Mortal Fire Page 3

  “Quite formal.” She looked smug, the humour back in her eyes.

  “Not gowns, surely?”

  She shook her head. “No, not gowns now. We wear gowns for other occasions.”

  That sounded ominous, but at least a reprieve.

  “Will a skirt suit do?”

  She looked suddenly very serious. “Yes, that’s good, but no jeans.” She waved a censorious finger at me as a warning. About to protest that it wouldn’t have crossed my mind to wear jeans to a formal occasion, I caught her stifled smile before she bent double, tears forming in her eyes.

  “Ah, that is a good joke,” she howled.

  A mobile rang somewhere close by with the theme from Dr Zhivago. Elena squeaked and darted to the kitchen. I heard her exclamation and the rapid fire of Russian as she asked a question and then answered another. I picked up my book from where it lay dismissed, turning it over to study the front cover more closely. A devil’s face leered at me, one cloven hoof crushing the face of a man underfoot. Behind him, a demonic scene played over a darkly pastoral landscape. I focused on the figures in the background – tiny in comparison, but clear enough to make out. Naked humans sprawled contorted in near-death while thickly furred monsters clawed at their eyes and devoured their intestines. Black-eyed demons worked in pairs, the faces of their victims white with terror as their lives were made void. On their knees, arms raised skywards in supplication, men and women looked for hope. And all the time, reaching down from an idealized Heaven, a hand strained to reach theirs, almost touching – but not quite. I had seen dozens of such images from right across the medieval world; images reflecting the horror of people besieged by war and death, hunger and disease – a reconciliation of hope and fear in a pictorial fantasy, in religious analogy. Little more than that, its relevance lay in what it told me from a cultural as well as historical point of view. I fingered my cross, bringing the chain up over my chin, deep in thought.

  Elena skipped back to her vacated chair, flinging her legs over the side again. “That,” she proclaimed, “was Matias.” She looked very pleased with herself. My face reminded her that I had no idea who she was talking about.

  “Matias is my gorgeous boyfriend.”

  I waited.

  “He is flying back tonight. From Helsinki.” She clapped her hands in glee.

  This called for an appropriate response. “That’s… um… great. Does he live there?”

  “No,” she sounded slightly impatient, then took a deep breath. “Matias is here, he’s a professor too – in genetics. He’s absolutely brilliant. He’s been to visit his parents in Finland for weeks. His mother is not well. Look…” She scrambled up and crossed the room to a series of shelves where she reached for a framed photograph. She brought it over to me. It showed her standing with her arm linked through that of a stocky, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven man in his mid to late thirties. His unruly, pale-brown hair would be inclined to curl if he let it grow any longer. Deep lines of an innate good nature ran from the edge of his nose to the corners of his mouth and he looked at Elena as if she were his most treasured possession in the world. Behind them, the Winter Palace gleamed in pale sunlight.

  “Home visit?” I asked.

  “Da.”

  “So it’s serious, is it?”

  “Mmm,” she beamed at me. I looked at the photo again; they looked very happy. A pang of longing for a memory – followed by a stab of jealousy – snagged my contentment, but I didn’t want to let it surface to diminish hers.

  “I’d better skedaddle, Elena, you’ll have lots to do,” I said, rising stiffly and stretching taut limbs. She began to protest, but I shushed her.

  “Thanks for taking a complete stranger in hand,” I smiled. “I think they would have found me in a sorry heap somewhere if you hadn’t rescued me.”

  “It was my pleasure,” she replied, and meant it; then spoilt it by adding, “I bet the others that I was to be the first to meet you, and I won.”

  She was still smirking as I pulled a rueful face at her and left to find my own room.

  I enjoyed light duties for the rest of the week, including the opportunity to meet the post-graduates under my supervision. From the inquisitive looks they gave me on entering my tutor room, Holly must have given them her first impressions. By all accounts the venerable professor who preceded me stuck by the rules to the letter, whereas my interpretation of convention tended to be more flexible – as long as I considered it moral, legal, and in the best interests of my students.

