Rope of Sand

by C F Dunn

  The girl caught Duffy’s eye. Duffy stopped, raised a hand as if for permission. “Your Honour, if I may have a moment…?”

  “Make it quick,” the judge said, watching as Duffy came over to our table. The clerk spoke rapidly to her.

  “Are you sure?” Duffy asked me. I nodded. She turned back to the judge. “Your Honour, to enable the jury to understand the mechanics of the injuries, I’d like Dr Lynes to illustrate using Professor D’Eresby.”

  Matthew flashed me an angry look, and my father shunted forward in his seat with a grunt of disbelief. The judge peered at me down the length of her nose and then at Horatio, who shrugged. “A little unorthodox perhaps, but if you wish, counsel, you may.”

  Walking self-consciously towards Matthew, I sensed his displeasure before I reached him and avoided his eyes, feeling awkward suddenly, and shy.

  Duffy raised her hand towards me. “Could you remind the court what you were wearing at the time of the attack, professor?”

  “I was wearing a sleeveless top, like a camisole, and a long-sleeved jacket and evening skirt. Wait…” I said, and slipped off my jacket as an afterthought. Underneath, I wore a short-sleeved shirt that exposed my scar.

  “Dr Lynes?” Duffy urged. I held out my right arm. With a degree of reluctance he took it.

  “The fracture to the radius was here…” he drew his finger in an arc around the outside edge of my arm, “… consistent with an injury caused thus…” and he drew my arm back sharply towards the edge of the judge’s bench, stopping before it hit.

  The jurors murmured among themselves.

  “What other injuries did you observe, Dr Lynes?”

  “Professor D’Eresby had a knife wound to her neck, here.” He lifted my chin and turned my head gently so that they could see. “And extensive bruising to her left arm around her wrist with evident marks caused by fingernails digging into her wrist, like so.” He wrapped his hand around my arm, placing his fingers exactly where Staahl held me and extended my arm, the long scar clearly visible.

  A sigh of displeasure floated from the court as Horatio interrupted. “Objection, Your Honour. It is a matter of speculation what caused the marks on Ms D’Eresby’s wrist.”

  Matthew shot him a withering look as he addressed the judge. “No, Your Honour, DNA testing of samples taken from under Professor Staahl’s fingernails of his left hand clearly show he had broken Professor D’Eresby’s skin with his nails and the pattern of those wounds corresponds exactly with his digits.”

  The judge nodded. “Overruled. Please continue, Dr Lynes.”

  “Professor D’Eresby also had bruising and friction burns across her throat here, having been held forcibly, like so…” He stood behind me, his body just touching, bringing his arm around my neck.

  I began to feel dizzy as he trapped my right arm beneath his. I took a breath to quell the encroaching sense of rising alarm, but as Matthew gripped my left wrist in his fingers, totally immobilizing me, I began to breathe rapidly, sweat breaking out around my neck and under my arms, and I stifled an urge to scream.

  Panic.

  Blind panic they call it, when there is no sense or reason to your actions but you react out of fear and an instinct for survival. I struggled against him.

  “Let – me – go!”

  He released me immediately, shock on his face as I broke away from him. The courtroom emptied of sound except for my rapid, rough breaths.

  Swiftly coming to the rescue, Duffy threw my jacket around my shoulders and led me back towards our table, where I sat down, shaking.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I’m all right. Sorry… I’m sorry.” But my apology was not for Duffy or anyone else watching, but for Matthew, who emitted unspoken anguish from every pore.

  “You did just great, hun, couldn’t be better,” she whispered, quickly curving around and returning to where Matthew still stood, his mouth a grim line.

  “To continue, Dr Lynes,” she said, maintaining momentum, “were any other injuries noted by you on that night?”

  Matthew managed to focus on her again. “Professor D’Eresby also sustained two broken ribs.”

  “And how did these injuries occur?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “When I tackled Staahl, Professor D’Eresby was knocked out of the way. I knocked her out of the way.”

