Mortal Fire

by C F Dunn

  Time passed in wave upon wave of heat followed by cold so intense that I would have cried with the pain of it if I could have found my voice. Strange, waking dreams haunted every moment between the dim depths of sleep. Time passed unmeasured. Time was the dripping tap, the ticking clock, the whispering in the night.

  The darkness lifted.

  I strained my eyes open and caught the first, faint grey of dawn filtering around the edges of the curtains. I wasn’t alone and stiffened, listening to the shallow breathing in the room, trying to establish how close. Minutes ticked by before I recognized it as my own, roughened by the sand in my throat; but it no longer burned. I slowly located my limbs – identifying each one by the piercing ache that ran in every joint. My back ached and my head pounded but anything was better than the fire.

  I listened for the tell-tale movements that indicated Staahl’s presence. Why hadn’t he hurt me? Or had he, and I just didn’t know it yet? Nothing made sense in my cotton wool brain and I tossed my head from side to side to clear it.

  “Keep still – it’ll make it worse.” A voice – unnaturally loud in the silence of my room. I held my breath, my heart rattling against my chest, until my lungs strained. “And breathe,” the voice commanded again. I gulped air. A movement in the lightening darkness by the window sent a wave of panic through me as a shape came towards the bed.

  “Get away from me!” My voice grated. I tried to roll over and escape but my body wouldn’t obey and I succeeded only in flinging my arm against the sharp edge of my bedside cupboard. I cried out in pain and alarm and struggled, but too late, and a hand grabbed my wrist before I could lash out again. The voice spoke, cool and soothing like sorbet on a hot day.

  “Emma, stay still; you are quite safe – go to sleep.”

  How could I be safe? How could I sleep? But the voice beguiled and, as hard as I tried, I couldn’t fight the lethargy that lay on every limb, and I drifted again, afloat on a sea of silvered waves.

  Thirst woke me before I remembered to be scared. A slight movement at the side of the room rattled my consciousness; my eyes shot open.

  “Good morning,” Matthew said, as if I should expect him to be there. I tried to locate his voice and he rose as if in answer from the deep chair in the corner, and came to stand by my bed. I swallowed, trying to ease the arid waste in my mouth.

  “Where’s Staahl?” I rasped, struggling to sit up. The room danced and my head with it. I fell back against the pillows, exhausted.

  “Staahl’s not here, Emma.”

  “But he was – I saw him.” I had to make Matthew understand, my voice shaking with the effort.

  “No, he has never been in your room – you are quite safe. You have influenza and have been delirious.” His voice sounded very gentle, plausible and I wanted to believe him. Muted light of day barely reached my bed but even so, the calm pools of his eyes stood out against his fair skin as he observed me.

  “Thirsty?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered. On my bedside table, a glass sat dripping condensation on a saucer, but I shook so much I couldn’t take it and he put his arm under my shoulders and held the glass to my lips. I drank thirstily.

  “Thank you.”

  He looked at his watch, the metal gleaming dull gold in the half-light.

  “You’ll need some more medication to keep your temperature down. Do you think you can manage a capsule or would you rather have it in suspension? Or a shot?” he added as an afterthought. I must have looked horrified because he smiled slightly and produced a packet of capsules, popping two and supporting me again while I swallowed them, his arm cool against the heat of my skin.

  “What time is it?” I asked as he laid me down. The fog in my head began to clear a little. He replaced the glass on the saucer.

  “Nearly seven – in the morning, that is.”

  I wanted to ask him something, but it was all a little hazy and the question that formed was not the one I intended.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He looked surprised. “You have ’flu and I am a doctor. Harry said you didn’t look well last night, so I thought I would check on you. Good thing I did, too.”

  I could just about muster enough truncated sentences to ask him, “I mean, how are you here? How did you get in?” He took my wrist in his right hand, feeling my pulse, counting silently before answering.

  “The spare set of keys you gave Harry just in case, remember? I knocked on your door but when you didn’t answer I had to make sure you were all right. I let myself in.”

  He gently laid my arm under the cool, light sheet that covered me, and tucked the edge under. He crossed to the bathroom and I heard a running tap and the sound of something wet being wrung out. I searched my disjointed memories of the night before, looking for one in which I gave Harry a set of keys to my flat. I found none, but I did recall him dropping both sets of new keys into my hand.

  Too weak to argue the point, I asked instead, “How long have you been here?” Long enough to give me medication at least twice in the night, I thought. I let my eyes close.

  “Some time.” His voice came close by. I opened my eyes again as he laid a cool flannel over my forehead.

  “That was a very late house call,” I muttered sleepily.

  “I’m a very dedicated doctor,” he replied.

  Chapter 10

  In Translation

  “DO YOU THINK YOU MIGHT BE UP TO reading this?” Matthew held up an A5 notebook before offering it to me. “It’s your punishment for complaining of being bored.” His grin made me forget to be ill for a second.

  “What is it?” I began to struggle pathetically into a more upright position and he helped raise me enough to slip another pillow behind my back. I trembled with the meagre effort and the effect of his unexpected touch. He put the slim book in my hand. Opening it on the first page, I squeaked as loudly as my throat would allow.

