Fracture

by C. J. Daugherty

  Across the room Sylvain set down a stack of papers. His gaze was piercing but he said nothing – he just let her talk.

  ‘Being friends is just kind of… hard after being… other things,’ she admitted. ‘And last night we… talked about it. It was fine.’

  ‘If it was fine, why aren’t you speaking to each other now?’

  So he noticed that, too.

  Allie flushed scarlet. ‘Like I said. It’s hard.’

  Her words were flat and his eyes flashed to her searchingly but she wasn’t about to say any more. She’d been as honest as she could be – she’d never betray Carter’s trust in her.

  It was time to change the subject.

  ‘What’s with you two anyway?’ she said, pulling another book off the shelf. ‘You used to hate each other. Now you work together. You’re almost nice to each other.’

  Apparently unbothered by her question, Sylvain pulled a slim metal pin out of his pocket and began working the lock on a desk drawer. ‘After what happened to you and Jo… we talked. We decided it was time to stop fighting with each other, and to focus on Nathaniel. It has worked well.’ The lock clicked open. ‘We train together now.’

  Allie nearly fell off the chair. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘We do.’ Seeing her disbelieving expression, he smiled. ‘He is very good – very strong. I am more agile of course but… he’s not bad.’

  ‘That… is amazing.’ She tried to imagine the conversation when they set aside six years of enmity. It was impossible.

  Reaching the end of the bookcases, she climbed down from her chair, wiping her hands on the blue wool of her skirt. ‘There’s nothing here. Just really boring books.’

  Sylvain was crouched low, trying another lock with his pick. He pointed at the door leading into the adjacent room. ‘His bedroom’s through there. Check the bedside tables.’

  Allie made a face.

  Zelazny’s bedroom, she thought, revolted. Gross.

  With slow reluctance she moved through the doorway and felt along the walls. The switch was cold under her fingers. Light flooded the small bedroom. It was painted the same shade as the sitting room – she had to admit it was a soothing colour.

  On one wall was a double bed, covered in a dark blue blanket tucked in with perfect, square corners. Not a speck of dust could be seen anywhere.

  ‘You could eat off this room,’ she murmured to herself.

  ‘What?’ Sylvain called.

  ‘Nothing.’

  A table with two drawers, topped with a small brass lamp, sat to the right of the bed. Allie approached it as she might a viper. Steeling herself, she reached out for the top drawer, although every fibre of her being rebelled against the idea of opening it.

  In her head she repeated a mantra over and over again: Please don’t let there be porn. Please don’t let there be porn. Please don’t…

  It slid open silently to reveal a pair of wire-framed reading glasses, a pencil sharpened to a fine point, two books of crossword puzzles and one of sudoku.

  Nothing useful but also, thank God, nothing creepy.

  Just as she was about to close the drawer, two weird, pink-ish plastic lumps caught her eye. She peered at them with unconcealed disgust before realising what they were.

  Earplugs.

  ‘Grim,’ she whispered, slamming the drawer shut.

  Having found nothing vile in the first drawer, it was easier to make herself open the second. A book entitled Conflict and Resolution sat on top, and she pulled it out to see underneath.

  Beneath it was a notepad and pen, a CD, a small box of tissues and a jar of ointment.

  Allie refused to look too closely at the ointment.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ she called out.

  ‘Look under the bed,’ he replied.

  ‘Awesome,’ she muttered.

  Sighing heavily, she climbed down on to her hands and knees to peek underneath the pine bed frame. Clean as a whistle. There was nothing there but a suitcase and a cardboard box.

  She pulled the suitcase out first to find it empty. Methodically, she checked all the pockets, finding nothing.

  As she worked, she thought about what Sylvain had said. How easily he’d seen through her attempt at normality after what happened in the woods. And she thought with guilt about how she’d treated him since Jo’s death – as if he were a problem she didn’t have time to solve. In many ways, she’d treated him the way Carter had treated her.

  The realisation made her stop in the middle of closing the suitcase. Turning, she stared over her shoulder at the open doorway behind her. Through it, she could hear the sound of Sylvain shuffling through the contents of the desk drawers. She could envision his quick, intelligent movements as he searched for signs that his mentor had helped a murderer.

  The floor felt cold beneath her as she shoved the suitcase slowly back into its hiding spot.

  Ever since Jo’s death, she’d tried so hard not to feel anything. But now it was as if when Carter kissed her it opened a door she’d been pressing shut with all her strength. She was flooded with confusing feelings.

  Sylvain was a complicated person, and they had a messed-up history, but he’d never once stopped caring about her. Never given up on her and found someone else. Never pressured her. She’d ignored him for weeks but still he’d waited for her. Been patient with her. He had been… constant.

  ‘Have you found anything?’

