by Jason Foss
Tyrone coloured, sensing he was being criticised. ‘She is a bit kinky, she wears a rattlesnake garter. I saw her flashing it at the freshers’ party last term. I’ve never seen her with anyone special, but all the usual jerks try to chat her up.’
He listed a string of hopefuls who had hung around her neck at parties. Flint stopped him part way through and began to scribble names down the margin of his notepad.
‘Did you ever date her?’
‘No, never, she’s not my type; she’s into lentils and basket weaving. Lucy’s a good looker, but needs her brain retuning. She’s strung a couple of guys along, but doesn’t really seem to have much to do with anyone in college, or anyone on this planet as far as I can see. Why all the interest?’
‘You must have heard she’s missing.’
‘Missing missing, or just missing?’
‘Officially missing. Where were you when the girls in blue came around asking questions?’
‘Working.’
‘Okay, but if you’ve got any thoughts on where she is, we’d all like to know.’
Tyrone deliberately creased his forehead, overdoing the impression of thinking. ‘I bet she’s just gone off to join a wimmin’s peace camp or something. I don’t know why everyone is getting so excited.’
‘Well, everyone isn’t. The police were just going through the motions, and Professor Grant has asked me to liaise with them so that he won’t have to bother.’
‘Why are you bothering?’
‘Basic humanity. And, she’s got a very pleasant big sister.’
Flint kept a poker face, but not Tyrone. His square jaw twisted into a wry grin. The whole college knew Jeffrey Flint’s reputation.
Tyrone had disappeared down to the computer room and the last details of the Easter field trip were occupying Flint’s mind when his office door creaked open. It was going to be another interrupted day. Flint raised an eye from the sheaf of papers. Halfway down the door, a brush of short-cropped black hair popped into his vision.
‘Doctor Flint, I am right?’
She pushed the door further open. ‘Hi, I’m Vikki Corbett.’
In her mid-twenties, just over five feet tall, clad in an ankle-length tan raincoat and sporting huge chunky blue earrings. Was he supposed to know who she was or what she wanted?
‘Can I sit?’ She cleared the usual pile from the soggy chair whilst Flint allowed his mouth to hang slightly awry.
From a large leather shoulder bag she drew a notepad and clicked a pen into action. Her lipstick hovered on the edge of purple, her mouth expressed the sort of surprised pleasure reserved for meeting long-lost friends.
‘Vikki Corbett,’ she repeated, ‘Durring and Kingshaven Advertiser.’
‘Oh, I thought you were a student.’
‘No, I’m a journalist.’ She over-extended her syllables as she spoke. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I was just passing. I’m working on a piece on Lucy Gray’s disappearance, it’s looking like blowing into a really big story.’
She spoke rapidly with a breathless excitement which over-whelmed him.
‘Did we have an appointment?’
A quick smile from the reporter served as explanation, apology or simply to override his objection. ‘I hear you teach Lucy Gray.’
‘Along with a dozen other lecturers.’ Flint realised he was being interviewed and allowed himself to roll out minimal responses. ‘I took her for one course, last year.’
‘So, Doctor Flint, everyone tells me you’re really keen to help your students, you know, their welfare, whether they are happy, whether they’re in trouble, so I thought you’d be the best person to tell me all about her.’
‘Well, she’s not my student,’ he began the familiar protest, then added, ‘I can’t say much, it wouldn’t be right.’ What could he say? What should he not say? All he knew so far was vague slander. His stomach rumbled. ‘Look, I’m starving, have you had lunch?’
‘Not yet. I could murder something to eat, do you know somewhere good?’
‘No, but I know somewhere close.’
Vikki fired off questions non-stop as they followed the complex series of stairs and corridors that led to the college refectory. Flint shrugged them off or gave non-committal answers.
‘Welcome to Le Café Albert,’ he said as they joined the queue, ‘it’s a bit crummy, like all college canteens.’
She looked around at the multi-racial hubbub of students and younger staff seated amongst a litter of newspapers and duplicated sheets advertising college events. ‘It looks all right.’
