Daughters of Fire

by Barbara Erskine

  II

  Shit!’ The scene had gone. The drip of the water in the well chamber had receded.

  Medb.

  Medb was there. She was spying on Carta. And Carta was afraid!

  Viv’s head was spinning, her body stiff and exhausted. However much she wanted to return to the scene she couldn’t; however much Carta invaded her head she was too tired to go on. Staggering stiffly into the kitchen, she began opening the cupboards and the fridge. She couldn’t even remember when had she last been shopping. Going back into the living room she grabbed her purse and keys.

  Sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table with her takeaway half an hour later, she scanned her notes whilst she ate. Whatever she had said to Cathy, she was still thinking about the play. And Medb. Perhaps Pat was right and there was a small place for Medb in the story as a focus point of tension. It would make it more exciting. Heaping rice and chicken Madras onto her fork she leaned forward, shuffling through her notebook. The food was making her feel better. More focussed. There was so much to do. She needed to reread her draft of the play and at the same time choose passages to talk about on TV tomorrow; decide at what point she was going to produce the pin. Finishing the curry and rice she reached for a poppadum as her notepad filled page by page.

  It was very late when at last she put down her pen and stretched her arms, yawning. Climbing to her feet she picked up her plate and headed for the kitchen. Gathering up the empty foil containers she dumped them in the bin, switched off the lights and went into the bathroom. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and all she wanted now was to sleep. Turning on the taps she hunted on the shelf over the bath and found some exotic bubbly stuff to swirl into the steam. Undressing slowly she turned off the taps at last and was about to step into the water when she decided to bring some music into the bathroom.

  The living room was dark, the window still open on the warm night air. Outside the sounds of the street had died away. An occasional car, its tyres rattling over the stone sets in the High Street, broke the silence, then it was quiet again. Reaching for her CD player she was about to turn back towards the bathroom when she caught sight of a movement in the doorway to the hall out of the corner of her eye and she became suddenly acutely aware that she was naked.

  ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ She was clutching the disc player against her breasts. At this time of year the sky had a luminosity which reflected down even into the wynds and closes of the old town. It gave the room a faint glow as her eyes attuned. She held her breath. The room was completely silent now. But it was a strange silence. Thick. Impenetrable. Self-conscious. All she could hear was her own heartbeat in her ears. She wanted it to stop so she could listen; she wanted it to stop so she couldn’t be heard.

  ‘Who is it?’ she whispered. More tentatively this time.

  The wedge of black where the half-open doorway led into the hall was dense and unmoving. Cautiously she stepped towards the rocking chair. Setting down the player she grabbed the sweater which lay thrown over the chair and pulled it quickly on, then with a swift movement she reached for the light switch. The room in the harsh light of three lamps was empty as she had known, in some deep core of herself below the irrational panic, that it would be. She moved towards the door, then she paused. A fresh damp waft of air came to her from the hall. She reached to turn on that light as well, afraid suddenly that the front door was open onto the cold stone of the winding stair, but it was closed and locked and almost as soon as she had registered the smell it had gone.

  She shivered. It had been the smell of the dales and the Yorkshire moors.

  ‘Carta?’ Her whisper was hesitant. She did not want an answer.

  ‘Carta? Is that you?’ Carta was angry; impatient. She wanted Viv to go on.

  But whatever gateway might have temporarily opened between Carta’s world and Viv’s had closed. The fresh air of the Brigantian hills was once more locked away into the past and she was left with an empty flat and the faint smell of the curry she had eaten only a few short hours before.

  III

  With a scowl Hugh turned his back on the dripping garden and walked back to his desk. He glanced at the transcript of his review lying beside the keyboard and read it through again while he drank a mug of black coffee. At best Viv’s book was a jolly romp through a historical theme. A slow and careful reading of the full text hadn’t changed his mind. Sitting down, he stared at the computer monitor. Either way the book was a disaster and not something he wanted either his own name or that of his department associated with.

