by C F Dunn
“About the attack last night – on a girl – a student,” she said breathlessly.
“What – here, on campus?” Instantly alert, my headache forgotten, I came back in the room and sat on the edge of the armchair, my shower now irrelevant. Only then did I see she wasn’t excited at all, she was frightened.
“Yes. In the student accommodation – in her room. Matias heard it from one of the researchers – Megan – at the science fac. She is a friend of this girl and it was in the early morning, I think.”
The student block lay out of sight from my windows, around the corner of the next wing, but in the numb darkness of the night, a scream might have carried that far if anyone had been there to hear it. With a stab of remorse, I looked at her, horrified.
“Yes – it was. Something woke me but I thought it was just a fox. Elena, I could have done something to help! Is… is she all right?”
She looked peaky and her eyes stared fearfully at me. “Not really.” Her voiced dropped to a whisper and I strained to hear. “She’s not dead, but… well, she’s damaged.”
“What happened?”
She described what little she knew and even that made my skin crawl. I remembered the feeling of being watched; I felt the breath of stirred air against my cheek, the rush to lock my door to keep the unknown darkness out, and I shrivelled inside because mine seemed a baseless fear in the face of what this girl suffered.
“You did not know,” Elena said quietly, reading my silence. I looked up and saw her close to tears.
“What is it?” I asked.
“The g… girl.” Brown eyes stared out of her elfin face and her lower lip trembled.
“Yes, it’s awful, but…”
“No, you do not understand; it happened to me.” She lifted her hands to her face, collapsing into sobs that shook the whole of her slim body. I put my arms around her and held her until the sobs became whimpers, whimpers mere tears, finally stopping altogether. I found a clean tissue up my sleeve.
“What happened?”
She caught another sob and sniffled and blew her nose, drying pink-rimmed eyes on the back of her hand.
“It was so long ago…” she hesitated.
“But it feels like it happened yesterday?” I encouraged.
She smiled a small, thin smile. “Da, like yesterday. I was fourteen years old and I lived in St Petersburg.” Her voice wobbled and she retrieved the tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose again. “I came back from school; it was winter, and very cold.” She shivered as she remembered. “I heard noise coming from behind me, but I saw nothing. I was first home and it was dark – I remember the darkness. I opened the door and I thought I was safe, but… but – there was a man behind me and he pushed me inside…” Elena bit her lip. “It was horrible. I don’t want to say any more.”
“Does Matias know?” I asked.
“Yes, he does. That is why he told me about the girl himself this morning. He didn’t want me to find out on the… how do you say it?”
“Grapevine?” I suggested.
“Da, grapevine. He said he will find out more if he can.”
“Perhaps they’ll get whoever did this quickly, and then you won’t need to be afraid.”
Elena pulled away and gave me a pitying look.
“Emma, they will catch him but there will be another like him, and another. There will always be men like this one and the one who attacked me – predators.” She sneered the word out. “Who will hunt them, eh? Who will be their predator?”
There ran a seam of truth in what she said, but predators came in many guises.
“Did they get the man who attacked you?”
She looked away and then down at her hands and mumbled something I didn’t catch.
“Elena?”
She shrugged. “I said nothing. I told no one. I was ashamed.”
I covered her hand with mine and we sat without speaking because there seemed little either of us could say, until someone knocked on my door, breaking our solitary thoughts; it was Matias.
“There you are,” he said, as he entered the room, obviously relieved when he saw Elena. “I thought you might be here.” He kissed the top of her head then inspected her face.
“You’ve been crying, baby; are you all right?” he asked tenderly. She nodded.
“I’m OK now; Emma has been looking after me. Have you heard anything else?”
He balanced on the arm of the chair and stroked her hair.
“The girl is stable – I know that much. Whoever attacked her was interrupted before any lasting harm could be done. She’s going to be fine”
“How do you know that – I mean, where did you find out?” I asked as I rose to fill the kettle.
“Matthew treated her in the med centre; she came round and she told him what happened, as far as I can tell.”
Elena’s face became pinched again. “What did happen?”
Matias looked doubtfully at her, before deciding she would be better hearing the most accurate account from him, than find out a mangled version from someone else.
“I don’t know much, but it looks like someone – a man – climbed in through her window. Her room’s on the ground floor. She woke up and screamed but he had a knife. She managed to fight him off but he was too strong, got her around the throat and… well… she doesn’t remember much after that. Only… well, she thinks that he spoke with an accent.”
“So do about a third of the students here,” I said, “and staff,” I muttered as an afterthought, grey eyes in a grey face prominent in my unspoken thoughts. “But she didn’t see who it was? How old? How he dressed? Anything?”
He shook his head. “No, whoever it was took a great deal of care not to leave anything behind – no prints, no DNA, nothing. And she couldn’t say for sure if he did have an accent, just that’s the impression she gained from the little he said.” We were all quiet for a moment. “You must take care – both of you – no taking risks and stick together until they get this guy, OK?” I recalled again the click of a door, silence on the stairs, someone who wasn’t there. We both nodded. “Are you going over to the history block?” he asked.
