Mortal Fire Page 6

  “He says he is ve-ry clever,” Elena went on, emphasizing the word with her strangely accented English, “but he doesn’t like to talk to people much. That is the first time I have seen him at a party for ages. He is strange, da?”

  I conjured the image of the quietly courteous, almost restrained man who listened to me so patiently, his blue eyes oddly intense. I squirmed unexpectedly at the agreeable memory.

  “Strange? In what way?”

  She pursed her mouth, fiddling with a curly tail absentmindedly. “It is difficult to say, I do not know him, but he is not like other people, he is – different.”

  I frowned. “If by ‘different’ you mean he’s polite and thoughtful, then that’s just fine by me – give me ‘different’ every time.”

  She inspected me through half-closed eyes. “Do you think he’s good-looking then?”

  “Elena, you are impossible! Is that all you have on your mind at the moment?”

  “Mostly,” she admitted. “Well – do you?”

  “Yes, but he’s almost too handsome,” I qualified, without looking at her directly. “Almost too good to be true; I didn’t know what to say to him and when I did, I kept saying the wrong thing.” I writhed again, but this time from embarrassment. True, I found him quite unnerving, whereas Sam was a one-man show in his own right: I could just stand back and let him do the entertaining. I shifted in my chair and pulled my dressing-gown closer around me although my face glowed hot.

  Elena clapped her hands triumphantly. “You like him! Hah! And he is blond. You are a hypocrite, Emma; you said you do not like blonds.”

  She was right, as a general rule blond men didn’t attract me, but in his case, I could make an exception. A quiet strength surrounded him, an attraction that went beyond his good looks. Steady, honourable perhaps – I found it hard to describe – and he made me feel safe. But he also made me self-conscious, almost as if he searched for something in me and I didn’t like that – I didn’t like not knowing what he saw. Elena jiggled with excitement.

  “I will tell Matias and he can arrange a date for you. It will make him very happy; he likes Dr Lynes.”

  I clamped my mouth shut to prevent me from saying something I might regret and rose abruptly from my chair before answering. I decided to make some tea in the little kitchen barely separated from the sitting area by a low breakfast bar. I let water flow noisily into the kettle, drops splashing my hands and escaping in silvered rivulets down the sink, taking a little of my frustration with them. I placed the jug on its stand and turned slowly to face Elena.

  “You – will – not – say – anything – to Matias, or anyone else, do you understand? You promised, Elena.” I looked fiercely at her to make sure that the message went home. I didn’t want to risk her gossiping at my – or his – expense. Her face fell but she didn’t argue because she knew she trod dodgy ground.

  “I won’t, not a word,” she agreed and zipped her lips with thumb and forefinger.

  I gave her strong black tea with lemon, and sipped my weaker version, feeling it calm me. I briefly wondered why I reacted defensively over something so insignificant, and then remembered what else I wanted to ask her before the distraction posed by Dr Lynes.

  “Elena…”

  “Yes, Emma?” She did her best to appear contrite.

  “What do you know of Professor Staahl?”

  “Staahl? Not much. I don’t know him, but I’ve seen him around. He is from Holland, I think. He always makes me feel…” she hesitated, searching for a description, “… naked. The way he looks through you.” And she shuddered, remembering.

  “He said he’s a lecturer.”

  “Oh yes, he is quite senior, I think. But we don’t have much to do with that department. At least, I don’t.” She sounded relieved. I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t either. I stretched, feeling warmer and more awake.

  “I’m going to shower and get dressed and then explore the library. I have to prepare my lecture.”

  Elena took the hint. “And I am going to do some marking and then find Matias. We are supposed to be going out for lunch today, but I bet he will be in that lab of his and he will forget.” She didn’t sound overly peeved, so this probably represented a normal state of affairs.

  I closed the door behind her, sampling the sudden silence that fell on the room. I liked Elena – we were already good friends – but she could be an unpredictable sprite at times and her good-natured meddling had already led to one tricky situation I could have done without. And, quite honestly, I didn’t need any help in that quarter; I was quite capable of messing things up on my own.

  The frost had melted by the time I crossed the deserted quad on my way to the new library, but the mist lingered, weakening the sun’s attempts to burn the last of it away. Standing alone in its role as protector of the past, the library lay beyond the medical building in an area of parkland. Broad and squat in the shape of a drum, its linear windows swept from ground to rooftop in narrow stripes of dark glass, framed by pale fins of smooth concrete. Tracing the pathway, my heart beat a little faster with each step I took until – breathless – I stood before its doors. I had resisted the urge to visit the library until this moment as an incentive for surviving the reception party, like saving the best bit of a meal for last. This was it – I came to claim my reward.