  The offending book itself was sitting on the far corner of his desk. Like Pat’s copy it was bristling with Post-its but in this case every one represented an inaccuracy or a guess. Every one flagged an insult to historical truth. Just as well they had sent him this second copy after he had handed his first to Steve or he would never have read it; never have had the chance to accept the Daily Post’s invitation to review the book and to do it properly with a full range of damaging quotes, emphasising particularly the travesty she had made out of the role of Venutios in her story. Venutios, who was one of the greatest leaders of the period, outshining even Caratacus.

  Well, she couldn’t claim he hadn’t given her the chance to retract. Or withdraw it. Or pulp it. Whatever one did with unwanted books. He had warned her; he had begged her and she had remained adamant. Whatever happened now, it was her own fault. He picked up the mouse and called up his e-mail. One click and the review was on its way.

  He frowned. The day it appeared, he realised abruptly, Viv Lloyd Rees would be a public laughing stock. Did he really want that?

  He sat for a moment staring at the screen. Message sent. Not too late to change his mind. He could withdraw it. Poor Viv. Alison would have hated him for this. But if Alison was still there he probably wouldn’t have done it. He was more mellow in those days. More tolerant. Probably, he had to admit, a nicer person. But then he wasn’t doing this to prove his niceness or otherwise. He was doing it to maintain the integrity of his department and everything he believed in, in the field of research. In the long run this was in Viv’s own interest. Some day she would even thank him for it. Flipping open the book’s cover, he sat staring at her photo inside the jacket. For a moment he wondered if he should ring her; warn her what he had done. He put his hand out to the phone then he withdrew it again. Tonight she would be appearing on TV to talk about the wretched book and presumably produce the stolen pin in full view of the whole world. It would be even more important after that for him to distance himself from her.

  Standing up, he went back to his survey of the wet garden. He hadn’t told the police. Of course he hadn’t told the police. Not yet. He couldn’t do that to her.

  Cartimandua’s pin.

  No. Venutios’s pin.

  He frowned uncomfortably. Where had that thought come from?

  With a sudden bolt of irrational fear he knew that he was about to hear the brazen note of the carnyx even before it was there, echoing across the garden, drowning out the sound of the rain.

  IV

  ‘I’m not stopping long!’ Pat waved a paper bag enticingly as Viv opened the door. ‘Peace offering. Doughnuts! Can I come in?’ She shook the rain out of her hair.

  Viv stepped back and led the way into the living room. She had slept heavily, still swathed in the jumper and had woken with a headache which a shower had done little to dissipate. She had also changed her mind about Medb.

  ‘I’ve been crass,’ Pat said as she followed her in. ‘I admit it. I got so excited by the story I went into rough-shod mode. A fault of mine and I know it. Mea Culpa!’ She put her briefcase down on the sofa and flung herself down beside it. ‘Can we start again?’

  Viv studied her face for a moment in silence before seating herself on the rocker. ‘No Medb?’

  Pat opened her mouth then closed it. She put her head on one side. ‘Less Medb?’

  ‘No Medb. There’s no space for Medb. No actual place for Medb
!’ Cartimandua had vetoed the woman’s part in the play.

  Pat exhaled sharply. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘So, where do we go from here?’ She left her briefcase unopened.

  Viv shrugged. ‘I’ve got the TV programme this evening. I can’t really think straight until that is over.’

  ‘Live?’

  Viv grimaced. ‘Live.’

  ‘But you’re good at this sort of thing, right? I’ve heard you’re a natural.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m nervous.’

  Pat shook her head. ‘That’s a good sign. You’ll be terrific.’ She stood up. ‘Tomorrow, OK? We’ll slot some scenes together with the narrative and see how it reads.’

  She left Viv both doughnuts.

  In the TV studios late that night Viv found herself seated opposite the presenter, Selwyn Briggs. She had placed the Perspex box between her glass of water and the small bowl of flowers which stood on the low table between them.

  A grey-haired man, with a craggy face and eccentric taste in luminous shirts, Selwyn eyed it. ‘When do you want to produce it?’

