Dying to Write (16 page)

The door from the hall opened and Hugh came in. Without speaking he took a glass and poured himself several fingers' worth. Then he took a tea towel and started polishing. Very domesticated.

‘They're still in the lounge,' he said at last. ‘Is there anywhere else we could sit?'

‘The terrace? But it might be a bit chilly,' I said. ‘Maybe I should get my overshirt.'

‘No need. A perfect summer evening,' said Matt emphatically. ‘What are we waiting for?'

Perfect, but chilly. I needed my overshirt. Matt too was dithering, and plainly uninterested in Hugh's disquisition on the different colours of streetlights in the industrial West Midlands. As he talked, his Black Country accent grew more perceptible; so, I'm sure, did mine. Quarry Bank and Oldbury, respectively.

‘Let's go in,' Matt said abruptly, interrupting Hugh in mid-sentence. ‘My room. Come on.'

‘I'd like to find a policeman first,' I said. ‘To protect Sidney. I'd hate him to end up in a fridge.'

Rather to my surprise, Matt and Hugh fell in beside me, one on either side. Ade was nowhere to be seen. Matt and Hugh were absolute in their rejection of my idea that Sidney could join us in our drinking party. We compromised eventually. I would see if there was any other police officer with a tender disposition and no sense of smell. When we saw a young PC on duty at the far end of the student corridor, our problem was solved.

‘The Gaffer's asked me to check off each of you as you retire for the night,' he said.

‘Singly or in pairs?' asked Matt.

‘In threes, if that's what takes your fancy,' said the constable, winking lewdly.

‘Thank you, constable,' I said, deciding it was time to take control of the conversation. ‘But I'm not retiring yet. I came to check on the rat.'

‘No one's been in your room since I came here at ten, miss.'

‘Thanks. But I'll just make sure.' Perhaps Matt's tension had infected me. My hands were sweating so much I could hardly turn the key, and I fumbled clumsily for the light. But the smell reassured me – and there was Sidney stretching and asking for food. Matt cautiously jiggled a bit of biscuit for him, but Hugh shoved his hands ostentatiously in his pockets and stayed close to the door.

Matt's room might have been much more luxurious than the students', but it was short of chairs. Matt made for his sofa. I found my natural level on the floor. Hugh hesitated, at last plumping for the other end of the sofa, whence he must have had an unparalleled view of my camisole and thus my braless chest. We had another slurp of whiskey, Hugh leaning well over me to fill my glass.

‘God, what a course!' said Matt. ‘Missing tutor, sudden death, illness and stinking rodents. I'll be glad to get back to my allotment.'

‘Funny group, too. Not much sense of unity,' said Hugh. ‘And those questions. Jesus! “How do you write a poem?” Bloody hell!'

‘Surprised you didn't ask that, Sophie. All these people dripping with useless ideas, Hugh, and the only person who's blocked is Sophie. She's the only one with anything to say, of course.'

‘Am I?'

‘Can't have less than the others, love. And Kate said you were writing some sort of requiem.'

‘Requiem? Are you sure? I thought I wanted to write a goodbye poem, but requiem sounds better, doesn't it? I shall be able to go back to college and pass a hand wearily across my forehead and sigh, “No, I didn't get away this holiday – I've been too busy working on my requiem.”'

‘So long as it isn't for you,' said Hugh, with an intonation I found promising.

I smiled, dismissively.

‘Not till she's put something on paper, anyway. Come on, Sophie – let's get you started. Hugh, how do we get her started?'

‘A drop more whiskey, for a start. And I'd better have some too. And you.' He poured, generously. ‘There. Now what shall we write a poem about?' He settled back on the sofa.

‘Something profound and significant of course,' said Matt. ‘Really serious. But it's difficult to find anything to rhyme with sex.'

‘We're going to write about sex, then,' I said, reaching up to Matt's desk for his notepad. This was clearly a meeting to be minuted. ‘Does Matt have a seconder?'

