Bone Lines

by Stephanie Bretherton

  It is a waste of energy that she should not spend, even though she has fed well from a lucky find along the way (a tough old long-horned goat, gored in a fight, ready and willing to give up his struggle to more merciful means than a long, slow bleed would grant) but she sets about finishing the work of the burial. The pair left above ground had somehow lived through – or come back to find – whatever had happened here, lasting long enough to honour those who had fallen. She covers their remains, if only shallowly, shares some of the death-gifts from the other mounds, if only a scattering. But these fellows, too, deserve to follow their kin.

  As she works she hears her grandmother’s voice. The chants that the old woman would offer for one lost. There were certain sounds for those who died of sickness and other more powerful and deeper laments for those taken suddenly or too young. More for those who died in the hunt, or who had been taken by the anger of men. She cannot know what sounds these souls may have made to each other, or for each other. But she thinks her grandmother would not scold her for lending them one of her own people’s songs. There is no other to hear it. Only the small and crawling creatures of the sand.

  And as she sings and works, she understands, suddenly. The distance between all that exists is nothing. The tiny grains of dust that claim us all had birthed us all. In each that lives and loves there is the same and everything is better for it. And in this she finds a quiet yet immeasurable peace. Now she understands the look in her grandmother’s eyes as she was dying.

  She finishes her work, but then awakes from the sacred and is aware once more of momentary fears. Striding on into the cover of the coming night, she knows that she must change direction, yet again – and walk far away from those terrifying footprints.

  *

  Back in the lab, Eloise had to work alongside KC and act as if the hotel moment had never happened. If anything, she thought that he must also be relieved. It was as though something lurking in the shadows had stepped briefly into the light, and having been recognised and avoided, was now fading into soft focus. She felt sure she had made the right decision.

  KC acknowledged both the awkwardness and the greater intimacy between them with a gesture that pointed, she hoped, towards a potentially rewarding if sensibly chaste companionship. Eloise returned from lunch one day to find that he’d left a book on her desk, not inscribed within but rather with a post-it note on top, something that would appear casual to the impartial observer, transparent, out in the open. But Eloise could tell that KC had thought carefully about what he had scribbled. It was a kind of code – hidden in plain sight.

  The book was an early edition of Jonas Salk’s Survival of the Wisest (he had clearly gone out of his way to source it) and the inscription referred to a conversation they’d had over dinner in the hotel, on that so-nearly night, about this heroic virologist and ‘bio-philosopher’ (and also about some of the troubling errors that had been made along the challenging road towards immunity). It had been another of those clear yet confusing moments in which they’d found themselves in complete harmony.

  The note was addressed to ‘Dear Dr Kluft’ – simply calling her that was a nod and a wink to their own private joke, as he was the one who insisted on less formality – and it read: ‘As we discussed, cometh the hour, cometh the (wo)man. Much of value and relevance here, if not everything we might have hoped for? Enjoy!’

  The gift had both warmth and meaning. Was this the turning point in their relationship and could she now let go of all her misgivings about her colleague? Eloise unpeeled the yellow post-it note from the cover and was about to crumple it, but then paused for a moment and placed it inside the back page of the book. She smiled inwardly and looked forward to thanking KC in person.

  Nevertheless, she considered it wise to maintain a safe distance. The libidinous aspect of the ego did not take well to rejection and this, after all, had been the ultimate reality of their evening together at the conference, however subtle his approach, however discreet her refusal. She remained perplexed by their relationship. While there was a real and compelling physical lure between them, that much was now undeniable, Eloise knew it was one that she could and should resist. What she wasn’t clear about was KC’s take on it and she felt unable to confront that directly.

  Was he as convinced as she or might he yield to the undertow of a disastrous affair, given any further opportunity or in any moment of mutual weakness? Was he happy to remain at a healthy arm’s length, as nothing more than amicable colleagues, or was he interested in forging a true friendship (an appealing outcome to Eloise, if possible). How safe would that path be? Could they turn this affinity into a fruitful working relationship that extended far beyond the Sarah project, or did there remain some hidden agenda with KC, personal or otherwise?

  Eloise knew that the boundaries now in place were indispensable and yet she was always in some way aroused in KC’s company, whether intellectually or physically. Might this come to taint any occupational partnership in the end? Indeed, how would a growing closeness between them be perceived by workmates, or management, or reflect on a reputation that she had fought so hard to establish? Eloise wondered whether anyone else had sensed this electromagnetic pull between them, more powerful than gravity, threatening to sweep her right out of her professional sangfroid.

  As she leafed through KC’s gift, a calendar notification popped up on her phone asking her not to forget her godfather’s birthday, but more effectively reminding her that this circular rumination was a waste of time and headspace. Eloise returned to her research, excusing herself, nevertheless. As natural as workplace attractions seemed to be (didn’t a significant percentage of couples meet this way, weren’t they often the most successful?), Eloise had never experienced anything of this nature before.

  KC waved from across the lab as he made his excuses to leave for the day and she waved back in casual acknowledgement, as she would to any other of the team, feeling rude for not having thanked him for the book straight away. She sent a brief but sincere text and received a thumbs up in return.

