Grave Consequences

by Dana Cameron

  “No, I mean a proper drink,” Greg said. “Wait, I’ll get you a glass.”

  Before I could refuse again, he pushed back his chair and stumbled over to the cabinets, where he rummaged noisily with the ominous clink of glasses. I sat down slowly, not liking any of this. I did a little calculation and the result was disturbing: a couple of whiskeys, followed by more than a bottle and a half of wine on his own? I was surprised that Greg could stand and speak.

  “Here we are.” He returned with a stemmed glass and set it down hard on the table, filling it by tipping the bottle almost completely vertical. The wine glugged out of the bottle and some splashed onto the table. “Plenty of…aeration,” Greg announced. “Must let a wine breathe. Must give it space to develop, mustn’t crowd it. Here, give it a try, it’s not a bad little bottle.”

  He slid the almost full glass across the table to me and it hit an irregularity in the big oak table. The dark red, almost purple, wine sloshed over the edge.

  I shook my head tiredly; I really wasn’t up to this. “No, thanks. My head is really killing me and I think I’ll—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Would it kill you to simply drink the bloody wine?”

  He slammed the bottle down so hard that I jumped. I looked closely at Greg and wished I hadn’t. He looked like a zombie, face slack and movements jerky, and his frizzy hair was weighted down with sweat and dust. He kept blinking his eyes slowly, like he was trying hard not to see something, and while his teeth were clenched hard, his lips couldn’t quite stay closed together.

  Still watching him, I took a small sip. “It is nice,” I agreed carefully, afraid to say more but also wondering whether I should call him on it.

  “See? I knew you’d like it. And it didn’t hurt a bit, did it? Me being right?” His tone was still scary, belligerent, all the more so because this was nothing of what I’d come to expect from Greg. “I always knew someday I’d be right and it wouldn’t hurt a soul.”

  I paused, then slowly began to open one of the wrapped parcels; it was stone cold from sitting there for so long and the sharp scent of vinegar on the cold grease hit me. “Well, I haven’t seen you be wrong about anything yet, Greg. Not since I’ve been here.”

  I had been hoping that my deliberate tone would calm him down, but I was unprepared for what happened next. Greg’s eyes began to fill, and he slumped forward, all the hostility gone. “Oh, God, Emma, I’m afraid I was wrong about Jane. So wrong. She’ll never come back to me now.”

  I froze; that was a bit extreme. Did he mean never come back from the police station, or never come back to him ever? “What do you mean? Have you heard from her?”

  “No, not a word. I called the station after I left the site, and they said she’d left, ages ago. And she hasn’t been home, hasn’t called, nothing. She just doesn’t need me. She’s never needed me and now she’s decided she’s had enough.”

  “I’m sure that she’s just thinking…or something,” I said, but the truth was, I couldn’t imagine what would keep Jane from coming home, after the day I supposed she’d had. “Maybe she just needs some time to get her head together.”

  “When is her head not together? Have you ever seen anyone who wasn’t more on top of things?”

  “Not often.” Neither of us brought up the fact that Jane felt she could concentrate better away from her home and husband.

  Greg wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “We had a dreadful row, the night just before you got here. We were out at dinner, for Jane’s birthday, at a marvelous place. But Jane was exhausted, she wasn’t enjoying it the way I thought she should. She kept talking about how old she was, how old she felt. God almighty.”

  He poured another glass for himself and drank deeply. “I mean, the first several times she announces that she’ll sleep when she’s dead, it’s amusing, in a grim way. After a while…it starts to sound like a wish. Do you have any idea what it does to a man to hear the woman he loves more than anything, more than reason, talk about how mortally tired she is?”

  It wasn’t meant to be answered. Greg kept right on talking, oblivious to me now. I hadn’t got this part of the story from Jane, not like this. Not this kind of raw, unexpected emotion.

