Camwolf

by JL Merrow

  “Caractacus?” Tiff whispered as Mr. Markham showed them through a lounge area to the bedroom. “Caractacus?”

  “Well, it’s not like I asked to be called that, Tiffany.”

  “Yes, but… Caractacus?” Half of Tiff knew she was finding this way too funny. The other half didn’t give a toss; Julian was all right, and she was going to see him now. “We should have kids together,” she said, trying to straighten her face. “I’ve already picked out the names: Tarquin and Chardonnay. Or, you know, Waygood. Seeing as you seemed to like that one.”

  She pushed open the door to Julian’s room, and suddenly her laughter died. Julian was lying propped up in bed, his face almost as pale as the white bathrobe he was swaddled in, his eyes dull and listless. God, he looked awful.

  Tiff had to fight back tears. “Jools!”

  He flinched as she flung her arms around him. Behind her, Tiff was vaguely aware of Crack muttering something about leaving them alone and edging back out of the doorway.

  “I’ll bloody kill that bastard!” she sobbed out.

  “Too late.” Julian was all sort of hunched in on himself and wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  Tiff let go of him reluctantly and was shocked despite herself as the meaning of his words sank in. “Your dad actually killed him?” How come he wasn’t in jail? Was he in jail? You couldn’t really go around killing people even if they did deserve it, could you?

  “No. Nick.”

  “Dr. Sewell?” Tiff had a weird feeling in her stomach. “But he’s… nice.”

  Julian shrugged and didn’t say anything.

  “How… was there a fight?” Tiff thought of nature programs she’d seen, with wild animals bringing down their prey. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t had breakfast.

  “Yes. Boris would have killed him, but Nick was stronger.”

  There was something in Julian’s voice—was it pride? Satisfaction? Tiff shuddered. How the hell was she going to face supervisions with Dr. Sewell after this? “So is he going to get into trouble? With the police, I mean?”

  Julian looked up then. “No one knows. You must not tell anyone. The police think I escaped from Boris, and that he has run somewhere. They don’t know that Nick had anything to do with it. You must not tell anyone the truth.” His eyes were burning with a scary intensity as he leaned forward to grasp her arm so hard it hurt.

  “Okay! Jools, it’s okay, I won’t tell, I promise.” She tried to make her voice sound soothing. “But where is he, anyway? I’d have thought he’d be here, with you.” She looked around nervously.

  Julian’s head dropped again, and he released her arm. “He doesn’t want me.”

  “What? Are you mad? Of course he wants you! He bloody killed someone to get you back.”

  “No. He killed because Boris had taken what was his.”

  Tiff felt a sudden, searing desire for hell to be real and that bastard to burn there for all eternity. She rubbed her arm. “Dr. Sewell’s not like that.”

  “You don’t understand.” It was almost a snarl. “I betrayed him. I went with Boris.”

  “That’s bollocks.” Tiff hesitated. “Look… don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but… why did you go with him? Boris, I mean. Did he give you a choice?”

  Julian dropped his head again. “We quarreled. I asked for too much, and he was angry with me.”

  “Boris?” She frowned, confused.

  “Nick.”

  “Oh. Jools, don’t you think maybe you were overreacting? I mean, going back to Boris….”

  “He said Nick didn’t love me. That if he cared about me, he wouldn’t let me wander the streets on my own, where I could get into trouble.”

  “That’s not love. That’s… psycho stalker stuff.” Tiff bit her lip. “He hurt you, didn’t he? Boris, I mean, not Dr. Sewell—Dr. Sewell didn’t hurt you, did he? Jools, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  Julian’s face was all screwed up like he was trying to work it out. “I prefer Nick,” he said at last.

  To be honest she’d expected a bit more enthusiasm. Maybe he was just shell-shocked from whatever had happened? Or maybe there really wasn’t all that much difference between the two of them…. No. She wasn’t going to think that.

  Tiff put a hand on Julian’s arm, only partly for his benefit. “You don’t have to be with either of them, you know. Do you love Dr. Sewell?”

