by Jason Foss
‘I don’t think we’ve seen her for months, not since the autumn term.’ The student looked for reinforcement from his colleagues.
‘The last game she played was Rod’s Death in Skarthion adventure,’ the Dungeon Master offered.
The others variously agreed with this point.
‘But she did come here and play this game?’ At last, Flint had a sliver of information. ‘How keen was she? Did she take it all seriously, or just come for a while?’
The one girl in the group, a dumpy individual with a QMC sweatshirt offered the reply, ‘She came all last year. She was really good, knew the rules backwards. It was nice having another woman along. She had a real feeling for the game, and her gnome got us out of a couple of scrapes.’
‘Any idea why she stopped playing?’
Shoulders were shrugged.
‘Does she have a boyfriend?’
All paused, waiting for a confession. It was not offered, so the QMC girl provoked one. ‘Timmy.’ The denim-jacketed youth was given a kick under the table.
‘You?’ asked Flint.
‘Not seriously. Not any longer.’
‘But you were?’
‘I wouldn’t like to brag about it.’
‘Please do.’ Flint stood and gesticulated towards the bar. ‘I’ll stand you a pint.’
Timmy stood reluctantly and was drawn beyond earshot. ‘It was nothing serious. I went out with her a bit at the start of the year, the academic year.’
‘And?’
The student dug his hands into his pockets and studied the mock-marble floor. ‘Nothing happened, you know? She’s a nice girl but, you know, not really interested.’
Flint nodded and ordered the drinks. ‘Do you know anyone else she’s been involved with?’
‘I know a couple of blokes she’s been with, they all say the same.’
He related a string of locker-room anecdotes. Lucy the lesbian. Lucy the permanent virgin. Lucy the tease. Many frustrated seducers, many long-distance admirers, many suspects for Vikki’s wilder scenarios of abduction or elopement. Flint memorised the names, and would jot them down later. The girl was becoming as much an enigma as her disappearance.
‘So did you fall out?’ Flint asked, enjoying his second beer.
‘No, it just didn’t work.’
The heavy-metal badges sewn to the student’s jacket simply screamed scientist to Flint’s eye. ‘I’d guess you were a scientist.’
‘I’m doing chemistry,’ said Timmy. ‘I’ve got my finals after Easter.’
The last words were spoken with a sense of deep foreboding.
‘And what did you think of Lucy after you broke up?’
Timmy still seemed reluctant to give straight answers. ‘Not much, she was just too weird.’
‘Was, you said was, that’s a past tense,’ Flint said sharply.
‘Well, I haven’t seen her for ages.’
Subtleties of detective work were hard to learn and Flint made a note to make his enquiries more oblique from that moment. ‘This dungeon game, it’s pretty addictive, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, you build up points week by week. The longer you survive, the better your character becomes.’
‘So why did Lucy stop playing?’
‘She said she was too busy. She was always going away, seeing people and getting wound up in her own crazy ideas. That’s what I hated about going out with her. She lied to me, she kept things secret. We all come here on Wednesdays and play characters, good, evil, neutral and sometimes we work together and sometimes we have to double-cross each other. But afterwards, in the bar, we all become real people again. Except Lucy.’ Timmy seemed angry and bitter at his failure. ‘She carries on playing as if all this is an effin’ magical kingdom and she’s the fairy queen. If you really want to know, I think she’s mad. She needs her head looking at.’
*
Another headline penned by Vikki Corbett ran across the front page of the Advertiser.
POLICE HUNT MISSING LOCAL GIRL
Rowan read the text for the twentieth time, then folded the newspaper. Around her, the estuary was waking up to spring. Geese were returning to the mudflats, whilst lambing was in progress on the coarse grass of the inned marshes. She sat on the sea wall, watching the birds to seaward, glancing right to confirm that a figure was growing closer. Her pulse quickened, alarmed by the headline, excited by the sight of the man striding towards her.