  What the hell did she think she was doing? I scowled at her, not caring who saw me.

  “So you inadvertently caused the fractures to her ribs?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “If you had not acted as you did at that moment, what – in your opinion – do you think would have happened?”

  He answered without a moment’s hesitation. “He would have killed her.”

  The door at the back of the courtroom suddenly opened and rapid footsteps of hard-soled shoes on the wooden floor broke through the absolute hush that gripped the room. The judge removed her spectacles as the man approached her. He bent low, his mouth to her ear. She nodded and looked over at Duffy.

  “Counsel, please approach the bench.”

  She whispered something to Duffy, glancing towards Matthew before calling Horatio and the clerk of the court to join them. Duffy hurried back towards Matthew and spoke rapidly.

  I felt it before he raised his eyes and looked at me, an age of time within a fleeting tremor, a melting grief. Then he was moving towards his son and family, who were already halfway along the bench, pulling coats over their shoulders.

  The eyes of the courtroom tracked them as they crossed the room towards the exit, where they were joined by Maggie at the door, her face bleached white.

  The room erupted as the door closed and the judge hammered on her bench calling for quiet, and everyone rotated to face her. All except one – an elderly woman seated at the far back of the room, whose face remained directed towards the door as if she were following the retreating footsteps down the hall. Then she turned and in the brief moment our eyes met, I saw cognition. Her mouth tweaked, she looked away, my querying glance unanswered.

  The court clerk coughed roughly. “Court will adjourn until Monday morning at O-ten hundred hours. All rise.” I heard him but my body wouldn’t respond.

  “Emma, stand up,” Duffy whispered, pulling me. I stared at her blankly, then came to my senses and did as bidden. The judge left the room and the courtroom began to empty.

  “That went very well,” Duffy said with evident satisfaction. “That doctor is just so unbelievable. If I had to be rescued by anyone, it would have to be by him – on a horse and in shining armour. I can’t believe he carried you all that way.”

  If I had my way, that’s exactly what he would be doing at this precise moment, and he would be taking me away – a long, long way away where there were no Staahls, no judges, and no counsels.

  Still talking, Duffy flopped back into her chair in triumph. “And that was darned brilliant, Emma. I would have suggested using you as a dummy if I thought it were ethical. The jury just lo-ve a bit of drama.” When I didn’t answer, stock-still and frozen, she peered up at me. “Horatio’s really put you through the grinder today, hun, but that adjournment came just in time, although I’m sorry for the family, of course. Did you hear what’s happened?”

  She didn’t need to tell me, I already knew: Ellen was dead.

  Outside the courthouse, the space was crammed with people aimlessly intent, hands in pockets and collars pulled up against the driving sleet. With no room for umbrellas, several people used their folded newspapers to keep their heads dry. They were a patient people, stamping their feet and flexing their hands to keep warm, exchanging comments – young, old, and middle-aged – a throng, a crowd, a community.

  By the time we left, a premature gloaming pursued the cloud, and the street lamps had come on early, reflecting orange pools of light off the cars parked underneath.

  Duffy drew air through her teeth as Hart opened the wide door for us to pass through. “Hang on to your hats, this is going to get rough.”r />
  “There she is!” an overexcited voice yelled. As one, the mass of bodies came alive, converging like a swarm around us, animated faces mouthing questions, comments, insults – a frenzy of voices; and eyes – wide and staring – their whites showing like cattle about to stampede.

  “Keep back!” Hart ordered, using his shoulders to control the heaving flank of bodies as we tried to push our way through the mob, but he was short, and arms waved and reached around and above him, newspapers thrust at us, jabbing, accusing.

  “No comment, no comment,” Duffy pushed voice recorders out of her face.

  My father elbowed his way forward and all I wanted to do was cut and run, but they mirrored my moves like a rugby scrum with me as the ball.