  Julian ran a hand through his hair, finally grabbing the longer bits at the back in a grip that looked almost painful. “I don’t know. I don’t think I understand love.”

  Tiff felt her smile go a bit wobbly. “I don’t think you have to understand it. You just have to feel it.”

  “Have you? Been in love, I mean?”

  It was a wrench, saying it. Like peeling off a scab—you knew it had to go, you wanted it to go, but it still bloody well hurt. “No. Not really.” She sighed. “But I think I know, a bit, how it feels. Jools, if you never saw Dr. Sewell again, how would you feel?”

  His eyes were wide and dark as he answered, “Empty.”

  “There you go, then. You have to tell him that.” Tiff’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. This wasn’t exactly the advice she’d have thought she’d be giving. She just hoped she hadn’t got it horribly wrong.

  “It’s not my choice,” he said, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

  In any case, that was just daft. “Well, whose choice is it, then?”

  Julian stared blankly into space. Either that or he really liked the weird abstract print on the other side of the hotel room. “He… after we cleaned up and changed, he didn’t want to touch me. I revolted him.”

  “Then he should stop being such a bloody prat.” Tiff sighed. “Look, this has got to be the worst possible time to be making decisions, all right? For both you and Dr. Sewell. You’ve just been through—well, you know what you’ve been through.” She risked giving him another hug, and this time he didn’t flinch, although he didn’t seem all that relaxed either. “I’m sure he cares about you. You should have seen what a mess he was when you were missing. Just—don’t leap to conclusions based on how he’s behaving at the moment, okay?”

  It wasn’t much of a nod, but it was there, and his eyes didn’t look quite so bleak anymore.

  Once again, Tiff just hoped she wasn’t making a god-almighty cockup.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  AFTER SPEAKING to Tiffany, Nick headed mechanically down to the Porter’s Lodge to check his mail. He stood there, a bundle of letters in his hand—bank statements, academic circulars, the usual junk mail—and tried to care enough about any of them to open them or even just to keep them from slipping through his fingers to the floor.

  “I hear it’s good news, Dr. Sewell,” the head porter greeted him.

  “Oh. Yes.” Nick tried to dredge up a smile from somewhere.

  Sands looked a little uncomfortable. “I, er, I hope Dr. Pawlaczek wasn’t upset by me giving out her address? I haven’t seen her today, and I was a little worried—”

  Both of them jumped as Nadia’s voice cut him off. “Hmm. We shall talk later, Mr. Sands, about this nasty habit of yours of letting sensitive information get into the hands of the enemy. Nick, lovey, you look absolutely ghastly. Come and have a coffee and tell me all about it. And yes, that is an order.”

  Nick didn’t resist as she clasped him in an iron grip and dragged him back up to his rooms.

  “Now, Nick Sewell, tell me this,” she said, frowning at a couple of mugs and then spooning instant coffee into them nonetheless. “Why would a man whose young lover has just been found safe and—one presumes—well, be sitting there looking like he’s just had his grant slashed?” She paused in the act of switching on the kettle, fixing him with a stern eye. “He is all right, I take it?”

  Nick didn’t answer. He felt his hands clasped between her own. “Nick, talk to me. Is Julian all right?”

  A bitter smile twisted Nick’s lips. “Was he ever? Christ, Nadia—I just don’t k
now.” He flung himself out of his seat, pacing restlessly to the window. “Am I what he needs? Or am I just part of the problem?”

  “Well, dearie, an alternative suggestion is that you’re making no sense whatsoever. Now. Start with some facts. Is he in hospital?”

  “No, he’s with his parents. At the hotel.”

  “Well, that’s positive, at any rate. So what did your young man say about where he’s been?”

  Nick stared at her. He’d almost forgotten that what had gone on with Schräger wasn’t, couldn’t be, common knowledge. “He… was with an old boyfriend.” It sickened him, calling Schräger that, but it was what the police would be told.

  “Oh, Nick!” A hug from Nadia, while undoubtedly well-meant, was rather like being embraced by a pit bull terrier. Thankfully, she backed off after a moment. “So what’s happening now? Has he come back begging forgiveness?”

