The Assassin Game (4 page)

—and walk into someone standing directly behind me.

He yells; I yell, partly from shock, partly with embarrassment. I drop my bag and actually fall forward on to my hands on the gravel, bum in the air, earphones popping out.

I crouch, brush the grit off my palms, scrabble to collect my stuff.

A hand appears. I look up, and see a stranger's face staring at me.

“Cate.” The face smiles. “Bet you thought you'd never see me again.”

I stare at the face.

Familiar and strange at the same time; I like this face. It's slim but not gaunt, just too long to be cutesy, with high cheekbones and a straight nose that has a boyish tilt at the end. The skin is a warm brown and hair a glossy almost black, hacked short at the sides and back, but with longer waves on top that move slightly as the boy laughs at me softly.

“Hello.” He speaks again. That mouth…full lips are stretched across white teeth in a friendly, open smile. But it's his eyes that are unmistakable: greeny hazel with flecks of gold; they dance at me, delighted.

“You remember me, don't you?” His pale eyes—so startling against his brown skin—twinkle with barely disguised amusement.

I smile back shyly before I really know what my face is doing, but inside I'm frowning, confused. Looking at him is like looking at an old photograph that has warped in the sun or a puzzle that I've completed…but still can't quite make out the picture. Familiar and yet strange.

Oh God. The picture refocuses, the pieces of the puzzle finally make sense.

Bet I thought I'd never see him again?

That's an understatement.

The shock subsides, and as it does, a different emotion seeps in, something uncomfortable, something I can't quite identify.

“Vaughan?” His name comes out as a gasp; it almost feels forbidden. I haven't said that name in such a long time.

“Phew.” He sighs, relieved. Then the soft laugh again. “That could have been extremely awkward.” His outstretched hand reaches lower, toward me. “Help you up?”

Before I can think better of it, I'm grasping the hand with the smooth, brown skin and letting it pull me to my feet. The hand is so much bigger, so much stronger than I remember. I stand in front of him, uncomfortably close. He is taller—well, he would be, he's not a little kid anymore, but he's seriously tall—and the face, the face is still weirding me out. I can't think why, and then I realize it's because there is a shadow of stubble. Oh fudge. I'm not sure I can process this. How long has it been? Seven, eight years?

“You were a skinny eight-year-old, the last time I saw you,” he says, reading my mind. He looks me up and down. “There have been some changes…”

It doesn't sound creepy, just pure statement of fact, but that doesn't stop me from being doused in hotness, not knowing how to respond.

“And with you too,” I say, and it almost sounds like an accusation.

“We've both changed for the better.” He leans forward, conspiratorially. “Hormones, eh?”

I concentrate really hard on not dying from embarrassment. It's partly that voice he has now: deep and earthy. I remember his preteen whiny tone that was always telling me he knew better or laying out the craziest plots and plans, and now the voice is…it's a man's voice. It's…nice. But it sure as bananas freaks me out.

“I suppose so.” I get it together, trying to shake off the awkward. It has started to rain—that fine, unthreatening drizzle that has the power to soak if you underestimate it. “So, um, Vaughan…what—what on earth are you doing here?”

“Aha!” he booms overly loud, and I find myself looking from left to right to see if anyone's around to witness this. “That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?” He points to the woods. “Still like climbing trees?”

“What?” I glance behind me, at the woods up the path beyond the courtyard. “Those ones?” I say stupidly, like it makes a difference and I'm picky about which trees I scale.

“Hmm.” He looks me up and down again. I really wish he'd stop doing that. “I'm not so sure you can climb anymore. Let's see. Race you!” And then he takes off, full speed, toward the woods.

What? I look around again, for a second feeling very silly and worrying that someone is watching us—Alex? Daniel? And then, ridiculously, my feet are stirring up the gravel, and I'm pounding the ground chasing him, trying to catch up, wanting to beat him just like I did when we were eight. Only this time it doesn't look like I'm going to. He reaches the grass before me. It used to be I was the faster one. It used to be him following me, at least when it came to physical stuff, but like he said, it looks like we've changed. I go flat-out, I really try, and it feels better to be moving—legs pump, mind ceases to spin, banishing that uncomfortable feeling that I can't put my finger on, and I cannot shake. He's almost at the woods, this random visitor from my past, this complication I didn't need, back in my life…and I'm chasing him.