  Sylvain’s voice made Allie jump guiltily, as if he might know she was thinking about him.

  ‘Nothing yet.’

  The only other object under the bed was a cardboard box, and she pulled it now. The lid wasn’t sealed, and it appeared well used, as if the box had been looked through many times.

  It seemed to hold mostly keepsakes and records. There were some old bank statements – she studiously didn’t read those – and a few bills and letters addressed to ‘Mr August S. Zelazny’. (What’s the S for?)

  A book at the bottom caught her eye and she pulled it out. It was pale blue and white. The title read ‘Your Baby Book’.

  Frowning, she opened it to find a picture of a tiny red newborn, his face screwed up in protest. Above the picture was the cheery heading ‘Your first photo shoot!’

  The baby’s name was filled in below it. Arnold August Zelazny. The birthdate was fifteen years ago.

  Zelazny has a son? She read it again, puzzled. He’d never mentioned a child. And he was clearly not married now.

  She turned the page. There was a photo of a younger, smiling Zelazny, hardly looking like himself. He had more hair, a dimple in his chin. He looked relaxed and… joyful. With him was a smiling brunette, her hair in slight disarray, as if she’d just been in bed. Between them they held the baby carefully, as if he were made of the most delicate glass.

  Allie stared at the photo in dismay.

  What happened? she wondered, her fingers lingering on the edge of the page. The thick paper was slick beneath her fingers – designed to last for ever.

  She had a horrible suspicion that something dreadful had occurred. Babies don’t just disappear from your life.

  She turned the pages to find more photos of the baby. Growing hair. Smiling with tiny teeth. Dates when he took his first steps, said his first words. Cards from his first birthday party.

  Then it ended.

  With deliberate thoroughness she looked through the rest of the box but there was nothing else there about the child. It was as if his whole life was contained in that book.

  Arnold Zelazny: What happened to you?

  Carefully, she put everything back, and returned the box to its hiding place.

  Sylvain appeared in the door. ‘There is nothing in the desk. Have you found anything?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

  He looked relieved and she didn’t blame him. Maybe it wasn’t Zelazny after all.

  He motioned for her to follow him. ‘We should go then. This is a waste of time.’

  Standing,
she turned to follow him. As she did, she noticed Conflict and Resolution still sitting on top of the bedside table – she’d forgotten to put it away.

  ‘Just a second,’ she called after Sylvain. Opening the bottom drawer, she grabbed the book hurriedly to put it away. But as she lifted it something slipped from the pages and fell, hitting the wooden floor with a metallic jangle.

  Instantly alert, Sylvain returned to her side. ‘What it is?’

  Leaning down they both saw the small silver key gleaming against the dark floorboards.

  ‘Oh no,’ Allie whispered.

  By the time they left Zelazny’s rooms it was after curfew. They’d put everything back precisely as it had been except for the key, which was tucked in the pocket of Allie’s skirt.

  When everything was ready, Sylvain turned out the lights then stood with his ear pressed against the door, waiting for silence. After a moment, he pulled the door open a crack and peered out – the hallway was empty.

  Silent as ghosts, they slipped into the long corridor.

  They walked with purpose and speed but the door at the end of the corridor seemed a very long way away to Allie and she focused her gaze on it, willing it to come closer.

  It seemed impossible to believe the spy was Zelazny. She still reeled from the idea. The key felt hot in her pocket, where she gripped it tightly in one hand. Zelazny helped to kill Jo? Zelazny, who was always trying to keep the school safe, keep Isabelle safe, who wanted everyone to follow all The Rules? Zelazny with his disappearing family and his neat-as-a-pin apartment… he helped to kill people for Nathaniel?

  It didn’t seem possible. And yet… there was the key.

  Still, lots of people had keys. There was only one way to know if this was the right key and they were on their way to find out. First, though, they needed to get out of the staff wing without being seen. It wouldn’t be at all unusual for a teacher to enter the residential wing at this hour. They could very easily be caught. And on this long, straight corridor there was nowhere to hide.

  Forty steps, forty-one, forty-two…

  They were close to the end when they heard the unmistakeable sound of a door opening behind them. But neither of them flinched.

  Without looking right or left, they walked with confidence, in perfect sync.

  Whoever opened the door didn’t seem to notice them – no one called for them to stop.

  Ten steps later they were at the door and through it. They’d made it out.

  They slipped past the marble statues and down the broad, empty hallway. All the students were in the dorms now. Most of the lights had been turned off. In the dimness they moved like two shadows across the polished oak floors.

  They didn’t stop until they reached Isabelle’s office.

  Standing in front of the familiar carved door – looking like any two students at any school in front of any headmistress’s door – they knocked and waited. When nobody answered, they exchanged a glance.

