You understand very well how it is. Which is why I think your presence will be an invaluable asset to your friend.”