Dead Silent

by Sharon Jones

  Dad catching her and Michael not at it wasn’t something she’d factored in. And now she wasn’t sure how to play this. Did she play innocent, outraged, even, that he could think she and Michael would be doing anything that a God-botherer would be ashamed of? Although it was the truth, knowing that she had fully intended on doing something her father really would disapprove of meant that going on the defensive probably wouldn’t work. Dad had a built-in lie detector, always had. The only option available was to go on the offensive – fight her corner. She was nearly seventeen. It was legal. His right to have an opinion on this disappeared the day he chose to follow his calling to the other end of the country.

  Snow had compacted where someone had walked what looked like a central pathway between the lawns, past the fountain that was topped with an elaborate stone crown, right to the door of the chapel. But after all Michael’s warnings about not walking on the grass she daren’t risk it. This place was so full of weird rules and customs that you were probably only allowed to use the shortcut if you were Stephen bloody Hawking. Instead she zipped up her waterproof against the chill and followed the path round the outside of the quad.

  Despite dawdling, Poppy reached the chapel steps far too quickly. She should have taken a detour…via Wales. She stopped and glanced back at the side of the quad where she and Michael were staying. What a huge mess she’d made of last night. After all the planning…she’d really thought she was…well…ready.

  She took a deep breath of frozen air. One problem at a time. First she’d deal with Dad, then she’d try to figure out what had happened last night.

  Poppy had no idea what to expect from a college chapel, but she hadn’t expected a room of polished stone and wood panels, empty except for a collection of bigger-than-life-size white marble statues staring down at her from their stone plinths. Not recognising any of the names, she wandered around them until she got to the statue at the far end. The detail in the carving was amazing. From the waves in his marble wig to the wrinkles in his marble stockings. Then she noticed the inscription. Isaac Newton. It was a statue of Isaac Newton! Of course, he’d been a student here.

  Cambridge was something that she associated with Dad’s past. The past he’d admitted running away from. He was the public school boy who’d got a first class degree from this place and then pissed off his parents by running away to a peace camp in the middle of Gaza in order to find himself. That’s where he’d found Mum. Poppy had always loved that about him. He’d rebelled against all of this – so how the hell had he ended up back here, snuggling up with Isaac frickin’ Newton?

  ‘No offence, Isaac,’ she murmured to the statue.

  The doors that looked to lead into the rest of the chapel were closed. Damn! The service must have begun. She daren’t just barge in there, even if Dad did deserve a bit of ritual humiliation. Poppy folded her arms and blew the hair out of her eyes. Her gaze darted around – drawn by the ghostly statues whose sightless eyes stared down at her as if Dad wasn’t the only one who had an opinion on her recent behaviour.

  ‘Ha! You can’t tell me none of you had sleepovers.’

  Maybe she’d wait outside.

  A couple of feet away, on the white marble floor, was what looked like a polished glass bead. She stooped down to pick it up, then realised it wasn’t a bead at all. It was liquid – dark and red. Blood.

  She couldn’t imagine why there would be blood on the chapel floor…unless someone had hurt themselves.

  ‘Dad?’ she called out, before she could stop herself.

  Her feet moved swiftly to the oak doors. She grasped one of the brass handles and yanked it open.

  As soon as she stepped into the carved wood archway it was as if the chapel had closed in around her, squeezing the air from her lungs. The chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling, which looked like the skeleton of a boat, cast a hazy light over everything, almost as if there was fog. Her gaze followed the black and white marble tiles to where the boxed oak seating began.

  There, in the centre of the aisle, Dad was kneeling with his back to her, his head bowed over like he was praying. Poppy sighed. He was probably praying for her soul. She was about to march over there when he turned his face to her. His eyes were wide and his skin pale except for what looked like bloody finger marks scratched down his cheek. He scrabbled to his feet, holding out his hands as if to chase her out of the chapel. And his hands…his hands were covered in blood. She took a step back, but stopped when the clawing metallic smell hit the back of her throat.