  “You’ve finished it already?”

  “I promised you I would; I’m only sorry I took so long getting it to you.”

  I remembered the week that seemed an eternity. He drew the original book from the pocket of his jacket and opened it, laying it side by side with the copy he made. I scanned the frontispiece and first page, revelling in the detail. Matthew smiled wryly, reminding me I was being fanatical.

  “Harry said you were busy at the hospital, but it’s still only taken you, what… less than two weeks? That’s amazing!”

  “Something like that. Anyway, you’ll need to read it in conjunction with the original. I’ve tried to match it page to page so you can keep track of the illustrations; it doesn’t make much sense otherwise. Look…” and he sat on the side of my bed to show me, close enough to feel the pressure of his body through the duvet that replaced the sheet. I swallowed, making my throat sting.

  “I’ve taken liberties with some phrases where there isn’t a direct translation, but I don’t think it’s altered the meaning as such – it’s just made it easier to read.”

  Transfixed, I scanned each page covered in exquisitely even, handwritten script. Flowing letters in dark ink looked as if they belonged to another era. I closed my eyes fleetingly.

  “Emma, are you feeling unwell?” Concern coloured his voice and I opened them to find him observing me closely. I wished I were well enough to make something of it, but I felt so lousy that I couldn’t even be self-conscious under his attentive gaze. I managed to rustle up enough enthusiasm to show my appreciation for the book, although it took every grain of effort to do so.

  “You’re amazing,” I croaked. “This would have taken most academics months to translate. Even reading an English text from this date can take ages. How did you do it?”

  “It’s not so difficult if you’re familiar with the original and the language isn’t a problem.”

  I hummed sceptically. “Hmm, well, not for you, maybe, but for the rest of us mere mortals…” I caught the edge of a frown out of the corner of my eye. “I’m just so
useless at languages that I can’t ever imagine somebody else finding it easy,” I explained. I turned the pages of his leather-bound book, searching for an illustration that intrigued me. Matthew flipped through the translated text to find the corresponding page. I couldn’t resist raising something I had been dying to ask.

  “Did you find the book interesting to translate – as a subject – or is it too close to reality because you have to deal with it on a day-to-day basis?” I twisted to look up at him while he wasn’t looking at me, the expression on his face one of intelligent consideration.

  “This?” he tapped his long, fine fingers on the book, thoughtfully. “Yes, interesting to a degree, but I hope that I don’t torture my patients – not intentionally, anyway.”

  I almost laughed but it turned into a cough instead. “Sorry, no, I didn’t mean that you inflict pain – except for the threat of injections maybe – I meant that you have to cope with what has been imposed on your patients by other people, like the student who was attacked. The difference between treating someone with ’flu or someone with a black eye because her husband didn’t like the brand of beer she bought. I suppose what I’m getting at is, how do you cope with man’s purposeful inhumanity?” I lay back on my pillows, controlling my breathing; it was the most I had managed to say since becoming ill. He became quiet, his face blank, then he looked down at me with a strange – almost curious – expression.

  “You come at things from a different angle to most people, do you realize that?”

  “Are you implying I’m obscure?”

  His mouth twitched upward. “No, but possibly oblique. I could ask you the same question, since you have chosen to study a subject bathed in centuries of human blood: how do you cope with that?”

  “That’s easy,” I said and he looked surprised. “No, it is, really, because it’s all safely tucked away in the past. I don’t have to face the reality of it like you do every day. Whoever wrote this book presumably had a conscience he had to square with what he witnessed. But my conscience doesn’t come into it. And you haven’t answered my question, by the way.”

  “Ah, I thought that in your weakened state you might have forgotten what you asked.”

  “Not likely; it’s taken me a long time to get around to asking you.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “You’re doing it again,” I warned. “Stop prevaricating.”

  “It’s probably because I don’t have an answer to give you right away; I’ll have to give it due consideration. Can you wait, do you think?” When he smiled at me like that – his eyes lifted at the corners, emphasizing tiny creases that echoed the ones at the rising bow of his mouth – despite myself, warmth trickled into my veins.

  “That means you’ll have to come back then, doesn’t it?” I said hopefully, all too aware of his closeness at that moment.

  “Well, I don’t know; you’re making an excellent recovery and we are short-staffed at the moment…” His smile widened at the look on my face and my breath caught in my throat, engulfing me in a fit of coughing that shook my whole body, making it difficult to breathe. He supported my weight as I fought to control my wheezing and reached for the water by my bed, holding the glass until I had managed to sip enough to calm my throat. Gradually, the coughing stopped and I lay against him, utterly exhausted. He put the glass down and placed his hand on my forehead, cool on my searing skin.

  “That’s enough for one day,” he chided gently, his voice close to my ear. “Your temperature’s up again and you know what that means, don’t you?” I shook my head, not daring to speak in case it set me coughing again. “It means that I’ll have to keep checking on you until I’m convinced you’re fully recovered.”

