Mortal Fire

by C F Dunn

  My stomach rumbled quietly. I hoped he hadn’t noticed, but he smiled and said, “Hungry?”

  “Am I? Yes, I suppose I am.” Lunch must have passed some time ago and my tummy murmured again to confirm it. I poked it unenthusiastically. “I’d better feed you before you shout at me,” I addressed it. The doctor smiled more broadly than before, exposing even teeth. I would have placed him in his early thirties, but it was hard to tell; he combined the restrained refinement and quiet confidence of a much older man.

  “I will let the two of you get better acquainted. May I borrow this?” he asked, holding up one of my favourite texts. He would have to return it one day, and that thought was very appealing.

  “Yes, by all means.”

  “Enjoy your lunch,” he said as he left the room, book in hand. I frowned after him, wishing he could have joined me. Wishing he had asked me to join him.

  Waiting for me outside my flat when I returned, Sam attempted to look nonchalant as if passing by, but his grin became anxious, and his eyes troubled as he saw me. He unfolded his arms and straightened as I approached.

  “Hi, Sam.”

  If my greeting was unenthusiastic, it was more to do with hunger than not wanting to see him; until that moment, I had all but forgotten to be annoyed with him.

  “Emma, I’m sorry – really sorry; I had no idea and I didn’t mean to presume anything. Elena said we – I – upset you.” He saw the expression on my face. “Not that we were talking about you or anything. Well, we were, but nothing you wouldn’t like.” His words came out in a rush. “Emma, please – can I come in?”

  I wavered for a second, my hand on the door, before acceding.

  I sensed his relief as he followed me into my flat. I went straight to the little fridge, retrieved the bread and slammed two slices into the toaster. Sam wisely kept quiet, watching as I moved around my flat, and seemingly content now that he believed himself forgiven.

  Four slices of toast later – two for me, two for Sam – I was more or less human again. He avoided the subject of the previous evening while I ate, but I guessed that he hadn’t done with it yet. I finished the last crust of toast and picked up my mug of milkless tea before prompting him.

  “Get on with it, Sam.”

  He eyed me cautiously, before resuming the topic.

  “Hey, I wasn’t that pushy last night, was I?” he began.

  I looked into the bottom of my mug where the rich tawny colour of the tea was the exact colour of his eyes.

  “Yes,” I said, “you were.”

  “It wasn’t intentional. Look, I know I messed up and came on pretty strong and I’m sorry. Can I take you out for lunch or something to make up for it? No strings,” he added, looking at me through his long, black lashes. When he put it like that – when he wasn’t trying so hard – he made it sound like a relatively safe and reasonable proposal. Despite my reservations of the previous night, Sam was very likeable, and I wanted us to be friends. He waited for my answer.

  “OK, lunch is acceptable; there’s just one thing I think you ought to know,” and I paused to make my point.

  “What’s that?”

  “I came to the States to complete some research, Sam, and I’m not looking for any complications. You’re not thinking of becoming a complication, are you?” I went on before he could answer: “Because if so… it’s not what I want.”

  He pursed his mouth and regarded me thoughtfully. I suddenly realized that I might have entirely the wrong end of the stick and he had no designs on me other than purely platonic ones. I could feel myself begin to squirm at my inept attempt to put the record straight.

  “Sure, I get it, that’s OK,” he said slowly. “I like a challenge,” and his full-lipped mouth flicked up in a seditious grin.

  Nope, I had been right all along. “Well, don’t see me as one, Sam; I’m not that sort of girl; you are so exasperating!”

  “Infuriating – yeah, that’s what my ex-wife told me.” He leaned back in the armchair, folding his hands behind his head, looking comfortable and somewhat smug as he continued to examine me through half-closed eyes.

  “Which one?” I asked, mopping up residual crumbs from my plate with my finger.

  “Ouch.” His attempt to appear hurt failed and he changed tack, shifting forward in the chair as he did so. “What did you think of your reception? Still glad you came to the States or did we make you want to turn tail and run for home?”

  The disturbing image of Staahl imposed itself as he moved towards me through the crowded room, lifeless eyes seeking to penetrate the protective cloak within which I perpetually wrapped myself. I mentally retreated and instead found myself ensnared by the doctor’s cool gaze.

