Isaac’s words come to mind unbidden.
Don’t touch anyone you don’t trust.
Isaac hasn’t even fucked with my head, yet, and still he’s fucking with my head.
Victoria’s hand is still extended, so I’m faced with the choice of having to be publicly rude whilst privately acknowledging that Isaac’s paranoia is warranted, or acting like a normal person.
Fuck it. I shake her hand.
40
YOU WILL REGRET BOTH
FANCY MEETING YOU HERE,” I say to Victoria.
She looks perplexed. “You didn’t get the invitation?”
I look to Goose, and Jamie. “What?” I ask.
“I asked them to leave it with your mobile. You didn’t see? Odd,” she says, as if that’s what’s strange, here.
“What invitation?” I ask her.
“Your father’s company—your company, I should say—funds a foundation, which is hosting this benefit tonight,” she explains patiently. “The planning committee thought it would be meaningful to have it here, at the university where he attended.”
Suggest you go to Cambridge. Loads of family history there as well.
“I’m glad you’re here, regardless. And that you brought your friends.” She flashes a smile at Goose, Jamie. “Victoria Gao,” she says, holding her hand out to them. “General counsel for EIC. And you are?”
“Goose Greaves,” he says, shaking her hand.
“Jamie Roth.”
“Lovely to meet you, Goose. James.”
The hair rises on the back of my neck for some reason.
“It’s Jamal, actually,” he corrects her, politely.
She sighs, embarrassed. “I’m terribly sorry, forgive me, I shouldn’t have assumed—”
“Victoria?”
“Kate!” Victoria says, as my sister appears behind her wearing a blush-pink structured gown. “How was the trip up? Was the driver all right?”
“Lovely, thank you so much,” my sister says, teeth gleaming, smile bright. “Jamie, glad you could make it.” She kisses him on each cheek before turning to chat with Victoria.
So, that’s it then. Jamie must’ve found out about the party from Kate, decided to fuck with me. Victoria’s appearance here is to be expected, given that she helped organise the event. Jamie’s seemed off all night because we’ve always been off, he and I, before Mara, and neither of us knows how to act now that it’s done.
I’ve been imagining a conspiracy where there is none. Goose was right again.
I run my hand through my hair, and notice it’s shaking, slightly. I should be drinking, in this state, listening to Goose on that point as well. I nick his half-full champagne glass and bring it to my lips.
Before I can drink it, though, Jamie stumbles into me. The sound of glass shattering on stone draws heads in our direction.
“Sorry,” Jamie says, but he meets my stare directly, now.
He isn’t sorry.
“Had a bit too much to drink, I think,” he says to Kate and Victoria.
He hasn’t had a drop.
“Can I get you anything?” Victoria asks him.
“Thanks, but I’ll be good once I get some food in me.” He tips his head at one of the tables. “Boys?” He looks at me and Goose.
“Right,” I say, grabbing a new glass of champagne, watching Jamie’s eyes follow it. Something is happening—but he won’t talk about it here, clearly. “We pregamed before we got here, but I’ve got loads of catching up to do, yet.” Kate rolls her eyes. “Don’t let any freshers spot you in that dress, for God’s sake,” I add before turning back to Goose and Jamie. I follow them to a table.
“Could do with a smoke,” I say, aware I haven’t got any. Goose must have, though. And it’s a perfect excuse to leave. “Goose? Got any?”
“Course,” he says, feeling his pockets. He withdraws a few hand-rolled ones and I withdraw my lighter. That, I’ve kept.
“Think I can I smoke in here?” I ask Goose, then Jamie.
“Probably not,” Goose says.
I sigh. “Everything’s always so complicated,” I say. Then, to Jamie, “Join us?”
His eyes dart around the room. “I think I’m good here, actually,” he says.
Jamie is many things: Stupid is not one of them. Careless isn’t, either. Whatever it is that’s going on, he can’t or won’t talk about it—not here, at least, and he doesn’t seem to want to leave, either. Which means he has to be here, for some reason.