  Not long after this, Rory, her lab assistant, ambled past her desk to check whether she wanted anything from the vending machine, but Eloise soon realised that his slower-than-ever gait indicated that he had something to say. She declined the offer of a chocolate fix but smiled at him in encouragement even so.

  ‘No thanks, Rory, sugar quota already maxed out for the day. Nice win for the Magpies last night though, bet you were happy?’

  ‘Aye, ecstatic, aye.’

  He stood there, smiling, but not moving.

  ‘Was there something else, Rory?’

  ‘OK, so, I saw that book that Dr Harmon left you. Yeah, nice. Great book.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve read it?’

  ‘No, but um, I’d like to when you’ve finished it?’

  ‘OK. Sure.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  He smoothed back his lank pony tail. Smiled again.

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘OK. So, I really need to say this. Otherwise I might regret it. But please be careful, Dr Kluft.’

  Eloise knew that her cheeks had flushed but hoped he hadn’t noticed. She cleared her throat, feigned bewilderment.

  ‘About what?’

  Rory pulled up a stool from the workbench opposite.

  ‘You know, I’m really not sure about that guy,’ he said, indicating the book still on her desk, but Eloise knew that he meant KC, not Jonas Salk. (If Rory was an anti-vaxer then he was working in the wrong place.)

  ‘Oh. Why?’

  Despite the involuntary swallowing, Eloise felt sure this came out calmly enough.

  ‘So, the other week, the day when you came in late, you took your cat to the vet, I think?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘So, I saw Dr Harmon coming out of Eugene’s office. I didn’t hear what they were saying but they looked way too friendly and ‘agreeable’ if you know what I mean.’

  ‘OK. But why
wouldn’t they be?’

  ‘No, no, it was more than that… I don’t know. They shook hands like they were in a club of some kind, you know?’

  Eloise had always liked the hot cocoa of Rory’s Geordie accent, its ‘what’s the hurry, man?’ pace, but now she wanted him to pour out his point.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Well, OK, so that meeting might have been nothing more than a bit of diplomacy, but… ah wey, I know I shouldna been listening, but I overheard him Skyping his bosses, or whatever they are over there, and I only caught the end of it but he was saying something like he was ‘working on it’ and that he knew it was a problem but he had a few ideas for sorting it. Or something like that. That’s all really, but… you know, I just thought you should know.’

  ‘OK. Thanks. I think? I’m sure it’s nothing, Rory, but yes, don’t worry. I’ll get to the bottom of it. And really, please don’t worry about me, my eyes are wide open.’

  ‘Right then. That’s good then.’

  Right then. Eloise knew that any of Rory’s tale could have meant anything at all. Or nothing. Those overheard conversations would have been before the CCTV went in, before KC had admitted to her what was being discussed, so this was nothing new. But Rory had picked up on something. At least he hadn’t sympathetically warned her not to ‘get too close’ – at least this seemed nothing more than a hangover of suspicion from when the whole team was aware that the project was at risk to a rival US bid.

  But shortly after, Eloise was forced to wonder whether her work really was being impaired by the ‘KC factor’. Was all this crackling interference now creating other problems? Of course, she knew it could not be so, but something very strange was happening to her terminal. She’d opened an email, supposedly from the lab that had worked on the carbon dating of Sarah, with a link that she was pithily encouraged to click. When, without thinking she did so, it took her not to where she’d expected but to a bizarre page of biblical quotes, in a font that bellowed of both righteousness and entrenched tradition. Eloise thought it had to be some kind of joke when she began to read:

  Proverbs 19:23 – The fear of the LORD [tendeth] to life: and [he that hath it] shall abide satisfied; he shall not be visited with evil.

  A vague tingling at the back of her neck told her something wasn’t right before she realised that this was no prank. She closed the link straight away, but now various programmes and files were opening and closing of their own accord. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Have I been hacked?

  Eloise unplugged her terminal before it could infect the server (she hoped) but felt stupid for not having been more careful, for having been so preoccupied. Here, surely, was the most punishing answer to all those mind-wasting questions about KC. She summoned the IT department and hung back helplessly while they went to work, knowing there was nothing more she could do, but feeling that she ought to stand penitent at the site of her transgression.

  ‘Who did the email come from?’ the not-long-out-of-puberty expert asked her. ‘It was probably a spoofed address, but it would be useful to have it.’

  ‘Oh damn, I couldn’t tell you the exact address off the top of my head, but wait a minute, I threw out an old email from them only this morning. It should be in my recycling bin… oh, no wait, that’s weird, my bin’s been emptied? That doesn’t usually happen until the end of the day. Oh dear, no, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No worries, we can find out with a phone call. We should let them know anyway.’

  ‘OK. Yes. Here, I have their number on speed dial…’

  As the wall clock flashed red past eighteen hundred, Eloise was drenched in another wave of guilt. This would make her late for the Samaritans. She hated letting down her shift-mates, or worse, any caller in dire need of their now divided time, but realised she would have to consider a break from volunteering for a while. She could not commit while the project possessed her and, in truth, she was struggling to cope with the interruptions to her delicate sleep patterns that came with the night shifts. After tonight she would request a sabbatical.

