Moth to the Flame

by Maxine Barry

  He smiled, a sudden dazzling flash of perfect teeth, and along with the rest of the cast, took his final bow.

  * * *

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ Alicia asked her brother as they stood in the middle of the SCR, accepting a canapé from the passing butler. ‘Did you like the play or not?’

  ‘It was a good play,’ he said shortly. ‘And Rupert’s performance was uncannily accurate.’

  Alicia’s chin lifted. ‘I’m mad at you,’ she said just as shortly. ‘That stunt you pulled, putting money into Jared’s bank account without his knowledge . . . you should be ashamed of yourself.’

  Neville was, and muttered an apology.

  ‘So you’ll support me, when I tell Dad that I’m not going to work for the magazine. That I’m going to write crime novels instead?’ she challenged . . .

  Neville looked appalled. He muttered and wriggled some more, but eventually agreed that, perhaps, she should be free to choose her own path. Then he excused himself with the plea that he needed to type up his review notes.

  The rest of the party hardly noticed Neville’s absence. Davina Granger was holding court in one corner whilst Gareth watched, smiling, apparently not at all offended that she was getting more attention than he was. Everyone was happy.

  Even Rupert was content. He’d just spotted a small, sharp, silver knife on the fruit platter. It bore the St Bede’s crest of arms on the handle and had obviously been made by a craftsman. He lifted the knife casually and studied it. It was old. It was made of the finest silver. He smiled, and nodded. Fate, again, was with him. Showing him the way. Casually, he slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  It was indeed the perfect knife with which to kill his beloved.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jack Carter yawned over his sixth cup of coffee. He’d been up since six marking a pile of essays, and needed a break. But his job as English Teacher at King Canute College was his first appointment, and he was totally dedicated to his work.

  He pulled the next essay to him, reading the name on the top sheet with a little sigh of disappointment. Gavin Brock was not one of King Canute’s brighter students.

  He ploughed through an uninspired essay on Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles, sighing over a passage which he recognised as being plagiarised from a critical piece by Bolton, translated almost word for word. But then he turned the next page and found himself going cold with shock.

  Instead of looking down on yet more of Mr Brock’s rather untidy scrawl, he found himself face to face with a very neat, computer-formatted photocopied page of exam questions.

  Slowly, he lowered his coffee cup. It was from this year’s syllabus. And the little line of figures at the bottom of the page bore the code numbers of this year’s finals. Jack felt the colour drain from his face. He stood up, then abruptly sat down again. He knew what this meant. He knew the dreadful ramifications . . .

  He read the questions through again, frantic, sure he’d made a mistake. Hoping that he’d made a mistake. But he hadn’t.

  Finally, Jack gathered all the essays together and put them in his briefcase. After a brief hesitation, he slipped the photocopied exam paper inside too and snapped the locks shut.

  Then he saw the time, gave a muffled yelp, and dashed for his bus. He’d be late for college if he wasn’t careful.

  * * *

  Davina awoke and lay gazing up at the familiar, age-dappled ceiling. She sighed, feeling deeply depressed. Soon she would leave this pleasant set of rooms for good. Even the anthology was complete, as she’d chosen the last of the poems last week. Nothing was holding her back.

  It was only Gareth who kept her here now. She got up, and pulled on faded jeans and her elderly cashmere baby-pink sweater. She combed her hair, and, slowly, reluctantly, met the reflection of her green eyes in the glass. The woman looking back at her was almost a stranger.

  I look . . . desperate, Davina thought, with a jolt of nasty surprise. I look . . . haunted. She turned away, pacing the room. She had things to do. Except, that she didn’t. All she had to occupy her time now was the waiting for disaster to strike. And watch it overtake him. Gareth.

  She strode angrily to the kitchen, and made herself a bitter cup of strong black coffee. Forgot the sugar. Cursed, and put some in. Drank it down as if it was poison, then paced some more. She glanced at her watch. It was eight fifteen.

  David. Think about David. Davina passed the mirror again. Stopped. Looked at herself. No good. She still looked like a woman going to the gallows. She rubbed her hand wearily across her eyes. They felt hot and gritty.

