by C F Dunn
“Hi,” I smiled back. She said something to the other women with whom she sat and shuffled on her ample bottom along the bench towards me.
“Hello,” she replied. “I’ve been meaning to come and see you since your lecture – since we met, actually.”
“That seems ages ago,” I admitted.
“You have been busy, no doubt.” Her skin, arranged in soft lines, reflected years of good humour. Her eyes were the only feature in her benign face – ageing and plump – that betrayed the pin-sharp mind that lay behind them.
“Busy, yes,” I agreed. “Thanks for coming to the lecture, by the way – for making the time.”
“That was my pleasure; you have to remember my special interest in your subject. In my world, we tend to concentrate on the victims of torture. Your perspective is quite unique, you know; few are willing to recognize the… needs of the perpetrator as you do.” She screwed up her eyes as she studied me.
“Put like that, it makes it sound as if I’m making excuses for their behaviour, but that’s really not the point.”
Her slight Teutonic accent gently interrogated. “No? What is the point then?”
“It isn’t a question of right or wrong – not in historical terms – just what is – or was. I don’t sit in judgment on historical figures; I attempt to understand their actions.”
“Why?”
“You are the second person to ask me that,” I mused, remembering the interest in the shifting colours of the doctor’s eyes. I saw she wanted an answer. “I don’t really know,” I confessed, and it was possibly the first time I hadn’t come up with a cogent reason for what I did on demand.
“What did you tell this other person?”
I paused. “That I sometimes wonder whether there is any point in what I do.”
“And what did he say?”
I looked up sharply. I hadn’t mentioned anything about it being a man. The Professor waited, her hands folded neatly on the table in front of her.
“He said that I do what I do because I can.”
“Well then, hmmm.” She thought about it. “That was a clever answer – astute. Do I know this man?”
“I don’t know – probably not.” I found myself reluctant to bring Matthew under her scrutiny.
Elena leaned over conspiratorially.
“It’s Sam Wiesner from the maths fac,” she giggled. Matias gave her a censorial look and she pouted at him. I didn’t realize they were listening.
“No – it’s not,” I almost snapped back. All three of them looked at me in surprise. “It isn’t,” I said more reasonably; “it… it’s Dr Lynes.” I hoped that by using his title they wouldn’t notice the effect even mentioning his name had on me. I could feel the tell-tale warmth spreading around my neck.
“Matthew Lynes? You have met him? He normally keeps himself to himself. I have only met him what… twice, in the last few years. I have heard about him, yes, but he tends to stay out of sight except for official occasions like the All Saints’ dinner or Thanksgiving, you know? And even then he sometimes doesn’t show. But you have met him – talked with him. Well, well…” she trailed off.
Elena pushed her plate away from her, seemingly intrigued by my latest revelation. “Emma, you are a black pony; you did not say you met him again!”
It took me a second to fathom her strange use of the language.
“There’s nothing to tell, Elena, and it’s ‘dark horse’, not ‘black pony’.”
By the time Siggie and Matias stopped laughing and Elena ceased pretending to mind, I hoped attention had been diverted from the subject of Matthew Lynes; but Siggie wasn’t the sort to let the matter drop.
“Emma, you are very interesting; perhaps I should make a study of you?” She saw my look of horror. “Just kidding! Everyone gets evasive when I’m around; it makes a great game.” She chuckled again.
“I’m glad I amuse,” I said dryly and concentrated on gluing lettuce and tomato together with some mayonnaise before attempting to eat it. Matias and Elena began talking about something else in Russian interspersed with what sounded like Finnish.
Siggie bent towards me, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of your friends, but you surprised me. Dr Lynes has a formidable reputation as a surgeon, but people are wary of him on campus.”
“Why?” My curiosity engaged, it was difficult not to let it show.
She motioned with her hands. “What people do not understand they destroy, eh? Like Luddites from your history – like witches – you know that as well as anyone. If you do not belong to the tribe, the collective – if you are different in any way – you are hunted down and eliminated, physically or culturally. Either way, Dr Lynes has a reputation.”
“For what?”
“For being different.”
That was exactly how Elena had described him. “Is that all?”
She inspected me closely. “Does it matter?”
I didn’t even try to hide my interest from her any more. “Yes, it does – to me.” My hand found his coat beside me on the bench, and I wound my fingers into the fabric.
“Look, Emma, as far as I’m aware, he has never put a foot wrong. He is a fine surgeon and he is a dedicated scientist with a mind as sharp as one of his scalpels. He even endowed the faculty of medicine and science – he had the centre built, for goodness’ sake! I have never heard one bad thing said about him, but…” and she paused, looking at me cautiously, “but people do not know him, they cannot work him out, and they don’t like that.”
I followed the grain of the table with my finger, like a train of thought.
“But I do,” I said softly.
“Ah, then there’s no hope for you, is there?” She smiled kindly.
I shook my head, trying not to laugh out of embarrassment. “Probably not,” I agreed.