What bloody reason, though? If I want answers, and I really fucking do, I’ll have to force him out of here, and then force the words out of him.
“Well, I’m in need of the loo,” I say to Jamie. “Can’t even remember where we came in from, can you?” I ask Goose. Jamie points to a large, arched wooden door. I flag a waiter down with one hand, leaning exaggeratedly on the other elbow.
“Loo?” I pretend to slur.
“Outside the chapel, by the porter’s lounge.”
“Really?” Goose asks. “That far?”
“It’s fine,” I say, thanking the waiter. Then I stand, making a show of it, pretending to sway, before I jostle my way through clumps of people on my way out the door. I’m looking for a confrontation, something I’ll need to be rescued from, preferably by Goose and Jamie both, when an excuse finds me, first.
A man in a pale blue plaid suit and a yellow tie grabs my hand, pumping it forcefully.
“Mr. Shaw,” he says. “Jay Dee. Pleasure to meet you. Such tremendous work you’re doing, with the foundation.”
“Of course,” I say, looking over his shoulder at the door. “Thank you.”
“Caught a glimpse of you at the funeral, of course, didn’t want to disturb you. Your father was a great man, a very great man. Such vision, he had! No one was doing what he was doing! Truly a great man, your father was.”
The words come so easily. “My father was a cunt.”
It’s as though the entire room had conspired to stop talking at that exact moment. My voice seems to echo along the vaulted ceiling.
All in, why not. “What!” I shout, remembering Jamie’s discomfort at my earlier volume. “He was!” I make out Jamie and Goose heading toward me, and catch Jamie whispering to Goose. Perfect.
“Apologies,” Goose says to the man, and everyone in our general vicinity. “Terribly, terribly sorry—my usually charming friend’s had quite a lot to drink.” Once they’re at my side, they each take an elbow. “Once again, my deepest apologies; we’ll get him sorted. Please, go on and enjoy your evening.”
They steer me toward the massive wooden door; the guests make way for us. I see Victoria standing on the opposite side of the arcade, without Kate, but she doesn’t stop us. No one does.
I free myself from their grip and say, loudly enough, “Don’t touch me. Fuck’s sake, I can still walk.” They escort me to the stairs, and up.
We carry on until we’re in the chapel itself, which is entirely empty and utterly breathtaking. The dark wooden screen stretches at least midway through the chapel, acting, in our case, as a sort of shelter from the altar steps and Rubens’s Adoration of the Magi. Dozens of candles are lit in the entryway, and the fan vault is dramatically lit to highlight every detail.
“Okay,” Jamie says to me. “I appreciate this moment, I do, but I really want to get back to the party.”
“Why?” I narrow my eyes at him. He narrows his in return. “Fine,” I say. “Just—help me find the loo, first, all right?”
Jamie glares, but says, “Sure.”
We walk in silence along the college building, but I stop before we get to the porter’s lodge. The Front Court is empty, the passages are empty, so I finally, finally ask Jamie, “What the fuck is going on?”
“What?”
“Come on,” I say to him, who, to my surprise, sits down right where he is, on the ground.
“What—”
He starts picking blades of grass.
“They really frown upon tha
t, here,” Goose says. Jamie doesn’t answer; he’s arranging the blades into letters.
LISTENING
I meet his eyes. Tip my head back at the chapel, and mouth, “Them?”
YES
My father’s company? Something to do with Horizons, perhaps? We don’t have much time, I realise, and I need to choose my questions carefully, but there’s one I need to answer before the rest.
MARA? I spell out.
Jamie shrugs and mouths, “I don’t know.”
SAFE?
He mouths again: “I don’t know.”
I immediately want to ask when he last saw her, ask about Daniel and whether he’s been in touch, but—
SPY, Jamie arranges on the ground. Points to himself. Then forms new letters: SHITTY
“You’re a shitty spy?” I mouth, and he nods.
