The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (18 page)

‘I’m not. The d-doctor said
M-Mordred was a p-perfectly normal b-baby. D-definitely not p-premature.’

Margot considered her husband
for some moments, and there was menace in her gaze. ‘Well now, you’ve
discovered my shameful secret,’ she said at last.

‘Secret?’ Lennox flushed all
the way down to his collar. ‘All these years I’ve been having a passionate
affair.’ His face was ashen. ‘Am I n-not the f-father, then?’ ‘That would be
telling, wouldn’t it?’

‘For God’s sake, Margot,’ he pleaded, ‘stop
torturing me.

Who is Mordred’s father?’

She eyed her husband scornfully. ‘The plumber,
of course!

Who else would it be? You know how I adore
plumbers. All those huge muscles and spanners and things.’

‘What k-kind of n-nonsense is this?’

‘The same kind of nonsense as
yours, my darling. Smoke without fire.’

‘I never said M-Mordred was n-not m-my son.’

‘Didn’t you? I thought you did.’
In a flash she had abandoned her derisive manner and had assumed her baby girl
pout. ‘How could you be so cruel? Don’t you know I would never betray you?’

‘Of c-course I d-do.’

She clawed at his chest,
murmuring, ‘Why would I need a lover when I have the best stud in London?’

‘Oh God, M-Margot, I’m so
crazy a-b-bout you. P-please forgive me. I’m such a f-fool.’

When he thought about it
later, Lennox felt vaguely uneasy, for the fact was he had not been
satisfactorily answered. His wife had made certain he would never raise the
subject again, yet she had not given him peace of mind. Smoke without fire, she
had said. What had she meant by that? Everyone knew there was no such thing.
The inconsistency reflected the confusion in his mind. There was no fire, or so
she expected him to believe, yet the smoke was there for everyone to see.

 In his final term at Oxford, when he
ought to have been feeling confident and positive about the future, Arthur was
apprehensive and disillusioned. Never had he felt so isolated. His birth
parents had abandoned him, Margot had betrayed him, and Merlin, once his god,
now had feet of clay. Though still teaching, Merlin spent more and more of his
time in those mysterious facilities of his at Glastonbury. When Arthur asked
questions, Merlin was evasive, hinting at “preparations”, promising vaguely
that one day all would be explained. Arthur did not appreciate being treated
like a child, nor did he like being taken for granted, for whatever Merlin was
planning, he appeared to assume that Arthur would one day be involved in it.
That Arthur found disturbing and demeaning. He was his own man, and no one, not
even Merlin, had the right to tell him what to do with his life.

An unexpected visit from Keir
did nothing to improve Arthur’s state of mind. Over a glass of wine in his
rooms it was soon obvious that his older brother was there for one reason only
– to put him down. ‘Let’s face it, Arthur, all this . . . ’ – a disparaging
wave of the hand at the ancient domes and spires of Oxford – ‘all this is pure
theatre, fantasy. There’s nothing tangible here, no future, no career. Look at
me. I shall be a director of IPC very soon – biggest Internet Service Provider
in the world. Now that’s real. This is all wind and fart. Never understood why
you were so keen to come here. I never wanted to, as you know.’

A blatant lie, though Arthur
decided not to challenge it. The fact was that hard-working, plodding Keir had
not fulfilled his early promise, failing to win a place at Oxford, or indeed at
any other university.

‘One of us has to live in the
real world. I can see I shall just have to make pots of money, not for myself,
you understand, but for those two wonderful people in Ponterlally who
sacrificed so much for me. And of course for you too, Arthur . . . excellent
wine this.’ A sly look in Arthur’s direction. ‘But I don’t need to remind you,
do I? You have even more reason to be grateful to them than I do.’

To Arthur it had very much the
sound of a prepared speech. The jibes were barbed and well-aimed. ‘After all,
they took you into their home out of the goodness of their hearts. Did they
ever make you feel unwanted? Of course not. Quite the contrary, in fact. They
went out of their way to treat you like one of the family.’ Keir shook his head
sadly. ‘When I think how hard they worked. And what have they got to show for
it in the twilight of their lives? Precious little . . . what a splendid
Burgundy this is, wish I could afford wines like this . . . No, they don’t have
two beans to rub together. Everything they had they gave us. To you and me,
Arthur.’

Arthur had taken enough. ‘You
are my brother, Keir, and I love you,’ he said, ‘but that doesn’t give you the
right to lecture me on my responsibilities.’

Keir sat back in his chair,
gaping open-mouthed in mock outrage. ‘I am mortified, Arthur. Truly mortified.
Lecture you! Nothing could be further from my mind. We have taken different
roads, you and I, that’s all I’m saying. You have chosen the high road to
glamour. And I, the low road to hard graft.’