‘I suppose. It’s a million times better than it was. College rationalised the place last year, sacked the catering manager and staff en bloc. It caused a real stink, there were demos, boycotts, petitions; we had our own little 1968 revolution down here.’
‘It doesn’t look like what I imagine a college canteen should look like.’ Vikki surveyed the mock Mediterranean decor, murals of Naples and the ice-cream-cart-style serving-hatches.
‘It was put out to tender, and this Italian restaurateur picked up the concession. We kept up the campaign of action, of course.’
‘Why? That one please...’ Vikki pointed at the tuna lasagne.
The huge, habitually grinning Italian mamma loaded her plate.
‘Social conscience... yeah, I’ll have the veg curry please.’
‘…and chips,’ Vikki added. ‘So why did your boycott end?’
‘Because the food was cheap, edible and students have to eat. In the old days, even the rats refused to eat here.’
They sat by a cluster of plastic palms in the non-smoking area. Flint cleared the scatter of loose leaflets into a pile at one end. Vikki slipped off her coat and shuffled her over-large cardigan until she was comfortable. She gave a guilty twitch as she sipped the Coke in her paper cup.
‘This is dreadfully bad for me, I know, but I just love the stuff,’ she bobbed her head with the confession, ‘I’m just a kid at heart. I could eat here every day... mmm, this tastes good, what’s yours like?’
Flint smiled politely whilst Vikki chattered around the subject of food. He had already decided that the subject of Lucy Gray should be left to the police; his time was being gobbled up to no profit.
‘I’m supposed to be asking about Lucy Gray, aren’t I? Sorry. So, where do you think she is?’ Vikki probed.
‘Well, she’s not in college.’
‘No, but where do you think she is?’ Vikki’s voice had a roguish tone, as though she was expecting some sort of exciting answer.
‘Really, it’s anyone’s guess. This is your line of work, you probably have a better idea than me.’
Vikki nodded. ‘We get these cases where people just disappear. Sometimes they turn up, you know, murdered in a motorway lay-by or down a railway embankment. We had a girl last year who went hitch-hiking and was hit by a car. She lay in a ditch for two days before she was found. And,’ Vikki waved a blood-red fork to emphasise the gore, ‘she had amnesia and couldn’t even say who she was.’
Flint suppressed a desire to flatten the girl’s gruesome enthusiasm and posed a question. ‘Have you spoken to Lucy’s family?’
‘They contacted us. I ran a missing person story on Friday. Do you want to see it – I made the front page.’
She rummaged in the depths of her bag and drew out a folded sheet of newsprint. LOCAL GIRL MISSING IN LONDON
Vikki cocked her head to one side to follow the text as he speed-read the story.
‘You didn’t read it all?’ she asked as he finished it.
‘I did. You learn to read quickly in my game.’
She frowned with deep, sincere interest. ‘Working in archaeology must be really exciting.’
‘Only occasionally. The bureaucrats rather spoil the fun these days, they’re turning us all into excavators of ‘in’ trays.’
‘Get away, it must be really interesting, I’m envious, I’d love to do something like that. Have you been to Egypt?’
‘
Yes, but I’ve never wrestled crocodiles or discovered a lost city. Life is a lot tamer than the movies.’
He tried to hand the article back, but she rejected it with obvious pride. ‘No, keep it.’
Flint folded the paper and slid it into his jacket pocket, resolving to find a litter bin on the way back to his office. ‘So, talking of exciting careers, how long have you been a reporter?’
Her eyes flicked once at the table top. ‘Over a year.’
He nodded, smiling at the defence mechanism. ‘Have you spoken to the police, down in…’ he thought for a moment, ‘Durring?’
‘Mmm,’ she confirmed, ‘London police. They’re not taking it very seriously though.’
‘And you are?’
‘Not a lot happens in Kingshaven; even less in Durring. I spend most of my time doing cat shows and fires in council flats. This is something else, though, I’ve got a feeling I can make a really good story out of this.’
Flint was concerned about what she considered a ‘good story’. It probably contained plenty of human tragedy – a thought which nauseated him and urged him to change the subject again.
