by Sam Nash
“Driving.” He replied, in answer to an unspoken question.
“I never thought to ask. What did you draw that night?” She swept a lacquered tendril behind her ear with a gloved hand. It sprang back onto her cheek.
“It was a sort of chunky looking old bridge. I tried to draw it but it didn’t come out quite as I saw it. Was I right? What was it that you picked?” He ruffled the edge of his jacket up and sunk his hand in his trouser pocket.
“Tower Bridge.”
“No way. You’re kidding…Tower Bridge?”
“I know. You have a rare gift, Dan.”
Dan snorted into the fruity concoction. Sticking out a finger from the glass edge, he said; “I looked up that sign. The one beneath the cardboard about The Crypt…”
“Oh good. What did it mean…SACMILL, wasn’t it?” She pulled at the bodice of her dress again.
“Uh-uh. It stands for Scientific Advisory Committee on the Medical Implications of Less Lethal Weapons. It’s an MOD funded body.”
“Ministry of Defence? That must be why Parth is so cagey about some of his studies.”
“Indeed. What is your husband cooking up for the government in his basement, Mary?”
She tried to fully inflate her lungs but found her chest restricted by the tight bodice of the dress. “I shudder to think.”
At the front of the hall, musicians filed in through a stage door and mounted the band stand. Their instruments reflecting the polished smiles and Art Deco stripe of their jackets. Piped background music ceased as the band took up their positions and started to play. A trio of trumpets blasted short notes to begin an agile number, summoning the smokers from the botanical gardens and coughing onto the dance floor.
“A jazz band? That’s unusual at these kinds of affairs.” Dan remarked, pleased at the change from 1940’s swing.
“That’ll be Yelena’s doing. She organises these dos.” Mary balanced on tiptoe at his shoulder, straining to make herself heard.
“Who is Yelena?” He yelled back, craning his neck down to her ear.
“That’s her, over there. That’s odd…” Mary pointed out her friend, who had extricated herself from the conversation with Constance and her husband, Cyril, and was talking intimately with a man that Mary recognised.
“What’s odd?” Dan was gazing in the general direction of Mary’s outstretched finger.
“That man, I’ve seen him before. He was in the canteen when we had tea together the other day. He barged right past me.” The balls of her feet burned with the renewed pressure from tipping forward from her heels, and her throat was dry and croaky. She sipped at her squash. Dan dipped to her ear once more.
“I saw him too. In fact, I’ve seen him around a lot, recently. He’s got…”
“A finger missing.”
“Yes, just like…”
“Terry Nutkin…”
“From the Really Wild Show!” They erupted in laughter. The musicians bowed to grateful applause and shuffled the sheet music to a more sedate rendition. Now swathed in a tolerable volume, they sauntered to the buffet table and picked.
“I loved that programme as a child. Poor Terry, losing his finger to…”
“An otter. Except it was a finger and a half.” Dan corrected, choosing an enormous curled prawn that garnished a bowl of gloopy pink sludge and holding it high.
“Was it really? Oh, I didn’t know that. I wonder how that man lost his?” Wrinkling her nose up at the smelly chicken satay sticks and pausing over the spring rolls.
“You could ask her. She seems to be heading this way.”
A vision in sage green, Yelena glided across the dance floor on her golden stilettoes. Five hundred hateful, lustful and admirable desires, projected on her as she undulated passed. She commanded attention. Her obvious lack of underwear sent the older professors into paroxysms. Some reached for angina pills, others cleaned their varifocal lenses for a clearer view.
“What are you and your handsome friend finding so amusing, Mary?” Yelena overtly scrutinised Dan, taking in his entire height in one toe to head sweep.
“We were wondering, rather unkindly I suppose, how that man you were talking to, lost his finger.” Mary considered what to do with the spring roll. A bite would hinder speech and now that she had touched it, returning it to the serving platter was no longer an option.
“Ah yes, him. That is Flynn, my lover.”
Trying not to look shocked, Mary couldn’t stop herself from inquiring further. “Does Cyril know?”