The Poet wore a green wax jacket and his usual tweed cap. He walked with confident purpose, his two Red Setters dodging around his heels and following his calls. Rowan watched him approach. By all the gods of earth and sky he was handsome. Rugged good looks of Mills & Boon quality set The Poet apart from the mass of middle-aged men, whilst his active brain and wide imagination left Rowan in awe.
She stood and checked that they were alone in the flat landscape.
‘Rowan!’ he called whilst twenty yards away. ‘What a glorious day; it sets my heart aflame!’
She kissed him on the cheek, then touched the head of one dog, Keats, as it sniffed at her russet woollen coat. The Poet’s welcoming smile fell as she took out the newspaper. He took it from her.
‘More wanton ill-informed rubbish. It’s no wonder English morality has slipped so low, when the press is in the power of illiterates.’
‘Surely you can do something?’ Rowan’s tone was submissive, yet persuasive. ‘You must know the editor...’
‘So I do, but I can’t see any reason to create a stir. It is not as if there’s a grain of sense in these articles. Why should we over-react? This will blow over and we have nothing to fear. Have the police interviewed anyone we know?’
‘No.’ She never felt confident in his presence, all her self-will evaporated before him. ‘I may be wrong, but I don’t think the police are very concerned.’
‘No, not in the slightest. Nor will they be,’ he stated with authority. The Poet folded the paper, and handed it hack, sighing, ‘Lucy, Lucy...’
‘No Christian names!’ Rowan snapped.
His expression made clear he found her manner offensive, and she avoided his glare, turning her face to the geese once more.
‘It’s as you said: we must not use Christian names, it is all part of the process of denial.’
‘Quite,’ he mellowed, ‘and indeed, a facet of security. Not that we should be afraid, but the media can be cruel,’ he flicked a finger on to the paper. ‘Our friends could be hurt. I hope everyone is being discreet?’
She nodded.
‘There are ways and ways, Rowan. One does not need to he crude. This puff of publicity will blow over, and if not, I’m sure we can out-think a mere girl reporter.’
‘You are right, I know you’re right.’
He reached out an embracing arm. The Poet always excited a warm glow deep within Rowan’s breast. Rebuking her, now protecting her, he played his role too.
*
By the end of the spring term, Lucy Gray had taken up permanent residence as one of Jeffrey Flint’s projects-in-being. A box file had been rededicated in her honour and began to bulge with scribbled notes. A clean photograph of Lucy was displayed prominently on his cork board, with a series of Vikki Corbett newspaper articles dangling underneath.
The caring staff of Leopold Hall evicted Lucy in her absence. Barbara drove up to London to clear the room. Leaving her husband waiting in their Volvo estate, Barbara went into the archaeology department to seek out Flint and found him in his office. It took only a few minutes to exchange what little they had discovered.
‘I can’t stay long, Derek’s waiting,’ she said.
‘Derek?’
‘My husband.’
‘Ah.’ Only a hint of deflation was in his voice.
Barbara had taken less care with her appearance than on the previous occasion they had met. She had dressed down into jeans and large mohair sweater, neither of which suited her. Even her hair, which had been well-kept, seemed to deserve a wash and blow-dry. Barbara han
ded over a pile of Lucy’s mail, which had been finally released into her hands.
‘I’ve read them all; there’s nothing which tells us very much.’ Barbara was showing the strain of waiting. After a moment’s hesitation she thrust a bank statement before him.
‘See this.’
She watched whilst the lecturer looked at the statement, dated March 6th. There were no entries for February.
‘Have you got last month’s statement in there too?’ Flint was frowning. Students could rarely survive a month without a trip to the bank.
‘In here somewhere.’ She ferreted out a NatWest envelope, which was unopened. Barbara sliced open the envelope with a fingernail, then withdrew the statement dated February 6th. The last item was a cheque for £9.60, clearing on the 3rd.
‘Three working days to clear, end of January some time,’ Flint observed, drumming a finger against the paper edge. ‘It’s not a record, not a piece of clothing, everything ends ninety-nine pence these days.’
‘She was careful – she wouldn’t just squander money. It must have been something she had to have.’