  Just because she loved him didn’t mean she had to spare him. For centuries, women had been classed as the weaker sex. The sex that couldn’t see a job through when the going got tough. The sex who didn’t have enough brains in their heads to vote. The sex who should get paid less for doing the same jobs as a man, just because a woman was intrinsically worth less.

  Except . . . ‘Damn!’ she yelled. She snatched up her bag and raced to the door and out into Wolsey’s Hall, heading straight to the public phone booth. She had Gavin Brock’s number in her purse and she ferreted it out grimly.

  ‘Yeah?’ the voice was wary.

  ‘Gavin? It’s me. I want you to hold off putting the exam paper into the essay.’ There. She’d said it. Done it. Betrayed her brother. Betrayed her own sense of self-worth. Sold her concept of justice down the river. All because she was a woman in love, and acting like all other women in love had done, down through the ages. She should be feeling terrible. Not wilting as a massive load seemed to slip off her shoulders.

  ‘I can’t, I gave it to Mr Carter yesterday.’

  Davina took a deep breath. She closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded. She leaned her head slowly against the wall and swallowed hard. The plaster felt grave-cold against her forehead. ‘Oh. In that case . . . forget it,’ she said flatly. She hung up quickly, cutting off his protests. She slowly turned, letting her back thump against the wall. She felt physically as well as mentally exhausted.

  She managed a grim, weak laugh. So. It was done after all. Fate had taken the decision out of her hands. Just as well, perhaps. She walked slowly back to her room.

  Met her eyes in the mirror again. Began to pace again . . .

  * * *

  Jack Carter jogged along the corridor. ‘Oh, Mr Thorpe!’

  He sprinted to catch up with Head of English. ‘Sorry,’ he gasped. ‘Just wanted to catch you . . . before . . . you went . . . in. I wondered if you knew who was setting this year’s papers in the Modern Poetry Finals?’ Jack decided the best approach was to simply ask outright.

  Mr Thorpe glanced impatiently at his watch. ‘Moderns? Oh, that’ll be Dr Gareth Lacey. One of your Oxford lot, I understand. Now, I must get on . . .’

  Jack was barely aware of the older man, leaving him with a muttered apology, to push his way into the packed Lecture Hall.

  Slowly, numbly, Jack turned back, moving much more slowly down the corridor than he’d come up it. He himself was free until eleven. He made his way to the Common Room, not surprised to see it deserted in mid-morning. He slumped down in a chair, the briefcase in his hand.

  Jack Carter had indeed gone to Oxford, but not to St Bede’s. Nevertheless, he knew Gareth Lacey well. Had attended every lecture the man ever gave, with Jack often staying behind afterwards to chat to the great man. He’d liked him.

  Jack scowled, knowing he should go straight to Mr Morgan, King Canute’s Principal, with what he had in his briefcase.

  But he didn’t. Instead he walked to the telephone and called St Bede’s.

  * * *

  Davina went to the bank and drew out a large amount of cash. The teller was nervous on her behalf, but she simply stuffed the money into her bag and left. Back in her room she waited until the lunch hour, then called King Canute, getting herself put through to the Refectory. There a very helpful dinner lady agreed to page Gavin Brock. A minute or two later, and he was on the phone.
/>
  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s me again. I want you to get the exam paper back.’

  Gavin swore. Davina waited patiently until he’d finished. Now that she’d made up her mind as to what she must do, she felt calm, once more. ‘I’ve got another two thousand pounds in cash in my purse. Just waiting for you to come and collect it,’ she said simply. ‘All you have to do is bring me the exam paper back.’

  There was a considerable silence on the other end. Then, ‘What if I can’t get it back? Suppose he’s already found the paper . . .’

  Davina bit her lip. ‘All right. If he’s found the paper, I want you to call me straight away.’ She rattled off the number of Wolsey Hall. ‘If that’s the case, I don’t want you to even mention Dr Lacey. Tell him you don’t know how the paper came to be there. You didn’t even notice it.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Right! Like he’s going to believe that!’

  Davina sighed. ‘Gavin, you get your extra money, whether he believes it or not. All you’ve got to do is keep your mouth shut. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Gavin said cheerfully and rang off.

