Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

Even though Ben didn’t much like Jack, and Jack didn’t much like Ben, they were both too scared to be alone, so they’d stuck together.

Ben sat up quickly and rubbed his eyes. “What?” he whispered urgently, confused and still half asleep. “What’s going on?”

Jack leaned in close and spoke quickly and quietly.

“Ben,” he said, pressing his library card into his sleepy friend’s hand. “I need you to do me a favour.”

ARTHUR’S INCIPIENT EUPHORIA was enough to make him forget the pain in his legs. Even this close to his destiny, he chided himself. His ascent to the throne wasn’t supposed to be easy, but he’d been so annoyed at the prospect of having to infiltrate the cultists that he’d felt himself to be unlucky. He realised that the wall had been a warning, a reminder not to be ungrateful. This was a test, he understood that, a baptism of sorts, and it was all to a purpose. Fate had plans for him, but it was not to be taken for granted.

So he stood, chastened, and waited patiently for the boy king to emerge from the ice house. He caressed the revolver in his jacket pocket lovingly. Soon, now.

He cocked his head to one side suddenly alert. The snap of a twig. Slowly, he spun through 360 degrees, scanning the surrounding woods, but saw no movement and heard no other sound. Must have been a deer.

His suspicions were instantly forgotten as he saw two boys emerge from the small brick dome. The king, Jack, was smaller than Ben, but carried himself with a confidence sorely lacking in his friend. It was obvious which of the two was of royal blood. It showed in his bearing as clear as day. Arthur was sure that was how he must look to others and wondered how it could be that no one had ever noticed his inherent regalness while he was working at the council. He decided that people lowly enough to be working in such mindless jobs were too stupid to notice such things.

The two boys stopped in front of him. The king stood slightly closer, his friend hanging back, timid.

“Hi, yeah, I’m Jack,” said the boy, grinning as if he’d just said something incredibly clever or funny. “What can I do for you?”

And Arthur froze.

Here it was. The moment of his ascension. He stood there, transfixed by the enormity of what was about to happen.

“You had a message for me, you said?” continued the boy, his brow creasing in puzzlement.

Still Arthur couldn’t move or speak. Unconsciously, his eyes widened and his mouth shaped itself into an idiot grin.

“Um, sir?” Now the king looked uncertain, and turned to his friend, pulling a funny face and shrugging.

Arthur withdrew the gun from his pocket, still grinning, and shot the King of England, Jack Bedford, in the head, believing him to be a useless commoner.

All the confidence of the boy standing before him evaporated into terror as he saw his friend fall to the ground, and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Arthur was about to pull the trigger again when he hesitated.

“No,” he said to the cowering, whimpering child. “Let’s talk first.”

THE MAN ARTHUR believed to be the King of England, Ben Wyman, sat on his hands on the soft forest ground and tried to control his bladder. The madman sat opposite him, cross legged, gun in hand, regarding him curiously.

If he looked past the madman, Ben could see Jack’s body. He was lying with his eyes open, staring at him in silent reproach.

“I never talked to any of the others, but there’s one thing I kept meaning to ask them. Did you feel it?” asked the madman. “The moment you ascended to the throne, I mean. It was about a week ago, at two in the afternoon.”

Ben didn’t know what the correct answer might be, so he said nothing. Happily, the madman didn’t seem to mind.

“I imagine you didn’t,” he continued. “It’s not really your throne. You’re not destined to remain king, you see. I am. I’ll feel the moment of destiny because I’ll make it happen. You were passive. Didn’t have the guts to go out and seize your power, not like me. I’ve proved myself, you understand? Not like you, cowering here in this dungeon, waiting for slaughter.”

Still Ben said nothing. All those years in the care home had taught him the value of silence.

Suddenly the madman tutted, as if annoyed with himself. “Why am I wasting time?” he muttered, and raised his gun.

“Yeah, I felt it,” said Ben.

The madman paused.

“Kind of like a hot flush, sort of thing,” he elaborated.

The gun stayed where it was, neither lowered nor raised.

“Made me feel all kind of powerful and stuff,” he added, unsure whether this was what the madman wanted to hear.

“And did you know?” asked the madman, his eyes narrowed, intensely focused on his answer.

“Of course,” said Ben. “’Course I knew.”

The madman nodded. “Interesting.” He stayed sitting there, gun half raised, nodding pensively.

Beneath his right buttock, Ben made a fist, scooping up leaves and dirt, ready to throw them into the nutter’s face if the chance presented itself.

“Did the other boys notice it, the change in you?”

“Oh yeah, natch.”

“That’s good. I’ll need that, I think.”

Ben cursed inwardly. Why had he agreed to go along with Jack’s stupid plan to switch identities? It had seemed funny at the time. Jack was scared of his own shadow, and even though he resented Ben’s confidence, he wasn’t afraid to use it to his advantage. Just like a toff, thought Ben, not for the first time wondering why he’d thrown his lot in with these spoiled Harrow kids, refusing to admit to himself that he had been so scared of being alone that even a bunch of pampered prats had seemed like an attractive peer group. So he’d tried to adopt the accent and manners of the boys around him; he was good at blending in. He’d even begun to think maybe he’d found a home, until the cultists arrived.

He wondered if there was any point in protesting that he wasn’t Jack. Probably not. The madman had killed Jack without a second’s thought. Ben knew the only reason he was still alive was because the madman thought he was someone else. If Ben told him the truth, and if he was believed, he’d end up just as dead. Better to play along, to try and find some advantage. That was another thing he’d learned in the care home — if silence doesn’t work, keep them talking, sometimes you can deflect them.

“Tell me about the others,” asked Ben.

The madman shook his head briefly, forcing his attention back to the here and now.

“Oh, they were nothing, really,” he replied. “Spoilt brats. Trustafarians. I should have realised that the lower down the list I got, the better they’d be. You’re almost normal, like me. It’ll be good to have a normal king, don’t you think?”

Ben nodded. “So, let me see if I’ve got this right,” he said cautiously. “I’m King of England, yeah? You’re next in line to the throne after me. And you’ve gone around killing everyone in line before me. Now you’ve just got to off me and you become king. That about it?”

The madman’s eyes narrowed, suspicious again.

“You know that,” he said.

Ben nodded. “Oh yeah, just wanted to be absolutely sure we were on the same page.” He was gobsmacked; he knew Jack had been posh, but he’d had no idea he was bloody royalty. “So, how many kings have you killed?”

Could he persuade the nutter of the truth — that he’d got the wrong person, that he’d already killed the king and was in fact already the monarch? He cursed himself for speaking without thinking; no, he couldn’t, because he’d gone and reinforced the madman’s belief that you felt the moment your predecessor died, that becoming king was some sort of massive supernatural head rush.