  Allie pulled the small, innocuous-looking key from her pocket, and with a steady hand slid it into the lock. It turned smoothly. They both heard the lock click as it gave.

  Turning his head away, Sylvain bit his lip. Allie could sense his bitter disappointment. He’d really believed in Zelazny.

  Tentatively, she rested her hand on his shoulder, trying to tell him without words she knew how he felt. That she shared the awful, sinking sense of betrayal.

  He lifted his head to meet her gaze and, for the first time in a long time, she felt again the power of the connection that existed between them. The feeling took her by surprise – like a sudden bright light in a dark room.

  Reaching up, he rested his hand on top of hers.

  I don’t think this is friendship love, Allie thought, as her heart tripped at his touch.

  The sound of soft footsteps shattered the moment. Sylvain’s grip tightened and he held her gaze. She nodded very slightly to show she’d heard it too.

  She took one silent step into the shadows under the stairs behind him. He didn’t let go of her hand.

  The footsteps approached them slowly. From the sound they made, Allie could make out two walkers – one had a heavier tread than the other. They didn’t speak. Only when they reached the foot of the stairs did she see them – black-clad, stealthy, professional.

  Guards.

  In front of her, Sylvain was utterly still, watching their every move.

  The guards walked by their hiding place without seeing them. At the foot of the grand staircase they turned and began to climb. Looking up, Allie listened to the creak of the steps as they walked to the first floor and turned down the landing towards the classroom wing.

  When they were out of sight, she turned back to Sylvain. He was watching her, a smile curving the corners of his lips.

  ‘You are getting very good at this,’ he whispered, looking both proud and regretful.

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  T

  he next morning at dawn, Allie stood in the garden, rain dripping into her eyes, whacking the mud hard with her shovel as she tried to make the furrow in front of her deeper and straighter.

  One row over, Carter was doing the same thing only faster and better.

  The rain had been falling for half an hour – an icy, relentless drip of misery. It was such a pointless waste of time – here they were doing detention when they could be inside the school finding the spy. And not freezing to death.

  Muttering to herself, she pulled the edges of her wet woollen hat down, wishing she could pull it over her whole face.

  She stopped for a second to watch Carter work. Having grown up on the school grounds – he was essentially raised by Mr Ellison – he was much more practised than her and yet he never got very far ahead of her. She had the feeling he was pacing himself to stay near her. And yet he hadn’t said a single direct word to her all morning.

  It was driving her crazy.

  Last night with Sylvain had really made her think things through. Things were different with Sylvain from the way they’d been with Carter.

  Sylvain seemed to have absolute belief in her ability to do things well. He made her feel confident. After the guards had left they’d sneaked back to their respective dorm wings in a hurry. There hadn’t been a chance to talk. But that moment in the corridor – when their hands had touched… Thinking about it made her heart flutter in her chest. How could something as simple as the touch of a hand affect her like that? But then he always could. Sometimes, before Jo died, all Sylvain had to do was look at her and she fell to pieces.

  Romantic love.

  Carter’s spade sliced through the mud with a clean thud, reminding her she should be working.

  With a sigh, she whacked the mud ineffectually with her shovel. Raindrops clung to her eyelashes and she studied him through the watery prism. His cheeks were red from the cold and he was soaking wet. He never looked up at her.

  She hit the mud again. Harder this time.

  With Carter things were always so complicated. His emotions were like a labyrinth of trust and mistrust, faith and doubt. One misjudged step and you were lost for ever.

  Today, for example. Here they were, alone in the garden. They had a lot to talk about. She knew Sylvain would have told him about the key last night. They’d agreed he would let Carter know and Allie would inform the girls – she’d gone door to door in the dormitory wing to tell all three of them what they’d found.

  Yet this morning Carter hadn’t said a word about it. In fact, he hadn’t said a word about anything.

  They couldn’t go on like this. Something had to be done.

  ‘Are you going to ignore me all day?’ she said finally. ‘Or just when we’re alone in the pissing-down rain and stupid-arse mud.’

  He didn’t look up from his work. ‘Language.’

  ‘Yeah, language.’ She made an angry, half-hearted attempt to chop at the soil. ‘It’s that thing you use when you talk to each other.’

&nb
sp; ‘Fine.’ Straightening, Carter leaned against his shovel, studying her guardedly. ‘Hi, Allie. How are you this morning?’

  ‘Brilliant, Carter. I’m just brilliant.’

  Rain ran down her face, seeping beneath her scarf to her shoulders. It was too much.

  ‘I’m going to take a break and try not to die of pneumonia,’ she said, looking at him. When he didn’t respond, she tried again. ‘Want to come with me? I’m just going in there.’ She pointed her shovel at a small lean-to shed at the garden wall.