“Least we agree on that,” I say aloud, and he kicks my shin with his foot as he starts to get up, but I force him back down.
“Who?” I mouth.
Jamie hesitates for a minute. Then tugs at his pendant.
I run my hands through my hair, nearly tearing it out in frustration.
“Why?” I mouth.
He looks at me for a moment, and I’m not sure if he’s wondering what to say, or wondering what I meant by the question. Finally, he spells out the word:
HISTORY
I clearly don’t get it, nor does Goose, because Jamie then spells: MINE, and points to his chest.
“Mates,” Goose says aloud. “I think we’ve got to bail out.”
Jamie is still arranging blades of grass on the ground, though. The next word is FAMILY.
I think immediately of Isaac, then, wandering Cambridge in search of a place to sleep for the night, or perhaps having gone back to Ceridwen’s room after all. Does Jamie know about him?
“Mates, seriously.” Goose is tugging on Jamie’s shoulder with one hand, and at my jacket with the other. I look up.
Several porters are lumbering toward us with torches in their hands. One’s got a radio on his belt.
“Chapel roof,” a fuzzy voice says, coming from one of their radios.
“Bloody idiot freshers,” one of them mumbles as he heaves past us. Another scolds Jamie on his way along.
“You’re lucky you picked tonight, young man, or I’d have you suspended,” the porter says to Jamie.
“What’s going on?” Goose asks them. He is roundly ignored.
“Did you hear that? On the radio?” I ask Goose and Jamie. They shake their heads. I nearly repeat what it said, but remember Jamie’s word:
LISTENING
So I point to the roof instead, where the porters’ torches are now aimed in a dizzying frenzy, finally coming to rest on the distant outline of the person climbing it.
41
NO STAKES
FUCK,” GOOSE SAYS.
“My thoughts exactly.”
Jamie mouths, “Let’s go,” and jerks his thumb back to the chapel, our entrance to the party. We follow him quickly. As we walk, we’re joined by a smattering of students coming out of their rooms, approaching from different directions.
“Someone’s night-climbing?”
“Total fucking legend.”
“How can you be a legend if you’re sent down before term even starts?”
“Who said it’s a fresher?”
“I know one of them.”
“One of the freshers?”
“No, idiot, a climber.”
“What? Who?”
“Can’t say.”
“Pardon,” Goose says politely to one of them. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“Not really,” she says. “Heard at first it was an initiation, now everyone’s saying it’s a night climber.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Seriously?” one of the guys says. “God, you lot are loathsome.”
“We don’t go here,” I say, irritated.
“So a tourist, then,” he says. “Even worse.”
“It’s an old soc,” the girl Goose flagged says to me. “There’s no record of who the first one to climb any of the buildings was, but over the years they’ve been responsible for the most classic pranks in uni history.”
“They got an Aston Martin on the roof of the Senate House, once.”
“And Christmas hats on the pinnacles of chapel, another time.”
“Vita aedificium est istam scande,” the student who claimed to know the climber says. “Life is to climb that building over there,” he says, shooting us a superior look.
“So this is a thing people do,” I say, making eye contact with Jamie.
“Not on the reg or anything,” the girl says. “But it’s been done, yeah.”
“How high is it?” Goose asks, indicating the chapel ahead of us.
“A hundred and sixty feet.”
“How does anyone even get up there?”
“Used to be the chimney, I think, but they blocked that. Now you need gear. Not as pure,” says the smug climbing admirer.
The girl rolls her eyes.
The court is starting to get crowded, and a couple of the porters have turned their attention to herding students instead of the climber.
Jamie looks longingly at the chapel, tugging my arm.
“Think we can get back in?” I ask. He looks doubtful. Still won’t speak. Who does he think is listening? And listening to what? From where?
“We can try, before it’s surrounded,” I say, then, to the girl, “Thank you.”
“What, you’re leaving?”
“We’ve got a party to get back to.” Goose smiles.