  The doors swung open like the release of an airlock, liberating the scent of new oak and old books – a shrine to the written word. I had the same sense of emotional uplift every time I visited a church. The centre of the building lay open to the glass roof which softly illuminated the area below. Three floors encircled the central space and each held rack upon rack of shelving radiating from the centre outwards. The building appeared empty of students and only the gentle hum of a humidity-control system filled the void.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  I jumped, startled by the sound of a voice that was little more than a dry whisper; I hadn’t seen the woman at the low desk almost behind me. Dressed in greens and browns, her dark skin as thin and lined around her narrow eyes as a dying leaf, she was so inconspicuous that she looked as if she grew there.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.” I hoped she didn’t take that the wrong way, but she smiled, her face crinkling into a series of deep lines like contours on a map.

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it? Do you have your card?”

  Returning her smile, from my pocket I fished the photo card sent with the other documentation.

  “Professor D’Eresby,” she read then looked up to check the photo before handing it back.

  “Thank you.” I took it from her, already eager to begin my search.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, her voice like the dry pages of a book in the hush of the building. “Which section are you looking for?”

  I wavered. I knew what I wanted, I knew what I came for, yet once I held it in my hands – my long search over – I would not relinquish it until I devoured it entirely, or it consumed me. I took a mental step back; it would have to wait a little while longer until I earned my keep.

  “History – Medieval and Early Modern, please.”

  I rode in one of the glass lifts, rising silently to the second floor, the door sighing open to expel me onto the carpeted deck. I quickly found the section and became totally absorbed in the task, my fingers running over the spines of the books, stopping now and again to pull one from the shelves. Mouth-wateringly extensive – like sweets ranged in jars on the shelves of an old-fashioned confectioner – there was almost too much to choose from. Time drifted and the occasional soft breath from the doors below was the only indication that others used the building.

  I heaped a number of books in a wobbly pile on the nearest desk while I found my library card. I should have brought a bag – I always came away with more than I intended – but I never learned. Gripping my card between my teeth, and brushing my hair back from my face, I balanced the books as best I could. Gingerly, I turned around and nea
rly leapt out of my skin as I almost collided with a figure I had neither seen nor heard approach. The unsteady pile began to slide from my arms and swift hands reached out and took them.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Good morning, by the way.” Dr Lynes held out the books for me. Quite unexpectedly, he smiled, the corners lifting into a compelling curve that had me nearly dropping them again.

  “Good morning, Dr Lynes,” I managed, as I struggled to take the rebellious load, grateful for something to do that explained my confusion.

  He frowned at them. “They’re not going to co-operate, are they? Please, allow me.” And he took the pile, balancing them with little effort against his body.

  I skipped a glance at him from under my eyelashes. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” he replied, glancing down at the books he held. He raised an eyebrow; I felt I needed to explain.

  “They’re for my lecture next week – for my research.”

  He held up the first book in the stack, examining it.

  “A truly enlightening subject for your inaugural lecture,” he said, dryly. He turned it towards me so that I could see the book to which he referred. The dust-cover showed a German woodcut depicting a man burning at the stake, flames licking around his legs, his agonized eyes towards Heaven.

  “I suppose it does look a bit suspect,” I admitted. “But I can justify it on academic grounds – if that makes it any better?”

  “Better – no – acceptable, perhaps. I hope your audience has strong stomachs.”

  “Oh, that’s not going to be a problem; I don’t suppose many will be there,” I replied with certainty. He looked down at me curiously, his eyes a lighter, richer blue than they appeared last night. My heart did a little flip. “Anyway, I’m not planning on cheap thrills; if I were, probably more would turn up.”

  “Probably,” he agreed.

  I shot a look, prepared to be taken aback, but no undercurrent of sarcasm soured his tone and his face remained amiable. Last night and every moment that passed since leaving the reception, I persuaded myself that even if I did meet him again, he wouldn’t want to speak to me, my faults amplified in my memory.

  “I need to get back with these,” I indicated the books, “if I’m to get this lecture finished in time.” I held out my arms expectantly but he continued to hold them and I let my arms drop, uncertain.

  “Where are you heading?”

  “I’m taking them to the history faculty – my tutor room. It’s bigger than my flat and there’s more space to spread out…” I could hear myself beginning to prattle and curbed my tongue. Without relinquishing any of the books, he headed for the lift, standing aside so that I could enter first.

  We left the library and headed for the main college complex. The mist had disappeared, but high milk-white cloud still obscured the sun. In the distance, the tips of the mountains hid their heads in cloud. He paced his stride so that I could walk comfortably next to him and it was he who broke the silence first.

  “Forgive me if I say that you don’t seem to have much confidence in attracting an audience for your lecture.” He watched me with the same expression of veiled curiosity he wore the night before.

  Surprised he had noticed, I asked, “Don’t I? Is that how it comes across?” I thought for a moment, considering. “I suppose it’s because, although I can see its relevance, I’m not always sure other people can. I think that most people are so busy with the present and planning for the future, that they have little time for the past.” An unlooked-for wistful note crept into my tone. “And besides, relevant or not, I’m not sure how useful my work is in the grand scheme of things.”

  Who was I kidding? It wasn’t useful at all. We walked on a few paces and he looked thoughtful. “Is being ‘useful’ a prerequisite for living?”

  “That probably depends on your perspective on life generally – I mean, whether you view yourself as a random element or conceived as part of a wider plan.”

