Dead Silent

by Sharon Jones

  ‘What’s going on?’ a porter asked, edging into the group.

  Ria sniffed, visibly trying to compose herself before taking the porter’s weathered, red hands in hers. ‘Bill, you have to tell me. Who was it in there? Who died?’

  ‘Miss Mansey, we’re not allowed to talk about this. Please don’t ask me.’

  ‘Was it Danny? Was it? Please – please, Bill. Was it him?’

  The old porter’s face crumpled. The sadness in his eyes was enough to confirm everything Ria needed to know.

  She shook her head as more tears flowed down her cheeks.

  The old porter took off his bowler hat. ‘Let’s get you inside, miss. You haven’t even got any shoes on. Come on, now.’

  Michael followed the strange group back into the staircase and up to the first floor where the porter unlocked the door and ushered them all inside.

  ‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ Michael said quietly to Conal.

  For a moment Conal clung to the doorframe of Ria’s room like a man who’d been kicked in the guts. He squeezed his eyes shut and butted his forehead against the wood with a force that made Michael wince. Then the guy turned, and without a word, shut the door behind him.

  Michael rubbed the nagging pain in his neck before forcing his feet down the corridor to his and Poppy’s set. For a second, he couldn’t think what he was there for. Clothes. Poppy needed clothes.

  Thankfully she hadn’t locked her room, as he hadn’t thought to ask for her key. On the bed that hadn’t been slept in were Poppy’s nightdress and the jeans and hoodie she’d worn last night. Jeans and a hoodie was a start, but it was freezing out there, she’d need something else. Michael spotted her backpack on the armchair and dug inside until he found the long-sleeved Ramones T-shirt that was one of her favourites and a pair of mismatched socks, but there didn’t seem to be any other shoes. Michael shoved his hand further down to the bottom of the pack. Definitely no shoes. He’d have to grab his walking boots – they’d be too big, but they were better than nothing. As he pulled out his hand, his arm caught something and sent it flying onto the floor.

  His jaw dropped open. What the hell? He picked up the square red box. Condoms.

  Well, well. Maybe last night hadn’t been a whim. Just when he’d about convinced himself that all the talk of them being apart had scared her into it, it looked like Poppy hadn’t just thought about sleeping with him; she’d planned for it.

  He sighed as the tension in his shoulders eased. She’d wanted it to happen. Even if she had got scared, she’d wanted it.

  He tucked the packet back in her bag, quickly gathered up the clothes, ducked into his own room and grabbed his walking boots, and headed out onto the corridor. As he passed Ria’s door he could hear her shouting.

  ‘It’s because he said no, isn’t it? It’s because he didn’t want Yaser at the embryo party.’

  A male voice replied, too quiet to make out what he was saying.

  ‘You tell me, Conal!’ Ria screamed. ‘You’re the one who’s working for them.’

  There was the sound of scuffling, heavy footsteps. The door burst open.

  ‘I hadn’t even told them that Danny had blackballed Yaser. You’re being completely paranoid.’ Conal spun around and froze when he saw Michael.

  ‘Shit!’ Conal cursed, before storming off down the corridor.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Dean’s study appeared to be built out of books. Elaborately carved floor to ceiling bookcases covered every wall but one. Despite still feeling shaky, Poppy couldn’t help being impressed. There was even one of those old-fashioned library stepladders to reach the top shelves.

  ‘Come on in,’ the Dean said, heading behind the large mahogany desk.

  Poppy scrunched her toes inside Michael’s walking boots, desperately trying to keep them on her feet and not fall over. On the one wall without bookcases there was a huge poster of Martin Luther King Jr, his mouth open and his hands reaching out, as if to emphasise a point. Down the side were printed the words of his I have a dream speech that Poppy remembered reading in school.

  ‘You’re a fan of Dr King?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Poppy said, turning to find the Dean watching her.

  ‘I was there when he made that speech. I was, of course, very young. Very, very young.’

  ‘Wow,’ Poppy murmured. ‘It must have been incredible.’

