7. Flesh Wounds #2
The room is at least three times as big as Briar was expecting, headed by one of those over-the-top arched Gothic windows, diamond-patterned leadlight panes and all.
The mirrored single beds tucked into opposing corners are basic but classic, and on Westby’s side of the room he’s got crisp white hotel bedding and a maroon tapestry throw tossed artfully on top, with a hand-knitted blanket bunched up at the foot.
There are pleasant amateur watercolours and what might be actual oil paintings framed and nailed to the wall, and an ancient bar cart sits next to the entrance to the bathroom, laden with chipped, willow pattern tea things.
Westby leans his stick against the desk, which is stacked with antique books and Moleskine notebooks, some of them open, crammed with unrelenting lines of illegible scrawl in burgundy ink.
One of them has become half-fused with a pillar candle, which has burned low enough to spill creamy wax all over the page.
It’s easy to fill in the rest. Undoubtedly there’s a record player somewhere, perhaps even a gramophone.
Briar just knows that if they open the wardrobe, they’ll find rows upon rows of corduroy trousers and sweater vests, Barbours and tweed.
In someone else it might seem extremely affected, the habits of a guy who’d read Evelyn Waugh or Donna Tartt and thought, Yes!
But with Westby, it’s easy to believe that he might have come by it honestly.
Briar knows that time moves differently beyond the gates of ancient estates. Seb had been odd, too, in his own ways.
‘Tea?’
Before Briar can say no, Westby fishes a battered kettle out from under the bed and limps off to fill it in the bathroom sink. He plugs it in when he returns and then eases down onto the mattress, making the sorts of unoiled sitting-down noises Sean does at the end of a long day on the farm.
‘He was very careful to make it look like an accident,’ Westby says, as if they’re halfway through this exact conversation.
‘He’s not an idiot. He’ll get a little slap on the wrist, mandatory gun safety retraining.
The thing is, he’s never liked me, and he and Watson have been at war for years.
Nobody’s ever dared interfere with the Trials before, but I suppose we’re the most likely agitators. ’
‘Why do they not just use magic on you?’
Westby winces. ‘Magic. Have some decorum, please. They don’t use the Work against us because once you understand the particulars of a text, it’s very difficult for it to be used against you.
The better you understand it, the better you’re protected.
It’s hard to explain. You can see the inner workings, and you’ve entered into that same contract. ’
‘How does that work? How do you use it at all, if you’re all being taught the same thing? Surely then everybody’s impervious.’
‘Briar Jones, are you a reader? Or are they teaching “impervious” at state schools nowadays?’ Westby says, brow arched.
Briar drops the temperature in the room by about ten degrees with a look.
‘Sorry - being a bastard, force of habit - part of it is age and experience, and then some people are just better at particular Workings than others. And we’re not all taught the same thing.
There are advanced classes for those with aptitude.
While we’re learning, we test it all out on the younger years who haven’t been introduced to that particular bit of Work yet. ’
‘Grim.’
‘Mmm,’ says Westby, retrieving the kettle and fetching his floral teapot. There’s a pause while he dumps in loose leaf, sets it to steep, then rummages for biscuits.
‘All I’ve got is Garibaldis,’ he says, holding up a crumpled packet.
Of course it’s Garibaldis. A guy like Westby wouldn’t be seen dead near an Oreo.
‘Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yes, studying the Work. It’s one of the reasons the upper years can rule the lowers with an iron fist. They’ve got no defences against us yet.
Most of the time you don’t even need to use any power, they just hop to it. ’
‘And the teachers really don’t care?’
Westby laughs. ‘The plods are either failed academics or failed politicians. They’re annoyed that they’re stuck here having to teach us physics and English lit alongside their actual interests.
All they care about is the institution, and schmoozing with the more decorated alumni.
These people love blood sports, Jones. They’d be perfectly happy to just accept the fees, lock the doors and let us Hunger Games each other into submission, and then give graduation gowns to whoever’s left. ’
He pours tea into chipped cups with a slight tremor in his hands, doesn’t offer milk or sugar, and takes a long sip like he’s receiving life-giving sustenance. Briar wonders when Westby found the time or inclination to read The Hunger Games.
‘My sister made me watch it when she had the flu,’ he says, unnervingly clairvoyant. ‘Slept through half of it. I liked the jolly alcoholic.’
‘Well, they basically are letting you Hunger Games each other into submission if they know about the Trials.’ The tea is fine. There’s a bit of fluff floating in it, but it doesn’t seem to have legs, so Briar drinks around it.
‘I think it suits them, really. Rumour is that if you fail the Trials, someone has a quiet word, and your place is rescinded. Weeds out the people who are going to kick up a fuss about post-traumatic stress, leaves only the stiff-upper-lippers who will be forever changed, but will at least have the good sense to shut up about it.’
‘Changed?’
Westby grimaces. ‘Worsened. I’m not joking about post-traumatic stress.’
‘Tate wouldn’t tell me what actually happens.’