by M T McGuire
****
Terry’s widow was middle-aged, thin, like Terry and, like her deceased (possibly) husband, she chain-smoked. When the Director marched into the Syndicate Room, ignoring his secretary’s efforts to speak to him first, it was already thick with smoke. The borrowed doctor had confirmed he had light concussion and suggested he take some painkillers and go to bed. The Director had to admit that the idea of bed appealed. His head ached abominably. Yes, he would take the doctor’s advice but first he should speak to Sally.
He greeted her with an air of dignified concern. He wasn’t sure how he was going to handle this. She was showing worrying signs of dependency on him and his wife and he did not wish to encourage it. She had to learn to cope alone and, most importantly for this interview, she had to hold back the tears. The Director couldn’t cope when women started crying.
“Sally,” he said. “I’m so sorry to hear about…” his voice trailed off. Thank goodness he hadn’t said he was sorry for her loss. He had considered it, but decided against, on the grounds that it sounded unbearably trite and unctuous to his old-fashioned ears. There, sitting next to Sally, was Terry, despite the university’s no smoking policy they both had a cigarette on the go. “Where the hell have you been?” he snapped before he could stop himself. “Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused?” oops, he’d gone in a bit heavy there. He regarded their stricken faces. More than a bit. He sighed. And the smoke was making his headache worse. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ve had a taxing morning, I’ve lost the dog…’no idea what I’ll tell the children,” he strode over to the sash window and wrenched it open with a flourish. “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning and explain everything.”
“It all got too much,” whined Terry.
“Right,” said the Director.
What had got too much? He thought. Here was a man with a job for life who, as far as he could tell, spent most of his days drinking tea and complaining about how much work he had to do rather than actually doing any. On the productivity front, his two week absence had hardly been noticed. Then again, as someone who had come to the Museum from a career in industry, the Director was aware that his view of what constituted a sensible work ethic was at variance with that of his staff. He heaved another sigh, yes, and his idea of a decent, motivational wage was equally at variance with the reality laid down by the University Pay Board. From his privileged position, the Director could easily appreciate why the University was one of the richest institutions in the country.
“I had to get out for a couple of days,” said Terry.
“I see.” There was too much sarcasm in the Director’s voice but he couldn’t help himself.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean no harm but I had to go.” Terry put his cigarette down, in order to run his nicotine-stained fingers through his grey blonde curly hair.
“Might I be so bold as to ask where?”
“Broadstairs.”
“Broadstairs,” said the Director flatly.
“In Kent.”
“Yes, Terry, I know where it is.”
“There’s no call for sarcasm, Sir.”
“Terry! Don’t be cheeky!” scolded Sally.
“No, Sally, your husband has a point. Please accept my apologies, Terry,” said the Director. “Sally, if you don’t mind, may I speak to him alone?”
“Yes, of course.” She cast a fleeting glance at Terry but he was staring straight ahead.
The Director’s secretary knocked on the door and put her head round.
“Dr Bond, could I have a word?”
“Can’t it wait?” he nodded to Terry and Sally.
“It’s urgent.”
“Alright, would you both excuse me for a moment?” He was annoyed with his secretary for interrupting, “has anyone offered you a hot drink, coffee, tea?”
They shook their heads.
“Would you like one?”
“No thank you, we had one before we came out,” said Terry, reaching out and patting his wife’s hand, “unless you’d like a cuppa love?”
“No thanks dear,” said Sally embarking on a volley of hacking coughing. Something made the Director imagine one of her lungs landing on the table with a splat and he spent the next few seconds trying extremely hard not to. It was bad enough with Bog in the kitchen. He shuddered as he left the room.
“What is it?” he asked his secretary impatiently as they stood in the hall, his head thumping.
She held out a self-sealing plastic bag containing a wedding ring.
“That was quick.”
Suspiciously quick.
“Well, it didn’t take long it IS from Tatners, one of the technicians wears one the same.”
“But it came off Bog’s hand didn’t it?” said the Director.
“Yes.”
“Then who put it there?”
“By the looks of it, Bog, himself.”
“That’s impossible,” said the Director trying not to confront his fear to the contrary. “Should we be passing this thing onto the police?”
“No, that’s the trouble, the results of the carbon dating show that the ring is the same age as the body,” she paused for effect, “eight thousand years old.”
The Director gave himself a second or two to appreciate this concept.
“Are we sure about the dating?”
“The Keeper of Antiquities is adamant that the results are correct but concedes that it must be an anomaly somewhere. He’s just not certain where at this stage. He wanted you to know he is working on it.”
“Doubtless he did,” said the Director. “Thank you,” he smiled grimly, “I apologise for being short with you, I am not enjoying today.” She flashed an understanding smile as he took the bag from her outstretched hand. He should find a way to get her a pay rise, he thought as he returned to the Syndicate Room where Terry and his wife, Sally, were waiting.
Sally stood up.
“I’ll just go and wait outside shall I?” She seemed frightened.
“If you would be so kind,” he held the door open for her “Why don’t you pop into the Friends Room? I won’t be detaining Terry long. I just need to ask him a couple of questions.”
When she had gone, the Director closed the door and turned his attention to Terry. The electrician seemed even more shifty than usual and squirmed in his seat as if trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. The director made eye contact.
“Where did you actually go Terry?”
Terry’s eyes slid sideways.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know what you mean?”
“Alright, we’ll play it your way. What I mean is that you didn’t go to Broadstairs did you?”
Terry’s face went blotchy, as if his skin was trying to blush and go pale at the same time. Dumbly, he shook his head.
“Does your wife know what happened?”
Terry adopted a set expression.
“Didn’t she ask about the mud?”
Silence.