  ‘He was a true inspiration. A man driven by a thirst for God’s justice. But of course, you’re not a Christian, are you?’

  The question sounded loaded with judgement. Poppy shook her head, unsure whether admitting to not sharing Dad’s beliefs would get him into trouble. ‘I’m not really anything.’

  The Dean slipped on the glasses that were hanging around her neck and looked at Poppy over the top of them. ‘Oh? I hear that you were brought up a Pagan.’

  ‘Yeah…but…’

  ‘Please don’t get her started,’ Michael said, shooting her an amused grin. ‘She’s an atheist. Richard Dawkins’s biggest fan.’

  ‘No, I’m not!’ Poppy hit back, before she could stop herself.

  ‘You named your dog after him.’

  That much was true. Dad had not long moved out when he’d turned up with the cutest bundle of fluff she’d ever seen. It was the same day he told her that he was going to train to be a vicar, and he was going to the other end of the country to do it. It was stupid, but it had felt like the church – or maybe God – was stealing him away from her.

  Michael was staring at her.

  ‘I was thirteen. I didn’t understand the nuances of the argument.’

  ‘But you do believe in justice, don’t you, Poppy?’ the Dean asked. The woman’s eyes were alight with more than interest…it was almost…zeal? ‘Even atheists believe in justice, so I am told.’

  ‘Agnostic,’ Poppy corrected. ‘I’m agnostic.’

  ‘Really?’ Michael’s face took on a puzzled expression. ‘Someone’s changing their tune.’

  ‘To say definitively that God doesn’t exist makes about as much sense as claiming that God does exist,’ she said. ‘There’s no evidence either way.’

  Michael folded his arms. He looked like he was about to argue the point with her, but then, smiling, he shook his head. It wasn’t like him to concede a point so fast. But when he glanced at his watch, Poppy realised why.

  Hell, with everything that had happened she’d almost forgotten: there was only an hour and a half before he had to be at King’s for his interview and the police still weren’t letting people out of the college. What would happen if he didn’t get there – would they reschedule?

  ‘Umm, do you think the police will let people go soon?’ she asked, turning to Bea. ‘It’s just, Michael’s interview is soon.’

  ‘Mmm. We should talk to someone just in case. Come and take a seat, Michael. Do you know who’s interviewing you?’

  ‘Professor Madigan.’

  The Dean sat down, tapped some keys on her computer then picked up the phone and dialled a number.

  ‘Hi, Fiona? It’s Bea Barclay-Tillman over at King’s…yes, it’s terrible…no, we haven’t had confirmation on who it was yet…thank you for that, I’ll pass on your well wishes to the fellows…I’m actually calling about a young man you’re due to interview this morning, Michael Quinn? Yes, well he was staying here and so has gotten caught up in everything that’s going on…they’re not allowing anyone out of college yet, but we’ll get him over to you as soon as we can. Thank you, Fiona. Goodbye.’ Bea put down the receiver. ‘There, all sorted. No problem at all. This won’t count against you one little bit. Now come and sit down and tell me what madness led you to apply to King’s and not Trinity.’

  Michael flashed Poppy a smile before sitting in one of the modern red chairs that were arranged in a semi-circle facing Bea’s desk.

  Poppy wandered from bookcase to bookcase, admiring the eclectic mix of titles while Michael attempted a rational explanation of why he wanted to go to King’s.
Wow, he could come out with some crap when he wanted to. She was tempted to tell the Dean that the real reason he’d applied to King’s was that when he was six his grandparents had sent him a postcard of the college and he had decided there and then that King’s was where he was going to study when he was older. Even now, the curled and faded postcard was still stuck to his pinboard.

  She glanced at him as he switched to talking about some history of Russia he’d just read, totally at home talking to this woman who probably had a million letters after her name. She smiled; she loved that he was such a nerd.

  On one of the shelves, in front of the books, was a photograph of three students with shaggy hair and disarming smiles – one of whom she knew very well.