‘I lectured in Durring once, a couple of years back. Pleasant place, the fourteenth-century Hospitium was worth the visit. Never been to Kingshaven, though.’
‘Don’t bother, it’s a hole,’ Vikki said. ‘There’s the quaint bit in the middle which is good for tourists. The rest is fine if you like docks and marshes, otherwise...’
She pushed her thumb downwards.
‘So you have higher ambitions?’
She smiled. ‘Fleet Street, London.’
Her roots were betrayed by the way she pronounced ‘Larnden’. Vikki drew out her pen and pad again and flashed her eyes. ‘Now tell me everything.’
‘A wide request.’ He toyed with her, not immediately sensing a change of mood.
‘You know, everything about Lucy Gray.’
‘Her family can tell you more than I can.’
‘They don’t know much about her. I’ve spent the morning asking around your college, no one knows much about her. She’s Miss Mystery.’
‘She is a little strange.’
This remark was a mistake, throwing a tiddler out to a media piranha. Vikki’s eyes widened beneath the mascara, her features sharpened. ‘How do you mean?’
He tried to worm off the hook, but she had him fixed. He had taken her for a green rookie, but Vikki knew her trade and quickly prised out what little he knew. She was intrigued by Lucy’s more colourful interests.
‘This dungeon thing sounds really weird.’
‘Most of my students have weird interests. It’s a way of asserting their individuality. They spend three years being as bizarre as they can, then get jobs as accountants.’
The biro moved. ‘So all your students are weird.’
‘Don’t quote me! And it’s not just my students, it’s all students.’ And he had fooled himself into thinking Vikki lacked the bite for Fleet Street! He continued to wriggle. ‘Lucy was no odder than the average student.’
‘So she was odd?’
He sighed, then enjoyed a thirty-second truce whilst she jotted down a note. Satisfied, she changed course.
‘Well, I’ve covered Lucy pretty well, but I’d like to know a little more about you.’
‘Me?’
‘You know, background information. You’re Doctor Jeffrey Flint... that’s a good name for an archaeologist, Flint.’
‘I’ve heard all the jokes.’
‘Now, you’re what? Thirty?’
‘Ish,’ was the immediate if grumpy response.
‘And you’re a vegetarian,’ she pointed to the curry.
‘Not really; they just do good veggie meals here, often better than the carnivorous variety.’
‘I see.’
What she saw was the red-rimmed spectacles, the beard, the long hair and the jacket with its patched elbows and discreet CND badge. He knew the stereotype she would create for her readers. He told her a little of himself and his past history, thinking it better she know the truth than simply find scope for creative writing. Vikki asked him about his work and he launched enthusiastically into his new theory on third-century chronology. Very quickly, her head began to nod in rhythm with his speech, she said, ‘Fascinating,’ then abruptly switched back to Lucy.
‘So, Lucy was into horoscopes and dungeon games and what’s this? Ley-lines? Where do they get these strange ideas from?’ She waved a laden fork in ignorance. ‘Do you teach these things? Is it part of the course?’
‘No.’ His defence was just a little too snappy.
‘Well, I mean...’ Her biro end wavered towards the beard.
‘It’s the uniform, my image. We all carry an image, you know. Mine’s the wacky off-beat college lecturer. It’s what the public expects.’
The sarcasm was intended, but Vikki bit back. ‘So whilst you’re busy having demo’s about canteens and banning the bomb, who looks after your students?’
‘They’re grown-ups, officially.’
Vikki had passion in her voice. ‘They’re still people, young people. You are in charge of them. You give them all these funny intellectual ideas – you can’t just forget about them when they go missing.’
His left hand crushed the paper cup, anger and guilt flashing through him in waves. As he scrambled to find a witty put-down, Vikki continued her offensive.
‘Lucy Gray could be anywhere. Anything could have happened to her. It’s your responsibility, you should know where she is.’
‘I’m not a nursemaid, I’m not even her supervisor. Students disappear all the time; wild parties, spur-of-the-moment holidays.’