Out of family loyalty, Arthur
somehow contrived to tolerate his brother, but his student friends who found
him insufferable, felt no such obligation. Like many people insensitive to the
feelings of others, Keir was himself highly sensitive and found it hard to
endure the disdain of these young men. Even harder to take was the respect they
so obviously had for Arthur. They were his friends, yet somehow more than
friends, for Keir saw not just affection in their eyes when they looked at
Arthur, but something close to hero-worship. Without seeming to exercise
authority, he was clearly their leader, and they followed him as if it were the
most natural thing in the world.

Edward Campbell, the student
who had unwittingly brought Margot into Arthur’s life, had become one of his
closest friends. It was he who inadvertently mentioned the Steeplejacks.

Keir was intrigued. ‘Who are
they?’ ‘Just a club,’ said Campbell carefully. ‘You can trust Keir,’ said
Arthur.

Campbell grinned a little
sheepishly. ‘Some undergraduates play rugby, some row, some booze, some even
work. We climb buildings.’

‘They climb towers,’ explained
Arthur, ‘church spires, sheer walls, whatever. And they name all of them after
famous mountain peaks – K2, Everest, Makalu, Mont Blanc, the Matterhorn, the
Eiger, and so on.’

Keir was looking at Arthur
disapprovingly. ‘You do this?’ ‘No, I’m not a member. I couldn’t do what they
do.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Keir was
baffled. ‘What’s the point of it all?’

Edward Campbell chuckled.
‘It’s like Mallory said about Everest; we climb them because they’re there.’

‘Surely there has to be a
better reason than that,’ said Keir incredulously.

Edward shrugged. ‘I expect
you’re right. It’s about recognition as much as anything. Everyone wants to be
a hero, don’t they?’

Keir was puzzled. What was
heroic about climbing a wall? It was trivial, childish. He scorned Campbell, he
scorned all of them, yet oddly enough he found himself envying them. Their
lifestyle may have been superficial, but it was certainly adventurous. For the
first time he was overcome by a depressing sense of the dullness of his own
existence. There had to be something more to life than the Internet. If only someone
cared enough to notice him, it would have made a difference, but no one did.
The truth was, he had as much chance of becoming a director of IPC as he had of
– well, of climbing Everest.

The old envy flared up inside
Keir like a flame, consuming him with rage and bitterness. Who admired him, as
those bright-eyed students admired Arthur? Who hung on his every word? Who
looked at him the way they looked at Arthur? For heaven’s sake, they treated
him as if he were a king! It was too much to bear. Was he destined to live in
Arthur’s shadow forever? That evening Keir was preoccupied. The merrier Arthur
and his friends became, the more morose he was. Once or twice Arthur asked if
anything was bothering him but Keir rejected him in his usual surly fashion. Dinner
at The Trout was followed by a tour of Oxford’s pubs. By eleven o’clock the
party was breaking up, and one by one the friends made their way back to their
colleges.

Back in his rooms Arthur
collapsed on his bed. No sooner had he fallen asleep, it seemed, than his
mobile was ringing. It was Edward Campbell. ‘Better come quickly.’

Arthur glanced at his watch.
It was two-thirty in the morning. ‘What’s up?’

‘He’s only half way up the
library, that’s all.’ ‘Who is?’

‘Your brother.’

The sky was partially clouded,
lit intermittently by a three- quarter moon. In the deep shadow of the
courtyard Arthur and his friends watched, hardly daring to breathe, as a man
inched his way up the lower part of the dome that crowned the great rotunda of
the library. From time to time the moon appeared, lighting up the circular
building. There was no doubt about it – it was Keir.

‘He seems to know what he’s
doing,’ said Edward. ‘He’s already made it a hundred feet up the North Face,
and that’s got to be one of the hairiest climbs in Oxford.’

‘I can’t believe this is happening. What about
the dome?

How difficult is it?’

‘Steep and slippery. It’s
covered in copper sheets.’ Arthur muttered anxiously under his breath.

‘How much experience does he
have?’ Edward wanted to know.

Arthur had never seen Keir
climb as much as a tree. ‘Not a lot.’

A keen look. ‘Worried about him?’

‘He’ll be okay,’ said Arthur,
trying to sound a great deal more confident than he felt.

‘Is he sober?’

Arthur hesitated. ‘More or
less.’ At eleven o’clock, when Arthur had left him at his bedroom door, Keir’s
speech was slurred.

A burly, compact figure,
followed by a second and a third, appeared out of the darkness. The Proctor’s
Bulldogs were famous for aggression, fleetness of foot and tenacity. Once they
caught you, they did not let go. ‘Friend of yours, Mr. Hughes?’ The Bulldog
nodded towards the dome.

‘No,’ responded Arthur, accurately, if
misleadingly.

‘Ah, Mr. Campbell! What a pleasure seeing you
here!

Steeplejack, is he?’

‘Nothing to do with us. He’s
not even a member of this place.’

