“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.
There was nothing else to do. He was going to have to try and fight this guy. Ben knew he didn’t have much of a chance, but if he didn’t do something he was going to be shot dead at any moment. And he was damned if he was going down without a fight.
He clenched his handful of dirt and prepared to make his move.
“Kings and queens,” corrected the madman. “Ten in all. You’ll be number eleven.”
Ben ignored the nerves and the insistent pressure on his bladder, and rolled to his right, releasing his arms and flinging the forest mulch into the face of the madman.
“Like fuck I will!” he yelled, and then he was up and running.
ARTHUR WIPED THE muck from his eyes as he rose to his feet. The boy had already vanished into the undergrowth, but he was hardly stealthy and he could clearly hear him blundering away to his left. With a weary sigh, he gave chase. It was his own stupid fault. He should have just shot the boy when he had the chance. Then he would have fulfilled his destiny and ascended to invincibility. As it was, his legs hurt, his eyes stung, he had a stitch from running and he was starting to get really cheesed off. Time to kill the boy and be done with it.
He held tight to his gun as he ran.
BEN KNEW THE madman wasn’t far behind him, so he put his head down and concentrated on going as fast as he could. A bullet pinged off a tree right beside him, and he put on an extra burst of speed.
He was so focused on his pursuer that he didn’t see the man who stepped out in front of him, only becoming aware of his presence when he ran smack into the heavy log the man was wielding.
He was unconscious before he hit the floor.
ARTHUR SAW THE boy lying on the ground and stopped dead. Had he tripped, or hit his head on a tree? He was pretty sure his hopeful shot hadn’t found its mark.
He approached the boy carefully. Maybe he was playing possum, waiting for him to get closer so he could spring some trap. Arthur told himself not to be paranoid; there were no traps here.
Which was why he was so surprised when Mr Jolly stepped out from behind a tree and shot him in the gut.
Arthur stood there for a moment, his face a mask of stunned surprise. Then his gun dropped from his hand and he fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. He remained kneeling as his supervisor from the camp walked towards him shaking his head ruefully.
“And you were so close, Arthur,” said Mr Jolly as he approached. “So close.”
Arthur didn’t understand. He was so shocked and confused that he couldn’t even form a question. He just stared, baffled, at the man who had shot him.
Jolly knelt down as well, so he was facing Arthur.
“Of all the people I showed that spreadsheet to, you were the unlikeliest candidate,” he said. “I’d almost given up.”
Arthur registered that his accent had changed. The glottal stops of his Wandsworth accent had gone, replaced by round, plummy RP.
“I really didn’t think you had it in you. The one before you, now he was a go getter. But when he saw his name on the list he just laughed. In all, you were the sixth person whose name I added to the spreadsheet, and by far the least promising. Or so I thought. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? You never can tell about people.”
“I…” gasped Arthur. “I don’t…”
“Understand. Yes, I know. You’ve gone quite round the twist, haven’t you? Poor love. I knew you’d finally lost the plot when you killed that reprehensible parasite Parker. Making him a paper crown, painting it gold, then setting him up in a tableau, in a big chair with a roll of silver foil as a sceptre… well, it was inventive, I’ll give you that. But a bit bonkers, don’t you think?”
“What are you… doing here?” Arthur was beginning to feel lightheaded, as if the world was spinning around him. Gravity suddenly seemed to be on the blink. He saw spots before his eyes and found it hard to draw breath.
“Oh do keep up, Arthur. I replaced my name on the line of succession with yours. Simple plan, really. Convince someone else that they’re the rightful heir, they traipse off and kill everyone who stands in their way, and I sit back, watch the show, then pick off the hapless patsy at the end. That way I only have to kill one idiot, rather than eleven.”
Arthur’s head swam. Was this another test? Surely what Jolly was saying couldn’t be true. No, it had to be a test. It was his destiny to be king. He knew that, more certainly than he’d ever known anything in his life.
“You used me?” he groaned.
“Well of course I did, dear boy. First rule of being king — delegate the nastiest jobs to the most expendable serfs you can lay your hands on. And you, Arthur St John Smith, are the most entirely expendable person I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet. Plus: murderous, delusional and now, very dead indeed.”
ARTHUR LAUGHED.
“Funny,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “You see, I really am the king. I can feel it. You wouldn’t know what I mean, of course. But it’s in my blood. Don’t you realise who I am?”
“Go on, surprise me.”
“I’m the once and future king. Arthur, you see? My name isn’t a coincidence. My parents must have known. Don’t you realise? This is the moment of England’s greatest need and I am come again!”