“Once I’ve phoned the police,” I confirmed.
“I’ll take you when you’re ready,” he said.
We were both glad to have Matias’ company for different reasons. I kept a sharp eye open for any signs of Staahl, checking my pigeon-hole briefly as we passed. I remembered to bring my poster roll and had already emailed my thanks to my friend in Cambridge. She replied reminding me that I neglected to give her any real news, but what was there to tell? I filled her in on the inaugural lecture, leaving out the bit about Staahl. I told her about the library and the facilities of the college, but nothing of Sam or Matthew. And I told her about the mountains that beckoned to me every morning as I drew the curtains and saw their grey caps turn gradually to white.
Clouds were beating a retreat ahead of a strengthening sun, and my room was stuffy when I went in. I made sure to secure the door before opening a window. A ladybird had found its way into my room, looking for a place to overwinter in the cracked stonework of the window. This desire to hide away from the world, to bury its head: I knew how it felt. The morning’s events put me out of sync and I hoped Matthew hadn’t called earlier and found me gone as, despite my clumsy conversation, I felt safe around him.
A quiet knock sounded on my door and I was halfway to opening it before I remembered to check.
“Who is it?”
“Aydin.”
I opened the door just wide enough to see, before letting him in. “You weren’t expecting to see me, were you?” I asked, thinking I must have forgotten to put it in my diary.
“No, but I must see you, Professor – do you mind?”
He seemed agitated and he shifted restlessly, avoiding my eyes. Day-old hair roughened his face and dark circles under his eyes made him look more haunted than ever. I pointed to a chair but he didn’t sit down. He paced away from me,
then sharply back again, his fists clenched around an envelope, creasing the smooth manila surface into ridges. He made me nervous just watching him.
“I cannot do this thing. I have tried but my English – it is not good enough.”
He began to twist the envelope, throttling the life out of it.
“Aydin, I haven’t a clue what you are talking about.”
“This,” he said and flung the envelope down, my own papers shifting in the sudden current of air. I drew them back into a neat pile again and picked it up. He stood facing the window, scowling at the sun. He had written the first part of his thesis. Page after page of type with scribbled notes in Turkish, and words, sentences and paragraphs crossed out with livid slashes of pen tearing the heart out of the paper.
“I don’t understand, Aydin – what’s the problem with this?”
“Read it!” he almost hissed, his eyes wide and angry.
“All right, but calm down – and sit down,” I ordered him. “You’re making me nervous.”
He slumped into the chair opposite, and bit his knuckle, watching intently for my reaction through eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. I read the first page, then put it down.
“Ah.”
“You see now? Rubbish, trash, garbage.” Invective spilled.
“No, that’s not what I meant, but I can see what you mean. Aydin, your grammar is all over the place; what happened to you?”
He glared at me, chewing viciously at his thumb. “I cheat.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You read my synopsis, yes?”
“Yes – you know I did; it was very good.”
“Well, now you know truth.”
“No, not really. Are you saying that you didn’t write it – it isn’t your own work?”
“My work – yes, of course – but not my words. I have help to make it better English. You have to tell the authority now, and I leave here and go back to Turkey.”
“Is that what you want, Aydin?” I asked quietly.
His voice cracked in agony.
“No, no, no! But I am Çok fena – how do you say? – very bad!”
“But all the research you showed me – that is yours; and your interpretation – that is your own work?”
“Evet – yes, all of it.”
“Then I can’t see a problem – not one that’s insurmountable, anyway – not if you don’t give up, that is. The problem is your ability to record your ideas in standard English, not in the ideas themselves. You have one of the most original approaches to the subject I have ever seen. I won’t give up on you, if you don’t.”
The deep creases crossing his forehead lessened slightly; he looked almost hopeful.
“You will help me?”
“Yes – of course.”
I flipped through the rest of the pages.
“I think the best thing here would be to start again…” his face fell, “in Turkish, and then have it translated. I will check each section for linguistic errors and, as long as the translation remains true to your original research, I think it will pass muster.” He frowned. “Be acceptable,” I explained. “Who helped you with the synopsis? Can they help again?” He looked a little shifty. “Who was it?”
He smiled shyly. “I have a friend; she might help me again.”
“Well, I hope she’s a good friend because this will need a lot of work.”
He beamed unexpectedly. “Yes, she is a very good friend.”
I laughed. “Thank goodness for that; now get some rest – you look awful.”
He shrugged. “I could not sleep last night; I tell the others I was so angry with myself but they do not understand. Now, I can sleep.” He grinned again and, as I held out the manuscript to him, he took my hand in both of his and shook it.
“Thank you – you have saved my life.”
Normally, I would have made some comment about him being melodramatic, but he looked so sincere that I kept quiet.
I locked the door again once he left, and pulled the contents from the poster tube, letting them uncoil in my hands. Some were old associates that kept me company through all my early days at Cambridge – and some very dark nights – and some were new posters my friend sent as an early Christmas present. By the time I arranged them on the walls, the first signs of hunger crept up on me. I glanced at my watch, regretting not making a firmer time with Matthew. His coat lay on the chair where I left it. I picked it up, feeling its softness, and brought it towards my face. It smelled of clean air – a fresh outdoor smell of mountains and forests and streams. It reminded me of him.
