The Sin Eater (16 page)

As they finally picked out a modest but clean-looking house that announced itself as having ‘Clean, comfortable lodgings for single, working gentlemen', Declan knew that Colm would stop at very little to find Romilly and put right whatever had gone so dreadfully wrong in her life.

He realized that he, too, would stop at very little when it came to Romilly Rourke.

M
ichael was rather relieved when the main part of Christmas was over and he could start thinking about the forthcoming term. He had a very promising batch of first-year students, and he thought there were a couple of double-first possibilities among the final years. He had prepared some of his next term's work, and had also written a new episode of Wilberforce to replace the rejected haunted house incident. The tutorials for his students included the influence of Andrew Marvell's anti-monarchist sentiments on his later poetry; the Wilberforce episode included the mice wiring Wilberforce up to the electricity circuit after he had absent-mindedly sat on a cable and fused the lights.

Michael thought his final years would enjoy discussing Marvell's rallying call to take up arms against the Stuart kings, and he thought the mice's latest ploy would make for some good illustrations of Wilberforce with his fur standing on end. It would also serve as a warning to his youthful readers that it was dangerous to meddle with electricity. He sorted the Marvell notes into the appropriate folder, emailed the new Wilberforce chapter to his editor, and was aware of a pleasing sense of having completed some worthwhile work.

Immediately after Christmas he and Nell had put Beth on the plane for her American trip to Michael's Maryland friends and his god-daughter. Beth would go to school with Ellie for three weeks, then return home for the remainder of the term at her English school. She was looking forward to seeing Ellie, wide-eyed with delight at the enormity of embarking on this grown-up adventure, and charmed to meet the stewardess who would oversee her journey and deliver her into the hands of Jack and Liz Harper at the other end. She was also almost speechless with pride over the brand-new notebook computer which had been a Christmas present; she had promised to email Nell every day on it, and she made Michael promise to send her the newest Wilberforce chapter so she and Ellie could read it.

Michael took Nell out to dinner that night and later, in bed, she cried and clung to him.

‘It's the first time I've been parted from Beth since Brad died,' she said. ‘I feel as if I've lost her.'

‘Oh, Nell, of course you haven't lost her.'

‘I know that really – logically. But things do become lost,' said Nell. ‘I lost Brad, and now I've lost Beth, even though it's only for a while and . . . Michael, I won't lose you, will I?'

It was so rare for her to display this kind of sudden and intense emotion and she sounded so much like Beth seeking reassurance that Michael's heart turned over. He put his arms round her. ‘You won't lose me, my dear love.'

‘You called me that right at the start,' said Nell. ‘I do like to hear you say it. And of course I lose you some of the time, and that's natural. When you're absorbed in Andrew Marvell or Byron for instance – you aren't really in the present day at all. That's fine – it's what you are. And I like you looking like one of the nineteenth-century romantics, and I like hearing about all the things you work out for your students.'

‘But none of that's
losing
me, any more than I lose you when you're absorbed in Chippendale or Hepplewhite.'

‘I wish I could get absorbed in Chippendale,' said Nell, clearly feeling better. ‘If I found a set of his chairs or a desk I'd be so absorbed I probably wouldn't speak for days. I'd love to find something really rare.' There was a pause and Michael thought: now she'll say something about that macabre chess piece from Benedict Doyle's house.

But she did not. She smiled suddenly, and said, ‘Sorry for the high drama. I'll try not to do it again. I know it fazes you a bit. You're more at home with the emotional yearnings of eighteenth-century poets, really, aren't you? The ones who languished over locks of hair or draped themselves over marble vaults.'

‘I can usually explain the languishings of the romantic poets quite well to my students,' said Michael, rather apologetically. ‘What I can't do is help them with their own entanglements.'

‘That's because they're part of the modern “Your place or mine?” culture,' said Nell. ‘They probably don't go in for sonnets or elegies.'

‘I think the girls might quite like a few sonnets. Do you know,' said Michael, getting out of bed to refill their wine glasses, ‘far more girls than boys turn up in my study, to ask if I can explain a particular aspect of a poem or a sonnet to them.'