  Greg picked up one of the corks and set it on one end, then began to turn it over and over, setting on its end each time, concentrating very hard on it. “I finally suggested that she should pull back a little, not spread herself so thin. She’s got what she wanted now—and Jane’s always known what she’s wanted. I knew that from day one. That’s why I love her so much. Well, I pointed out to her, Jane, you’ve got the job, you’ve got the everything. Time to enjoy yourself, enjoy us, for a change. Why not cut back, take a holiday, a sabbatical, anything. She said she couldn’t, not with all the Julias in the world.”

  I caught my breath; it was such an ugly idea, and Julia at the heart of it. “What did she mean?”

  He pushed the cork over and it rolled away from him. “She couldn’t stop now, because of all the ambitious young turks right behind her, waiting to steal it all from her. I told her she was silly, she got angry. I got angry. Of course I did.”

  He drank again and finished his wine. “I want a family more than anything—I grew up with no one but my Gran and Mads—and I know she wants one too. And now she was saying that she didn’t feel like she could stop because of the Julias. She left, and I left. It was horrible. But I was absolutely determined to have it out, to sort this all out for once and all.”

  I had an appalling image of ranks upon ranks of young women marching on Jane. But Greg caught my attention: the more he spoke, the faster he spoke, as if releasing something that had been trapped inside of him. He didn’t slur his words much and seldom paused. This had been building awhile, I guessed.

  “I had tried, you know, to do without her, to give her all the space she seems to want, but I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t stay away from her, no matter how much I tried, how much I tried not to think about her. I don’t like to think about how I tried. But I couldn’t do it, and I came to the realization that we would have this out or we would be over. But I can’t make her see…”

  “Jane’s a bright girl,” I said, picking at the chips that were limp on the wrapping paper. “She’ll sort something—”

  “You know, everyone is always talking about how brilliant Jane is, how much energy she has,” Greg interjected. “I love hearing that, you know. But every once in a while, I get the undertone, sometimes the edge of a conversation, that people don’t think I’m up to her level. But would someone that bright be willing to hang around with a complete duffer? I think anyone with a bit of sense would realize that Jane wouldn’t pick someone who wasn’t on the ball. If she’s so bloody marvelous, then there should be something to me, wouldn’t it follow? But she is marvelous, I’d do anything for her, I love her, I just want her to come home—”

  The phone rang, effectively cutting off this unwelcome outpouring. I sagged with relief and embarrassment but noticed that Greg’s eyes were red but he didn’t shed a tear. Something in him was keeping him from that, even in the state he was presently in. Greg shook his head, trying to clear it, and sprang for the phone.

  “Jane, where are—? Oh. Oh yes, of course. I’ll put her right on.” He held the receiver up. “It’s your husband, Brian. Why don’t you take it upstairs, in the parlor.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It will give me a chance to clear up down here.”

  As I hurried up the stairs, I realized that it was astonishing to me how Greg’s personality had done a complete turnabout. It was as if the rest of the evening hadn’t happened. Was it just that he needed a bit of catharsis, and now that he’d had it, it switched off what had been driving him before? Or was it something else?

  I didn’t have time to wonder. I found the phone in the parlor—a cozy, decadent little room decorated in what might be called pre-Raphaelite Turkish—settled down into a deeply cushioned couch, and answered.

 
“Brian!” I heard the click of the phone downstairs being hung up.

  “Hey, babe. How are you?” I could hear the hum of the lab outside his office.

  “I’m good, fine.”

  “Emma, what’s wrong?” came the immediate reply, concerned and urgent.

  I thought about how I could hear the sounds of clearing up downstairs—had they become a little fainter, a little slower?—and realized I didn’t want to tell Brian what was going on and let Greg hear. Was that the squeaky bottom stair outside the kitchen? Was Greg listening to our conversation? Would he? “I can’t really say…”

  “Oh, man. It’s the student, isn’t it? The missing one?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s bad, right? She’s been…found?”

  “Yes.”