The Bulldog looked
disappointed. For some time Keir had not moved.

‘You sure he’s alright?’
whispered Edward Campbell, but when he looked round Arthur was gone.

The door at the back of the
building was unlocked. Arthur rushed into the library and up the stairs two at
a time. Reaching the circular gallery, he ran round it to a window on the south
side of the building just below where he calculated Keir would be. It was open.
He called up. ‘Keir? You OK?’ There was no reply.

Half in, half out of the window, he peered into
the night, and there was Keir, spread-eagled on the dome. Arthur spoke quietly
in order not to startle his brother. ‘It’s me, Keir. Arthur. You okay?’

Once again, no response.

‘Come on down,’ said Arthur calmly.

‘No.’ Only one word, but
enough to know that Keir was very tense. Arthur wiped sweat from his face. If
his brother slipped now, he would hurtle off the dome, and there was nothing to
stop him until he hit the paving stones below. No one could survive such a
fall. He tried again. ‘Move down a little. I’ll grab you and pull you in.’

‘No.’

‘Take your time,’ said Arthur
reassuringly. ‘You’ll be fine.’ ‘Can’t . . . can’t move.’

In a sudden flare of moonlight
he caught a glimpse of Keir’s face. To his horror, Arthur saw that he was
terrified. ‘Hang on, Keir, you’ll be fine.’ He kept his voice calm and
confident.

‘I’m going to fall!’

‘No you’re not. Don’t move.’
If he couldn’t talk his brother down, there was nothing for it, he would have
to help him down. ‘I’m coming up to get you.’ Facing into the building, he
eased himself through the window and grasped the lintel at the top. He was
standing on the sill now, knees braced against the window frame. Reaching up,
he began to explore the smooth surface of the dome. High above his head his
fingers located a ridge no more than half an inch wide where two sheets of
copper were lapped and joined. His fingers and hands would have to bear the
weight of his body. Keir must have done it, but his upper body was stronger
than Arthur’s. Closing his eyes, Arthur concentrated, preparing his mind for
the trial to come. Hooking the tips of his fingers over the tiny ridge he
breathed in, tensed his muscles, and lifted his body up and out. For a few
seconds he held on, and then could hold no longer. But even as his fingers lost
their grip, his toes touched the ledge at the top of the window. He was
standing on the lintel.

Slowly he inched his head to
one side, at the same time flattening his body against the dome. To reach Keir
he would have to pull himself several feet higher. But how? What if Keir had a
panic attack and lost his hold? Best not think about it. If he looked up he
could just see Keir’s feet at the extreme limit of his vision. But he dared not
move his head again for fear that even the tiniest backward movement would
unbalance him and send him crashing to his death. From here the dome looked
even steeper than it did from the ground. Despite the cold, sweat dripped from
Arthur’s forehead, stinging his eyes. He began to tremble. He was no climber,
that was for sure, he didn’t belong here. In a moment the dome would throw him
off, and the paving stones would rise up and slam into his body, and he would
be dead. In the silence he called out, ‘Merlin!’ There was no reply, no arms to
hold him, no voice to comfort him. He was on his own, his own man. He closed
his eyes until his head cleared and his limbs stopped shaking.

Calm, he must be calm. Focus,
he must focus his mind as never before. Think only of the next few inches of
copper sheet, nothing else mattered. Hands and arms taking the strain, he
grasped the ridge and pulled himself up and off the lintel. Scarcely any
foothold now. Nothing to stop him falling but the pressure of his toes against
the dome and that tiny ridge of overlapping metal above his head that his
aching fingers clung to. Directly above, his frightened brother moaned quietly.

Using his toes and the inside
of his knees and thighs as leverage, Arthur pulled himself up inch by inch, the
tips of his fingers still locked on the tiny ridge of metal sheet . . . up and
up, now his hips were resting on the ridge. He could pull no more. If he tried
to push himself up on it, he would thrust his body away from the dome. His only
hope was to find the next ridge, yet it took all his nerve to release his hold
on the first one. With infinite care he slid first one hand then the other up
the surface of the dome. With his arms fully extended, his fingers scrabbled
frantically as high as he could reach. There was no ridge. Fear exploded in his
chest. His left leg cramped, twisting under him as the muscle spasms wracked
his calf. He was going to fall! ‘Merlin!’

A familiar voice spoke softly
in his ear. ‘I am here.’ ‘Is this the end?’

‘The power is yours, Arthur.’

Somehow he found the will to
do what only moments before had seemed impossible. Reaching up his right hand
another agonising millimetre his scrabbling fingers touched a ridge of metal
sheet and hooked over it. The fingers of his left hand found the same ridge,
his hips slid fractionally down and away from the first ridge, and the full
weight of his body hung by his fingertips. In seconds he would have to let go.
He tried to think of anything but the agonising pain in his fingers and the
cramp tearing at his leg.