  He stared straight ahead and I took the opportunity to peek at him. His strong profile might have been dominated by any one feature, yet it held a perfect balance between forehead, nose, mouth and chin. He looked down at me and I rapidly looked away.

  “And which do you see yourself as?” he asked.

  Eyeing the doctor and giggling, two girls headed down the path towards us, tossing their hair as they passed. He appeared unaware of them, waiting for my answer so that I felt his interest genuine in what it might be. Such intense attention to what I did or thought was unfamiliar, yet he gave the impression of being a good listener and easy to talk to – as long as I didn’t look at him.

  “I think I have a purpose here, I’m just not sure what that purpose is yet. Nor am I certain that what I do as a historian is going to help me much in finding it.”

  If I tussled with working out the meaning of my life, I wasn’t making it any easier for him to understand my take on it. The sun finally made an appearance. He stared directly at it for a moment without blinking, considering what I said, before looking away.

  “But you said yourself that you could see the relevance in your work.”

  “Yes, I can, but is it enough to justify an existence spent studying it?” I meant it as a rhetorical question, but he dug further.

  “So what does make your work relevant to you?”

  I might have been flattered by his attention except that I couldn’t see the reason for his interest, and there was no balance to our conversation – it all revolved around me. I attempted to redress the equilibrium a little. We crossed the ground between the library and the back of the medical faculty, following the dark ribbon of path. I stopped and turned to look up at him to gauge his reaction.

  “Well, given what you do in comparison – as a doctor, I mean – probably nothing. Why are you a doctor?”

  He shifted the books to his other side so that he could open the door to the faculty building. Weak sunlight gleamed dully off something on his hand as he held the door ajar. He wore two rings: one – an indistinct band of gold on his little finger and the other – clearly a wedding ring. It shouldn’t have mattered and I don’t know why I felt surprise, but the momentary flutter of regret flared uninvited. Quelling the reaction, I led the way, waiting for his response, but he wouldn’t be diverted, which I thought unfair of him, and he returned to the original point.

  “You haven’t answered my question. I do what I do because I can. Equally, you choose to do what you do because that is your area of strength. That doesn’t make it any less relevant – just different.”

  The hall remained deserted but for the silence clinging to the walls, our echoing voices making me more self-conscious than ever. I lowered my voice.

  “But what I do is not in the least bit practical; I don’t save lives, I can’t research diseases… or whatever else you do.” I realized that I didn’t know what he did. “What do you do, precisely?”

  “I’m a doctor.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Now who’s being evasive!”

  He let me lead the way up the stairs to the first-floor landing; I was already a little out of breath from walking and talking, but he breathed as regularly as if sitting in a chair at rest. I envied his level of fitness.

  “I provide medical cover at the med centre infirmary, and occasionally at the hospital in town – if they’re short staffed.”

  I suspected he sold himself short. “And your area of research? Elena said Matias works with you sometimes.” It sounded as if we talked about him.

  “Molecular mechanisms of mutagenesis,” he said shortly. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to, considering what he did for a living: he saved the world while I made a note of it for posterity.

  “What makes my work relevant – to me at least – is that it helps me understand the motives behind the decisions that people make and it is those decisions that are often the drivers behind events that change histor
y.”

  He spoke quietly. “And do you? Understand people’s motives?”

  I realized how absurdly big-headed my claim must sound and I thought for a moment, probing the depth of my belief in what I said.

  “Yes,” I nodded slowly, “I think I do, at least some of the time and in a historical context.”

  It was his turn to look reflective. He walked to the end of the corridor and looked out of the window towards the medical faculty mulling over what I said, his eyebrows drawn together as he waited for me to find my key. The lock chose that moment to stick again and I chastised it almost silently under my breath, feeling clumsy.

  “I doubt that it understands Anglo-Saxon; can I help you, perhaps?”

  “Sorry,” I said, wondering how come a doctor would understand such an obscure language. I tried the lock again and this time it rotated smoothly.

  “Don’t be,” he said, waiting for me to go in first, then placing the books on my already crowded desk. He scanned the room, noting the growing mountain of texts accumulating under the window.

  “I know, it’s a tip; I need some more shelves,” I said, stating the obvious and feeling disgraced by the organized clutter. He tilted his head on one side and read down the spines, his lips moving silently as he examined them. Astonishingly handsome, he might have been intimidating if aware of it. I realized I was staring and started to sort out the recently acquired books, allowing my cheeks to cool.

  “There they are!” I exclaimed more to myself than to him, as my iPod earphones became visible when I shifted a book to one side. Dr Lynes looked up, seeing me brandish the lead, untangling as it dangled from my fingers.

  “What do you listen to?” he asked, straightening.

  “Oh, anything. Lots of things – Classical mostly, though I hate string quartets. I love choral works. Some sixties and seventies classics as well. And modern film scores.” I tried to refine my dubious eclectic musical taste but I knew it appeared a real mish-mash that lacked cultural cohesion. “Do you like music?”

  “Yes, I do,” he said but, frustratingly, didn’t elaborate.