  I gave the room a thorough clean and what academic gravitas I could muster in a few days. The books helped, but there were too many for the shelves and now they spilled along the window-sill and stood in more or less neat piles at the edge of the room. The walls were otherwise bare and I regretted not bringing some of the prints and posters I used at Cambridge for visual inspiration in dull moments. Nonetheless, my laptop and organized bundles of paper made my desk look fit for purpose and I prepared to begin.

  It hadn’t taken long to gauge my group. I started by asking them to summarize their dissertations – in writing – in no more than 200 words. Protestations and accusations of cruelty led to a general breakdown of order, followed by their realization that I was pulling their legs. I reminded them that, for the most part, I had been in their shoes less than a decade before. Once they understood I refused to be taken overly seriously, we all relaxed and work began in earnest.

  Overseeing the five post-grads came as part of the deal that brought me to the States. In return for unfettered access to the contents of the library and ample time for research, I aimed to guide them through the intricacies of producing a viable MA thesis by the end of the year. Holly took it upon herself to introduce the other four: Josh – clearly recovering from celebrating his birthday the day before – lounged long and lanky in regulation jeans and T-shirt, with tatty green Converses coming apart at the seams. He flicked back dark hair from his eyes to look at me. Someone, somewhere produced students like these to order. Open and friendly – once he decided I didn’t bite – he would need keeping an eye on to complete his dissertation to a passing standard.

  Hannah, on the other hand, was short, sturdy and resolute. Her golden-brown hair bubbled around her face and her hazel eyes flashed determinedly. Her overshot jaw made her look stubborn and – although I thought she would require little motivating from me – I envisaged a battle of wills if she needed directing in any way.

  Next came Aydin. Sensitive and studious, his Turkish accent made it difficult for the others to understand him at first. In his thirties and as new to America as I, he struggled to adjust. His thesis looked promising, but he wrestled with the written aspect and he knew it. A sense of desperation surrounded him; an insecurity in the way he interacted with the others, as if he expected them to discover his true identity and reject him. Aydin needed special care to graduate successfully.

  Leo, however, knew exactly who he was and where he wanted to go. His shock of white-gold hair stood in carefully gelled spikes, the colour matching the cream jacket which emphasized the breadth of his football player’s shoulders but which was impractical for student life in its blatant exhibition of wealth. His demeanour shouted confidence and he considered himself handsome and made sure we knew it as well. I couldn’t fathom why he put in the effort to complete an MA when it seemed blindingly obvious he would rather be in Hollywood. I wondered if there would be enough space in my room for his ego. Holly dimpled when he spoke, already captivated.

  The easy part of the week over and jetlag waning, the Dean invited me to his study for tea. Elena shrugged when I asked her what she knew about him and Matias wasn’t much better. “The college is his life,” he’d said. “Shotter will do anything to promote it – or protect it, for that matter. Believe it or not, it’s difficult to get a position at this place unless you’re a heavyweight academically – or you offer something else he wants. So, there it is.”

  I considered myself a relatively junior le
cturer back in the UK. I could think of nothing else that distinguished me from any other person in my position, except, perhaps, for my grandfather’s academic standing; but he had died many years ago and his reputation faded as others superseded him.

  Professor Shotter rose to greet me as I entered the ground-floor room. Clearly once a principal room in the original house, windows overlooked the grounds to the front. Sunlight fell across polished broad oak boards and the edge of an oriental rug, its fringe frayed and its pile rubbed and worn where hard, leather-soled shoes had taken their toll over the years. The Dean inched around the large desk where he had been sitting, pulling his blazer close to him to prevent the embossed gold buttons from catching on the edge.

  “Well, well, Professor D’Eresby.” Sharp, pale-blue eyes appraised me from under neatly trimmed eyebrows twitching upwards as he took me in.

  I held out my hand automatically. “Professor Shotter. How do you do?”

  He looked at it for a moment before taking it. “Yes – of course, my dear, very nice to meet you too.” He held my hand a little longer than I expected.

