Grave Consequences

by Dana Cameron

  “Ah, yes, I must cringingly admit that I was, a bit.” Greg colored and shoved his glasses up his nose, but then considered the picture critically. “More of a Curehead, really, but we thought we were the coolest things going, all that bleak drama and all.” He shook his head, smiling at his younger image, then turned back to me, mock-serious. “Mind you, Andrew always bought his own eyeliner and you will notice he’s wearing nail varnish. I only ever borrowed Jane’s eyeliner for parties, but nothing for working days, and nothing on the nails, you’ll please notice.”

  I laughed. “You and Jane were dating then?”

  “We’d just started. She took that picture, actually. Andrew wasn’t thrilled about her joining us all the time, but eventually he came around, of course. Even flirted with her a bit, though of course Jane would have none of it. She tore him up one side and down the other. Later on, he apologized to me for being a bastard.” Greg shrugged and grinned. “I knew he was really just flirting with her to make me feel good—I didn’t date much, before Jane.”

  I didn’t say anything. Plain, earnest, honest-looking Greg would have made the perfect foil for Andrew’s glamour; I wondered whether there was anything deeper than that to his affection for Greg. As for innocent flirtation with Jane, when I looked at the picture again, I realized that Andrew was every bit as engaged with the photographer as Greg was. It didn’t look the least bit innocent to me.

  “Here’s a nice one, of me and Gran and Aunty Mads.” Greg pointed to another picture in a metallic gold frame, the surface glinting greenish with age. “That one’s Gran, the smaller one, that’s Auntie Mads Crawford. Well, I call her Auntie; she and Gran were great friends. They raised me after my parents died in a car crash.”

  I saw another even younger version of Greg, this time with shorter hair and heavily rimmed glasses and a navy blue leisure suit, flanked by two older women. A tall, stout woman with gingery hair, which although pinned into a large bun was clearly every bit as wiry as Greg’s, was obviously his grandmother. The other woman was shorter, thinner, and thin-lipped, with lighter hair. Both women wore spring suits and hats that were dated, even for this photograph, with corsages and looks of well-satisfied pride. Young Greg, his head tilted down, smiled shyly for the camera.

  Greg continued. “That was the day I left school. I thought they would bust, they were dead chuffed. Of course, they never said much about it to me—”

  “But just look at them,” I said.

  “Absolutely. They worked very hard, the two of them, to pay my fees. I had a small grant but it didn’t cover everything. I think back now to how hard that must have been for them, but they never said a word about it. They were tough old birds then, and Mads still is. I think it was the war, you know. They’d gone through so much then that I don’t believe they ever believed anything less would ever stop them after that—”

  “Greg? Where’ve you got to?” Jane called from downstairs. “I need to ask you about Bonnie’s notes, and Emma needs to get to sleep.”

  Greg and I exchanged a smile and said good night again. I went up and washed at the little sink in my room—complete with a towel, herbal soap, and a clean “toothmug,” as Jane had called it—and then fell gratefully into bed. I slept almost at once.

  I don’t know how long it was later, but it was still dark when I abruptly woke up. Still groggy and blaming my confused circadian mechanism, I was about to roll over and try to get back to sleep when I realized that I had woken up for a reason. My door was opening.

  At first, I thought it must be the fault of the door itself—the house was old, and the door frame was probably out of plumb—but then I saw a form in the faint light of a streetlight shining through the hallway window. There was a man in the doorway.

  Still uncertain that I wasn’t dreaming, I couldn’t find my voice for a second, but then I smelled the distinct sour smell of beery sweat and heard the man’s harsh breath.

  “Who—?” I managed to gasp out, but that was all. I summoned my breath for a scream, but then the stranger surprised me by speaking himself.

  “You stubborn little bitch,” he said in a low voice. “D’you have any idea what you’ve put me through?”

  Shocked, I watched the stranger fumble for the light switch and then was blinded when the overhead light banished the darkness. When I was able to unscrew my eyes open, I realized that the stranger was in the same boat as I; he squinted back at me, disappointed and every bit as confused as I.

  “Who the hell are you?” we demanded simultaneously.

