Death be Not Proud Page 3

  I was surprised he remembered that; I’d been forced to spend the rest of the blazing summer day in bed with the curtains drawn and a cold flannel on my head. I knew Mike Taylor as a doctor of some kind, and he had ruffled my hair and tugged my thick rope of a plait when last we met, congratulating me on my win before I succumbed to the effects of the sun. He had been easy going with an open, approachable manner, and nothing seemed to have changed. I sat in one of the old armchairs, the high sides and padded wings supporting my back and arms which ached from the unaccustomed exercise. He sat on the sofa, stretching his arms across the back and crossing his legs, revealing lively red socks. I eyed him guardedly. My mother called from the dining room, and my father went to help with the tea. He had lit a fire and curious flames tentatively explored the kindling; I watched them.

  “You’ve been busy since I last saw you,” Mike said cheerfully. Ah, so this wasn’t a social call; I thought as much. “You’ve been in the States, Hugh said. What did you make of it?”

  I cut straight to the point. “What did they tell you?”

  He cocked his head on one side and eyed me speculatively beneath thick eyebrows, their colour long gone.

  “They’re worried about your emotional state.”

  I blinked at his bluntness.

  “Oh – yes.”

  “Do they have any reason to be worried?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve had a bit of a rough time out there, I believe – the attack nearly killed you; is that right?”

  I kept my tone quite even.

  “Yes.”

  “And then something else happened, your mother said?” He stroked his top lip, waiting, but I said nothing; he didn’t need to know about the bear, or anything else that followed. “Not bad going for one term, all things considered. How are you feeling about that, then?”

  “Oh please!” I rolled my eyes.

  “That’s too obvious a tack, is it? I’m out of practice,” he said ruefully, running his hands through his shock of white hair, his scalp bright pink where the dense thatch thinned. “Well, I said to your parents I’d give it a try.” He grinned. He must be in his sixties, his good looks grizzled by time.

  “You must have had a good doctor to get you back on your feet so quickly,” he went on. I viewed him suspiciously.

  “Did my parents say that?”

  “Well, no,” he admitted, “but they did describe your injuries in some detail, so it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to work it out – which is a good thing, because that’s not my line; stands to reason. A Dr Lynes, I think Penny said.”

  I recoiled at the mention of his name.

  “Yes.”

  I looked away. The new-lit fire snapped and hissed greedily as the damp wood began to catch. The vigour of the flames made me feel tired.

  “He must be good. Does he work at the university?”

  I knew what he was trying to do in engaging me in conversation, drawing me out until he could delve deeper, penetrating the darker recesses of my mind; but it took less effort to go along with the pretence than to oppose it.

  “Yes, Matthew heads up the medical faculty there.” I felt a swell of pride for him but I tried not to let it show in my voice in case it spilled onto my face, and then goodness only knows where it would end, and I didn’t want to cry – not in front of this near-stranger.

  “Matthew… Matthew Lynes?” he said sharply. “Matthew Lynes treated your injuries?”

  I sat up, alert to the changed tone.

  “Yes. Why, have you heard of him?”

  “It can’t be, it was years ago, but… the name,” he said, almost to himself. He looked at me. “What is he like – describe him.”

  I struggled to find words to capture him. “He’s quite tall, slim, blond, reserved and quietly spoken… he has very blue eyes…”

  “Very good-looking? Or, he was,” he interrupted.

  “Yes, he still is – very.” I blushed, wondering why he shouldn’t be.

  He stared at me curiously. “How old is he, roughly?”

  I frowned, “Early thirties, I think.”

  He dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “Hah, well, obviously not the same person, then. That would’ve been quite a coincidence, though,” he mused.

  “So you knew someone by the same name?” I probed.

  He sat forward on the sofa, the old feather seat squishing under the pressure.