  It was then she saw him.

  Lying on the marble floor smeared with blood was a body. Poppy edged forward, her gaze fixed on the motionless form. It was a guy. His eyes were wide open; as if he was staring into heaven.

  ‘Poppy, stop,’ Dad said.

  Her feet stopped moving, but she couldn’t stop looking. The guy’s black dinner jacket had fallen open, revealing a shirt that was no longer white, but had merged with the gaping wound in the centre of his chest.

  He’d bled so much that the blood had pooled around him and somehow his arms had smeared through it, creating bloody wings beneath his outstretched arms.

  A little way from the body was what looked like a javelin or a spear.

  ‘Poppy,’ Dad said.

  She tried to tug her gaze away, but she couldn’t stop looking. His skin, so bloodless that his chiselled features could have belonged to one of the white marble statues, was framed by curling dark hair and set with eyes so blue that for a second she thought it was Michael that was lying there cloaked by bloody wings.

  Poppy’s hand flew to her mouth as a scream scratched at her throat.

  ‘Poppy, listen to me. Poppy!’

  Her gaze flicked up and connected with Dad’s.

  ‘I need you to go to the porter’s lodge and tell them that we need the police and an ambulance.’

  Poppy nodded, but she couldn’t move her feet. It was like they’d sunk through the marble, trapping her there. And she couldn’t help looking at those wide blue eyes. This time she could see that it wasn’t Michael. This guy was a bit older. There was the beginning of stubble around his jaw, and the mouth that hung open as if in a scream wasn’t anything like Michael’s.

  ‘Poppy, look at me.’

  Dad’s voice seemed a long way away, as if he was talking to her from the other end of a long, dark tunnel. Black passed between her and the body, like a curtain being drawn across the scene.

  ‘Poppy!’

  She swallowed and looked up to see Dad standing there, staring down at her. His eyebrows scrunched together. The blood smeared across his cheek looked like someone had tried to scratch his eyes out.

  ‘Yeah, the porters,’ she said. ‘I’m going.’

  She turned and ran, through the oak doors, into the antechamber. Her foot hit something and she skidded, almost losing her balance.

  Blood. She’d slipped in blood, smearing it across the white marble. She stumbled back, bumping up against one of the statues. But when she turned around, it wasn’t a statue at all, but a guy with black hair and heartbreakingly blue eyes. He reached out a hand to her as if to steady her and she saw the blood pouring from the wound in his chest. She blinked and he was gone. Poppy bit back a scream.

  She ran, through the doorway into the freezing morning air that smelled of blood and death. Across the virgin snow, ignoring whether she was running over pavement, cobbles or the sacred grass that Michael had warned her about. She ran so fast that she was barely able to stop when she charged into the porter’s lodge.

  Three startled faces looked up.

  ‘What the blazes is the matter?’ the old guy from last night said.

  Poppy tried to gulp back enough air to get the words out, but her lungs were sore and her mouth couldn’t seem to form words.

  ‘Hey now,’ the porter said, rushing around the desk and putting an arm around her shoulder. ‘You’re safe here.’

  Safe? She almost laughed.

  ‘Nothing’s g
oing to happen to you while we’re here to look after you. Rodger, nip over to the chapel, will you, and get Miss Sinclair’s dad.’

  ‘That’s where it is. The body,’ she managed to force out.

  The younger porter who’d been dispatched to get her dad stopped in the doorway. ‘What did she say?’

  Poppy pulled out of the older man’s arm and grabbed hold of the reception desk to steady herself. ‘In the chapel. Dad’s with him. He said you need to call the police and an ambulance.’

  ‘Rodger, you stay here with Miss Sinclair. Poppy, isn’t it?’ he said, grasping her shoulder.

  Poppy nodded.

  ‘You stay here with Rodger. He’ll make you a cup of tea.’ He looked at the other. ‘Call 999 then radio Bill to meet me at the chapel. Tell him to stay on the door. People will be heading over for Morning Prayer any minute. Then call the Master and the Junior Bursar. I imagine the Dean will be along soon enough.’

