by A. L. Knorr
The woman nodded, her eyes sage in a way at odds with her youthful face. “I understand. You’re right, there are rarely easy answers for such things.”
I pitched the towel into the rubbish bin and faced her with a self-conscious grin I didn’t have to fake. “I’m sorry for smashing into you like that. Are you a student here?”
She appeared to be the right age but wasn’t carrying any of the usual paraphernalia — bags, books or various electronics. She had dark slacks, a muted red top, dark roman sandals and that was it, not even a purse.
“I’m considering it. Still trying to see where I fit in best. I’m Daria, by the way. Daria Tehom, but most just call me Dary.”
She extended a hand, and I took it, hoping she didn’t mind that mine was still damp.
“I’m Ibby.”
Dary smiled as her phone buzzed from her pocket, prompting an apologetic look as she fetched it, scanned the screen and tucked it away again.
“Well, it seems the dean I was waiting for is available now. It’s been a pleasure, Ibby. I hope things turn out all right. Chin up. Maybe we can swap stories over a cuppa sometime. If I stick around.”
I nodded and muttered something vague but sincere about that being nice. She’d reminded me that I had to be somewhere as well.
I followed her out of the loo, stepping on the back of her shoe. I apologised profusely as I hefted my bag onto my shoulder. As soon as I was clear of the door, I rushed down the hall again.
The rest of my afternoon and early evening was uneventful but just as unproductive. Try as I might, I couldn’t forget I was toting stolen antiquities.
I made up my mind to take the box back after I met with my adviser. That would mean I wouldn’t get to go home before going to meet Jackie, but at least I could be done with the whole debacle. A plan firmly in mind, I felt a little better as I headed to the café where my adviser and I usually met.
Professor Yun Schottelkirk was something of a rock star in the small pond that was the university archaeology department. A second-generation Chinese immigrant with degrees in both archaeology and geology, she’d pioneered a new technique for excavating in mountainous regions in her younger days. Now, with more silver than black in her hair, she’d settled into teaching and raising a family when she wasn’t being called out to lecture or consult.
As I said, rock star.
With me, she was down-to-earth and gracious, even going so far as to insist on paying for my snacks at the café. It took a month of cajoling before I took her up on anything more than a cup of tea and biscuits. Now I looked forward to consuming a meal without counting the value of what I was eating down to the pence.
“It’s good for students to be poor while in school,” Professor Schottelkirk had once said confidently. “Knocks some of the arrogance out of them. But, a treat every once and a while won’t spoil that.”
After the day’s antics, which had not included anything other than my morning coffee, I was ready for a sandwich. When a mound of roast beef on flatbread was set before me, I attacked it with vigour. My adviser was kind enough to do the bulk of the talking, congratulating me on my good marks on an exam and then talking through my schedule for the coming semester. It wasn’t until I was picking at the crumbs of my meal that I remembered Shelton’s promise to call the Proctor. Since she hadn’t said anything so far, Shelton hadn’t done it yet or Schottelkirk hadn’t gotten the news yet. I didn’t think he was going to forget or change his mind. That man would never pass up a chance to grind someone beneath his heel, even by proxy.
When we were finished discussing my education, I told Professor Schottelkirk about the morning’s exchange with Shelton. When she asked why I was so late, I explained I’d been talking with my uncle in the early hours of the morning. She was aware of my family situation and would ask after Uncle Irshad sometimes.
Schottelkirk settled back into her chair and sipped her tea thoughtfully. I sat quietly, trying not to think about how the sandwich felt as though it was slowly inflating inside my belly.
She put down her cup abruptly. “Shelton is a prat,” she declared. “He is a prat and a bully, and if he doesn’t watch himself, he’s going to learn what happens to those who become more trouble than they’re worth.”
I liked this line of thinking, though I couldn’t help wondering if Schottelkirk’s prophesying equated to anything useful. Shelton’s future sacking wouldn’t matter much if I had already been shown the door.