  “Yes, some thirty years ago, it must be. I had a difficult op to perform – still the early days of some forms of cardiothoracic surgery, you see. We’d run into difficulty, and the only person who’d performed this particular procedure – pioneered it, actually – was in the States. Well, I had the patient on the slab – chest open – you’re not squeamish are you?” I shook my head. “Heart failing as we watched, and we had nowhere else to turn. So we called this young chap up on a sort of improvised video link – very grainy picture, but it worked. It was the middle of the night there and he talked us through it – didn’t bat an eyelid, very self-possessed, very calm for his age. Remarkable man. Only in his late twenties, early thirties, I’d say, but years ahead of the rest of us. Wonder what’s happened to him?”

  My heart leapt erratically and I stared at the man sitting in front of me. Even with my dodgy maths I could work out that Matthew would have been a young child at the time Mike referred to, yet I had never believed in coincidence.

  “Remarkable chap,” he said again, shaking his head. “What a coincidence – that name. Still…”

  I made an attempt to appear politely indifferent, but really my mind was in turmoil. It made no sense whatsoever, yet that made it all the more plausible. Matthew never added up, and here – in this chance meeting – I had the first indication other than my own observations, that my growing suspicions might be right after all.

  My face cracked into a smile. “Yes – what a coincidence,” I said brightly. “Gosh, I’m hungry – it must be breakfast time; would you like a cup of tea?” I stood up. “So, what are you going to report to my parents?” I asked, blithely, showing him the way.

  He beamed. “Oh, that you’re a basket case quite definitely, young lady; no doubt about it,” he replied, genially. He had no idea…

  I smiled at his joke. “And that’s the medical term for it, is it?”

  “From a cardiothoracic surgeon’s point of view? Quite probably!”

  I couldn’t wait to leave them all drinking tea and chatting. I knew that as soon as I left my parents would press him for a medical diagnosis, and I felt confident now that he would give them what I wanted. I made my excuses, grabbing toast and a mug of tea for appearances’ sake and retreated to the sanity of my own room where I could filter out the information I had gleaned.

  How many blond, unusually attractive and highly skilled American surgeons with his particular name could there be? And thirty years apart? That would make him in his sixties now and that would hardly describe the man I knew – not by a long stretch of the imagination. I thrummed my fingers on my desk as I thought, pleased that at last I had the flexibility in my hand to do so. Matthew’s translation of the Italian medical treatise lay on top of the journal, and I opened it halfway through. His beautiful script – so unlike a typical doctor’s scrawl – antique in style, and quite different to anything I had seen outside historic manuscripts. I closed the book, tapping its front cover, and thinking while my tea cooled enough to drink.

  A thought struck me and I seized my handbag, emptying it of trivia onto my bed. I found my bank card and stuffed it in my back pocket. I gulped the hot tea, sending it scalding down my throat, before hurrying downstairs and through the front door without stopping to say goodbye.

  The fog had partially lifted by the time I tracked down a computer shop, but the day remained grey and lowering, the damp sky clinging stubbornly to the rooftops. It didn’t take long – I knew what I wanted – my eyes glazing as the salesman started to point out all the irrelevant details of the laptop in f
ront of me. Exasperated, I pushed the bank card towards the dazed man, thanking him and leaving the shop before he could tell me about its superior memory. As long as it was better than mine, I really didn’t care.

  I took it straight back upstairs to my room, grinding my teeth in frustration every second it took to load, drawing Matthew’s scarf around my neck and feeling him closer to me now than I had dared for the last week. Only a vague idea presented itself but, in terms of regaining my sanity, whatever I did must be better than the indeterminate state in which I remained suspended.