Yelena shrugged. “Who cares? Flynn is very pleasing to me.” She looked up at Dan, with a forced expression of interest.
Mary took the cue, resting the Chinese roll on a napkin and wiping her hand on her midnight blue hip. “Sorry…Yelena, this is Dan, Dan – Yelena.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Dan chanted, dutifully. She nodded.
“Don’t you think Mary has washed up wonderfully tonight? It is my doing, you know. She would be happy in a sack if you let her.” Yelena scooped up a glass of bubbly from a passing waiter and chugged a third of the liquid down.
“Mary always looks lovely. She doesn’t need fancy clothes to be radiant.” The sincerity incapacitated Mary. Her ivory skin bloomed with embarrassment. “I should probably go and rescue that chap from Connie’s interrogations.” Dan returned his half empty glass to the table and unbuttoned his dinner jacket.
Constance was holding court with Professor Cyril Plender. In her black suede heels, she was a good three inches taller than him, angling her eyes away from the glare of his bald pate. Cyril fondled his goatee, a compliant puppy, eager for praise.
“I’d say that Connie needs rescuing from my husband, but she is doing a fine job keeping him out of my way.” Yelena said, slipping deeper into her St. Petersburg drawl.
Parth reappeared, insisting on taking Mary for a dance and ignoring her protestations. Burying her face in his shoulder, she allowed him to waltz her around the empty parquet floor. Dan sensed her discomfort and politely asked Yelena if she wanted to join them. More couples found their confidence, much to Mary’s relief, until the polished floor was a tangle of taffeta in sweet wrapper colours.
“You are so quiet today, is anything wrong?” Parth dropped his head towards hers and slipped his hand lightly beneath her chin, raising it to meet his gaze.
“I’m fine. Just have a lot on my mind.” She tried to lower her face but his soft fingers against her jaw prevented it.
“Tell me.” This was the Parth she had fallen in love with - the Parth that wanted to understand her, to sink into the abyssal depths of her soul and memorise every event that had shaped her. He moved his free hand to the small of her back where the low cut of her gown exposed warm skin. His irises had tiny beguiling flecks of amber running through the chestnut brown. He locked them on hers. “Tell me.” Summer heat and mild exertions released his pheromones, combining them with his aftershave into a heady mixture that tugged at her resolve. He traced little circles on her spine with his thumb, sending a ripple of desire through her core. “Tell me.”
A dozen or more questions flooded her mind. Where do I start? How can I express feelings and hunches, all the doubts and fears that have plagued me for the past few weeks? How can I sound sensible and coherent with no proof supporting my accusations? How can I ask about projects that I know are secret, even from me? Why wouldn’t you talk to me in the safety and privacy of our home, where I can cry freely? She inhaled slowly and framed the one question that mattered the most.
“Do you still love me?” Her bottom lip trembled, waiting for his reaction. Astonishment shook him from their intimacy.
“How can you even think otherwise? Of course I do. I have been a bit neglectful of late, and I’m sorry for that, but you know how it’s been with work, honey.” He loosened his grip as she pulled her body further from his.
“So, you’re not having an affair?”
“An affair? Where would I even find the time for one? Is that what all
this silence and stomping around has been about? You think I could have eyes for anyone but you? After everything we have been through together, you are still the most interesting person on the planet to me.” The highest compliment a scientist could pay to their partner. She couldn’t help but smile. “How about we go for a picnic in the park on Saturday, just like we used to and you can tell me everything that has been bothering you.” Mary liked the idea and nodded.
Parth picked up the speed, using the music to rock her in his arms. He rested his chin against her temple, catching sight of Yelena leading Dan a few feet away.
“I have decided to move Dan to another study group for the rest of the project.”
Mary pushed him from her, stopping in the middle of the dance floor. “Why? What for?”
“Shush.” He pulled her in again and swayed to the popular tune. “I think he is a suitable candidate for my augmentation group.”
“Augmentation? You mean drug trial? You are going to pump him full of drugs? You can’t. I’ll tell him to drop out. Why would you do such a thing, when he and I were making such enormous progress?”