Nell said, ‘Do they really?' and there was such amusement in her voice that Michael looked at her doubtfully. But she only said, in a more serious tone, ‘It's all right, isn't it? I mean – we're all right, aren't we?'

‘Yes,' said Michael. ‘I think we're very all right.'

She grinned and her eyes slanted so that she was no longer an insecure waif; she was a very mischievous imp.

‘Would you like to prove that with a demonstration?' she said.

‘What a beautiful idea,' said Michael, and got back into bed.

But two days later, the air of abstraction was back. Nell was not exactly distant, but her eyes seemed to be focused on something that was either deep in her mind or hundreds of miles away. Distant horizons, thought Michael. What's that line about my soul longing to touch the dim distance? That's how she looks – as if she's longing to touch a dim distance. Am I going to lose her to a memory or a ghost?

But a few days after Christmas Nell asked, a bit diffidently, if Michael would like to come with her to visit Benedict Doyle.

‘He's staying with Nina, and I ought to go and see him – if nothing else to meet him properly and talk about what we do with the contents of that house. But I think it might be a bit easier if you were there, as well.'

‘Of course I'll come.' Michael was pleased to be asked.

‘You'll probably like Nina – you can't always get a word in when she's in full pelt, but she's quite good company and she means well. She wants to meet you anyway.'

‘Does she?' said Michael, surprised.

‘Well, I may have mentioned you to her,' said Nell, offhandedly. ‘So she's curious. Don't smile like that; you look like Wilberforce when he's stolen somebody's fish supper.'

‘Have they got a diagnosis for Benedict yet?' asked Michael, suppressing the smile.

‘Not quite, but Nina says they're favouring – let me get this right – dissociative personality disorder. It sounds a bit sinister, doesn't it?'

‘It sounds extremely sinister. What on earth is it?'

‘I think it's sort of schizophrenia by another name.'

‘Other personalities seeming to take over?'

‘Yes – one personality in particularly, apparently.'

‘What kind of personality?'

‘I didn't like to ask.'

Benedict Doyle appeared to be a perfectly ordinary young man with intelligent eyes and a sudden, very sweet, smile. He was not dissimilar to a good many of Michael's own students and Michael liked him. Benedict seemed pleased to meet Michael and grateful at being able to thank Nell properly for rescuing him at Holly Lodge.

‘I don't remember much about it,' he said, but Michael, who had become accustomed to looking at students' eyes in case they were taking drugs, saw that Benedict's eyes slid away when he said this. That was a lie, he thought, and glanced at Nell to see if she had noticed.

But she only said, ‘I didn't do anything except call the paramedics. You were unconscious when I got there.'

‘Was I? All the time?'

‘You did sort of half come round while we waited for the paramedics,' said Nell. ‘But you didn't say much.'

‘Didn't I? I'm sorry you had a wasted journey, Nell. Will you be able to go back there?'

‘Yes, I'd like to. I think there might be a few interesting things,' said Nell. ‘I didn't get the chance to look at anything in any detail – oh, except for a chess piece I found.'

There was no doubt about Benedict's reaction this time. Michael thought it was as if the planes of his face shifted, and as if a different person was sitting there. He said, ‘A chess piece?'

‘Yes. I'm going to get it properly appraised, if that's all right with you,' said Nell. Michael could not tell if she was aware of the change in Benedict. ‘If the whole set is there it might be worth quite a lot of money. I've only found the king so far, though.'

Benedict said, ‘But the king is the most important,' and Michael looked at him sharply, because his voice had suddenly sounded different. Softer, silkier. Irish? thought Michael. Is this the other persona taking him over? Is this how it happens? He was aware of a faint unease.

Nell said, ‘Do you like what you're reading at university?' and Michael realized she had heard the different voice as well, and that the question was meant to bring Benedict back to some kind of reality. ‘Criminology, isn't it?'