‘Or do. It’s about the right amount for a train or bus ticket.’ It was a guess, but a logical one for a girl who had suddenly vanished.
‘Yes, she could have got home on that,’ Barbara said with pathos. ‘When she first started up here, I used to give her ten pounds to cover her fares, to encourage her to come home.’ She paused. ‘I wonder where she went?’
‘Student railcard, day return, single, off-peak saver, coach, bus? There are a bundle of options, but a finite number of possibilities. I imagine the police could find where the cheque was presented.’
‘The police are not taking this seriously – they say she’s just flunking her exams.’
‘It’s the likeliest possibility.’
Barbara was insistent. ‘But she loves it here, she wants to work in a museum after she graduates. She won’t allow herself to fail.’
‘Students have done it before, even brilliant ones decide they can’t cope at the end.’
Barbara relaxed slightly. ‘When she comes back, can she retake her exams?’
‘She’s still got plenty of time. She’ll show up after Easter, you just see. Her marks are okay, she should get through even if she misses a few lectures.’
More than a few, and he knew it, but Barbara seemed partly reassured. Flint thought back to what the student Timmy Wright had said about Lucy.
‘Could I ask you something, Barbara? It’s probably a little personal, but you are a doctor. Did you ever examine Lucy, was she ever your patient?’
‘No,’ she said sharply.
‘Are you pally with her GP, or is she registered at our health centre?’
‘Here, she’s registered here.’
He sensed that Barbara was uncomfortable, but put it down to some aspect of medical ethics. ‘In your professional opinion, would you say Lucy was okay?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Fit and well, in body and mind’?’
‘Yes, look, I’d better go, I’m on surgery at four.’ Barbara stood to leave.
‘Where is the rest of Lucy’s stuff?’
‘In the car, Derek’s downstairs.’
‘Mind if I have a sift through her papers? It might help.’
Barbara pursed her lips. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.’
‘Just her paperwork; you know, letters, notebooks, things like that.’
‘What if the police want them’?’
Pigs will fly, he thought. ‘I live a lot closer to their station than you do.’
An archaeologist is a natural investigator. When Barbara had finally gone, leaving a pathetic pile of Lucy’s books and papers obstructing his doorway, Flint tried to forget about the coming field course and concentrate his mind on Lucy. He worked late in his office that evening, reading through everything Barbara had left, but finding no diary and no letters of consequence. He then re-read all the other notes, lists of names and dates which had arisen from his haphazard enquiries.
Lucy had drawn no money since the beginning of February and not even opened her mail. Easter was approaching, she should be completing her dissertation, then swotting for the finals. She shouldn’t fail; no-one failed BA Archaeology unless they were determined to do so. He looked at the coy smiling face pinned to his cork hoard. For the first time, he was genuinely worried.
If he was to find Lucy, he still needed to know so much more about her friends, her background and her past. With all the publicity of press, police and internal enquiries, the silence was astounding. Lucy had tripped lightly across the college scene, leaving few footprints. No one can become invisible, he thought, no matter how hard they might try. Something about Lucy’s lifestyle held the clue to her movements and her whereabouts.
An A4 pad was on his desk, as usual, and he had doodled the word ‘Lucy’ in the centre of the page. He sucked on the gold biro he had received as his graduation present, then ringed the name.
‘Home town: Durring,’ he wrote, then drew a box around it.
‘Family’ was written in another box, connecting to the other two by a line.
‘Tolkien etc.’ went into its own box.
He drew a line then wrote ‘Dragon games’.
He drew another and wrote ‘Astrology etc.’.
So far, everything tallied; archaeologists are naturally interested in the mysterious, the mystical and the arcane. He added a box labelled ‘Hazel’ as an offshoot of ‘astrology’ and ‘Timmy’ as an offshoot of ‘Dragon games’.