“Well that’s just it. He has been a negative influence on you. Encouraging you to snoop around classified areas of the department, damaging equipment in the process, I might add.”
Mary thrust her hands against his chest, forcing him to let his arms drop from her back. “We told you, we were looking for the toilets. I mean it Parth, you leave him alone, or I will tell him to ditch your project altogether.” Why did he have to spoil it? We were just getting along nicely and he ruins the moment. “I need to powder my nose.” She left Parth standing amongst the revellers dumbfounded.
Weaving between the crowds, she passed Cyril Plender and Connie, who were greeting a larger gentleman with tufted grey hair. Hurrying past, Mary glanced back at him, those distinctive green eyes, and the nauseating aftershave lingering in her lungs, that bullish neck supporting wide jowls. She stopped breathing. Get a grip, Mary. Stop being so jumpy the whole time. She chastised herself. Within seconds, Dan was at her side.
“Is everything okay? I felt…you felt, something told me to make sure you were alright.” He flustered, moving his hands to his pockets and back out again. He then adjusted his bow tie, aware of his over-reaction.
“Have you ever met anyone that gives you the willies? You know, sends a chill right through you, but you don’t know why?” She toyed with her wedding ring, turning it around her finger and slipping it over her knuckle.
“Yelena introduced me to her husband, Cyril, on our spin around the dancefloor. He creeped me out, if that’s what you mean?”
“Ha-ha! Kinda. He’s my boss. You get used to him.”
“Poor you.”
“That man with Cyril and Connie. He frightened me to death in the deserted University library the other night – when we were doing that experiment. He seems to pop up when I least expect it and there is something not right about him.” She gave Dan a look, one that seemed to convey an expectation of trouble.
“I’ll retrieve Connie and grill her for what she knows. Just need a Walther PPK and an Aston Martin and I could be the next James Bond.” They tittered. He had such a way of lightening the mood. She felt better knowing that he was near.
Mary watched Dan saunter over to the group, make polite apologies and guide his girlfriend towards the dance floor. The grey haired man called after her, waving his business card and telling her to get in touch. Connie took it, securing it in her clutch bag for safe keeping. As soon as she had turned her back, Mary noticed him slip something small and silver coloured into Cyril’s hand. She watched her boss tuck the object nervously into his jacket pocket, then take a large guzzle of fizz as if he needed fortifying.
A pit stop in the Ladies’ Powder Room and Mary reappeared in search of her tall conspirator. The Walrus was bearing down on her, all breath and hairs. She glanced beyond his frame, seeking her gallant knight. Dan whirled Connie around like she was made from tissue paper and Parth was in the throes of investor negotiations. There was no escape.
“You look devastatingly beautiful tonight, my dear. Ready for our dance?” Professor Florian Haas slurred. There were dewdrops of scotch embedded in his whiskers that transferred to her hand as he kissed it. She forced a smile, but her knotted brow proclaimed her distaste. “New dress, new hairdo, new shoes, you’re like a debutant – ravishing. Parth doesn’t appreciate you, my dear, and what you are doing working for that biochemical pond scum is beyond me. You should defect. Come over to Biomedical. I looked up your particulars. Why are you wasting your talents being a technician? You have a first from Cambridge, no less, and in biology too.” He twirled her under his outstretched arm and used the moment apart to obtain a tighter grip on her waist as her pulled her close.
“Yes. It’s where Parth and I met. He was just completing his PhD when I was an undergrad.” She arched her spine, thrusting her head and pelvis away from his body.
“Hmm, yes, lucky chap. But why come here to be a technician? Why did you stop studying?”
“It’s a long story, Professor Haas.”
“Florian, my dear. Call me Florian, or Florrie if it pleases you?” He flicked his bushy brows.
Mary ignored the invitation. Not content with her answer, he waited, swaying her from side to side, allowing him to look into her doleful eyes.