  At this point, Nick knew, he ought to protest that there was nothing to forgive. Somehow the words stuck in his throat. Christ, was he actually blaming Julian for what had happened?

  “He… it’s a bit more complicated than that. The boyfriend was… violent.”

  “But Julian’s all right?”

  Nick nodded. “He will be.”

  Nadia’s eyes narrowed. “Why, Nick Sewell, do I get the impression there’s a lot you’re not telling me?”

  Nick flopped back into the chair. “Because it’s true? I’m sorry, Nadia. I just can’t. It’s… it’s not just me. There’s Julian, there’s… other people.”

  “Nick, I don’t want to worry you, but there’s also Detective Inspector Phillips.” She was silent for a moment. “Is this business with Julian connected to that poor young man’s murder?”

  Nick buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know,” he lied, hating himself. “Nadia… I really don’t know.” At least the confusion he felt was genuine.

  “Oh, lovey. You do know how to pick them, don’t you?”

  An arm draped itself rather heavily over Nick’s shoulder, and he breathed in Nadia’s familiar, comforting scent composed of equal parts Lifebuoy soap, peppermints, and cat. “I think Julian’s the one you should be saying that about,” he said, his voice somewhat muffled. “I’m hardly much of a prize.”

  “Nonsense, Nick. You’re a damned fine catch and I won’t hear another thing about it.”

  He managed a wry smile at that. “I’m not sure you’re really qualified to judge, but thank you, all the same. And likewise, by the way.”

  She colored faintly. “Hmph. Are you going to see young Lauder? Or is he going to be back in college soon in any case?”

  Nick took a deep breath. “I’ll go and see him. I promised—” He broke off, realizing he’d almost betrayed himself. “I promised his mother I would, when we spoke on the phone,” he finished.

  “That’s the spirit. Now, Nick, dearie, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but a shave first wouldn’t go amiss. And whether or not you’re hoping to get back together, I have a feeling you don’t really want Julian to see you with your hair looking quite such a fright. Tame the old savage beast, hmm?”

  “Yes. Right.” Nick realized she was looking at him oddly.

  She probably hadn’t expected him to flinch at the last part of her statement.

  AFTER SHE’D gone, a glance in the mirror convinced Nick that Nadia had had a point about his appearance. He’d aged ten years in the last few days. He set about making himself look presentable: flattening down his hair with water and, when that didn’t work, sticking his head under the shower for a minute, then toweling it dry again, remembering this time to use a brush afterward. There wasn’t a lot he could do about the deep circles etched under his eyes.

  He picked up his razor and began to scrape away the stubble. Tame the savage beast, Nadia had said. As if a bit of window-dressing could change who he was. What he was. Nick winced as the razor caught, then found himself staring at his reflection, mesmerized by the blood welling up from the cut. Christ, there had been so much blood. Blood on his hands, in his hair… filling his mouth. He remembered the taste of it: hot and thick, spiced with adrenaline and fear.

  It had been good.

  Nick’s hand shook, and he lowered the razor, still unable to take his eyes from the trickle of blood on his chin. He was a killer, just like Schräger. An animal.

  No. No, he was better than Schräger. Willing the tremors in his hand to cease, Nick wiped his bloody face on a towel and determinedly finished shaving.

  Before going out again, he changed his shirt and, as an afterthought, his trousers. He couldn’t see any blood on them, but there was no sense in taking chances. A curious lethargy seemed to set in then, and he had to force himself to open the door, to walk down the stairs to Main Court. The autumn sun seemed unusually bright, and he stood for a moment, blinking.

  “Ah, Sewell. Coming to lunch? Splendid.”

  Startled from his reverie by Angus Lemon’s self-satisfied tones, Nick stared at the man for a moment, then checked his watch. One o’clock. Had he eaten today? Nick couldn’t remember. Perhaps he should go for lunch before he went to see Julian.

  “Cat got your tongue, Sewell?”

  Funny how you never really thought about common phrases. Nick’s mind conjured up a visceral image of a tongue being torn out by the roots, and he fought a wave of nausea. “Ah. Sorry, Dr. Lemon. Yes. Lunch.”