  The sprites in my stomach squirmed feebly. “What about your other patients?” I managed to ask, not wanting to move in case he took his arm away.

  “Well, as a doctor I’m obliged to prioritize my casualties and, in my qualified medical opinion, you require frequent medical supervision.”

  As a doctor, he should have known better than to tell a sick and vulnerable patient what she wanted to hear.

  “You shouldn’t get too close,” I whispered.

  “Why not?” he said, suddenly cautious.

  “Because I’m contagious.”

  He smiled, clearly relieved. “You’re certainly that.” And he pulled me closer than strictly necessary for him to support me.

  “No, I mean I don’t want you to catch ’flu.” I thought my self-sacrifice admirable, considering I wanted him to be as close to me as possible for as long as feasible.

  “Oh – well, there’s not much chance of that; I’m immune to pretty well most things.”

  Not to me, I begged silently. “Except to you, of course,” he added.

  One of the worst things about having ’flu was being totally dependent on others having to look after me in those first few days when I couldn’t even lift my head off the pillow without it threatening to shatter. Being dependent also meant doing as I was told, which I hadn’t needed to do since puberty, and didn’t come naturally. After the initial forty-eight hours when my temperature moderated, I became desperate to get back to work, and began to dissect the treatise in earnest, much to Elena’s disgust. However, moving beyond the confines of my bed was entirely another matter.

  Thankfully, the only people who could walk into my flat without me having to let them in were the two I looked forward to seeing. Matthew kept the spare set of keys, and I didn’t ask him about them again because seeing him every day was more important to me than the truth at the moment. Elena, on the other hand, took the other set so she could pop in. That meant I could ask her to help me with the necessities of life.

  I could manage to get to the bathroom in stages but had to improvise to wash, so Elena stuffed the drainer in the shower base with a flannel and ran the water until it filled the base with enough warm water to bathe in. She helped me to the bathroom door, and dignity and modesty gave me the wherewithal to do the rest – albeit with the elegance of a beached seal. At least I could brush my teeth sitting on the chair.

  The other disadvantage – or advantage, depending upon how you viewed it – was that I might not be awake when I had a visit.

  I surfaced to the sound of worried voices.

  “Matthew, what’s the matter?”

  “Sorry, we didn’t mean to wake you,” he apologized. “There’s been another attack on a woman – not here, but in town. Harry’s just been updating me.”

  A chill finger ran the length of my spine. “When?”

  Harry moved into my line of sight. “The same night you were there – about one-thirty – though they didn’t find her until later the following day and they can’t be sure until…”

  “Harry,” Matthew cautioned him.

  “Until… what?” I looked from Harry to Matthew.

  “They have to do an autopsy,” Matthew said, soberly.

  So she was dead. Nothing connected this ill-fated stranger with me except that Matthew and his nephew discussed her as if they saw a link, and that unnerved me. I stared at my hands, not seeing them but dead eyes empty of life. “And… you think it’s the same man who attacked the girl here, don’t you?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Don’t you?” I persisted, looking at them both.

  “Yes, it seems that way but we’ll wait until the report’s completed; we can’t jump to conclusions.” But it was clear to me they already had.

  “And you think Staahl might have something to do with it?” Matthew put his hand over mine, prying my fingers from my tortured duvet cover before I tore a hole in it. “What makes you think these attacks were by the same person? If the autopsy’s not yet been done, what’s the connection? And how do you know?” He frowned at the rising note in my voice and his own dropped correspondingly.

  “Emma, it’s not difficult getting information; I carry out some of the autopsies for the police department and have contacts there – and I cared for the
student initially so I know what her injuries were like. The correlation between the two attacks lies in how they were carried out and the nature of the injuries. And before you ask…” he said, raising a hand to stop me as I opened my mouth, “I cannot say any more in case it jeopardizes the investigation.” His face wore a look that told me there would be little point pressing the issue. “And no,” he said, anticipating my next question. “There’s no chance Aydin is involved, and I don’t know if the police have any suspects; and as for whether there is any association with Staahl, that, I’m afraid, remains to be seen.”

  “Oh.” I thought about the dead woman. “Did she have a family?”

  “A little girl.”

  “Poor little mite.” I closed my eyes, squeezing tears back before they escaped.

  “Yes.”

  Later, in the absolute dark, I wrapped my arms around my knees, unable to sleep as I tried to rationalize the latest information. Matthew saw a link between the attack on the girl on campus and the murder of the woman in town. What appeared to have been a random assault now related to a murder, representing a much more sinister trend. More to the point where I was concerned, did it implicate Staahl?

  Neither of us commented on the frequency of Matthew’s visits, nor did I enquire whether they were strictly necessary; but I felt safe when near him and lost when not. Now, when I closed my eyes, I no longer saw Staahl, but Matthew; I saw the aquiline plane of his face, the balanced breadth of his jaw; I heard the sonorous timbre of his voice and replayed the graceful movement of his walk. Yet his attraction went far beyond his looks to something intangible I had yet to decipher and the depth of his attraction worried me. I knew I risked losing myself in him, but what really frightened me was that I didn’t care.