“I’m glad you brought this to me, Ibby,” she patted my hand. “I will see the Proctor myself and nip this nonsense in the bud. You need to keep up a good show at work, nose clean and all that, and obviously, don’t be late again. But leave the rest to me.”
She had this way of saying things that incited confidence, and I couldn’t keep from smiling. Maybe, it was going to be all right.
I put a hand on my bag and was on the verge of bringing up my discovery when I stopped short. She’d already declared she’d go to bat for me once. Did I really want to ask more of her?
“Thank you, Professor,” I said instead, sitting back in my chair. “I appreciate that so much.”
With our meeting adjourned, I headed back to the museum. The box was going into Archives, and I was going to forget I ever found anything in the first place.
Marcus, the night-time porter, was surprised when I trotted in. He made an observation about ‘burning the candle at both ends’ as I swiped in.
Marcus was the youngest of the porters who provided surveillance for the museum and worked only nights. I hardly ever saw him. He was a competitive bodybuilder in his spare time and looked the part, his muscular frame straining at the confines of his uniform. His physique had inspired unofficial complaints from several female museum employees that he didn’t work during the daytime, offering an improvement from the dumpy figures of Tariq and McPhee or even the grizzled Eddy. I was indifferent. Marcus was nice to look at, sure. But I had more pressing things on my mind.
That, and Jackie had enough romantic drama for the two of us.
Thinking of Jackie, I needed to let her know I might be late. The Hen — Jackie’s favourite haunt — was on the north edge of Chelsea, and the tube would be mad with commuters at this time.
I took out my phone as I journeyed the quiet halls and tapped out a text.
Jackie’s replies came in rapid succession.
U better not stand me up!
I need to see u
Things must be shared!
That last text was Jackie’s way of saying she had a new gent, though calling them ‘gents’ was giving them more credit than any so far deserved. As long as I’d known her, Jackie’s type included cads and codependent arseholes. I was slightly less excited about seeing her as I rode the elevator down to Archives.
When I arrived, I realised it would seem odd that I was filing a single item during the hours I usually didn’t work. I might have been acting paranoid, but recalling what Schottelkirk said had me muttering and thumbing the elevator back up to Collections, without leaving the box.
Nose clean and all that.
There were a few odd containers left for Archives so I set to work on those. I could make it look like I was stopping by to finish up the odd bit of the extra work Shelton had given me. It was a good thing I’d told Jackie I was going to be late.
I’d made it through all but two boxes when the door opened. Hard-heeled shoes clopped across the floor, coming my way. Shelton coming to check on me? Nerves fluttered in my belly as I looked at the bag sitting at my feet, the box still within.
Should I take it out and throw it onto the stack? What if he spotted me taking it out? What if he asked to search my bag? I shook my head like a confused puppy. Why would he search my bag?
The debate was — thankfully — unnecessary. The same silver-haired gentleman from earlier strode up the stacks, coming my way.
A prickle that something was off about this man lifted my arm hair. My gaze remained on him as he leisurel
y strolled towards my little island of light amidst the dim sea.
Three times in one day, this strange man had crossed my path. Why? This couldn’t be an accident.
Professor Lowe said just before stepping into the direct light of my workstation. “Good evening, madame.”
“Evening,” I replied, aiming for relaxed and sounding robotic instead. “Feeling better, sir?”
What was he doing down here? Again? Still? Old instincts kicked in from the rougher years of living in public housing, and I began to case out my exits.
My workstation was located almost exactly in the middle of the Collections floor, which meant I was equidistant from the two doorways leading to the stairs at one end and the elevators at the other. If things went funny, I could fake a rush towards one door and then double back between the rows to reach the other side. I could also pull storage containers down behind me to slow him down. If he caught me, I could use a pen … or scissors …
My fingers crept casually towards the shears sitting at the corner of my desk.
He stepped to the workstation table opposite me and looked back the way he’d come.