  “I hear it’s good news about your young, ah, yes,” Lemon offered with his usual clarity of expression as they made their way to Hall.

  “Julian. Yes. He’s back safely.” Although that was really rather relative, wasn’t it?

  “Bad business. Still, only to be expected, really.”

  “Really?” Nick wondered what Lemon would look like having his tongue torn out. Astonished and outraged, probably. He’d most likely write a stern letter to the Daily Telegraph about it.

  “Young people never think of these things, do they? Make their choices with no regard for consequences. Well, here we are.”

  As Nick stepped into Hall, the cacophony of a couple of hundred students hit him. Talking, laughing, scraping chairs over the polished floor, and clashing plates and cutlery. The air was filled with the bland scents of canteen food—and people. Mashed potato on an industrial scale, and students still sweaty from riding their bikes to lectures. How on earth had Nick never noticed before how loud it all was?

  “Are you all right, Sewell? Looking a bit queer, there—no pun intended, of course.” Lemon laughed heartily at his own joke, and Nick’s stomach roiled.

  “I’m—not hungry.” Conscious of a dozen or so curious stares, Nick turned on his heel and half ran out of Hall.

  Once outside, the turmoil receded, and all Nick could think of was how bizarrely he was behaving. Get a grip, Sewell, he told himself angrily. Christ, if he couldn’t even make it into Hall for lunch, how the hell was he going to get through town to see Julian? Resting his hands on his knees, he forced himself to take a series of calming breaths.

  He hadn’t realized just how much Fate had it in for him until he looked up again—and spotted the wiry figure of DI Phillips zeroing in on him like a disapproving cruise missile.

  “Mr. Sewell?” Phillips said when the gap between them had sufficiently narrowed. “A word, please.”

  “Master’s Lodge?” Nick asked, trying to rein in his hostility.

  “No. Dr. Earle isn’t aware that I’m here today. Perhaps we could go up to your rooms?”

  “Of course.” Nick forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look more like a grimace or, worse, like he was baring his teeth. “Although I was on my way to see Julian—perhaps we could do this later?”

  “No, I think now would be best, Mr. Sewell.” Strange, how eyes so pale, so like the waters of the Cam, could stare with such penetrating force.

  “All right, then. This way.” At least it would get it over with. After a moment Nick forced himself to make conversation, to try to seem, at least, somewhat normal. “Ob
viously you’ve heard that Julian’s home safe,” he began.

  “Yes. We had a call from the Markhams. Curious business, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Ah, really?” They’d reached Nick’s door, and he let Phillips in, fighting down the instincts that screamed at him to chase the enemy off his territory. “Coffee?” he asked sharply. He would not allow the wolf to take over and damn them both.

  “No, thank you. This isn’t, after all, a social call.”

  “So what is it, then?” Nick snapped, his patience at an end.

  Phillips looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I’ve been having a little chat with some colleagues in Nottingham.”

  Nick felt the color drain out of his face. He wished like hell he’d invited the bastard to sit down so he could have done likewise. “And?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  “And it appears to be a bit of a high-risk occupation, becoming involved with you, Mr. Sewell. Do you remember a young man called Matthew Innes, by any chance?”

  “Of course I remember him.” Nick’s voice was startlingly loud in the small room.

  “Yes, I thought he might have stuck in your mind,” Phillips continued, unperturbed. “Apparently you took Mr. Innes to A&E one night, suffering from a broken nose and suspected broken cheekbone, although that turned out to be just bruised. He was interviewed by police but refused to name his assailant.” Phillips paused by the windowsill, picking up a small figure of a fertility god with a grossly enlarged phallus and examining it briefly before putting it down again. It had been a joke gift from Nadia, and Nick kept it around to startle the students. No doubt Phillips could think of a way to have him locked up for that too. “And now we have young Mr. Lauder, who disappeared for several days, and on his return showed signs of having been beaten. He, too, is refusing to say anything about his attacker. Odd coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” Nick was silent, frozen in place. Phillips continued. “And then, of course, we have the unfortunate Mr. Wilson, who died of his injuries—”