  “And things are…getting worse?” Although there was no need for Brian, he’d lowered his voice too.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, man, I’m sorry to hear that. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Oh, yes, fine. I’m great.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Really.”

  “Well, be careful, okay? And call me tomorrow when you can talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it.” His tone suggested that he knew I’d already started looking into things in that casual way that’s gotten me into so much trouble in the past. He didn’t tell me not to, I noticed, which wouldn’t have worked anyway. “Now. Er. How did you feel about that green pillow on the couch? The one with the tassels?”

  Alarm bells went off and I was temporarily distracted. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me Quasi—?”

  “It looks like he took a sudden aversion to it. Dragged it out to the garden and savaged it. I’ve been picking stuffing off the baby tomato plants since yesterday night.”

  “I loved that pillow!” I said. “It was going to be perfect, when we got the living room done and a new couch and curtains and—”

  “Well, we can get a new one, right?”

  I stared at the bookcases opposite me and swore under my breath. “That pillow weighed almost three pounds! How the hell did he do it? And what is it about that cat? I wasn’t even there, I couldn’t have aroused his wrath long-distance, could I?”

  “Maybe he misses you.”

  “Ha!” Quasimodo was a belligerent stray that Brian had taken in, named for his unappetizing appearance and his antisocial behavior. He was devoted to Brian, who’d never had a cat, and a terror to everyone else. He tolerated me when Brian was there or when I had a food bowl in my hands, but other than those two cases, it was gloves off, claws-unsheathed loathing between us. And I like cats.

  Brian continued. “The bell seems to be working, though—”

  Ah, that was it: revenge for the bell. Quasi was a formidable hunter and the bird song outside my window had diminished considerably since Brian had rescued him and brought him home from work. The cat only seemed to get the interesting ones, never grackles or sparrows, though he did bring home an inordinate number of seagulls. So shortly before I’d left, I had proposed the bell and, presumably, signed the death warrant of the pillow.

  “—He’s only gotten two since you’ve been gone.”

  “That’s better, but someday he’ll bring home a wild turkey, and then I’m moving out.”

  “I checked that your office was still locked up tight, just in case, anyway. I don’t want any more ‘accidents.’ How’s work going?”

  Back to the world I’d so happily escaped for a few moments. “Um, apart from the obvious, my work is going along pretty well, I guess. Not a great day today, though. I couldn’t seem to find my groove.”

  “You’ll get it back tomorrow.” Brian seemed to sense that I needed to change the topic. “I’m doing real good, though. My new vacuum flasks came in—”

  “Are they beautiful?”

  “Gorgeous. And work is going really well. I did a Stille coupling and I dodged a meeting this morning.”

  I fiddled with the phone cord. “Well, I’m glad to hear someone’s doing okay. You are pining for me, though, aren’t you? New flasks and Stille couplings aside, you’re absolutely miserable, right? Can’t wait for me to come home?”

  “Of course,” Brian said cheerfully. “I can’t believe it’s only been three days.”

  “Me either.” I heard the door slam and watched as Jane blurred past the parlor doorway, rushing down the stairs to the kitchen. “Brian, Jane’s home. I’ve got to see how she is.”

  “Okay, but call me later tomorrow, okay? I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine. It’s nothing to do with me.” But Jane was being questioned and Greg was revealing unsuspected depths of unhappy emotion; how could it not affect me?

  “And yet it always seems to become something to do with you.”

  “Brian, I’ll be careful. I love you.”

  “I love you too. And so does Quasi, in his own way.”

  “Please. Bye, hon.”

  “Bye.”

  The voices had already become raised by the time I hung up. I couldn’t hear everything that was being said, but enough to know that my presence would be unwelcome and superfluous. Jane was pleading, Greg was furious, and I was wondering why I’d come here in the first place.

