‘Someone? A school someone? Someone from here?’
He shakes his head. ‘Used to be.’
‘Used to be?’
‘He got expelled.’
I nod. It made sense.
There is a pause. His face clenches, building up to something. ‘Did you mean what you said last night? About killing someone.’
‘Oh yes. Yes, I did. In a desert. Arizona. Quite a long time ago. I don’t advise it.’
He laughs, doesn’t quite know if it is a joke. (It isn’t.) ‘Did you ever get caught?’
‘No, not in the way you mean. No, I didn’t. But as you get older, Anton, you realise that you never get away with things. The human mind has its own. . . prisons. You don’t have a choice over everything in life.’
‘Yeah. I’ve worked that one out, sir.’
‘You can’t choose where you are born, you can’t decide who won’t leave you, you can’t choose much. A life has unchangeable tides the same as history does. But there is still room inside it for choice. For decisions.’
‘I suppose.’
‘It’s true. You make the wrong decision in the present and it haunts you, just as the Treaty of Versailles in nineteen nineteen sowed the ground for Hitler to take power in nineteen thirty-three, so every present moment is paying for a future one. Just one wrong turn can get you very lost. What you do in the present stays with you. It comes back. You don’t get away with anything.’
‘Seems that way.’
‘People talk about a moral compass and I think that is it. We always know the right and wrong for ourselves, the north and south. You have to trust it, Anton. People can tell you all kinds of wrong directions, lead you around any corner. You can’t trust any of that. You can’t even trust me. What do they say in car adverts? About the navigation system?Comes as standard. Everything you need to know about right and wrong is already there. It comes as standard. It’s like music. You just have to listen.’
He nods. I have no idea if any of this has gone in, or if he is just bored or frightened and wants to get out of the room as quickly as he can.
‘Okay, sir. Good speech.’
‘Okay.’
Strange saying this to a mayfly. As if I care. Hendrich has always told me there is nothing more dangerous than caring for an ordinary mortal human, because it ‘compromises our priorities’. But maybe Hendrich’s priorities are no longer my priorities, and maybe they need to be compromised. Maybe I just need to feel vaguely human again. It has been a while. It has been four hundred years.
I decide to lighten the tone. ‘Do you like school, Anton?’
He shrugs. ‘Sometimes. Sometimes it seems . . . irrelevant.’
‘Irrelevant?’
‘Yeah. Trigonometry and Shakespeare and shit.’
‘Oh yes. Shakespeare.Henry the Fourth.’
‘Part One.’
‘Yes, you said. So you don’t like it?’
He shrugs. ‘We went to see it. School trip. Was pretty boring.’
‘You don’t like theatre?’
‘Nah. It’s for old posh people, innit?’
‘It didn’t used to be like that. It used to be for everyone. It used to be the maddest place in London. You’d get everyone there. You’d get the posh old people, sure, up on the balconies, dressed to be seen, but then you’d get everyone else. You could get in for a penny, which even then wasn’t so much. A loaf of bread, that’s all. There used to be fights too, sometimes knife fights. People used to throw stuff at the actors if they didn’t like what they saw. Oyster shells. Apples. All kinds of stuff. And Shakespeare used to be on the stage too. William Shakespeare. That dead man from the posters. There. On stage. It’s not that long ago, not really. History is right here, Anton. It’s breathing down our necks.’