  In the cool Hall of Wolsey Davina slowly hung up. Then she went back to her room. And cried. Bitterly.

  * * *

  Gareth parked his car in the King Canute’s car park, and within moments, was being met by Jack Carter and escorted inside. ‘Jack! Good to see you again. How are things going?’ he asked pleasantly.

  He was still a little puzzled as to what he was doing here. Jack had rung him up only an hour ago, saying he needed to see him urgently. Gareth, who remembered him from past lectures, had been surprised. Now he frowned slightly. ‘Jack, you look terrible. Has something happened?’

  Jack sighed and steered Gareth into a small alcove under the main stairs, where a group of chairs was set around a low coffee table. There he reached into his briefcase. ‘Dr Lacey, I found this paper this morning, in one of my students’ essays.’

  Gareth glanced down at the document in question, and the colour drained dramatically from his face as he recognised it.

  ‘What the hell . . . ?’ Gareth said inelegantly. He quickly ran his eyes down the list of multiple-choice questions. ‘I don’t understand this,’ Gareth said, clearly bewildered. ‘I sent the papers to your Principal last week. By courier. They should have been safely locked in his safe, straight away.’

  Jack nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. Mr Morgan’s very punctilious about exam papers. I just don’t know what to do!’

  Gareth stood up decisively. ‘We have to go and see him, right away. If the papers have been compromised . . .’

  ‘Oh, Mr Carter! There you are.’ Gavin Brock, bounding down the stairs, beamed in pleasure at having tracked down his prey. He gave the man beside his teacher a brief, uninterested look. ‘I wanted to ask you if I could have my essay back,’ he began guilelessly.

  ‘This is the student I was telling you about,’ Jack whispered abruptly to Gareth as Gavin approached.

  Gareth felt himself stiffen, then thrust out his hand, leaving Gavin no other choice but to shake it.

  ‘Oh, yes. Er . . . Gavin Brock, this is Dr Gareth Lacey,’ Jack introduced them. And the effect of Gareth’s name on Gavin was immediate. He actually took a step back. Went deathly pale. Looking into Gareth’s astute, level grey eyes, Gavin became suddenly very afraid. Very afraid indeed.

  ‘I want to have a word with you, Mr Brock,’ Gareth said softly. ‘About an exam paper.’

  Gavin gulped and immediately folded. It’s all her fault!’ he wailed. ‘I had nothing to do with it! She offered me money. She brought the photocopy. I . . .’

  Gareth’s eyes narrowed. Grimly he lowered the shaking boy into another of the chairs. ‘Now,’ he said, his voice ominously quiet. ‘I suggest you start at the beginning. Start with exactly who “she” is?’

  Davina was already packing when Gareth got back to St Bede’s. He didn’t bother knocking on her door, but opened it silently. He closed it just as silently again behind him, then leaned against the door, watching her pack.

  There was no expression whatsoever on his face.

  Only the stormy shadows in his grey eyes reflected the bitter pain of hurt bewilderment he was feeling.

  Davina tossed the last of her things—the long white dress—into her hold-all and zipped it shut with a final jerking movement. She hoisted it off the bed, and looked slowly around. She was going to miss St Bede’s. The place had a charm that had wormed its way into her very soul.

  She shrugged, turned, and froze.

  Gareth glanced from her suddenly tense, waiting, wary face, to her bag, then back again. ‘Leaving?’ he asked softly.

  This time it was the turn of Davina’s hackles to rise, very slowly. Menace was in the room with her. The presence of a man on the hunt. She swallowed nervously, then elevated her chin. The defiant gesture was so typical of her.

  So Davina. Gareth felt his heart contract. Even now, even knowing that all this time she’d been plotting to destroy him, he loved her. Part of him, a purely primitive part, even felt elated. She’d hated him enough to stalk him. Spent so much emotion on him. A savage primordial part of him could feel a sexual kick of awareness. He felt, absurdly, honoured. But that was not all he felt. He felt rage, too. And pain. So much pain. He’d thought she’d loved him, in her own unique, complicated way. To find that she never had was almost more than he could bear.

  ‘Yes, I’m leaving,’ Davina confirmed. ‘As you can see,’ she added loftily, swinging the holdall by her side.