  We reached the pavement where the car waited. Hart wrenched open the door and pushed me inside. “Monday,” Duffy said and slammed the door shut between us and the disappointed crowd. My father slid into the seat next to me, sweat standing on his brow, and we left the herd behind.

  Dad mopped his forehead, breathing heavily.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, concerned. It took him a moment to catch his breath.

  “They were behaving like a pack of damned hyenas…”

  “I know.”

  “What did Staahl’s barrister think he was doing asking all those questions, making you out to be some sort of cheap slut? Damn and blast him! And what about Ma… Dr Lynes? Where did he go, all of a sudden?” It sounded like an accusation.

  I watched sleet hit the window and slide diagonally in a melting stream down the glass, but all I could see was Matthew’s shocked face mirrored in it.

  “His grandmother has just died.”

  “Oh – I’m sorry to hear that. Those people I sat next to, are they his family, his parents?”

  I traced a piece of sleet with my finger all the way down the window until I could go no further. “His family. Yes.”

  He didn’t pursue the subject any further, aware that Hart listened with his head inclined to catch the conversation.

  “Isn’t there a law about defamation of character in court?” Dad grumbled instead.

  I sighed. “They don’t have much to go on. They’re allowed a certain degree of character assassination as part of the prosecution.”

  “Damn fool system. And why did Dr Lynes take you to his rooms, anyway?”

  “You see, Dad? That’s how it works. The prosecution has you wondering whether Dr Lynes is what he seems, sowing seeds of doubt, little niggles that will work their way into your thought processes until you don’t know what’s fact and what’s fiction. That’s how it works,” I said again, more quietly this time and almost to myself. Hart’s eyes reflected briefly in the rear-view mirror. “Even Mr Hart here is wondering whether any of what was said about me is true, aren’t you?” I addressed the mirror.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s not my place to say.”

  “No, but it doesn’t stop you thinking, all the same, does it?” He didn’t deny it. The car slowed to round a corner, and I recognized the highway that took us back towards the college. “And just so that you know, Dad, whether you choose to believe it or not, Dr Lynes took me to his rooms for the very reason he gave: I was petrified. He made me feel safe.”

  My father brushed drops of water from his coat and undid the buttons. “But that disgusting man was in custody. He couldn’t have hurt you any more.”

  “No, but fear isn’t rational – I couldn’t think straight. I saw Staahl in every shadow and every time the door opened I thought it would be him. Sometimes… sometimes I think I still do.”

  Enough was enough for one day. I placed my cheek against the cold window and closed my eyes, letting the rocking motion of the car replace the tremors – like the vibration of an oncoming train – running through me.

  By the time we reached the college, it had become fully dark. Hart walked with us back to my apartment, but nobody asked questions or bothered us. The college still represented a sanctuary until the evening newspapers were published.

  “You didn’t tell the truth – neither of you did – about your relationship.” Dad placed his fork on his empty plate and it slithered to one side on his uneven knees. He leaned forward to put it on the coffee table. I had hardly touched my food, although Elena had made me promise on all that was holy in Russia that I would. I felt unspeakably tired and I didn’t need the third degree from him this evening. He looked as if he could do with an early night as well. Dark circles, the colour of an overripe fig, lay in the recesses under his eyes, and the pouches of his jowls sagged like a basset hound. But he wanted an answer.

  “Dad, I said that you might hear things you didn’t like. You see how they twist the truth? We wouldn’t lie if we didn’t have to, please believe that.”

  “I do – at least I think I do, Emma, but it’s always more difficult when you hear it from your own child. Tell me though, just one thing – did Matthew try to kill Staahl?”

  “Don’t be silly, Dad.”

  “Pity. I would have done, if I were him.”

  I went over and gave him a long hug then kissed his weathered cheek. “You surprise me sometimes, you really do; what would Mum say?”

  “Your mother? She wouldn’t have hesitated, she would have shot him weeks ago.” He rumbled a laugh. “I think it’s time I gave her a call and told a few lies myself.” He patted his pocket for his mobile and I left him to it so that I wouldn’t have to hear my father play dirty with the truth, and went to get ready for bed.