It was late, he was hungry. The switchboard was off, but he could ring Chrissie from the lobby payphone and arrange a rendezvous at the unassuming Chinese restaurant off Goodge Street. Flint wrote ‘Still in UK’ over to one side of his chart. Something nagged at him – he had the key within his reach. He listed dates of letters, of times and places she had been seen. She was missing by the eleventh of February, the date of the wedding. She was not missing two weeks before. He sat back, sucked the gold biro a little more, then wrote ‘February 1st’. A logic trigger went off in his brain and he reached for a colourful coffee-table book on the Celts, which sat in the pile of Lucy’s books. Within a minute, he had found the page listing the four key Celtic festivals: Samhain, Imbolc, Beltane, Lugnasadh. Below ‘February 1st’ he wrote ‘Imbolc’, then crossed out the word ‘astrology’ and replaced it by ‘occult’. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he remembered Timmy’s remarks, and Lucy’s own dreamy speech about harmonising with the Earth. She was impressionable, but had she finally lost touch with reality?
It had been a very late night indeed, which resulted in a late start to his morning. Flint was still reading his mail when Tyrone appeared in his office to demand attention. He had asked for comments on his paper on ‘London Ware’ that he wanted to submit to London Archaeologist. It would be his first academic publication and Tyrone was keen to see it approved.
Flint suppressed a yawn as he turned his thoughts away from Lucy and on to archaeology. ‘Tyrone, how many l’s are there in ‘Gaulish’?’
‘Two?’
‘One.’
Tyrone slicked a hand through his hair and sighed. ‘Have I botched it up?’
‘Doesn’t the computer have a spell checker?’ Flint asked.
‘Yes, but it’s only got 10,000 words in its vocabulary.’
‘Gaulish isn’t one of them, I assume. Well, spelling apart, it’s fine.’ Flint smoothed the pages together. ‘What have you found out about Lucy?’
‘I think she’s been kidnapped by some of Neil’s Space Aliens.’
‘Seriously?’
Tyrone produced a ring-pad with ten pages of scribbled names, dates, places. ‘I checked most of this stuff – it’s all trivial. There are about six or seven guys who reckon they are ex-boyfriends, but they’re all still around. She hasn’t eloped to Gretna Green.’
‘Not with any of them, anyway.’
‘Everything else is just gossip
– there’s nothing reliable or substantial, so what next, Doc?’
‘I’d like you to expand on the “find Lucy” project over Easter.’
‘Is there any money in it?’
‘Not a penny.’
Tyrone’s post-Thatcherite ethics were offended. He grimaced as Flint continued. ‘If you’re aiming to be an archaeologist you should learn Rule One: we all work for love, not money.’
The student stuck out his chin and nodded.
‘I’m going to be nursemaiding first-years and trying to keep them alive in Essex next week, but can you dig around some more?’
‘Sure thing.’
The eighties had been a barbarous, selfish decade and Tyrone was its sharp, almost cruel product. His plans for the future were purely mercenary: an independent archaeological consultant to wealthy developers. For the moment, Flint needed to utilise his energy and his cynical realism. At some time, he would also need to utilise his car.
The pair sat talking about Lucy Gray for another ten minutes, then the phone rang.
‘Flint.’
‘Doctor Flint?’ The female voice spoke. ‘It’s Lucy, Lucy Gray.’
‘Lucy, where are you?’
‘Please don’t look for me.’
‘Lucy, listen, I need to talk to you...’
She did not reply. All he could hear was background traffic.
‘Lucy, you’re wasting a lot of people’s time...’
The phone went dead, Flint snapping brief, futile words into it before he realised he was talking to air.
‘Lucy?’ Tyrone asked.
‘Apparently,’ Flint said, temporarily confused by the ten-second phone call.
‘Now what?’
Flint drummed his fingers, then rang Barbara’s surgery. He was insistent with the receptionist and was soon speaking to a harassed GP.
‘Barbara?’
‘Jeffrey Flint! I was going to ring you, we’ve had a postcard, from Lucy.’
‘When?’
‘Today, this morning, at the surgery.’
Tyrone was listening in. ‘Is it in her handwriting?’ he whispered.
Flint repeated the question to Barbara.
‘I think so.’
‘What does it say?’
‘It’s from Glasgow, with an Indian statuette on the front