  There was a tug of regret, however, that went beyond abandoning the needs of callers. Eloise realised how much she would miss her weekly contact with John. An unlikely friendship, but one that had so enriched her life. She was determined to join her shift at some point this evening, as soon as IT gave her dispensation. With everything that was going on, she needed to see John.

  The Reverend John Evesham had been a Samaritan volunteer for over two decades. He ministered at a well-attended progressive church, as well as prisons, police cells, hospitals and psychiatric facilities, but was trusted to reserve his spiritual guidance for his willing flock rather than inflict it on callers to the helpline. He was part of something called the ‘Integral Christianity Movement’. While Eloise was not sure quite what that meant (or that she wanted to know) she had found his equanimity and unswerving compassion more appealing than several in the scientific fellowship.

  John’s gentle mentoring had endeared him to her, as to all who worked with him. In a series of difficult calls in her early days Eloise had been tempted to get angry with the aggressive, indignant with the hoaxers, contemptuous of the heavy breathers and impatient with those tragic regulars who seemed unwilling or unable to jump out of their vicious circles. John had offered a very clear observation on their purpose.

  ‘Eloise,’ he had consoled, ‘I know it can be upsetting, especially when you worry that perhaps more genuine or critical cases might not be getting through, but we can never guess at their intentions, or motivations. They all need some empathy, some human contact. Someone who will not judge or betray or dictate to them. Someone who is there to listen, simply because they want to be.’

  There were other misgivings about her suitability for the role that Eloise had not shared with John. Sometimes, in flickers of shifting static, she was not completely convinced that suicide was always something to be saved from. Knowing that depression was usually treatable and not the immutable state that those despairing in the middle of an episode often believed it to be, Eloise felt that if she could help even one soul to see past the darkness, it would be worth the attempt. But what of the terminally suffering, or those whose quality of life was as hopelessly dire as their ability to rationally choose was clear? And what would she do if the course of her own life ever brought her face-to-face with that reality? The horror of her mother’s last weeks had never fully left her.

  Eloise was clear, however, that it was not their role as Samaritans to forcibly dissuade, but rather to offer a guide towards any chink of light. If someone had picked up the phone, it indicated that at least some illumination might be creeping under the door. And far better to help them well before, while suicide was only a sly, unwanted thought. To let them say the unsayable.

  Eloise did not know how she would cope with the ultimate ‘failure’ if she ever experienced it. John had recounted a couple of heart-wrenching occasions during which he’d had to accept his part was simply to stay with the terrible reality and bear witness. For those who were determined to do so, not to have to leave the world alone.

  Eloise had often pondered the paradox. Despite the mystery of mass strandings, no other healthy animal actively suicides. They cannot contemplate it, driven only to live, reproduce or die trying. Was this the curse of consciousness, she wondered, of that chemical crucible for all our outward and inward looking intelligence? That together with the ability to seek ourselves, know ourselves – even to laugh at ourselves – comes the cost of realisations that we cannot bear? As a species, humanity was blessed with a vitalising richness of emotions and yet, insanely, these were sometimes so dense and dark that we were unable to support their weight.

  Sometimes, Eloise found it hard to prevent those reflections from seeping inside. One caller had asked of her in agony, ‘How do you stop wanting the things that you know you will never have?’

  Even if it had been ethical to impose an opinion, Eloise could not have. She had no answer to t
hat question.

  She also had no answers that were of any further use to IT and so, remorsefully, she slipped away.

  *

  She watches her sleeping, the tender breath coming slow and easy. Eyelashes fluttering in gentle dreaming. Watching. This is her task alone now.

  When the men of her kind became fathers they received their markings in a ceremony that women were not permitted to witness, but she had seen it once, well-hidden and quiet. A very fine, sharp arrowhead was warmed in the fire. Deep sounds rose and fell in humming. Hands were held behind the back, but no force was used or needed. This was for pride. This made a man. Three quick cuts, like fingers, on each side of the upper chest, then widened and sealed with a stick, ember red from the pit of the fire.

  She is both mother and father now. She is a whole tribe.

  She makes a decision. Prepares the fire, blesses and heats the tools, comes to stillness and looks long and deep into the flames. Elusive yet alive with ways and wisdom beyond understanding, the voices of the ancestors could be heard within its silences. But this treacherous attraction has also left its mark upon her. She knows both the beauty and the fury of fire all too well, the skin of her forearm tells the pitiful tale from a careless moment of play. Pain she will never forget.

  Her flint is not fine or sharp enough (is it hot enough?) but she does not care, she needs to feel. Something. To know that she is not made of stone and dust. She closes her eyes and begins to deepen her breath, turns back into the sacred place until all has slowed to nothing.

  Then she drops the stones she has been beating, but keeps the humming buried low within her gut. Now. She winces as she draws the first cut, but makes no cry, the child still sleeps. The cut is jagged, the blood flows too fast but she stops it with the smouldering. The smell. She had forgotten the smell, different somehow when it is your own flesh. The next cut is better, faster, cleaner. She gets the angle right, keeps all the cuts high and close. It is done.