  “It was interesting meeting everyone, Sam, but I don’t like being in the limelight much.”

  “You might not like it, but it sure likes you.”

  I pulled a face and he rubbed his chin, trying not to laugh.

  “You said last night that the college has something you want. You drove Madge mad with curiosity and you don’t want to get on the wrong side of the old witch; if you don’t tell her, she’ll make it up. Now, what exactly did you mean?”

  I hadn’t wanted to explain last night – and a part of me didn’t want to now. So personal a subject had it become that revealing it seemed tantamount to a full-frontal confession, and I didn’t know Sam well enough for that; I settled for a shortened version of the truth.

  “It’s a bit difficult to know where to begin, but the college holds a manuscript that I am particularly interested in researching.”

  “Go on,” he urged, leaning forwards a tad more until his knee-cap touched mine. I drew my legs under me and he shifted away, apparently unaware.

  “Well, that’s it really. I need it for part of my research and it’s here. And so am I.”

  He looked puzzled. “So what’s the big deal? Why didn’t you just tell us that last night?” He threw himself back against the chair, his turn to sound frustrated.

  “I said it’s difficult to explain,” I said flatly. “But it must be the same for you, if you are so deep into an area of research that it completely takes over your life and you become consumed by it.”

  Sam chewed his lip. “Sure, I can see that, and I suppose my wives couldn’t, which is why I’ve ended up paying two sets of alimony. Yeah, it makes some sort of sense. But you can still tell me more, can’t you?”

  I conceded that point. I risked stretching my legs so that the blood could flow through them again, conscious of him examining me although he tried to disguise his interest.

  “It’s a seventeenth-century diary kept by an Englishman who emigrated to America with his family. It covers about twenty years of his life and it’s unique from my point of view. Anyway, I’m here because I’ve only had excerpts from it before. The man who built this house – Ebenezer Howard – acquired it and it’s his handwritten extracts that brought me to where I am now.”

  “So what does this diary look like?”

  I hoped he wouldn’t ask me that. “I – I haven’t seen it.”

  “You’re kidding me! You mean you’ve come all this way and you haven’t even seen it yet! Why not?” His incredulity stung and I scowled because I knew that it wouldn’t make much sense to anyone but me, but I felt more sheepish at my own perfidy than cross with him for mentioning it.

  “I know it doesn’t make much sense, but I’ve wanted this for so long and, well…” I couldn’t find an alternative phrase, “I look at it almost as delayed gratification.”

  He raised his dark eyebrows enquiringly and a bemused smirk crossed his lips. I found a safer analogy instead.

  “Oh, you know, it’s like when you buy a bar of chocolate and instead of eating it straight away, you put it at the back of the cupboard for later. And every time you pass that cupboard you know it’s there, waiting, and that makes it somehow even more enjoyable when you do eat it.” Sam looked mystified. “It’s a woman thing – you wouldn’t understa
nd. Anyway, I have to get this inaugural lecture completed first and get my post-grad supervision under way properly before I allow myself to even see the journal – it’ll be too much of a temptation otherwise.” Sam still hadn’t said a word. “Well, you did ask,” I said defensively.

  “I had no idea…” he began slowly, “that research could be such an emotionally charged issue, and as for bringing sex into it…” He grinned playfully.

  “That’s taking it out of context and you know it!” I said, alarmed at the way his thought processes were going.

  “Sure – but you brought it up, Freckles.”

  I grimaced at his use of my old nickname, but I wanted to make things clear on the relationship front as a matter of urgency, so it would have to wait.

  “And I’m putting it right back down, so don’t even go there,” I replied fiercely. “Anyway, I must get on with my lecture, so beat it – I have work to do.”

  He leaned forward again, trying to engage my eyes. “I love it when you talk rough.”

  “Now!” I avoided looking at him to stop myself from laughing.

  He drew himself to his feet reluctantly and paused. “Lunch then – Friday? As friends?” he asked.

  I collected the plates and mugs and put them on the kitchen counter.