Elena and Matias finished eating and were making ready-to-move noises. I stood up and started to gather my things. Siggie Gerhard suddenly put a hand out as I bent to get Matthew’s coat.
“Just take care, won’t you?” she urged.
I was about to reply, but something at the other end of the table caught my eye. I turned my head.
“Matthew Lynes isn’t what I’m afraid of,” I choked. Siggie looked in the direction of my stare. Staahl moved down the room with another man, looking for a space; he hadn’t noticed me yet. I turned my back on him. She raised her eyebrows. “Problem?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” I replied.
“Now he has a reputation for ‘putting it about’, I think you might say. A crude term, but you understand my meaning, I think.”
“Him!” I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice.
“You think that surprising?” she asked.
“Do they have to be dead first?”
It was her turn to look surprised and she glanced back at Staahl, puzzled by my vehemence.
“I must go,” I said hurriedly. Elena had just seen Staahl and indicated in his direction to Matias. “But it was good to talk with you – you’ve given me things to think about. Thanks.” I stepped out of the confines of the bench and turned to go.
“No, not at all; I find it very interesting talking to you. I will see you again soon.” She all but winked. I smiled in reply, holding the coat against my chest as I followed my friends from the dining-hall.
I wanted to be alone to try and piece together the disparate fragments of information I had gathered so far about Matthew. Seemingly, like the rest of humanity, I too needed to understand him. But unlike them, part of his fascination for me lay in the not knowing. More than that, an indefinable element drew me to him and, like a whirlpool, the more I struggled against the current, the closer it pulled me in. Maelstrom, the Norwegians call it, and I headed straight for the centre.
Chapter 6
Sleeping Dogs
THE MOUNTAINS LOOKED WHITER than I remembered from the day before. Snow that once capped their heads, now bleached their shoulders and, eve
n from this distance, the air flowing from them smelled different – sharper, cleaner, inviting. I yearned to be among them, the natural result of living a life on the edge of the vast Fens where the tallest thing in the immediate landscape was a solitary tree.
After breakfast, I showered and washed my hair, watching as the pink-hued copper emerged through the bristles of my brush and gradually dried in a glossy sheet. As a child, I endured the endless snide remarks of my peers because of the colour of my hair, but adults tended to know better than to comment and only stared when they thought I wasn’t looking. It drew less attention if I wore it up so that the light couldn’t shine through it. I pulled it back from my face into a ponytail and then flipped it through itself so that it looked almost pleated at the back.
The air was much fresher today on the way to the history fac and I wished I wore Matthew’s coat rather than carrying it. Deep in thought as we approached our rooms, I came to only when Elena caught my sleeve before I went in.
“Have you eaten breakfast, Em?” she asked with all the severity of a mother speaking to a teenage girl, “and drunk your tea?”
“Of course.” I didn’t add that it included the consumption of a small bar of chocolate as well, just for good measure. She inspected me with the thoroughness of a professional dresser, rotating me like a top so that she could check out my rear view, before nodding approvingly.
“I like your hair done that way and also the colours.” She waved at my russet shirt and jumper the colour of cob nuts. “Yes, you will do, I think.”
“Emma, you look great; have a good time.” Matias kissed me on the cheek as he left me at the door of my tutor room.
I smiled absently at him, still miles away. “Mm, thanks.”
“Be good, then,” Elena twittered meaningfully. She seemed to be waiting for something and I wondered what I missed, but it escaped me, so I simply said, “See you later,” and with a pert expression she went into her room to find her waiting cohort of fledgling academics.
I emailed my sister before doing anything else. She had taken my card and flowers – freesias, Nanna’s favourites – to the hospital, and placed them by her bed. Stable, if no better, at least our grandmother survived. Nanna could prepare herself for what lay ahead, and not everyone had that. Without warning, the image of the woman’s broken body imposed itself, and that of Matthew bending over her – maintaining her dignity even in death. As if she mattered. As if he cared. It made sense now, a story complete; but the image haunted, and I welcomed the opportunity to push the unsettling thoughts from my mind when my students arrived and we focused on work.
Lunchtime soon beckoned. My group dispersed to the various corners of the campus and I remained, ruminating on the topic recently discussed. As background information for their research, we continued to explore the attitudes of clergy from the mainstream denominations towards anomalous religious groups during the seventeenth century. As I contemplated the posters on my wall, I considered the role of the outcast in society, the way each century had its persecuted pariahs – from the twelfth-century Jews of York to the Marsh Arabs and Kurds of more recent times. That led me to thinking about Aydin and how difficult he found it to be accepted by the other students in the group, and then to Matthew, whom both Elena and Siggie Gerhard described as being different.
I closed my eyes and turned down the volume on the iPod. I understood what it was like to feel the odd one out. Even in a county where there was a marked genetic predominance of reddish-coloured hair, mine stood out. And then there had been the issue of my obsession with the past. All-consuming even in primary school (although I very quickly learned to keep it to myself), my peers sensed my singularity and found me an easy target.