‘Murdered by the roadside...’
He glared at her, irritating girl.
‘How many lectures has she missed?’
‘I don’t know. Three per week, plus a seminar.’
‘She wouldn’t miss all that work.’
‘My students do it all the time.’
‘Her mother says she was a sensible girl.’
His tolerance was gone. ‘She would, wouldn’t she?’
‘Yes, but this is her final year; do you think she would just run off?’
He shrugged, ‘She could be researching her dissertation.’
‘I’m going to find her,’ Vikki declared, ‘and I think you should help.’
Flint sighed and dropped the mutilated cup onto his tray. She was right, he knew she was right, he agreed with her but was too angry to say so. All he could do was take a few deep breaths then mutter, ‘Okay, perhaps you have a point.’
*
One hour with a manic reporter posing questions he could not possibly answer and provoking thoughts he had no time to address was a tiring experience. A lecture at two offered the excuse to run. Once the first-years’ interest in Basic Dating Techniques had been satisfied, Flint checked through the class lists. In her three years, Lucy had booked solidly on the British archaeology courses, mainly prehistory with an excursion into Old English. He speed-read through the five essays she had produced for his ‘Approaches to the Past’ seminar course. The handwriting in the first was neat, but by the fifth betrayed an unruliness less common amongst girls. She showed good recall, some detailed background knowledge but her work contained several unsubstantiated throwaway lines that would lose her marks. ‘This is contentious: where is the evidence?’ he had scrawled in red biro beside the point where she had glibly asserted that in her opinion, Saxons settled in the south-east of England during the third century AD. This was hardly an accepted archaeological fact; quotes were needed to back up such statements.
He was still toying with the content of Lucy’s essays as he went over into the Classics lounge for afternoon tea. On the way, he passed one of innumerable cluttered student notice-boards. Buried amongst posters urging ‘Fight the Cuts!’ or ‘Say no to Racism’ was a photostat handwritten page reading ‘Dice with Dragons each Wednesday Night’. That poster would have appealed to Luc
y.
Chapter 3
‘What are you doing?’
‘Opening the door.’
‘Roll a dice.’
‘Six-sided?’
A dice clunked on to the table top. Five.
‘You hear something behind you.’
The girl shrieked, ‘Oh God, it’s going to be something horrible, we’re all going to die!’
Flint sat bemused in the corner of the dimly lit Upper Lounge. A few yards away, six students were clustered around a knee-high table. Five were players, one the Dungeon Master who controlled their destiny, setting fiendish traps and awarding fabulous rewards for cunning. Rulebooks were piled on the floor, the map of an imaginary dungeon full of perils was spread across the table. Adventures in a fantasy realm totally absorbed the six. Flint went down into the bar.
The reporter’s barb had bitten deep, triggering his own innate nosiness. The whereabouts of the missing student, his missing student, had been gnawing at his conscience. Only absent six weeks. Absent for six whole weeks; over a month. A sense of balance was needed. A pint of Sam Smith’s Old Brewery Brown helped.
The Lower Lounge bar was a gloomy, unpopular drinking hole with the charm of an airport departure lounge. Uncomfortable low-level mock leather chairs were grouped in eights around tables which seemed designed to remove kneecaps. Five intrepid dungeoneers soon ventured down the stairs, their careers as mythical heroes prematurely terminated. A slice of the nation’s top one per cent chose one bay of chairs and bemoaned the immolation of their paper characters by a red dragon. The Dungeon Master soon joined them, chuckling for effect and fending off the abuse of those he had recently annihilated. Setting cynicism aside, Flint walked up to the group and creaked into one of the fading red chairs. He introduced himself and asked about Lucy.
‘Lucy Gray?’ A short youth in a denim jacket with unfashionably long brown hair chirped up from his stool. ‘She’s got a gnome illusionist called Gnorman.’
Without blinking, Flint pressed on. ‘Have you seen her recently?’
‘She’s dropped out; it said in the college paper,’ a lean, gawky student informed him.
‘But when did you last see her?’