  Chapter 4

  I GRABBED THE FLASHLIGHT FROM THE TOP OF MY nightstand, grateful that I’d brought the big metallic one that weighed about five pounds instead of the tiny one I use for taking notes in dark auditoriums. Its heft comforted me a little, but I couldn’t decide what to do: I didn’t want to get out from under the covers, but neither did I want to stay there, vulnerable, in bed. Then I saw how the man was barely able to stand without weaving and decided that I was okay for the moment.

  “You first,” I said, as assertively as I could. “Who are you? And I’d better like the answer, because I’m about two seconds away from screaming my head off.”

  “Oh, Christ. You’re the…American, aren’t you? I’d completely forgotten you were…” He waved his hand and almost tipped over. “Look, my apologies…I’ll just be on my way—”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Look…I live here, all right, friend of Greg’s, so don’t get your knickers in a knot. Honest mistake. I’m Freeman, Andrew Freeman.”

  “Bloody Andrew,” I thought, but I must have said it out loud, because he snorted.

  “I see that you’ve had Jane’s opinion of me,” he said. “I trus…trust you’ll soon form your own.”

  “Yeah, and you’re off to a roaring start,” I said. A thought came to me. “Who did you expect was going to be here? Obviously not me.”

  “I thought you were…” His brow furrowed and he shook his head. “I don’t even remember what I was thinking. As you can see,”—here he paused and licked his lips, and his tone and attitude shifted away from sarcasm—“I am more than a little worse for the drink, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to bed. I do apologize, I can imagine how…startling this must be for you—”

  “Startling’s one way to look at it—”

  “I know, I know. I’m so sorry. Let me take myself away from here; I won’t trouble you further.”

  Without another word, he turned, stumbled against the door frame again, righted himself, and left. The door was left ajar, and although I knew I was probably safe enough, it took me a moment to push the covers off, get up, and close the door. I heard a door down the hall shut loudly as well.

  As I scuttled back toward my bed, I realized that my head was still aching. I stopped just long enough to dig out and swallow a couple of aspirin, then leapt back into bed, my heart racing. I was shaken from the encounter.

  Good aggression, Em, I thought ruefully to myself. Nice authority, with the comforter pulled up around your chin and a flashlight in your hand.

  Well, what was I supposed to do? Ask him to wait while I pulled on my pants? Go for the throat? He was a mess, he didn’t mean me any harm. It was just a stupid mistake.

  But you didn’t know that, my prudent self answered back. You can’t rely on that.

  I played the incident over and over in my head, left with an image of an ungainly man with brown hair and beard and a prominent nose, not dissimilar to the much younger picture I’d seen of him downstairs. Because I instinctively didn’t believe his denials for one minute, I finally fell asleep wondering who the “stubborn little bitch” was.

  It seemed like only a moment later that I heard a tapping on the door. I didn’t answer at first; then I heard Greg’s voice call out.

  “Emma, time to get up. May I come in?”

  What was it about this room? It seemed to be some kind of central thoroughfare.

  “Uh,
yeah, Greg.” I sat up and tried to tidy myself a little—wipe a bit of drool from my chin, the sleep from my eyes, and realized that my head was pounding as though an enthusiastic blacksmith had taken up residency in it. I found I was entertaining thoughts of strangling Greg for adding to it with his knocking. What the hell was wrong with me?

  Greg entered, holding a mug, looking abominably cheery for the hour of the day. “Prerogative of the gentleman of the house to bring morning tea. Milk, no sugar okay?”

  “Fine. Thank you very much,” I said, taking the mug from him. I took one sip and suddenly realized what was wrong. It was tea. It was very good tea, well-brewed and strong, with a nicely balanced flavor.

  But I needed coffee.

  I hadn’t had a cup in nearly twenty-four hours. Hence the headache, hence the nausea. Hence my evil inclinations.

  I was going through withdrawal.

  Tea, I recalled, had more caffeine than coffee, but it came out in far smaller amounts when brewed. Assuming that some was better than none, I gulped down the entire mug.