  With that he squeezed Poppy’s shoulder and bolted out of the door. She watched through the frosted window. Instead of taking the route she had, he turned right and for a second disappeared from view. Then he appeared again, running along the path that bordered the snowy lawns. Seemed that even in the case of murder, he couldn’t bring himself to walk on the grass.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Through the oblong panes of mottled glass, Michael watched Poppy walking the path towards the chapel on the other side of Great Court, her long coppery-blonde hair tucked into the collar of her army surplus all-weather coat. She was dragging her feet – not surprising, really. He wouldn’t want to be in her shoes. He felt guilty about letting her talk to her dad alone, but she was probably right about needing to let Jim calm down.

  Michael ran a hand over his face and let out a long slow breath.

  This was not how it was supposed to happen. He’d been so damned careful to not let things go too far. He’d promised himself that they’d wait at least a year – she deserved that. He wanted her to have the whole dating experience…the crap nights out…the silly presents…the crazy moments when a touch or a word makes you fall just a little bit harder. He wanted her to have it all.

  He had a plan. He should have stuck with the plan!

  There was just one problem with the plan: it was based on the firm belief that Poppy was kind of shy about these things. The last thing he’d expected was for her to show up in his room, wearing her best Winnie the Pooh sleepytime nightdress, asking him to…

  He snorted and shook his head. What other girl would show up to seduce her boyfriend wearing that little outfit? She was so fucking adorable and she really didn’t know it.

  That was beside the point. He should have put a stop to it the minute she’d shown up, but he was weak and selfish.

  He’d let it happen because, as they’d walked through the snowy university town he’d dreamed about for as long as he could remember…all he could think about was her. Right now she felt like the only unwavering constant in a life full of ifs and buts.

  Beyond the window, Poppy had reached the steps that led up to the chapel door. She paused for a second and looked back. He had the strange urge to wave, but there was no way she could know he was standing there watching her…wanting her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his whole life and scared that the wanting would be the thing that would destroy them. He should have known that she wasn’t ready. He knew Poppy – really knew her – he should have been able to tell that it wasn’t just nerves…that she was scared. He was so angry with himself for getting it wrong.

  God, he hoped she was OK.

  Michael squeezed his eyes shut and ran a hand over his face. He had to get ready in case she brought her dad back here. If he was going to have to talk to Jim about what he had and hadn’t done with his daughter, he didn’t want to do it in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Turning up to his interview in his underwear probably wouldn’t go down too well either.

  What if he was on a roll? What if he screwed up that as well? Everyone seemed so sure that he’d get in but what if he didn’t? What if he didn’t get in anywhere? It was entirely possible that he was going to wreck his whole future in the space of twenty-four hours…Poppy…Cambridge…everything.

  He scrubbed his hands over his hair and rolled his shoulders, trying to stretch out the twitchy feeling in his muscles. It didn’t work. Maybe a shower would clear his head. He grabbed his towel from where he’d thrown it on the armchair, stopped at the sink to clean his teeth, and then headed out of the door.

  Passing through the shared study, he eased open the main door onto the corridor and peeked through the crack. He could hear people moving about on other floors, but this corridor appeared to be empty. He pushed open the door and headed for the bathroom. Would have been useful if Jim had mentioned that he had a key to get into their rooms, Michael thought, blanching at what could have happened, if last night had gone differently.

  The door to the right of him swung open, and out walked a yawning figure with long blonde hair that wasn’t quite as smooth as it had been the night before.

  She opened her eyes and stared at him. Then a slow smile spread across her make-up-stained face.

  ‘Did Father Christmas come early?’ she asked, her voice still gravelly with sleep.

  She slid her hands behind the small of her back and lounged against the doorframe.

  She wore a long black silk robe patterned with red and gold dragons, tied with a bow at the waist. And he was pretty sure that was the only thing she was wearing.