  ‘About halfway through my segment?’ She shrugged. Behind the spotlights the cameras were lining up. Cables snaked across the floor into the distance. Someone was checking the small mike pinned to her blouse. ‘I’ll lead into it naturally if that’s OK with you, when I talk about Cartimandua’s life style.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ He grinned at her. ‘Don’t forget you’ve only got about ten minutes in all. Don’t go into too much detail. Keep it general.’

  On the studio wall the clock ticked round towards the hour. Listening to the signature tune Viv found her mouth had gone dry. Selwyn was smiling at her now, engaged, his professional persona in place, his introduction as always word perfect.

  ‘This evening our programme comes to you from Edinburgh and in it we have three practical historians who are here to talk about their work. First up we have Dr Vivienne Lloyd Rees who is a Celticist at Edinburgh University. Good evening, Viv.’ His smile broadened. ‘Your new book, Cartimandua, Queen of the North will be on our shelves any day now. Can you tell us briefly what it’s about?’

  The camera crept nearer, focussed on her face. Viv smiled back at him and her nerves disappeared. She made a couple of passable jokes. She flirted with the lens. She was a natural; relaxed; charismatic. The camera adored her. The first few minutes seemed to fly. At last she reached for the box. ‘I have something here, Selwyn, which I think will interest the viewers.’ She removed the lid and picked up the pin, holding it on her palm. ‘This brooch - technically it’s called a fibula - a safety pin, if you like, came from a place called Stanwick in Yorkshire, the site of one of the largest Brigantian settlements, the place which many people think was their capital. In Celtic times I believe it was called Dinas Dwr, which means the castle on the water. The river there is tiny now, no more than a brook, a tributary of the Tees but in earlier times it was larger. As you can see, this is a beautiful object, made of gold and the most exquisite enamelling.’ She moved her hand in front of the camera so the brooch caught the light. Even here, in the heat of the studios it was cold. ‘By rights, it should be in the museum, of course,’ she paused, eyebrow raised,‘and it will go back there straight after the programme, but its owner, Professor Hugh Graham, allowed me to borrow it especially for tonight.’ She glanced up at the camera nearest to her and grinned. ‘There’s no way of knowing if it really belonged to Cartimandua, but that’s what it has come to be called. The Cartimandua Pin.’

  Selwyn leaned forward. ‘A very talented craftsman made this.’ He held out his hand and reluctantly she placed the brooch on his palm.

  ‘Indeed. These were sophisticated, artistic people.’

  Selwyn nodded sagely, staring down at it for a few seconds before hastily handing it back. She saw him surreptitiously rub his palm on his knee as he smiled at her again. So, he felt it too. ‘You obviously have amazing pull, Viv. People aren’t usually allowed to ‘‘borrow’’ things from museums. Professor Graham must look on you with great favour. Not to say trust.’ He gave her a wolfish grin.

  Viv met his eye, startled. ‘He’s certainly taken a great interest in my book,’ she said cautiously. He knew.

  ‘And has been very supportive, no doubt?’ He left the question hanging.

  ‘He has backed me in his own inimitable way,’ Viv commented dryly. ‘Professor Graham and I have different ways of pursuing our research. Ways which I think complement each other very well.’ She gave a wry smile. Did he know about the row, or were his comments merely shrewd? She put the pin down on the table. ‘In fact he’s probably sent an armoured car to collect this and make sure it gets back safely,’ she commented. She managed a humorous shrug.

  Selwyn laughed. ‘I’m sure he trusts you, Viv,’ he said. ‘So, where next?’ He changed the subject adroitly. ‘Another book, perhaps?’

  ‘Indeed.’ She looked straight into the camera. ‘I’ve been doing further, tremendously exciting research and I have already started on a sequel. I am also working on a radio drama documentary about Cartimandua.’

  ‘So, we should watch this space?’

  Viv smiled. ‘I hope you will.’

  There was a pause. The floor manager made a thumbs up sign and taking off his headphones, slung them round his neck. It was time for the break. Selwyn sat back with a grin. ‘Great. Thanks, Viv.’ There was an infinitesimal pause. ‘You believe in living dangerously!’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Hugh was on the phone to me about that pin.’