  Using my mobile to connect the laptop to the internet, a search of his surname brought an overwhelming number of results, none of which looked promising. I thought for a second and then typed in his first name as well. There were innumerable references to “Matthew” and various ones to “Lynes” – some in other languages – but the two names did not occur meaningfully together until the mention of his appointment to the college in Maine issued by the Dean some six years ago. I continued to scroll down until – on the eleventh page – I stopped. On impulse, I clicked a link to a site specializing in archival material – sports memorabilia and its ilk – mostly from the USA. I typed in a search and watched as a photograph of a yellowed newspaper sheet appeared, the foggy picture inserted in the tight type of a previous century. The headline seemed clear enough – “Triumph for Top Team”. I smiled at the use of the well-worn alliterative title, then peered at the article more closely, wondering how on earth anybody could be expected to read it. I tapped the “Magnify” icon in one corner, and the page enlarged. I read the caption under the photograph:

  Squad celebrate athletic title in record time.

  I pulled the cursor over the photograph and right-clicked “Magnify” again… and choked. Behind four other young men and looking as if he didn’t want to be there – stood Matthew. A little taller by perhaps an inch or two, his fair hair and distinctive good looks set him apart. Even the sepia photograph aged by time and corroded in quality, could not disguise the attraction that exuded from him, nor extinguish the fire that he set ablaze within me.

  “What on earth…!” I exclaimed out loud, then breathed deeply to calm my scratchy nerves, and searched for a date on the paper: 1932.

  I began to laugh and then found I couldn’t stop, hysterical tears blurring the image in front of me. Confused by intermittent sobs and barks of renewed laughter, I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, carefully checking the article, the date and the photograph once more, noting in the text that he had been given an age of twenty-four, and the accolade: “an outstanding sprinter and athlete of our time”.

  “And the rest,” I thought – and all the rest. If this was indeed Matthew – and I saw no reason to disbelieve it other than the date – he must be around a hundred years old now.

  “Yeah, right.” I started to describe the boundary of my room in short steps, shaking my head periodically to clear it, like a dog with ear mites. “This is so weird,” I said to the mice in the walls to whom I had habitually talked as a child. “Oh come on; he’s an anomaly, sure, but a hundred-year-old anomaly? Is that rational? Is it reasonable?” As usual, the mice remained passive. “Fat lot of good you lot are.” A thought struck me. “He’s not a ghost, is he? No – no, he can’t be; he’s too alive. Who are you, Matthew? What are you? Come on – talk to me, for goodness’ sake – this will drive me insane!”

  A rattling on the door made me jump.

  “Emma, who are you talking to? Can I come in?” The door-handle turned impotently in my father’s impatient hand. “Emma – let me in; now.”

  I minimized the page on the screen, at the same time calling out to him, “I’m fine – hold on a mo, I’m just changing.”

  I grabbed the big auburn knitted jacket and pulled it over my top, hoping he wouldn’t notice the minimal change in attire, and turned the key in the lock. He pushed the door open, and looked around the room as if expecting to find someone else sitting there, then at my face, which burned. He peered suspiciously at me.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  Picking up my hairbrush, I ran it through my hair, hoping the action would lend a semblance of normality.

  “Only the mice, Dad – you know – they’re great listeners.”

  He grunted; I had spent many hours in angst-ridden solitary conversation with the mice before leaving home for university, and it was something of a family joke.

  “As long as you are all right. Your mother wanted you to know that lunch is ready; we’ll expect you in five minutes.”

  “Great – I’ll be down in a moment.”

  Taken aback by my enthusiasm, he paused before leaving the room, checking it out once more, his thick eyebrows drawn together. My heart galloping, I saved the link as a bookmark and shut the screen of my laptop, before joining him on the stairs.

  I ate lunch with them around the family table with more gusto than I had shown for a long time. My mother couldn’t disguise her relief.

  “Darling, you’re looking much better. Did your chat with Mike help at all?”

  I thought about our exchange and answered with absolute honesty.

  “It was a revelation – thank you so much for inviting him over.” I felt a smile come from nowhere, and she smiled back.

  “Are you sure you’re all right? You seem a little flustered, and Mike did say that the effects of shock can last for some time; acute stress, I think he called it.” She exchanged glances with my father at the other end of the table.