  ‘You’ve finished the anthology?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Gareth’s lips twisted. ‘Of course. Far be it from the great Davina Granger to leave a job undone.’

  Davina’s green eyes flickered. What . . . ?

  ‘Weren’t you even going to say goodbye?’ Gareth asked calmly. ‘Don’t I even merit a “So long sucker, thanks for the memory”?’

  Davina shrugged. It was curious. She could actually feel her heart breaking inside her. And yet she was out of herself. Feeling hardly anything at all. ‘All right,’ she said softly. ‘So long sucker. Thanks for the memory.’

  Gareth laughed. ‘Oh Davina. You’re a classic, you know that?’

  She laughed too. But she was still feeling nothing. Nothing at all. The numbness was wonderful. But, somehow, she didn’t think it was going to last for ever. She had to get out of there now. Before the pain came. Before she could no longer hide the fact that she loved him. Before she blurted out the whole, sordid truth.

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Gareth,’ she said mockingly. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know when an affair’s over? It was very nice, and all that, and I’ll always remember you with affection. OK?’ She put one hand on her hip. ‘Can I go now?’

  Gareth smiled at her. ‘In just a minute. First I want to know why you wanted me broken.’

  Davina blinked. ‘What?’ she asked faintly.

  Gareth walked slowly towards her. ‘You heard me,’ he said softly. ‘I want to know what I ever did to you, Davina, to make you come after me.’

  Davina dropped the holdall. Suddenly, all the numbness was gone.

  The battlefield was now even.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  They’d all agreed to meet up in Theatre again at three o’clock the next afternoon in order to read the reviews, and Alicia, dressed in a demure tartan skirt and plain white blouse, clutched the sheaf of newspapers to her breast as she hurried along through Wallace Quad towards Webster.

  Rupert Greyling-Simms watched her from his vantage point high up in Hall, and then slowly lowered his binoculars. He felt much better this morning. With the decision about what to do with his life taken out of his hands, he felt much calmer. All the despair caused by his uncertainty was just a distant, bad memory. It was all due to Alicia. He would thank her properly. Soon. Very soon.

  In the theatre, the cast swooped on Alicia and her newspapers the moment she set foot in the door. There was a general sound of franti
c page-turning, and then the usual ‘listen to this bit’, and ‘look what he said about me’ groans and ‘I can’t believe I’m in the papers’ jubilance.

  Alicia read Neville’s review aloud.

  The annual St Bede’s Hilary Term play was shown last night, and differed vastly from previous productions. Firstly, the play was not culled from the extensive College library, but was written especially for the College by Alicia Norman, a first-year English Literature student. Secondly, St Bede’s daringly opted to try a much more modern approach than in previous years, putting on a very nice little murder mystery.

  The review went on to praise the staging. Then continued:

  The play itself was moderately well written, with a strong set of characters, a brave modern setting, and with a fairly intriguingly-plotted whodunit thrown in. It’s a pity the second Act, instead of bolstering the first, and making way for the third, became a little bogged down. If the director had shorn off a good ten minutes in the middle of the play, the balance would have been a lot better.

  ‘I knew he’d have to get a dig in somewhere,’ Jared murmured gloomily. Alicia glanced up at him, caught his eye and grinned widely. Jared, unabashed, grinned back.

  Neville rounded it off with a few more pithy and pertinent comments, and Alicia sighed with relief. It could have been so much worse! Jared was shaking his head. ‘Well, well, well. Who’d have believed it? A word of praise for nearly everyone.’

  Rupert, who’d just that moment come through the door, watched the teasing by-play with a stab of pain that was almost exquisite. He walked slowly forward, watching the couple out of the corner of his eye as the rest of the cast greeted him.

  ‘You’re a hit, Rupe,’ someone called over to him, and Alicia and Jared both quickly looked up. A feeling of anxiety settled on them as they watched Rupert smiling and joining in with the rest of the cast’s revelry.

  Alicia bent her head towards Jared. ‘What are we going to do?’ she murmured, keeping a wary eye on Rupert, who showed no signs, at the moment, of coming over to them. She wished, guiltily, that she didn’t feel so scared of him, so unhappy whenever he was around.