  She waited while the mike was unfastened from her blouse and then stood up. ‘Thanks for not relaying the full force of his fury to the nation.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it fury.’ Selwyn reached across to shake her hand. ‘A touch of professional jealousy maybe? Go carefully, sweetie!’

  The next guest - a TV presenter from Glasgow whose new series on rescue archaeology would start in a couple of weeks - was waiting for her chair. Viv picked up the brooch, put it back into the box and made her way off the sound stage, past the cameras towards the green room where she had left her jacket as the show restarted behind her. What had he meant by ‘go carefully’? With a shiver she zipped the brooch into the inner pocket of her bag and put the strap over her shoulder.

  It was almost midnight. The studios were for the most part in darkness. The reception desk was unmanned, the corridors deserted. Only the one studio was in use tonight. At the outer door she paused to let herself out, half expecting her prediction to be right, but there was no one around. No armoured car. No police. No heavies - she gave wry grin at the thought. No one at all.

  The car park was nearly empty, the tarmac between the rows of small neatly planted cherry trees reflecting the rain under the tall security lights. Pulling her car key out of her pocket she headed for the Mazda which she had left on the far side of the car park, which when she had arrived a couple of hours before, had been nearly full. She stopped abruptly, listening to the rain hissing down on a bank of laurels nearby as she narrowed her eyes in the glare of the lights. There was a figure standing near her car. She glanced round nervously. It was Carta. She was sure of it. She could feel the terror tightening her throat as she looked back towards the studio. The door had clicked shut behind her. She was completely alone.

  Vivienne!

  She could hear the voice above the sound of the rain.

  Vivienne. Come back!

  It was the voice of her narrator. The voice of the ghost. The hair was standing up on the back of her neck. With a moan of fear she broke into a run and headed back to the building behind her, splashing through puddles, water soaking her shoes. Banging on the locked door frantically she glanced behind her. The car park was deserted once more. She could see no sign of the figure. ‘Please. Let me in!’ She searched desperately for a bell or a buzzer. There seemed to be nothing. Once again she banged on the glass panels with her fist. There was no response. With a cry of anguish she turned, her back to the door. The
re was no one in sight. Her car stood alone in the rain beneath the bank of lights.

  Her mouth dry with fear, she took a deep breath. There was nothing for it. She had to go. Running as fast as she could she headed for the far side of the car park and the safety of the little car.

  For a moment she couldn’t slot the key into the lock. She could feel the panic mounting. Her hands shaking, her fingers wet with rain she stabbed at the lock, and then at last felt it slide in and turn. Pulling open the door she dived in and slammed the locks shut. Only then did she take a deep breath and look round, wiping the rain from her eyes. The car park was still deserted. The shadows were empty.

  V

  She had been very watchable. He had to give her that. Standing up, Hugh went over to the sideboard to replenish his whisky. She was relaxed. Attractive. Charismatic, that was probably the word. Enthusiastic about the wretched book and, God help us, already writing another. He raised the glass and took a swig. That old sod Selwyn had been a damn sight too tactful about the brooch. He had had the chance to pillory her and all he had done was make a joke of it. Hugh walked over to the window. He hadn’t drawn the curtains and outside the world was black and wet. He could hear the rain on the glass above the sound of the adverts. The wind had whipped some brown and dying rose petals into the air and plastered them against the panes. The larches at the bottom of the garden were thrashing up and down, their branches sounding like waves on the beach. With a shiver he pulled the curtains across and turned back to the TV where Selwyn was already smiling benignly at his next guest.

  It was after midnight when Hugh finally turned off the set. He returned his glass to the sideboard, contemplated another top-up and realised that he was already slightly unsteady on his feet. Too much whisky would negate the desired effect of a quick and deep sleep. If one wasn’t careful there was that uncomfortable transition state before unconsciousness when one lay awake, the room beginning to spin unpleasantly when the regret set in. He never used to drink so heavily. He didn’t like being drunk. Firmly putting down the glass he walked out of the room and turned the lights off in time to see the sweep of car headlights through the hall window as someone drew up on the gravel outside the front door. He heard a car door slam. Seconds later his doorbell rang.