  I wasn’t thinking about sleep, but about Matthew. I thought about the evidence he had given as he had recounted the events of the night I had come so close to death, and the pain he had expressed without knowing he did so. I hadn’t been aware of it after the attack, of course, but I had seen a glimpse of it today like an unbidden, hidden memory engraved on his emotions as surely as a name is recorded on a grave.

  The last thing I saw before my eyes closed for the final time that night was my little triptych silhouetted against the distilled light of the window, and the last thing that floated through my drifting mind was what Matthew would be going through right now as he came to terms with his wife’s death. And I wondered – a little, tiny part of me wondered – whether he might ask himself: Is all this loss worth it?

  CHAPTER

  19

  Uninvited Guest

  Sleep on my Love in thy cold bed

  Never to be disquieted!

  My last good night! Thou wilt not wake

  Till I thy fate shall overtake…

  HENRY KING (1592–1669)

  A sense of change magnetized the air, and I threw open the windows to let the cold, light wind stream through the apartment, lifting the papers on my desk and sending a stray white feather scurrying across the room. Snow thinned on the ground and, here and there, browned patches of grass waited for spring to green them. While all the snow had gone from the cedar tree, a faint mist clung to its branches.

  I checked my mobile first thing in the morning, but Matthew hadn’t left a message. I didn’t have to wait long to hear from him. I heard a quiet knock at my door.

  “Harry!” A combination of relief and delight in my voice brought a wan smile to his face. He returned my embrace, his clothes smelling fresh and cold from the air outside. I ushered him to the sofa. “How is he?”

  “Well, you know…”

  I rocked my head back and forth. “I’m sorry, that was a stupid, asinine question…”

  “I was going to say that he’s OK, Emma, in the circumstances.”

  “Oh. And the rest of you? What about Henry?”

  “Yeah, well, we were expecting it. Ellen died peacefully.”

  “I’m glad about that at least. And Maggie?” He grimaced and shrugged. “You look exhausted. I’ll get you some tea. I don’t have any coffee, sorry.”

  He raised a wry smile. “That’s probably a good thing, remembering what happened last time, right? Don’t worry about it; I had a drink at ho
me before I came. I forgot to shave though.” He rubbed his chin where faint, fair stubble just pushed through, reminding me he was older than the seventeen years he appeared. “Look, Emma, Matthew wanted me to give you this.” He reached into a side pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cream envelope. “I would have brought it over sooner, but I had to help Dad with Maggie.”

  So it must be urgent.

  I sat down on the edge of the coffee table opposite him, and turned the envelope over in my hands and saw my name written in Matthew’s distinctive script. I looked, but did not open it.

  “That reminds me,” Harry said. “Matthew said to ask if you’ve had breakfast.”

  I gave a short laugh. I had reheated the food I hadn’t eaten last night, but too long in the microwave had resulted in vulcanized rubber, which had been barely edible.

  “Tell him I have, will you, please?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He glanced at me and then at the envelope still unopened in my hand, and his young, unlined face crinkled into unaccustomed furrows. “Matthew would’ve brought it himself, but there’s so much to do, you know?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t expect him to, Harry.”

  I knew why I didn’t open it. There were some things that were better written than said, and part of me had always expected a change, one way or another, when Ellen finally died. After all the trauma of yesterday with the trial, the accusations, the news of her death, I couldn’t be sure how Matthew might react.

  Harry regarded me with eyes older than his years. “Matthew asked if you would mind reading it now; it’s from Ellen.”

  From Ellen? Ellen!

  I wondered whether my relief showed. “Yes, of course, sorry.”

  The letter was short, dictated to Matthew, and written on the same heavy paper as the envelope.

  Valmont

  6th February

  Emma,

  I have little time left and I want to thank you for the service you have done me in the ways we discussed. I can rest easy now, and Matthew, too.