  Greg watched in silence. “Come downstairs when you’ve had a chance to wake up a bit. We’ll have some breakfast and be off.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, but my head was throbbing worse than ever.

  “See you down there.”

  “Thanks, Greg.”

  I pulled on my digging clothes—jeans, layers of T-shirt, cotton workshirt, and sweater—and pulled on my boots. I realized that my hands were trembling and thought, if Jane’s drinking coffee, I’ll ask for some. Otherwise, there’s bound to be a Starbucks or something around here. I’m not going to make a nuisance of myself the first morning, I told myself firmly.

  What if there’s no Starbucks?

  Then I’ll buy a bag of coffee and suck the grounds, I replied, gritting my teeth. I’m not going to be sidelined by some silly addiction compounding the early hour. I went downstairs.

  Jane was whizzing around making another heap of sandwiches and calling out reminders to Greg, who was staring at his tortoise, which was out for a walk on the floor and slowly heading, with its snaky head outstretched and on little clawed elephant feet, toward where he stood in a patch of warm sunlight. I successfully resisted the urge to trip Jane, but not by much.

  “Morning, Emma!” she called briskly.

  “Morning, Jane.”

  “There’s toast and muesli and more tea on the table—you do eat breakfast?—and I’ve got lunch packed up for you already. We’ve got a lot of work today—”

  I picked up a triangle of toast and stared at it blankly as Jane listed the day’s many goals. My eyes were almost watering with the pain in my head and I couldn’t help but tune Jane out—it was as much for her safety as it was for my sanity. Nibbling at the cold, dry toast, I realized that Jane’s speech was in fact a monologue. Greg was as silent as I. He had returned Hildegard to her tank, adjusted her lamp, and was now slowly feeding her. He picked up a kale leaf and arranged it at the other end of the terrarium, ostensibly to give Hildegard something to look forward to.

  “—And Greg, will you leave that damned thing alone? I swear, you and Hildegard are two of a kind, poky and silent—”

  The comment, which sounded like no more than an observation, caught me like a slap in the face. I noticed that Gregory slid a hurt glance toward his wife’s back. She hadn’t even looked up from the sandwich making.

  “Jane, can I give you a hand with those?” I asked hurriedly.

  “No, thanks, I’m all done,” she said, turning and smiling at me. Then she realized what I was trying to do. “Oh, Emma, don’t worry. It’s just my way in the morning; Greg knows the claws aren’t really out, don’t you, dear?”

  “Yes, of course. Claws not out, noted.” He slid the top back over the terrarium and looked at me critically. “But I’m just wondering if our pet American isn’t actually desperate for a cup of coffee? You’re not one of those disgusting caffeine-crazed, can’t-find-the-floor-in-the-morning-without-a-cup fiends, are you, Emma?”

  “Oh, yes, God, yes,” I said with relief. “I didn’t want to ask, but is there a coffee shop or something I could run to real quick, before we get started? I won’t take long, but it would be really good and I’m sure I’d be much more useful—”

  My hosts exchanged a look and burst out laughing. I didn’t even care, so long as the hope of coffee loomed.

  “She’s gibbering, Jane. I’ll take her down the cafe, get her a fix, and meet you over there, shall I?”

  “Yes, good, go, don’t be late,” Jane said, but she’d already turned back to sorting out her notes for the day.

  “See you, pet.”

  She frowned at the notebooks, and when Greg went to buss her cheek, she made a vague kissing gesture about three inches off target, still engrossed in her paperwork.

  Upstairs Gregory grabbed his green raincoat from a peg in the hall and led the way out onto the sunny high street. I followed, once again struck by the smell of exhaust that hadn’t journeyed through a catalytic converter. The sun was still creeping up and the little town was waking up; a shopkeeper was setting out oranges in a bin, a newsstand vendor pored over a racing form, and a milk float whirred by, clinking empty bottles the only noise over the motor. Gregory walked along, waving to the folks who called good morning to him. He seemed to know everyone in town.

  “Jane’s preoccupied today,” I ventured, hurrying to keep up.

  “Jane’s been preoccupied since, oh—” he looked at his watch “—about 1987. Someday she’ll come back to us all.”