Hugh and I raised our hands.

‘Any abstentions?' I peered around the room.

‘Only if we haven't any condoms,' said Matt. Then he looked embarrassed.

‘Don't worry, you won't need condoms,' I said. ‘Drink provoketh the desire but taketh away the performance.'

‘Food doesn't,' said Hugh. He felt round for a nonexistent cushion, rubbed his back, and then shifted from the sofa to the floor.

‘Food provoketh the desire and increaseth the performance? OK, so we write a poem about food. And sex,' Matt added, but not as an afterthought.

‘We'll start with tonight's meal, then,' said Hugh.

‘But what'd rhyme with curry?' I demanded.

‘We don't try to rhyme with curry. We find other words associated with curry.'

‘Like fart,' said Matt. ‘Art, heart, cart, tart: they all rhyme with fart.'

‘I can think of words to rhyme with sick,' I said, ‘but I don't think any of them are poetic. Is poetic.'

‘Rice,' said Hugh firmly. ‘We had rice. Saffron-flavoured rice. Voluptuous mounds of saffron-flavoured rice. And with rice we rhyme spice.'

‘It was a good biryani,' said Matt. ‘The cardamom, the cumin – and that sauce was perfection.' He kissed the tips of his fingers in my direction.

‘Don't thank me,' I said. ‘Thank Bashurat Ali. When he passed his GCSEs, his dad took me and all the others who'd taught him to his restaurant. Taught us how to cook. And then treated us to a wonderful meal he'd cooked himself.'

‘Bashurat Ali won't rhyme. Sorry. More whiskey?'

‘Hell, Hugh, you're knocking back that stuff as if it's wine,' Matt protested, inspecting the bottle.

‘Well done! We can rhyme wine and dine. And we've got to mention Sophie's wonderful pair of puddings.'

‘Agnes's puddings. I merely –'

‘Sophie, nothing you do is merely anything –'

Matt banged his glass on the table. ‘Order, please. I think we have a first line. You were talking about voluptuous rice, Hugh. Mounds of the stuff.'

‘
Voluptuous mounds of saffron-coloured rice
: yes!' yelled Hugh. ‘Come on. How about:
Richly something sauces, every single spice
–'

‘Richly oiled?' said Matt.

‘
Richly oiled sauces, every single spice
– new line –
A separate something on the tongue
.'

‘
A separate explosion
, I said. ‘Hey, I didn't know you could write poetry by committee.'

‘Make sure you minute it all,' said Hugh.

I did.

I gave up counting the glasses of hooch. I gave up wondering how we'd come to write a poem, most of which was now recorded on Matt's pad, if illegibly. I knew there was some reason why Hugh had to try Kate's relaxation technique, the one involving paperbacks and the floor. I knew there was some reason why I was wearing one of Matt's sweatshirts. I might as well do the obvious thing and go to sleep. After all, Hugh was fast asleep on his pile of books, and Matt had lapsed into total silence, broken only by occasional rumbling snores, rapidly cut off as he struggled back to consciousness. With a certain amount of effort I could possibly have tiptoed to the door and back through long, dark corridors to bed. But it seemed easier to reach for the light switch and simply doze for a bit.

I woke up sharply at three. But there was no point in staying awake. Awake would be cold and stiff and sensible. Asleep was warm and friendly.

Five thirty was much chillier and more uncomfortable. I had a crick in my neck and an urgent need for the loo. At first I tried not to move, less I disturb the others. I could concentrate on thinking about a poem of my own. A requiem. I looked round the room. I peered at the sky.

Matt moved slightly. His head fell with its full weight on my bladder. I had to move now.

Moving Matt's head as gently as I could, I eased myself up and tiptoed round Hugh to the bathroom. But if I used the
en suite
one I might wake the others. Since I didn't expect to sleep again, and I might well chase that elusive poem more successfully now, I would go back to my own room. I reached the door and shut it quietly enough, but the corridor screamed out under my feet as embarrassingly as if I were leaving a lover's arms.