“Parth and I travelled after I graduated. It was his way of helping me through a very difficult time. He was offered a research position here shortly after we got back. I followed.” Mary straightened her back, her jaw rigid. In her mind, she imagined the bricks of a turret surrounding her. Turning from his gape, she built herself a drawbridge and raised it, barring him entry. Haas took the hint. Do not delve any further. Marauders are not welcome.
“Consider this, my dear. I have a couple of funded PhD studies in the faculty that might interest you. Give me the nod and I could negotiate a release from your contract with that aberrant social climber you call a boss, and Bob or rather Florrie’s your uncle. What do you say?”
Despite her revulsion at the thought of swapping one odious boss for another, she tingled with excitement. Parth had taken a whole year of his life and devoted it to stabilising Mary’s fragile state following a deeply emotional event. The least she could do was to repay his kindness and resign herself to routine in favour of her husband’s accomplishments. No one had identified her potential in many years. The compliment was exhilarating.
“I would have to discuss it with Parth, but I thank you for your kind offer, Professor Haas.”
Encouraged by her response, Haas spun her around and dipped her over his arm, making Mary squeal in alarm. He looped his arm above her head, whirling her like a spinning top. Mary winced at the bitter scent of smoker’s breath as Haas wheezed with his exertions. Haas trotted her across the ballroom, close to a group of bemused onlookers. Cyril Plender moved towards them, touching his hand to the Walrus’s back.
“Ouch! Static shock.” Professor Haas jumped back, releasing Mary from his grip.
“May I cut in?” Plender smiled at Mary, a disturbing smile that displayed too many teeth. He reached in his inside jacket pocket. The fabric dropped a fraction, bearing the weight of something deposited. He reached for Mary’s hand. “Shall we?”
“Wait, something is wrong…” Mary watched Professor Haas, grasp his left arm and then clutch at his dress shirt across his chest. His face reddened, veins bulged at his temples and he was panting hard. “Professor?” Mary slipped around Plender just as Haas lost consciousness and collapsed on the floor. “Somebody call an ambulance - quick!”
Mary knelt at Haas’s side, trying to find a pulse in his neck. “Cyril, find Parth. NOW!” She shouted. The Jazz band stopped playing, alerting everyone present to the situation. Parth made his way through the gathering crowd, as a few fumbled with their smartphones dialling emergency services.
“There’s no pulse. We were dancing too vigorously.” Mary informed him. Fear
crept into her lungs and compressed them into ragged sobs.
Parth began CPR, counting his chest compressions in a rhythmic whisper and stopping to administer the breath of life. On the fourth round of exhalations, Parth asked aloud if the hall had a defibrillator. Two waiters dashed out of the room to locate one hanging in the first aid unit near the main entrance. On their return, Mary took over the compressions while Parth unpacked the machine and unwound the cables connected to the paddles. To his astonishment, he found the wires severed. Holding the inoperable paddles mid-air, he stared at the waiters for an explanation.
“The hall suffered some vandalism a couple of nights ago, sir. No one thought to check the first aid cabinet for damage.” One of the young gentlemen said, by way of an apology.
Mary checked again for a pulse in Haas’s neck. “I can’t get him back. I’ve killed him. I can’t get him back…” She wept hysterically and pounded on his chest. He may not have been the most likeable colleague in the University, but the thought of him dying was too much for her to contemplate.
She closed her eyes, felt her arms stiffen and upper body tense, leaning both hands down on Haas’s ribcage. A surge of extraordinary power rushed through her, electrifying every nerve in his body and sending his torso skyward in a giant arc from the floor. As he crash landed, sending his legs skating across the slippery floor, Haas took a massive gasp of air.
Chapter Seven
“Congratulate me, Mary. You are looking at the new Director of Biomedical Sciences…well, Acting Director, until the whole Haas situation gets sorted.” Professor Cyril Plender puffed out his chest and tucked his gold tipped, vintage fountain pen in the top pocket of a new white lab coat.
“You mean until the poor chap has fully recovered and has decided whether to fight the trustees plans to retire him?” She opened her locker and let the door swing, clattering her distaste against the adjoining compartment.