  Heat rushed from under his T-shirt and filled his cheeks.

  ‘I was just looking for the bathroom,’ he stuttered, not quite sure where to put his eyes.

  ‘I was heading that way too. Should we toss a coin? We could always share.’

  Michael tore his eyes away from the girl and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’m not sure that would be such a good idea.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘You look like the kind of girl who would steal the soap.’ Among other things.

  She laughed. ‘You’re a good judge of character. I’m Ria, by the way. Hope you enjoy your time on the girls’ floor. It’s certainly a treat to have you here.’

  The door behind her was yanked open. The person who pushed past her was not a girl.

  ‘Out of the way unless you want me to piss all over you,’ he said, clutching his boxer shorts like a three-year-old rushing for the potty.

  ‘Morning.’ The guy nodded to Michael as he barged past, into the bathroom. The door slammed shut.

  ‘That was Conal. He’s generally more verbose but it was a late night for all of us.’

  Michael smiled.

  ‘I’m guessing he might be in there a while. Will you join us for tea?’ she asked, beckoning him towards the open door.

  He should say no. There was something weirdly dangerous about this situation, but he couldn’t help being curious.

  Before he had a chance to answer, the other guy he’d seen last night appeared behind Ria. He was still wearing the black trousers of his dinner suit, but his shirt was open over a white T-shirt.

  ‘Oh, hello.’ The guy looked Michael over, like he was something unexpected, and gave him a broad smile. ‘Devon Dewitt,’ he said, thrusting his hand out.

  Michael shook the guy’s hand, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘Michael Quinn.’

  ‘Hate to break up the party,’ Devon said, fingering his short brown hair as if rearranging it, hair by hair. ‘But there’s something going on in Great Court. The fuzz have arrived. It’s all terribly exciting.’ Devon wiggled his eyebrows before disappearing back into the room.

  Ria raised her eyebrows, her smile never faltering. ‘Well, you’ll have to come in now.’ She slid around the doorpost. ‘Come along, Michael Quinn, hoarder of soap.’

  Michael could do nothing but follow…like a dog chasing after a bone.

  The room he entered wasn’t anything like the bare and slightly moth-eaten set he and Poppy were staying in. This room lo
oked like it had been in the hands of a decorator. Tall bookcases were crammed with leather-bound texts. A psychedelic screensaver swirled around the massive screen of a new Mac, but he couldn’t see the keyboard for the mounds of papers covering the desk. The institutional brown carpet was almost entirely covered by heavy rugs and the whole place smelled of stale alcohol and musky perfume. In one corner a low table was covered in a black cloth that at the centre had an embroidered silver pentagram. It was like something Poppy’s mum would have.

  ‘What do you think’s going on?’ Ria asked Devon, kneeling on the window seat and resting an arm on his shoulder.

  ‘God knows. Looks like something’s happened in the chapel.’

  ‘Where?’ Michael asked, darting over to the window. Michael stared over Ria’s shoulder, through the leaded window to where several police officers seemed to be herding people away from the chapel entrance.

  ‘Paramedics have just gone in there.’

  ‘Poppy,’ he murmured.

  ‘Who?’ Ria asked, swivelling to him.

  ‘My girlfriend. She just went over there to see her dad.’

  ‘Who the hell’s her dad?’

  ‘The chaplain.’

  Ria and Devon exchanged a look.

  Devon smirked. ‘She’s Jim Sinclair’s daughter?’

  Michael nodded. The three of them looked out of the window as a police officer stabbed a metal pole into the lawn and began taping off the area with blue and white striped tape.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Devon muttered. ‘Looks like someone died.’

  Michael didn’t wait to see any more. He ran through the corridor, passing a bemused Conal on the way, back through the unlocked door, through the study, into his room. He grabbed his jeans, yanked them on and shoved his feet into his best shoes, laid out ready for his interview.

  She’d be OK. Not even Poppy could get into trouble in the ten or fifteen minutes she’d been gone. Oh, who was he kidding?