  “As friends and only as friends. Possibly,” I replied without looking up; I didn’t need to – I could sense his grin of triumph as he left the flat.

  Chapter 4

  Trial by Ordeal

  RESEARCHING HISTORY IS, for the most part, a mundane task. It involves cross-referencing, note-taking, remembering and – more often than not – forgetting. The moments of inspiration can be few and you are fortunate indeed if your work leads to an earth-shattering revelation. Slow, painstaking and pedantic it may be, but research has its moments of tension. You can work on your particular subject for a lifetime either to be pipped at the post by an upstart undergrad, or see your pet theory disintegrate under the weight of the latest scientific advances. Either way, the life of a historian is fraught with unexpected dangers, not least of which, they might lose their touch, or their path, or their reason for being.

  Devoid at last of all distraction, I returned to my tutor room that afternoon to settle down to some serious amounts of work. The delivery of an inaugural lecture was a time-honoured custom in some of the more traditional universities; almost a rite of passage, it entitled you to full-blown membership. Giving a lecture provided one area in which I could feel reasonably confident; I followed a set pattern, a format, which proved successful in the past. At least it had, but then previously I always ensured that I came well prepared.

  My laptop slumbered on my desk, and the pile of books accumulated from the library in the morning sat still untouched. Every time I made ready to start work, I found my mind wandering down uncertain paths of half-remembered conversations, images of faces, eyes, hands. It didn’t help that the books in front of me brought some of those pictures sharply into focus and compellingly lingered with the touch of a voice. But the voice belonged to someone who was married, and I didn’t date married men; I didn’t even give them a second look, let alone allow them to gain a foothold on the first rung of the ladder to my affections.

  Been there, done that, burned the T-shirt.

  The sun broke free of the high cloud and now shone weakly on the quad. Poorly insulated as it was, my room grew stuffy from the radiated heat. I struggled with the unfamiliar window catch and it pinged open, letting a rush of fresher air invade the room. I breathed deeply, smelling the earthy mix of warm, recently damp grass mingled with the scent of drying brick and stone. A scattering of students – mostly in pairs – basked in the late September sun. It looked much more inviting than sitting in my room waiting for inspiration. The light breeze which helped dispel the cloud caught the sounds of their voices and carried them towards me and I felt a sudden hunger for the exuberance of youth. I closed my eyes and remembered lifting my face to a warming sun, felt cool turf beneath my back, a hand holding mine, but briefly, before I eliminated the memory.

  A smack of sound brought me back, as one of the books catapulted into the air and belly-flopped on the floor as the window blew shut. I picked it up, turning it over, its front cover immediately recognizable as the one Elena reacted so strongly to that first day. That reminded me.

  I went over to my laptop and typed in an email address. My friend at Cambridge responded almost immediately with a cutting witticism that reprimanded me for not being in touch since I’d arrived. I returned the message with some general remarks and asked her to send me the roll of posters and prints I left behind. We exchanged a few more barbed comments – the sort that only good friends can – before I made my excuses and signed off.

  The room was cooler now, and the sounds from the quad stilled. I typed in a search and came up with a list of specialist suppliers of unusual and historic prints. A few minutes later and several new posters were ordered to add to my collection. The room would not feel so spartan now, and I felt in the mood to focus on my work. I allowed myself to become fully engrossed, blotting out all other thoughts, sounds and images from my mind with my iPod and a wall of melody.

  Darkness encroached as I finally finished the first draft of the lecture. I switched off the light, and closed and locked my door. The corridor lay silent and dark; I was alone.

  I could see enough using the emergency lighting not to bother finding the light switch, and made my way carefully towards the communal seating area. Here, the staircase linked it with the other floors of the building.

  T-chck.

  A soft click of a door closing somewhere in the dark corridor beyond. I stopped, holding my breath, straining for the telltale footfall of another person.

  Nothing.

  Somehow, the absence seemed worse than the presence of another human and I waited a moment longer, but no other sound came from the English department. Acutely conscious of every noise I made, I continued through the lobby and down the stairs, each step lengthening as the desire to reach my flat overcame my caution and my own footsteps echoed in the void. As I neared my door, a whisper of air brushed my cheek, a movement so slight it might have been nothing more than the beating of a moth’s wing. Heart pounding, I fumbled in my bag for the key to my door, half-expecting, any moment, to feel a hand on my shoulder. I almost fell into my flat, slamming the door shut behind me and throwing the bolts. I stood in the dark waiting for my crashing heart to calm.