He darts off path, dodging around the trees like he knows where he's going, like he's come this way before. Still he's faster, and after a minute I guess where he's headed. He slows down as he reaches the big oak and jumps at it like a mountain goat, using his long arms to pull himself up on the pieces of half plank that still stick out of the thick trunk at intervals. Four, five yards up into the tree there are branches, sturdy and easily climbed. As I reach the bottom of the tree, Vaughan has eased himself onto the dilapidated tree house in the oak's boughs above.

I follow. I try to make it look like I'm climbing easily, but the branches are slick with rain, which slows me down. When I reach the broken-down tree house, I try not to puff and pant or give away that I don't love the height up here, no longer the fearless eight-year-old. This used to be a meeting place for the Guild, many moons ago, but now only the floor is solid; the walls are mainly gone and only a small section of roof remains. Vaughan is not looking at me anyway, stretched out on his back on the planks in the middle of the floor, one knee bent, chest heaving.

I sit down, as far away as I can get from him, my legs dangling over the edge like I don't care, which I profoundly do. I look down; we're pretty high up. It's a little creaky up here, but at least we're sheltered from the drizzle.

“A ‘pleased to see you' would have been nice.” Vaughan's voice floats toward me.

“What?” We're swaying gently, but it looks like the ground below is moving.

“You know, after all of this time,” he says fake casually. “A ‘how have you been?' I didn't expect a hug—we're practically adults, after all. It would be awkward—but I did expect a more enthusiastic welcome.”

Now the adrenaline of the chase is dissipating, his words bring back the feeling I've been trying to suppress. The feeling comes back with a thud, a kick in the stomach, and this time I know exactly what it is.

Guilt.

“It's fine, you know, Cate,” Vaughan continues. “It's not like I'm expecting you to apologize for abandoning me.”

And there it is. The reason why this is not the wonderful reunion of childhood best friends. Guilt turns to anger, so strong and sudden it shocks me. This is not fair, just not fair of him. I swivel around and look at him, still lying there, gazing up into space.

“What did you say?”

“An apology is not needed.” Vaughan sits up and gives me an almost sympathetic half smile, as if I've accidentally spilled his cup of tea. “Although an explanation of some variety at some point would be appreciated. But all in your own time.”

I breathe heavily, looking down at the rough planks and spreading my hands over them, trying to push the anger down. And the guilt too. The guilt is the tricky part. Everything always stems from the guilt.

“Or let's do it now. Get the hard-core emotional stuff out of the way.” He pauses. “You can just give me the bullet points, if you'd rather.”

I laugh, a single, strangled burst that's gone instantly. Deep breath. OK, let's try this again.

“Vaughan, I was a kid. I never abandoned—” I can't quite say it. “Look, this is so weird! Why are you here? You still haven't answered my question. What the hell are you doing here on Skola? Did you come to find me?”

There's a pause. He's thinking about it.

“I am enrolled as a student here, of course.” He gets up, tests a wall plank with his boot, reaches up to tag a branch above us, the platform shaking as he lands. “Well, I won't exactly be in all of your classes, as I finished with all the normal exams some time ago—but I will be studying here for the time being. Cambridge said grow up and come back in a year.” He jumps for a higher branch.

“Cambridge? As in Cambridge University?” I stare at him. “Studying what?”

He shakes his head. “Not a degree, been there done that. I'm doing research now. But Cambridge wanted me to have…a little break. Hey-ho. I might tell them toodle-oo and take myself off to do my PhD at the AI lab at MIT. See how they like that.”

“PhD, AI, MIT?” I shake my head. “Is any of what you just said English?”

He chuckles. “I do computer science, Cate. I'm researching cognitive architecture, particularly looking at hybrid systems—”

“Sounds great.” I cut him off. “Truthfully, you lost me at ‘computer.' And you still haven't told me why you're at Umfraville.”

He chuckles. My head is whirling, and he just sits there, chuckling to himself. Damn, he's annoying. Damn, he's good-looking too. There's something about him—somehow it all works together, that face and those eyes, and that stupid mop of hair. Vaughan's like an advertisement for something wholesome and happy. Not how I remember him at all.