So Siggie thought Matthew different – was that because of his striking colouring or because he remained little known? And had he become solitary because of the violent death of his wife, or because something else set him apart? I visualized a car against a tree – wheels still spinning, engine screaming, the sightless eyes of the woman still at the wheel – and I imagined his face when the police told him, his disbelief before the numbing horror of what happened dawned on him. I wish I hadn’t seen the wreckage of the car that first day in the States; I wish I hadn’t looked; I wish I didn’t know.
A half-heard sound broke through the music. I yanked the earphones from my ears and sat up, listening. The sound repeated itself and I went to open the door. Matthew Lynes looked down at me, with his half-smile that barely touched his eyes. My pulse danced.
“Good morning, I hope I’m not disturbing you.” He glanced behind me at the piles of paperwork on my desk. “My apologies – I think that I must be.”
Although I had been expecting – hoping – he would visit today, my heart thumped unevenly and not for the first time I wondered if he could sense the effect he had on me.
“No, not at all; I’m not working nearly hard enough, I’m afraid. Please, come in.” I stood to one side to let him pass, but he didn’t move.
“I have brought your book back.” He held it out to me and I took it, turning away from him to put it on my desk and expecting him to follow. He didn’t.
“Did you find it interesting?” I asked.
“It is thoroughly researched.”
I glanced at him. “By that I take it you mean it is pretty gruesome?”
“It was certainly… enlightening.”
I didn’t want him thinking me a head-case. I must have become inured through overexposure over the years.
“Ah yes, sorry, it is a bit graphic in places, isn’t it? But as you say, it’s well researched. Won’t you come in?” I asked again, this time a little anxiously. He half-turned back into the corridor.
“I also have something for you; I hope you don’t mind.”
He motioned towards a bookcase standing in the middle of the corridor outside my room. “Might this be of any use to you?”
The large bookcase looked incongruous there, standing by itself. I stuck my head around the door expecting to see whoever helped him carry it, but he was now alone. I didn’t know whether to be thrilled because at last I would have somewhere to put all my books, or because he thought enough about me to have bothered.
“It’s great! Thanks!”
He smiled at my unbounded enthusiasm. I couldn’t be the calm, cool and collected type, could I?
“Look at it first before you decide.”
I ran my hand over the smooth, polished surface of its top. Carved acanthus leaves decorated the faces of the two uprights and in the subdued light of the corridor, the bookcase gleamed a dark, rich mahogany. It stood almost as high as I did with five shelves ranging in height. It looked solid and very heavy.
“No, it really is just what I need. It’s very kind of you; can I help bring it in?”
“Thank you, but I can manage. I’m glad you like it; where would you like it to go?”
Books in heaps lined most of the spare wall surfaces, but the best place lay between the two windows. I moved a couple of piles to one side as quickly as I could, hoping I didn’t look as inelegant as I felt as I bent double.
“I can’t possibly guess why you thought I needed somewhere to put my books…” I began, turning around to help him, but he was already behind me, waiting.
“It’s not as heavy as it looks,” he said in answer to my baffled expression, sliding it easily into place.
“Thank you so much,” I breathed in admiration, feeling the crisp edge to the finely wrought façade.
“I’m having more shelves built, and it looked as if you could give it a good home,” he paused, and a slight note of hesitation crept into his voice. “But I wasn’t sure if you like antiques – not everyone does.”
The muted grey-blue of his jumper made his eyes particularly vivid this morning, but they weren’t the arctic blue of the Dean’s; these incorporated different shades that gave his eyes warmth and depth. I realized he had said something and I needed to answer.
�
�Oh – antiques, yes… I love antiques. I would collect them if I had more room. I think it goes with liking history, or anything old for that matter.” It seemed a clumsy, inadequate response to such generosity, but I was stumped for anything else to say and I could feel colour rising in my cheeks. He seemed to find that amusing. Even when serious, I noted, his mouth turned up at the corners as if used to smiling, and my blood melted in response.
“Good, well then…” he turned at that point and saw my collection of prints and posters. He stopped, mid sentence, scanning the walls and taking in the detail.
“These weren’t here last time,” he said, almost under his breath.
“Ah, the gory-ness,” I said glumly. “I’m sorry, I should have remembered.”
“No, not at all; surgeons are generally a pretty tough bunch. This is a fascinating collection – horrific, of course – but interesting nonetheless.”
I frowned at his use of the word horrific, because that is not what I had intended to evoke by displaying them on my walls.
“Not all of them are terrible – look,” and I went to one of my favourites; “this one’s about hope and salvation; see…” and I pointed to the main figure in the centre of the picture, “he’s turning away from the sins of temptation and is seeking redemption. It’s quite unusual for this period because it shows him succeeding. There – Christ has him by the hand, he won’t let him go. Most illustrations from this date show the trying, but rarely the succeeding, and this pre-dates the Reformation, so it’s doubly remarkable.”
He spoke quietly as he continued to study the poster.
“Is that why you like it – the fact that his soul is saved?”
I peered at it with him, taking in the details I never grew tired of seeing.
“I think it’s probably a good enough reason, don’t you? Possibly the best?”