  ‘You found the picture of your father,’ the Dean said, as the conversation reached a lull.

  ‘Yeah.’ She turned to Bea. ‘Did you know him back then?’

  ‘No. But the boy on the right is my son, Lance.’

  ‘They’re friends?’ She’d never heard Dad mention someone called Lance.

  ‘They were. For a time. Then your father fell in with another group.’ The Dean’s tone grew decidedly frosty as she said, ‘But I suppose that’s what happens when you’re young. Friendship is as disposable as fashion.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ She glanced at Michael. He’d been her best friend for as long as she could remember. He smiled and her chest tightened just a little. ‘A true friend is someone who grows and changes with you. Anyone who doesn’t do that isn’t really a friend at all. What’s that quote? A friend’s someone who gives you total freedom to be yourself.’

  Bea’s brow wrinkled. ‘Seneca?’

  ‘Jim Morrison.’ Michael laughed.

  The Dean turned to Michael. ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘Lead singer with The Doors.’

  ‘Oh. Afraid I’m not very up to date with music. I wouldn’t have a clue about new bands.’

  Poppy shared a grin with Michael before the Dean ushered her to sit down too and have a cup of tea.

  Half an hour later, there was a knock and Dad peered around the door. In place of his clothes was a blue papery boiler suit. The police must have taken his clothes too.

  ‘Hi. How’s everyone doing?’ He nodded to the Dean. ‘Bea.’

  ‘Jim. They let you go. What a relief,’ Bea said.

  Poppy shot up and, tripping over her own feet, landed heavily in Dad’s arms. Dad held her tightly. A lump rose in her throat and a wash of tears blurred her eyes. Of course they’d let him go. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

  ‘It’s OK, Pops,’ Dad murmured, stroking her hair. ‘It’ll be OK.’

  After enough deep breaths to force back the tears, she cleared her throat and stepped out of his arms.

  Dad’s lips tugged into a side smile, but as his gaze moved from her to Michael his expression darkened. Heat crept into Poppy’s cheeks.

  ‘Michael, they’re letting people out. You should just about make it to your interview on time.’ Dad’s tone was flat and ominous.

  Damn! She’d been hoping he’d forgotten about this morning.

  Michael stared back at Dad, his gaze not wavering. ‘Thanks,’ he said, his voice equally flat. ‘I’ll get going.’

  Bea got up out of her chair, distracting everyone from the glaring match. ‘Why don’t I walk you there, Michael – we can swing by your rooms and you can get changed, and Jim can spend some time with Poppy.’

  ‘No, I want to walk Michael,’ Poppy said, going to stand next to him. She felt his hand close around hers.

  ‘Why don’t you meet me afterwards?’ Michael said. ‘They reckoned I’d be done by three.’

  ‘Sure?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m positive.’ He smiled, but she could tell it was forced. After all the distraction, nerves were finally creeping in. And why shouldn’t he be nervous? His dream depended on the next few hours. Her own heart quickened in sympathy. She leaned down and pressed her lips to his.

  At the sound of Dad clearing his throat, Michael’s hand touched her cheek, gently pushing her away.

  ‘Good luck,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be keeping everything crossed.’

  He smirked. ‘You might want to reconsider that, given how hard you’re finding it to walk in those boots.’

  ‘Poppy, let’s go. You’ll make Michael late,’ Dad said, gruffly.

  OK. She was back to being angry with him again. He was treating her like she was a kid. When was he going to realise that she was no longer the child he’d abandoned? She glared in his direction and then smiled at Bea.

  ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘You’re welcome any time,’ the Dean replied, shooting Dad what looked like a smile of triumph. Poppy was getting the feeling that they didn’t really get on. And there she was thinking that priests were meant to love everyone.

  Dad’s rooms were no bigger than the set she and Michael were staying in. And this was where he lived – full time. There didn’t even appear to be a kitchen, only a sideboard with a kettle and cups. Poppy gazed around. Every dark nook and cranny had been jam-packed with mismatched bookcases and CD racks crammed with Dad’s extensive music collection.