‘Criminology and law. Yes, I do. It's a very wide subject, but it's really interesting.'

It's all right, thought Michael. He's sounding like himself again.

‘I've been doing some research on individual crimes in the late-nineteenth century,' said Benedict.

‘I should think that would be a rich seam to explore,' said Nell, sounding interested.

‘It was a wild old place, London,' said Benedict. ‘You'd never know the half of it, not until you walked through those streets and saw the people . . .' He looked at them as if he was assessing them, and Michael caught the glint of blue in his eyes. No, surely it was only the light in here. But his unease deepened.

He said, carefully, ‘Benedict, if I can help at any time—'

‘With the criminology course?'

‘With anything,' said Michael. He fished in his pocket for a card. ‘Here's my phone number. Ring me if you want to.'

Benedict said, in a voice so low Michael only just caught the words, ‘No one can help me.' Then the door of the flat was flung noisily open, and a breezy voice called out apologies for being late, but the shops had been full to overflowing with people buying the most frightful junk in the sales – and honestly, if the world was due to end and the four horsemen of the apocalypse were waiting to ride down Oxford Street people would still queue up to get a bargain in the January sales.

The glint of blue in Benedict's eyes – if, indeed, it had ever been there – faded. He's all right, thought Michael again. Or is he?

‘What did you think of him?' asked Nell as they waited for the train back to Oxford.

‘I think he's very confused,' said Michael, guardedly. ‘I hope they can put him right, though. He's clearly intelligent – he could have a very good career ahead. Did you believe him when he said he couldn't remember what happened in the house that day?'

‘Not entirely. I think he remembers more than he's letting on, but he's frightened to admit it. I'm glad you gave him your phone number,' she said suddenly.

‘Yes, so am I. I don't suppose he'll call. Do you have to go back to Holly Lodge?'

‘Yes, I expect so. I haven't fixed anything definite, though. Here's our train.'

Nell had detested lying to Michael – she detested lying to anyone – but somehow it had been impossible to tell him she would be returning to Holly Lodge.

Come on the 18th . . .

The words of the unknown man – the man Benedict had called Declan – had stayed with her. She had thought she would mention him to Nina, but she had not. It's because Nina was caught up with being concerned about Benedict, thought Nell, staring through the train window. But she knew, deep down, it was because she did not want Declan to be given an ordinary identity. She did not want to hear that he was a second cousin, or someone's brother-in-law, or that he worked in an insurance office or taught geography. She wanted him to remain mysterious and slightly sinister, which was entirely absurd – it was like a teenager infatuated with a character in a TV soap opera or a film. She had noted the date down in her diary although she had been annoyed to realize she had used red ink, and sketched the outline of a chess piece around the figure eighteen. How sad is that, thought Nell.

They got a taxi from the station, which dropped Nell by the arched entrance to Quire Court; Michael waited to make sure she got across to her own shop safely, then the taxi chugged off into the night.

Nell did not mind coming back to the court when it was dark and quiet. She liked Quire Court very much. There was a small printing business whose origins went back to the 1700s and from which the courtyard took its name; a second-hand bookshop which was probably inevitable, a silversmith, and a florist. They all coexisted very amiably, and Nell and the silversmith were hoping to have a joint exhibition of their best pieces next summer. The printer would supply posters at cost price and the florist would help with decorations.

She paused before going into her own shop, liking the mellow stonework and the mullioned windows, and the way the lights from Turl Street painted harlequin patterns everywhere. Michael had once said if only you knew the right way to look at the shadows of Quire Court, you might catch a glimpse of the people who had lived and worked there – like seeing coloured cellophane cut-outs, he said. Nell smiled, remembering this. Dear Michael. He was one of the very best things that had happened to her since Brad's death.

Tonight, she had the feeling that Michael's cellophane ghosts might be near, and with the thought, faint sounds reached her. She looked around, puzzled, because the courtyard was deserted. The sounds came again, this time closer, as if something was walking across the stones – something so light and so insubstantial its footsteps were as fragile as spun glass . . .