“Anything you say will be in the strictest confidence, you have my word on that and I don’t give it lightly.”
Terry shifted in his seat again.
“What I am trying to say, Terry, is don’t be afraid to tell me the truth, however strange it may seem.”
“Thank you, sir,” whispered Terry, his expression no less guarded. The Director sighed, this interview wasn’t going to plan and he didn’t like being called ‘sir’
“Have you seen our new acquisition?”
“Bog man?”
“The same.”
“No.”
“Would you like to?” Terry hesitated and the Director decided to take it as a ‘yes’. “Come with me.” He stood up, walked to the door and held it open.
In the kitchen, as his employee stared into the humidor, the Director watched him closely. Had he noticed a faint glimmer of recognition on Terry’s face? Difficult to tell and the electrician wasn’t giving anything away, he merely leaned his hands agai
nst the glass and peered in. More fingerprints to wipe off. Oh, the cleaners would be delighted, and it had taken enough to persuade them to clean Bog’s quarters in the first place, the Director sighed and rubbed his aching temples.
“Originally he was wearing a ring,” he said conversationally and Terry turned his head. “It isn’t there now, of course, it’s been sent away for analysis,” he nodded at the electrician’s left hand. “I see you’ve lost yours.”
Terry gazed at him with a downcast expression.
“Was it foggy the day you disappeared?” asked the Director gently.
“No,” said Terry with a furtive glance at Bog.
“Not even for a little while, out there on the fen?”
“No.”
“Level with me Terry, what actually happened?”
“What do you mean?” said Terry nervously, “Nothing happened. I told you. I went away because I couldn’t stand the pressure but I can’t be without my Sally so I came back.”
“This morning.”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what you’re saying but what do you THINK happened. What are you afraid you did?”
Terry was sweating.
“The same thing.”
“Really, is that so?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I don’t believe you. I think you were walking across the fen when you came across some unusual fog, you found yourself… God knows where, with gentlemen – and possibly ladies – like Mister Bog here all around you. Were you captured? Is that why you couldn’t come back? It wasn’t just me they were chasing this morning, was it?”
He noticed Terry’s staring eyes and wondered if he had gone a bit too far. The man smoked for Britain, after all, it would be unfortunate if he keeled over and died. Especially, an uncharitable little part of the Director thought, at work.
“I think, begging your pardon, sir, that you should go and see a good shrink.”
Nope, thought the Director, he hadn’t gone far enough. He held up the plastic bag with the ring in it.
“While you were… away, this was found in the bottom of a container of acid. You know, the stuff they dilute and use for cleaning… I’m afraid it’s not weathered its acid bath too well but I wondered, is it yours?”
Terry seemed intensely relieved and yet, at the same time, a little frightened. “Yes,” he said.
“Are you sure? Here, take a look,” the Director passed him the bag and watched as he examined it closely.
“It’s mine. I’d know it anywhere,” said Terry as he handed it back.
“Hmm… Well, I should tell you, I lied about where it came from.”
“I know.” whispered Terry, “but you said it was OK to be honest.”
“I did and I meant it. So, in light of what you just said I assume you realise your ring was found with our friend here. Did you use it to buy your freedom? Come on Terry, I wasn’t the only one to walk out of the fog today, was I?”
Sadly, Terry shook his head.
“Have you told Sally?” asked the Director.
“No… she’d never understand… you’re not going to say anything are you?”
“No,” said the Director, trying to imagine how he would explain the situation to his own wife and failing.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Nothing. I was walking Wolf, my dog, on the fen this morning when a bank of fog rolled in and I found myself,” the Director tried to think of an appropriate adjective and failed, “somewhere else. I met Mister Bog, here, who bashed me over the head – most uncharitably, I thought. When I came round I was lying on the grass in the sun and, apart from the absence of my dog and the fact I smelled like the bottom of a pond, everything was back to normal. I have been wondering if this morning’s adventure was a psychotic episode and now I am reassured that it was not.”
“I’m glad to hear that, sir.” said Terry.
“Yes, I am sure you are, and frankly, Terry, I can only admire you for surviving two weeks of that with your sanity in one piece. It’s reassuring that neither of us needs to see a psychiatrist but if you would like some trauma counselling the Museum would be happy to oblige.”
“Thank you, sir, but I think I shall be alright.”
“Good, if you change your mind the offer’s there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Oh and Terry.”
“Sir?”
“I have a name and it’s Dr Bond. Please don’t call me ‘sir’. I am not the previous Director.”
“I can’t help it, sir, I’m old-fashioned.”
“Could you get by with Director, then?” He asked with the merest hint of a smile.
“I s’pose I could,” said Terry. His eyes were fixed on the ring in its little plastic bag.
“Thank you,” said The Director. He followed Terry’s gaze. “It’s survived rather well, hasn’t it?” he held the bag by the seal and shook it a little, “considering it came from Tatners.”
“Mr Director, instead of the counseling, could I have it back?”
The Director glanced at Bog.
“I don’t see why not, I shouldn’t think he’d mind,” he smiled, “although, of course, if anyone asks, you lost your ring in the Museum where it was found by the wrong people and used to play an elaborate practical joke on the Keeper of Antiquities.”
“Yessir, I mean, Mr Director,” said Terry.
‘Mister’ the Director noted, not ‘Doctor’. That was slightly worse than ‘sir’. Should he say anything he wondered? No, he could cut the man some slack.
“Shall we?” The Director opened the kitchen door and they went to find Sally.
“Thank you, Mr Director,” said Terry as he ushered the pair of them out of the administration building.
“No thank YOU, Terry,” replied the Director and with a considerably lighter step, he climbed the stairs to his private flat and shut the door.