  “Quite sure,” I said firmly. “I’m starting work again – you know how it gets under my skin.”

  “Oh, Emma, that’s wonderful.” She rose from the table and came over and kissed me on the forehead, her hands around my glowing face. I felt the slow creep of guilt but pushed it away before it could get a hold; she didn’t need to know anything that would destroy her happiness at this moment.

  “But I might spend an awful lot of time on research; you won’t worry, will you?”

  “Darling, no, of course not.” She seemed genuinely pleased and I hugged her.

  Dad still regarded my sudden zeal with caution; he hadn’t yet told my mother about my conversation with the mice, and I hoped that he wouldn’t feel the need to any time soon. “What are you researching?” he asked.

  “The journal.”

  “Ah, that.” He looked both relieved and gloomy at the same time. The journal had been a constant in our family since long before my birth, and he viewed it almost as a rival. I picked up my empty plate and glass.

  “Leave that, darling; we’ll clear up. You go and get on with your work.” Mum took them from me as I began to argue, and pushed me gently towards the door of the room. “Just don’t overdo it; you know what you’re like. And Mike said you need to rest,” she called after me as I disappeared around the curve of the staircase. “He said you’re not as strong as you think…”

  But her words were lost as I passed beyond earshot, already travelling back in time and into another life.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Revelation

  I raked the internet for any more information I could find on the athletics team, but they seemed to have disappeared from view. I sat back in my desk chair and rocked onto the back legs, chewing the end of my pen.

  Stalemate.

  I went through what I knew and realized that it amounted to very little. I contemplated the ceiling and the fine web of cracks that ran all over it, noting that it was in need of redecoration. At times like these, when seemingly faced with a dead-end, I made lists.

  I opened up a blank page on the screen and began randomly, letting my ideas begin to flow before attempting to arrange them in something resembling order. After a page, I stopped again, rising abruptly from my chair and stomping around my room with my hands on my head, trying not to verbalize my thoughts above a whisper. I returned to the desk and reviewed what I had written: disparate facts without a pattern, which all added up to a bunch of nothing.

>   I looked at the disjointed, jumbled mess on the screen and it mirrored the inside of my head. I wanted to go out and walk it through, but dark smothered day, and the fog had been replaced by a steady rain.

  I unplugged the laptop and carried it over to my bed, sitting cross-legged in the middle of it, and tried again. Wrapping my blue blanket around my shoulders, smelling the faint scent of my apartment in its wool, picturing us together again, brought spasms of loneliness, and I hurriedly readjusted the image in my mind and focused on the ragged thoughts, trying to pin them down like random butterflies. After what I had done to him, I couldn’t be sure that Matthew would still feel the same way about me and, even if he did, whether he would – could – ever trust me again. Could I trust myself?

  Mike Taylor had a point; in the States events had piled up one on top of the other in such rapid succession that I had no time to stop and think things through. In a few short weeks I experienced a tangle of emotions: doubt, fear, love – all equally intense, and underpinned by raw pain, so I could no longer tell where one ended and the other began. I fled from Maine because I had nowhere else to go: emotionally it became a fight-or-flight situation, or perhaps, more accurately, a case of retreat, retrench and regroup. Now that I was able to sit back and contemplate and process all the information without distractions, what had appeared peculiar in the States now seemed downright bizarre.

  Looking back on it, the confrontation with Sam was wholly predictable, and I could almost understand Staahl’s attack if I accepted it as insanity. But Matthew was another matter. Perhaps because he seemed so normal, his anomalies stood out, as if he were playing a role all the time, a charade. If he was as old as the photograph suggested, then what? If Mike really had spoken to him thirty years ago, what did that lead me to conclude? It made nonsense of everything I thought I had begun to understand. Did it make a mockery of me as well? Did he laugh at me behind my back, call me a fool for not seeing the blindingly obvious, if only I scratched the surface and peered beneath it a little harder?