  I had seen nothing, heard less, but every ounce of me screamed that someone had been watching, waiting, killing time.

  By morning, I succeeded in putting the non-events of the night before into perspective. Tiredness and shadows were a perfect recipe for an active imagination and besides, there remained too much to do before Wednesday to allow a little night terror to come between me and the lecture. So I spent Monday morning with my students discussing research strategy before launching them at the library and on the internet. The afternoon sped by as I refined my presentation, although I made sure that I managed to leave my room before the last of my fellow academics left theirs. I devoted Tuesday to polishing off phrases as well as chocolate, and preparing visuals to support the lecture. Fellow historians would find plenty to get their teeth into and I ensured enough to tantalize the less initiated. Although satisfied enough with the content, I felt less certain about my performance. It didn’t help that a number of people said that they were coming to hear me; a scattering of individuals I could cope with, a crowd was less welcome.

  The lecture hall occupied the central part of its wing. It resembled a theatre, with the plush-seats rising in crescent rows towards the back. Not big, but large enough to be intimidating if full.

  And it was.

  With growing dismay I watched as the rows filled one by one with mostly unfamiliar faces. I recognized several: Elena and Matias bagged seats near the front. Professor Gerhard sat next to Saul Abrahms and Sam was right at the front where I couldn’t miss him.
He gave me an encouraging grin that made me all the more nervous because he thought I needed it. The Dean sat nearby, his hands folded, neither encouraging nor dismissive, but with the air of a judge presiding over his court. Members of my tutor group formed a cluster: Joshua next to Hannah, and Holly near Leo, his arm around a girl I didn’t recognize. I searched quickly, and found Aydin sitting two rows behind.

  I began to phase out as the room filled, and the familiar dryness of first-night nerves desiccated my mouth. Lights dimmed, the theatre falling into darkness leaving spotlights to illuminate the podium. Shuffling from the seats and clearing of throats ensued and then the room hushed expectantly.

  I breathed slowly, raised my eyes and…

  “We are all familiar with the concept of torture as a method of extracting information…” I began. “We also presume it to have been used in ritualized execution and as a form of punishment, and we have evidence for its use in Europe pre-dating the Roman occupation.” Picture number one: a garrotted disembodied head, nicely preserved, looking like a pickled walnut; a satisfying groan rose from my audience. I liked to start with a punch.

  “Equally familiar will be the perception that torture was used as a form of punishment in medieval courts of justice and as a way of discriminating between the guilty and the righteous.” Cue picture number two: colourful fourteenth-century court scene, man and red-hot poker. A shudder from the serried ranks reassured me that I had their full attention, and allowed me to launch into the rest of my discourse. I leaned forward slightly.

  “What is less well understood, however, is the use of torture for the benefit and salvation of the recipient, and it is this which concerns us today.” I began to get into the swing of things, and the hazy mass in front of me resolved into individual faces as I grew accustomed to the darkness. I looked into my audience, preparing them to engage with me – and straight at the rigid face of Staahl. Sitting directly in front of me about eight rows back, devoid of colour, he watched, and the blood drained from my face as the room momentarily spun and blurred. He registered my reaction and a look of slow satisfaction spread across his face. I hesitated, words frozen, caught in the web of his stare. A soft murmur rose from my audience and a few shuffled uneasily. Elena sat forwards on the edge of her seat, willing me on and Sam looked puzzled, glancing over his shoulder to see what caught my eye. I remembered to breathe and looked anywhere but at Staahl, struggling to regain my composure and to refocus. As my eyes scanned the obscurity at the back of the auditorium where the shadows were deepest, Dr Lynes stood; even in the darkness, his fair hair set him apart from those around him. His eyes locked on mine and he nodded imperceptibly. My heart thumped back into life, Staahl’s spell broken; the pause had been only seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. I took a deep breath and, injecting strength into my voice, continued.