  At that moment, we arrived at a little shop front with a flyblown sign that simply said “Sandwiches” stuck in the window. Although the sign was faded and dog-eared, and the plastic tables and chairs lined along one wall looked to be about 1960s vintage, the rest of the place was spotless. On the counter was a glass case containing a variety of sandwiches and buns and a basket of candy bars. Behind the counter, pouring tea into six white mugs, was a diminutive old woman, wearing a gauzy purple triangle of a scarf tied under her chin and an apron that buttoned up the front over a quilted jacket; it would have been much too warm for me in the steamy little cafe. I recalled the image I’d seen of her in the photo and decided she’d probably lost something of her height and a lot of her mass since that time; she probably felt the cold more keenly now.

  I looked around the rest of the room and saw a couple of patrons glancing back at me with the silent, wary curiosity of habitués sensing some potential disruption to their routine. One or two called over to Greg, who, instead of taking a seat at the last empty table, snuck up behind the old lady and grabbed her in a bear hug from behind.

  “Good morning, Auntie Mads!”

  “Ooooh!” came the shrill cry. “Aren’t you awful, to give an old lady such a scare! And my poor heart being what it is!” She swatted at Greg, but smiled delightedly nonetheless. “What can I get for you, dear?”

  “A coffee and a tea, please.”

  “Just a minute, then.” She glanced over at me, then frowned. “Where’s that wife of yours, who’s too good to make my boy a cup of tea in the morning?”

  Greg stopped smiling. “I won’t have you talking about Jane like that, I’ve told you—”

  She demurred hurriedly. “All right, all right, but you can’t fault me for never thinking anyone would be good enough for my boy.”

  He gestured to me. “Auntie Mads, this is my friend Emma Fielding. She’s helping us work on the abbey for a few weeks.”

  I wasn’t there, for all she noticed me. “All that digging around in the nasty muck. Oh, I wish you’d leave off that, Gregory, and stick to teaching. It’s much nicer.”

  Greg smiled again. “I am teaching, Auntie. I’m fine.”

  “I know you’re fine, I just hate thinking of you with all them manky, dirty bones. Diseases, Gregory, there’s awful diseases—” She stopped abruptly. “But as long as you’re home again, I can stand anything.” She gave him another hug, then went over to her kettl
e and mugs.

  “Where’d you go, Greg?” I asked, as he sat down.

  He grinned. “I made the mistake of leaving for university for three years, fifteen years ago, and she’s never forgiven me for it. Fortunately for all concerned, I got the position at Marchester University after I finished my postgraduate degrees there—”

  “Here’s your tea, and your coffee.” Auntie Mads had returned and set down mugs in front of us. She sighed tiredly, then thought of something. “Do you want me to fix you up a nice sandwich for your lunch?”

  “No, thank you. Jane has me all taken care of.”

  The old lady waved her hand dismissively and returned to the counter. I didn’t notice anything else after that, save for the mug in front of me. The coffee was only a shade or two darker than tan, not much darker than Greg’s tea, and there was a faint greenish sheen swirling around on the surface. I sipped; it was hot and scorched and bitter and very, very strong. Coffee I would have avoided like a paper cut at home I now welcomed with surging relief. I felt the pain in my head recede at last.

  “We should get going,” I said guiltily, when I’d finished gulping. “It’s almost quarter past.”

  “Oh.” He glanced down at his watch. “We’ve got another forty-five minutes.”

  “You don’t start until nine?” I was astonished. “But that’s…practically noon.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  “Oh, God, no. I’m not a morning person—”

  “Really? I’d never have guessed. Still we should leave a bit early, to get you oriented. So you’ll have time for another cup or two, before we get going.”

  He glanced over to the counter and frowned. “Aunty’s not looking on top form today, I’m worried she’s not been feeling well lately.”

  I looked over and saw Aunty chewing out a couple of the other patrons for bolting their food; they looked amused and did their best to reassure her that they’d taken their time and chewed properly. She looked okay to me, but then I saw her sigh again heavily, and wondered if Greg wasn’t right.