  On one wall was an oil painting of an ageing cleric with steely grey hair and a gaze to match. She couldn’t imagine Dad choosing that, it must have come with the rooms, but lining the mantelpiece and windowsills were woodcarvings from the various parts of Africa Dad had visited in his youth. They were the only things to disappear from the house after he had left. Them and his CD collection.

  Poppy remembered the pile she’d found left on her bed after he’d gone. The Clash. Velvet Underground. The Cure. Siouxsie and the Banshees. Bowie. Anything he’d thought essential to her musical education. She hadn’t listened to any of them. She’d flung them across the room, splintering cases and ripping the accompanying booklets. She had been so angry that he could think that a few CDs made up for the lack of him in her life.

  Dad stood in the middle of the room and stared at the wall. Poppy shoved her hands into her jeans pockets and waited.

  After a minute or so, he seemed to remember she was there. He turned to her, his eyebrows raised in a question.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  Poppy shook her head. ‘Think I drank about a gallon of tea in Bea’s office.’

  Dad nodded. ‘Was Bea OK with you?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. Why shouldn’t she be?’

  Dad shrugged. ‘Sometimes she can be a bit funny. It’s so dark in here, you’d think it was the middle of the night.’ He dashed around putting on various lamps. It didn’t make any difference. The room still felt dark and gloomy.

  ‘The guy that died, was he a student?’ Poppy asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Yeah. Not well, but I knew him.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call for the police when you found him?’

  ‘What?’ Dad looked at her.

  ‘You got there well before me, why didn’t you call for help?’

  ‘I didn’t get there long before you. I stopped to talk to one of the kitchen staff after I’d seen you. Why do you ask?’

  Poppy shrugged. ‘I was just wondering.’ She was pretty sure that the police had wondered that too. ‘You should probably get changed.’

  Dad looked down at the blue suit the scenes of crime officers had given him to wear. ‘And I though paper was all the rage.’ He went into what Poppy thought must be his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  Poppy wandered over to the desk, switched on the green reading light and fingered the books there. She picked up one entitled Dante in Love, and flicked through it. The book was filled with margin notes in Dad’s careful, neat handwriting. Although he’d finished his training and had been ordained, he was still hard at work on his PhD. She replaced the book and worked her way aroun
d the room, squeezing between one of the battered old leather sofas and the polished wood coffee table, towards the fireplace. There – amongst the strangely shaped, half-animal, half-human sculpted figures that Dad had once explained to her had been carved by shamans from one of the tribes he had stayed with – was a photograph of her and Dad. It was from a few years ago, before she’d discovered mascara and before he had left them.

  She knew her parents had problems – Dad had gone and found Jesus and her Goddess-loving mum hadn’t been happy about it – so the divorce hadn’t exactly come as a surprise. And maybe splitting up was for the best – Mum seemed happier with Jonathan than she’d ever been with Dad. But the way Dad left, without even talking to Poppy about what was going on with him – that had hurt. And she still didn’t understand why he had to move to Cambridge. There were other vicar schools. There was one less than two hours’ drive from home – she knew, she’d checked. Why did he have to come all the way here? And then stay, even after he’d finished training?

  Poppy reached up to take hold of the photograph and as she did, something fluttered to the floor – what looked like a blank postcard. She leaned down, picked it up and turned over the thick cream card. On the other side was printed:

  11th December

  Whales & Sherry from 7pm

  Old Kitchen

  An invitation, but from whom? And why the hell would they be eating whales – she thought that was pretty much banned unless you were Japanese. The 11th December was yesterday – was that why he’d been all dressed up last night?

  A clunk from behind the bedroom door sent Poppy scrabbling to put the photograph and invitation back where she’d found them. She turned away, just as Dad appeared from his bedroom wearing a black suit. No dog collar, thank goodness, just a plain white shirt. He still didn’t look like himself, though. She was used to him in Bermuda shorts and faded T-shirts sporting the names of bands most people had never heard of.