  “—Don’t know. Walking, thinking. Please, Greg, I’m—”

  “Jane, don’t you dare shut me out again! You need me now, especially now! After all we’ve been through, after all I’ve done for you—”

  “Will you keep your voice down! You’ve no business—”

  It was at that point that I decided that I had to go up to my room. I picked up my backpack out of the front hall and climbed the stairs as quietly as I could. I admit that I thought about listening to my friends—I was desperate to know what was going on. But somehow, this seemed wrong, like taking advantage of the situation. I locked my door and thought about what Sabine had said in the bell tower, about prurience and my habit of getting into the middle of matters. I was saturated by the emotion around me, expressed and unexpressed.

  My stomach was now growling—I’d had nothing to eat but a few cold, soggy chips and a mouthful of wine. I wasn’t about to go downstairs again, though, not for something as unnecessary as food. Then I remembered the candy bar I’d bought at the cafe that first day and thanking my provident stars, tore the purple and orange wrapper off it. It was melted and very sweet, but I wolfed it down and then washed up and got into bed, trying desperately to get to sleep before my belly realized it was getting nothing else tonight and my brain started to consider all it had been force-fed.

  Chapter 9

  I WAS RELIEVED TO WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, ONCE I realized that I was no longer asleep and had been dreaming. My dreams were disturbing, unfocused save for the omnipresent thought that no matter where I turned, I was unwanted. Then a long line of gray, twisted people, straight out of a Hieronymous Bosch painting, followed me, claiming me for one of their own. The emotional content was high, and I was left uneasy and sweating when I awoke.

  Even the relief at being awake didn’t last for long. The memory of the previous night’s scene with Greg and the row that followed Jane’s arrival home soured my still clamoring stomach. I’d have to go downstairs and find out what had developed, if I wanted to get any coffee or food, the only things that were going to take the ugly edge off my mood.

  I washed up and on my way out of the bathroom, noticed that the door to Andrew’s room was closed tight; there was still no sign that he’d been home since Tuesday or worked any further on the report on the modern skeleton for all I knew. I dressed, sighed, gathered together my courage, which was more than bolstered by curiosity about where Jane had been after she’d left the police, and went downstairs.

  Greg was nowhere to be seen and Jane…well, Jane looked as though she hadn’t slept a wink all night. She probably hadn’t. Her face was drawn, her eyes were swollen and red, and I’d have bet my hope of coffee that she’d just finished crying. Her hair was still damp, her c
lothing wrinkled and untucked, and it suddenly struck me that Jane usually ironed her work clothes. I never ironed anything at all, if I could help it, much less clothes for fieldwork. She sat at the table, now cleared of the disastrous fish and chips feast, twisting the plain gold wedding band on her left hand. It made me nervous just to see her; strange how uneasy you feel when someone you think of as invulnerable suddenly isn’t.

  “I was just waiting for you,” she said, but the false brightness in her voice didn’t even convince her. She wrung her hands plaintively. “Oh, God, Emma. I’m in shambles. I don’t know what to do. I can’t even think properly. It was all I could do to get dressed.”

  “Yesterday must have been horrible for you,” I said.

  She shrugged listlessly. “I had a case of nerves while I was waiting to be interviewed by the police, but after that, it was just boring, for the most part, sitting in that horrid, institutional little room. It was only at the end, when they started asking about who knows whom on the site, how everyone interacts, that I felt really upset. I realized…too many things. The worst of which is that the police actually think that someone Julia knew did this to her.”

  She fell silent, resisting that idea. “I can’t even imagine this. I don’t know the crew well—as long as they do their work, I don’t have much to do with them, outside of class, I mean—but to think that someone I know might be a killer. It’s just too much. No sooner had they started in with all these questions, than they stopped…made me a cup of tea, sent me on my way. I was so…so thrown by it all, that I just left, just started walking. It was hours later that I finally snapped out of it.”

  I nodded, but still wasn’t convinced; her story didn’t really strike all the right chords with me, and Jane herself seemed to be reciting rather than telling her story. “You just walked around? Didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t stop for a bite to eat?”