By 2.30 he still hadn’t arrived and all I managed to achieve was summed up in the posters on the wall and some sorting out of the piles of books into chronological order. Not good. An hour later, and I began to reconcile myself to the fact that he wouldn’t show, which was probably more important to me than I liked to admit. At home, I would have buried myself in my work, but here, my ability to focus diminished at a rate directly proportionate to my increasing interest in a man whom I had met less than half a dozen times. I threw myself into my desk chair and rammed the iPod earphones in my ears, letting the music run through me, then at last settled down to write the outline for my next piece of research.
It was some time later when a rapid succession of knocks at the door jolted me back to reality; a familiar voice called out.
“Emma – are you ready?”
It took me a moment to remember that Matias had offered to escort me back to my flat. I stilled the brief flurry of disappointment, grabbed my bag and Matthew’s coat, and left, hugging it close to me.
“This is ludicrous, you know that, don’t you?”
We navigated hordes of students on our way to the staff dining-hall – a much less formal affair than the dining-room and therefore decidedly preferable in my view. I shot a look at Matias and Elena as I dodged two hefty post-grads who would have done equally well on the rugby pitch. “I mean you having to escort us around campus, Matias.”
Elena looked sombrely at him; she had been uncharacteristically quiet all morning. He tucked his arm around her waist.
“Hey, I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing than escorting two gorgeous women around campus. It’s not doing my reputation as a legendary lover much harm either; if I’m not mistaken, Megan made a pass at me the other day. Anyhow, it’s no problem, and I’d rather you both felt safe.”
He looked at me meaningfully. I mentally kicked myself; Matias wasn’t doing this so much for us, but for Elena, except that he didn’t want her to know in case she realized how fragile he thought her at the moment. With Staahl around, I should be grateful for small mercies. I slowed down and kept pace with them.
“Well, it’s still good of you, and Elena and I will stick together, won’t we? And by the way, whoever Megan is, Matias – isn’t she more a case of wishful thinking on your part, or do you think she’s looking for a father-figure?”
I skipped out of the way as he aimed a finger at my ribs, and Elena let out a squeal of protest at my comments, followed by a laugh. Matias stole a quick kiss and she beamed at him. I felt a wash of spinsterly jealousy at their relationship, not that I begrudged Elena one bit, only there was a bond between them I had never experienced. I had a sudden image of the Maiden Aunts – the lost generation from the First World War – sitting benign and distant around our dining-room table at Christmas like plump, barren hens, clinging to their furs and jewels as to the remnants of their hopes and youth lost to the trenches and fevers of a bygone age. Glumly, I wondered if I would become one of them in years to come.
Elena broke through my reverie. “You could ask Sam to go with you, Emma; he would like that, I’m sure.”
I thought that probably he would.
“Thanks, but I bet he has better things to do with his time.” And, besides, I didn’t want to encourage him. Elena refused to be put off that easily and she regained some of her sparkle.
“You and Sam have a dat
e tomorrow, don’t you?” she said innocently, her dark eyes dancing with mirth. We had entered the staff dining-hall and her clear voice carried further in the relative quiet.
“Elena!” I hissed, checking out the other diners, but no one paid us any attention. We began to circle the central food bar like sharks eyeing their prey. The selection was always less varied by late lunch; it looked like leftovers, as appealing as day-old curry after a heavy night out.
“It’s not a date; I’m just letting him take me out for lunch to make up for last week. There’s a difference. And no, I won’t be asking him to conduct me around campus either; it might give him the wrong idea.”
I selected a pile of lettuce leaves from a large bowl of red and green salad and concentrated on keeping the frilly bits from falling off the edge of my plate.
Elena peered at my plate, temporarily distracted from the prospect of fresh gossip by the opportunity to apply her peculiar form of nurturing.
“Is that all you are having?”
“And tomato. And possibly mayonnaise.” I heard myself being unnecessarily defensive. “I’m not that hungry.”
“You are never hungry; I think I will tell your mother. There must be something wrong with you.” She sounded genuinely cross as she slammed some wrinkled lasagne onto her own plate and piled boiled potatoes next to it. Matias reached across the bar to help himself.
“Leave Emma alone; she’s old enough to starve herself if she wants to. Anyway, Sam will force feed her tomorrow, so I wouldn’t worry.”
He cast a sideways grin in my direction as he ladled the remains of what looked like a meat stew onto his plate followed by a mountain of steamed vegetables, the smell completely unappetizing.
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “Has Sam said anything to you about tomorrow?” They shook their heads simultaneously, which I took to mean that he had but that they weren’t going to admit it.
“This feels remarkably like a set-up,” I griped.
“You’ll have fun,” Elena promised, smirking as we sat down at the end of one of the long, polished refectory tables that looked as if they originated in a monastery. Dotted along their length, a few other staff members sat in small groups or alone. One of the women looked up and smiled. I recognized her as Professor Siggie Gerhard, head of the faculty of psychology.