  He peered at me again, harder this time; not what he anticipated, perhaps? Whatever his thoughts, he gathered them quickly, ushering me towards a deeply buttoned sofa, glowing ruby in the sun. I sat down feeling awkward and self-conscious, crossing my ankles to one side and hoping he didn’t notice me pulling my skirt over my knees. A knock on the door heralded a middle-aged woman bearing a large butler tray complete with burnished silver teapot and bone china. She set the tray down, giving me a fleeting look.

  “Mrs Shotter.” The Professor indicated without looking at her. “Any sandwiches, my dear?”

  I started to rise to my feet to greet her, but she turned and left the room without waiting. She returned a minute later carrying an old-fashioned three-tiered cake stand with a selection of sandwiches and little cakes.

  “Thank you, Mrs Shotter.” I made a point of looking at her as she placed it at an angle on the table. She nodded in acknowledgment, meeting my eyes properly for the first time.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied, darting a glance at her husband who leaned towards the table to pick up a napkin. He didn’t seem to notice and she left without another word.

  Behind him, ranged across the wall, a series of photographic portraits of people in academic gowns relieved the monotony of the plain surface. He broke my gaze.

  “Will you pour, Professor D’Eresby?”

  “Yes, of course, but might I ask that I’m referred to as Doctor, rather than Professor? It has different connotations in Britain and I have yet to be raised to such an elevated status.”

  I didn’t think it an outrageous request but, although he maintained his smile, the Dean’s eyes became decidedly frosty.

  “My dear, while at this college, I would be obliged if you would adopt the customary title you are entitled to in this country; it is a matter of maintaining standards. You understand, of course.”

  Well, that told me. Low and soft, his voice might be considered pleasant were it not so smooth. Too smooth – slick like oil – it lacked sincerity, so everything he said came with an unvoiced thought. And his age? I would guess early sixties, but there is a point with some people at which they appear ageless. I judged his wife younger by at least a decade – if not more – and once attractive before a drawn cast replaced the bloom. The Dean, on the other hand, with greying hair thinly covering a head dappled with age, and skin in gentle undulations around his cheeks, reminded me of an iguana. His deep-set eyes, still an arctic blue, followed every move I made. He watched me pour the tea, add milk, and stir. He asked questions about my work, my research, who I knew at Cambridge, whom I had met. He paid particular attention to the status of each individual as if making a mental note for future reference. Finally, he leaned over and very deliberately patted my knee. I flinched and he smiled.

  “Make no mistake, my dear; I – and all the college staff – look forward to welcoming you tomorrow at your reception.” He emphasized the word “your”; I internally shivered. He showed me to the door and I kept one step ahead of him, avoiding the hand that hovered too close to my back.

  Chapter 2

  The Reception

  RAIN CONTINUED TO FALL when I woke on Saturday morning. Elena said they had endured one of the wettest summers for a long while and I told her that I had been in training for this in Britain for the last twenty-nine years or so and a little more rain wouldn’t deter me. She then asked me about tea with the Dean.

  “You could have warned me, Elena. I was given the third degree by…” I couldn’t think of a name more suitable, “Mengele – with hands,” I added, grimacing at the memory. I told her what happened. She tutted disapprovingly.

  “He didn’t! What did you do? Did you hit him?”

  It was my turn to be surprised. “No, of course not!”

  “Why not?”

  Quite frankly, it wasn’t the first time I had encountered such behaviour. In the past, I dealt with it by adopting a distinctly icy demeanour with anyone who attempted such overfamiliarity without my express permission, which seemed to do the trick.

  “It’s not what I do, Elena.” She pouted, effectively telling me what she thought of my tactic and I changed the topic to one that was far more terrifying. “OK, then, what’s the drill for tonight?”

  “Drill?” she queried.

  “What happens, what am I expected to do? Will I have to make a speech?” I asked, the thought sticking in my throat.