We don’t get far. A human chain of soft-looking guards is blocking the entrance to the chapel, which is our only way back into the party. Jamie swears.
I look to him, then the guards. “I’m guessing you can’t . . .”
He’s shaking his head so strenuously it’s faintly alarming.
“Right.” If he could’ve talked our way in or out of anything at the moment, he probably wouldn’t be here right now.
“There’s another way in, through the Backs,” says a voice from behind us.
M glides over a corner of lawn to meet us, the colour of her gown blending with the grass.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” she says, glancing up at the chapel. “You never quite get used to it.”
I should be used to her by now, turning up at random to nip at my heels when I’ve strayed too far from her quest.
She’s standing in profile, her face obscured by shadow. She’s always seemed familiar, but there’s something especially so about her tonight.
Jamie must see it too, because his eyes swing from M, to me, to Goose, and back to M again.
“Hi,” she says to him, extending her hand. “I’m Mara.”
Jamie’s mouth is slightly parted, his head cocked to one side.
“Long story,” I say.
He looks like he’s about to speak, but no words come out. His eyes never leave Mara’s grandmother’s face.
M beams charmingly. “Come, we’ll chat over drinks.”
Goose looks up again. “But what about . . . that?”
“You heard the Tabs,” I say. “It’s a prank.” I don’t believe it. I want to believe it.
I edge closer to M. “Why are you here?” I ask her.
“I was invited.”
“Bollocks.” Jamie’s spying, for or on the professor. We’ve just left Isaac, who warned us about him. We’re being listened to, supernaturally or otherwise, and now M is here, wanting a chat?
“I agreed to give a speech about your mum,” she says.
“What are you on about?”
She shrugs. “The foundation asked me. Came across my name somewhere in her things. We were friends, you know.”
“They didn’t find your name in her things. I have my mother’s—” Diaries. Journals. Packed up in boxes for me and sent to New York, and then packed up again and sent back to Yorkshire, courtesy of—
“You know Victoria,” I say to M, as something clicks into place.
“Yes,” she says. “I know Victoria. And the foundation did happen upon my name in your mother’s belongings. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” She looks infuriatingly amused before turning around. “Follow me,” she says, leading the way through the Fellows’ Garden, which is as quiet as we are.
We each follow her for our own reasons; Jamie is, quite obviously, on some sort of mission; Goose is game and curious, along for the ride as always; and I—I don’t know what I am anymore, what I believe. Every instinct I have feels wrong. My compass is broken. I’ve never been more lost.
We reenter the chapel through a door near the altar. M leads the way with Jamie right behind her, and when she moves into a shaft of light, I see it.
The green silk of her dress dives into a V in the back, as it does in the front. The emerald fabric eddies with every footstep, and my own footsteps slow to a stop.
I know that dress. It belongs on someone else.
The chapel fills with the outlines of people, translucent and writhing in fancy dress. The stained-glass windows darken and the roof lowers and my skull is filled with what passes for music in Miami. Katie, in fairy wings, is beside me, regaling her friends with a tale I’d been valiantly attempting to listen to until I saw that dress.
Mara stands at the far end of the room, doe eyes wide. “Coming?” she asks.
It’s the voice that drags me from the memory—M’s voice, not Mara’s. But the memory, the intrusion, feels ominous. A harbinger.
And then Goose’s voice, beside me, as the bodies fade and the chapel ceiling stretches up, fans out: “This feels . . . sacrilegious.”
“He’ll forgive you,” says Jamie. The acoustics reflect Jamie’s voice so that the words forgive you follow our steps.
Goose puts one foot cautiously onto the red carpet. Then another, before he finally starts walking normally.
I, however, do not. It’s been one thing to open my eyes and find myself looking out through someone else’s, to feel what they felt, to hear a thunder of heartbeats wherever I went. It wasn’t good. I didn’t like it. But I understood it. It was my normal.
The Reckoning of Noah Shaw Page 22