The last time I saw Vaughan, he was crying. The removal van full of our modest possessions was in the driveway of our semidetached home, and my mother was making a big show of locking the front door for the final time.

“Good luck and good riddance!” I remember her saying. Well, I don't really know what she said for sure, because, come on, I was eight, but I do remember the sentiment behind it. The curtains were a-twitching; they'd all heard the rumors about us coming into money. But at 4 Burnfield Avenue, there was a face at the window. A boy's wan face. Hands pressed to the glass. Streaks of tears.

I was in my father's car. The first thing he did when he got the money was buy this hideous red sports car and drive it up and down our old neighborhood with the windows rolled down. What an idiot. He wouldn't do that nowadays, so I suppose the money has finally bought him a little class. Anyway, this car—there wasn't even a proper-sized backseat, so I was kind of hanging out of the window.

“I'll see you soon!” I waved to Vaughan. I do remember saying those words because I never forget telling a lie. I knew then he was out of my life. My mother had made it abundantly clear that our lives—and our friends—were going to be very different now we had money. Vaughan had a Jamaican mother and an Irish dad, so in my mother's eyes, that was a perfect recipe for lazy and stupid. Now I have a sudden urge to call her and tell her about the Cambridge stuff. That would blow her racist mind.

Vaughan and I were best friends, brother and sister from the time we were bashing each other over the head with blocks at playgroup. We cut teeth together, went to school together, built dens in the back garden, and played practical jokes on the neighbors. It was like Halloween all year round. Vaughan was clever, scarily so. He designed the pulley system to lower the ghost from the big sycamore tree on unsuspecting passersby; I shinned up said sycamore to nail the thing into the branch. Whatever it was, Vaughan invented; I instigated. He set 'em up; I knocked 'em down.

But then my family inherited the money, and I left.

That day in the car, I cried so hard that my father was worried about his leather seats. I meant to keep in touch, meant to have Vaughan around for playdates at the new, palatial house in the posh end of town. But I was eight. Without my mother on my side, I had no way of keeping in contact.

Vaughan tried. He wrote; he called. The first time my mother cut the phone conversation short, I threw a tantrum. But pretty quickly there were lots of new things filling up my life—new toys, new school, riding, and ballet. Basically all the stuff you think you're missing as a kid, and then you get it and it's wonderful for a few weeks, and then it becomes normal and boring and you're already ruined.

I missed Vaughan madly at first, furiously, with night terrors and hives and just a whole lot of sadness. That gradually diminished into a dull sense of feeling like I'd left my favorite old teddy behind somewhere or forgotten to put on an item of clothing. Then I got used to it, which was worse.

And now here he is before me in a tree house, jumping around like a confusingly attractive dork. How does he fit into my life now? With my friends, such as they are? Why exactly did he come here? I sense I'm not going to get the answers now.

But I have to say something.

“It's nice to see you.” It's woefully inadequate and not entirely true. But he stops jumping and beams at me.

“Thank you. I've been looking forward to seeing you. So much.” The smile looks relieved and genuine, but I'm not going to assume he's let me off the hook yet; the old Vaughan wouldn't.

“You just got here on the bus?” I say.

“Yup.” He grins. “Trunk was sent ahead. I was supposed to be here last week at the start of the term, but Dad took me on a field trip to Honduras and we got lost in the jungle.”

Oh yeah. His dad did these crazy no-budget trips to the back end of nowhere, so there probably is some truth in that.

“Well, I'm sure you'll settle in quickly,” I totally lie. I glance at the place on my wrist where my watch should be, then remember it is lost, and feel in my pocket for my phone, but remember I'm at school. Whatever. It's time to get a move on if I'm not going to totally miss putting in an appearance at lunch. “Everyone's pretty friendly,” I lie once more. “Anyway, I should be heading back to the Main House.” I shuffle to the edge of the tree house and try not to look too awkward and careful as I make my descent. At the bottom, I cheat a glance up; he's sitting where I was, swinging his legs and staring up at the leaves, and it doesn't look like he's planning on following me. It feels odd to just leave him there, but he found his way to this tree, so he'll find his way back. I start back on the path through the woods. Shadows are playing on the ground, and the wind is beginning to whip up some of the first leaves of autumn. I need to get a coat on.