  “Nyet!” she said, brightening at the idea of my reception party, and launching into the gory details with more relish than I considered decent. Formal functions at Cambridge were the norm, of course, steeped as most of the colleges were in tradition. Used to a different way of doing things, I derived comfort from the rituals that needed no interpretation, just acceptance – and adherence – to a tried and tested plot. Here, on the other hand, I anticipated a new script in a play with which I was unfamiliar but where I became the principal player. I never liked drama at school.

  She bounced onto the sofa in her sitting-room and sat cross-legged looking like a skinny Buddha. “It’s really not that bad. You just have to smile and make small chat. They all want to hear your accent, so it doesn’t matter what you say to them. And anyway, Matias will be there.”

  I couldn’t resist a touch of flippancy. “Oh well, that’s all right then, I’m saved. Honestly, Elena, small talk is agony.”

  She refused to accept my idea of torture and instead wanted to see my clothes. With my limited wardrobe, that didn’t take long.

  That evening, I selected the safe black suit that let me fade into the background, my small gold cross given to me by my father on my sixteenth birthday, and the little pearl studs from my grandmother. Wherever I went they travelled too, my companions, sitting comfortably against my skin, the cool gold warming almost instantly it touched me.

  In the mirror of the small bathroom, my eyes stared nervously out of my pale, oval face. Tawny freckles dappled my nose and high cheeks, not so obvious now as during the summer when the sun made a mockery of any attempt to disguise them. I contemplated more make-up but decided against it – a pale and freckled academic being decidedly preferable to a painted maypole.

  My long hair, however, needed to be taken in hand. It lay heavy against my back and I pulled my brush through it fiercely, willing it into submission, but it kinked unattractively where I slept on it and I regretted not having washed it again. I gave up and plaited it, turning the untidy end under like the tail of a show horse, and secured it with a velvet scrunchy. In the dim electric light, my hair looked respectable enough and tied back like that, it wouldn’t attract so many comments.

  Light from the reception room spilled onto the ground of the quad, making pale-green squares in the dark grass. I shivered in the rapidly cooling night, but continued to loiter, not wanting to lose this moment of solitude. Already crowded, illuminated figures travelled in random conversation arou
nd the room, stopping briefly before moving on. The gentle murmur of voices became a hubbub then softened again as a door opened and shut with each addition to the guests. Elena clutched Matias’s arm for warmth and turned around, beckoning me to join her.

  “Emma, come on, it’s so cold.”

  In no hurry to face a room of strangers, I dawdled. “Go on in, don’t wait for me; I’ll join you in a minute.”

  She dropped Matias’s arm and trotted back to me, putting her hand firmly around my shoulders and driving me forward despite my resistance.

  “Look, don’t worry. It is only for a few hours…”

  “… and then it will all be over. Yes, I know. Just what my mother used to say before taking me to the dentist,” I interposed. “But it didn’t make the experience any more pleasant.”

  Elena giggled. “I like the dentist,” she chirped.

  I rolled my eyes skywards and shook my head. “You would.”

  The chill intensified as cold dew seeped through the fine-stitched soles of my evening shoes. I would have to go in before they were ruined and my new-found friend abandoned me for good as a hopeless case. I ran my eyes along the range of windows, willing myself on. At the far end – furthest from the gathering crowd inside the room – a figure stood silhouetted against the light, intensely still. Although I could not be sure because his eyes were clothed in darkness, I felt certain he watched us – the force of his gaze as palpable as my racing pulse. Elena pulled on my arm, breaking the spell.

  “Matias…!” Elena pleaded for help over her shoulder and he strode purposefully towards us.

  “We’ll have entered the next ice age if you two don’t hurry up. I don’t believe in brute force, Emma, but if I don’t get a drink in the next few minutes, my genes will become extinct shortly after I’ve extinguished yours.” He attempted to look threatening, but spoilt it with a grin that just made him endearing and more like a well-loved teddy-bear than ever. We were friends the moment we met. I loved his acerbic wit, which he used freely at every opportunity to tease me, yet not once had he crossed the unspoken divide between humour and offence, and the depths of his kindness, though well disguised, knew no bounds.