“Much better, thank you. My, it is dreary down here. Different from when I was on staff. Would it kill them to put some light and colour into the place?”
I blinked in surprise. “You worked here, Professor?” I stopped reaching for the scissors.
His frown at the decor turned into a kindly, almost paternal grin as his eyes found mine.
“Once upon a time. I was a professor of the university of course, but I also served as a consultant for the museum. Some of the most important work I ever did was in this building. Which brings me to why I’m here.” He suddenly looked uncomfortable and took on the halting stutter he’d had before. He adjusted his spectacles and rocked back on his heels. “It is rather e-embarrassing. I was here v-visiting an old colleague and r-remembered that some time ago, a-a long time ago, I eh … misplaced an item.”
I stared at him as he lapsed into silence. I was now more curious than suspicious but unsure if he was done talking. I prompted him. “What did you misplace, sir? Or maybe, where do you think you misplaced this thing?”
He started, his face twisting almost into an expression of pain. I began to wonder if the old fellow was senile, but his gaze sharpened, his stare intensely fearful. He didn’t stammer now, but his next words came out in a hurried rush. “Something mixed in with bits of Assyrian pott - ” He blinked. Then, suddenly: “No, it was Hittite! Hittite pottery. An artefact, but not something which belongs to the museum or the university. Something else. Something very important.”
The specific mention of Hittite pottery made my blood run cold and inspired a hundred terrifying thoughts, none of them fully formed before the next one bubbled up. I gaped at him, not sure what to say.
Fortunately, Professor Lowe took my shocked silence as a response to bad manners rather than a guilty conscience.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he muttered, pale face flushing. “That was very abrupt of me. It is just … very important to me and not me alone.”
I nodded, feigning understanding because I still had no idea what to say. It seemed impossible this retired professor would now come looking for his long-lost treasure. Why today? The day I not only found it but also the day my future and that of my uncle hung in the balance. If Lowe learned I’d taken artefacts out of the museum, I would be just as finished as if Shelton had found out.
Oblivious to my mental panic, he continued, “You haven’t, perhaps, had such a collection come across your desk?”
I gave him a frozen smile as my mind scampered to and fro. If I held off on admitting it now and ‘made the discovery’ tomorrow, no one would be the wiser. This strange old man would get what he wanted, I would be safe and the pressure of handling my discovery would be off.
“I haven’t, but I’ll look into it tomorrow, Professor,” I replied. “I promise. But right now, I’m late to meet a friend.”
Lowe straightened and adjusted his jacket. I was reminded that he had no ID badge, not even a visitor pass.
The prickling fingers along my spine returned. Even if he was an old warhorse of the museum, no one was allowed to walk around without some sort of identification. Did I want to call him out on it? While I was alone? And if he kept the pass in his pocket or something, would he be offended?
“It is rather late, isn’t it?” he observed.
“Yes, I was just on my way out,” I remarked. “Professor, if you wouldn’t mind walking me out? I would appreciate the company.” Let Marcus see what could be made of this gentleman.
He straightened his sport coat again. “Certainly. It would be a pleasure.”
I smiled as daintily as I could, keyed my station to power off and picked up my bag.
We were just exiting the elevator to the lobby when Lowe snapped his fingers and pressed them to his lips.
“Dash it all! I’ve just remembered I’ve some business to attend to before I leave tonight.”
A glance showed Marcus at the security desk, his broad back to us and head bowed. Probably on his phone. I frowned. So helpful.
“If you find anything at all, please stop by the British Museum Station. Oh, but you will need a map. Wait right here. I’ll fetch you one.”
I blinked. British Museum Station? He must have meant Tottenham Court Road. And what map? I had an app for the London Underground. Who used maps anymore? Even antiquated professors knew how to use travel apps these days. I glared at the back of Marcus’s head, willing him to turn around.
But Lowe had already left my side, passing between the glass double doors towards the administrative wing. A heartbeat more, and he was out of sight.
I stomped over to Marcus. “Fat lot of good you are,” I snapped. One look at his face made me regret the outburst instantly.
Marcus managed to look embarrassed, afraid and shocked all at once, the expression all the more absurd for sitting atop his thickly muscled shoulders. He slapped his phone down like it was too hot to touch, and blinked at me like a beat dog.
“What happened?”
I softened my voice. “There’s a man walking around without an ID badge or visitor pass or anything. Says he’s a retired professor. He was down in Collections, looking for something.”
Markus frowned, one hand absently picking up the clipboard holding the visitor’s log. “What was he looking for?”
“Shouldn’t your question be: where is he now? Seriously, Marcus.” I’d stung him again, and again I felt regret. It was little consolation telling myself I was right. “I’m sorry,” I said as Marcus’s mouth began to open. “I’m a little rattled.”
A fierce light came into Marcus’s eyes then, fiery and righteous. “Did he hurt you?”
Before I could answer, Marcus was on his feet, every muscle taut, an effect all the more dramatic for the number of them … muscles, I mean. He looked like a king cobra, its hood wide and spitting fiercely.
“N-no, no he didn’t,” I stammered, caught off guard. “But I ran into him three times today. He’s up to something.”
Marcus scooped up his radio and a flashlight, though why he needed the latter when all the lights were still on, I couldn’t guess.
“Which way did he go?” Marcus’s voice was low and serious. Something resembling pity flashed through my mind for Lowe.
“Admin.” I knocked my head towards the glass doors.
That was all Marcus needed. He made a beeline for the glass doors, flicking a switch on his radio. “Charlie, I have an intruder who’s been harassing museum staff,” the porter growled. “He’s been spotted heading into the administrative offices. I’m in pursuit.”
Charlie squawked through the radio grille, “Pursuit? Steady on there, hotshot!”
I lost the rest of the conversation as Marcus vanished through the double doors.
I stood there dumbly for a moment longer, wondering just how big a mess I’d made now, and then I checked the time on my
phone.
Map or no, if I hurried, I wouldn’t be too late to meet Jackie.
Chapter Five
Established while Chelsea was still known as the haunt of great intellectuals and artists, The Hen and Bishop was designed for quiet drinks and friendly, intelligent conversation. I couldn’t speak to the quality of conversations within its walls these days, but it was always what I hoped for as I strolled down Elystan Street.
Every month, The Hen ran a special on a different kind of liquor to bring the partiers in. That was the only way that Jackie, who loved clubs, dancing and all things bedazzled and glamorous, had discovered this spot. Since that one drunken night, she’d decided she liked it. So, she commenced a weekly ritual.
The street side tables were empty except for a couple talking loudly to each other over a beer. They looked to be having a good time, but I was glad they were outside. Obnoxious voices would have grated on my frazzled nerves.
The doorman, a craggy-faced fellow named Harris, knew me. With a courteous nod, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. Harris’s voice was like wood smoke and old scotch, rough but not unkind. “Jackie’s in the back. Brace yourself. She’s pretty excited about the flavour of the week.”
“Thanks, Harry.” I gave him a peck on the cheek that made his grey moustache twitch.
Ducking inside, I was greeted by a warm interior with exposed beams, soft amber lighting and the strains of a Leonard Cohen song. A set of roped-off stairs led to a second level. To the left was the common room from where the piano playing came, as well as the low-level hum of conversation. Woolshott, the publican — who everyone called Woolsey — spotted me from the bar as I came in. He gave a cheery wave and pointed to my right. I nodded and mouthed my thanks.
The back room was smaller with only a single row of wooden booths along the wall. Two sets of antique double doors stood propped open to a small cobbled yard that had a few tables and chairs.
Jackie had chosen a booth in the back corner. Her face was highlighted by the stark glare of her phone. She looked wan and tired. But when she heard my footsteps, she looked up with the brilliant smile I loved. Jackie was gorgeous, and being her friend — her ‘responsible’ friend — wasn’t easy sometimes.