I might as well go back via the dining room and pick up my overshirt.

The curtains were still drawn, of course. I opened them, and threw open a window, for someone had violated the house rule by smoking what smelled this morning like a compost heap. It was a nice day out there. Too bright too early, maybe. I guessed it would rain later.

Automatically I picked up a couple of used paper napkins and threw them in the bin, and straightened a chair.

Then I saw the back of my overshirt.

The first thing to do was hold back the bile rising in my throat. I grasped the back of another chair and breathed deeply. That was better. Now I could walk back and take a proper look.

What had looked like a splash of blood was in fact part of the multicoloured pattern. But the corkscrew was undeniably there, driven deep into the back of the chair, through the back of the shirt. The implication was horribly clear.

This time the shock made me think properly, if very slowly. This was evidence. The police had to see it. If the police were to see it, I had to find a policeman. Or woman. And then I had to get the hell out of Eyre House.

Back in the student corridor, the PC was asleep. I had to shake him awake.

Normally I'd have laughed. But something – my fear, perhaps – made me unreasonably angry. Anyone could have got past him and attacked Sidney. Or, come to think of it, me, if I'd spent the night there.

‘Get your fucking arse out of that chair,' I found myself yelling. ‘And get on that radio of yours. Tell them to seal off the dining room until DCI Groom's seen it. Tell DCI Groom I'm OK but I'm making myself scarce. And sit here, with the rat in his cage on your bloody lap, until someone takes him into protective custody. Got all that? Go on, then. While I'm fetching the rat.'

Sidney was still there in his cage in my room, safe and hungry. He demolished a peanut while I threw on some more sensible clothes and grabbed my bag. I shoved my make-up bag inside it: I couldn't face the day without it, but wouldn't wait around here to apply it. Then I piled Sidney's food and litter tray on his cage, and dumped the lot beside the PC.

‘Anything happens to him and you answer for it: get that?'

He nodded.

‘And don't forget to tell your gaffer I'm all right. I just can't stay here any longer.'

‘Miss, I – shouldn't you – we could …'

But I was halfway down the corridor and didn't hear anything else.

I cut through the student car park, wishing I'd got more rapid transport than a pair of legs and a blue and cream bus. Perhaps I might even get as far as home and come back in George's van. But it would look out of place among all the neat cars. Gimson's Rover was back, I saw. I wondered what he'd eaten instead of the biryani.

I was nearly at the main gates before I realised I'd scarcely be able to get through unnoticed. Matt had told us the police were guarding us, but the mention of Chris's name should get me through.

As it happened, I needed no open sesame. The gate was swarming with officers, but they were all engaged in deep discussion with the driver of a large silver Mercedes. The ladies and gentlemen of the press were so enthralled with this that they took no notice of me. I didn't want to alter this state of affairs, so I didn't try and find out what was going on. But I did see that the driver was probably oriental, though the car was British-registered.

At least this gave me an idea of how I might spend my day profitably. Nyree, Japanese tourists, another oriental – there must be some sort of connection. Must be. Money always seemed a good reason for people to start chasing other people. It must be big money for people to hurtle round the world. Big money and Japan: was that unlikely? And yet Kenji hadn't phoned me back.

Like the little red hen, therefore, I'd have to do the work myself.

I sat on the bus slapping on make-up and thinking hard. I needed a refuge. One place no one would think of looking for me, surely, was a library. I could bury myself in the stacks and dig through endless copies of old newspapers. There were two libraries to choose from. The Central Reference Library, the one Prince Charles condemned as looking more like a place for burning books than one for reading them, and the one at the college I work at – William Murdock. William Murdock is a desperately poor inner-city college, with a library budget of £20,000 a year. But it retains all its old newspapers so students can photocopy items for projects and other work. And as a refuge it was even safer than a public library. So I got off the bus a couple of stops earlier than I'd planned and set off briskly up the hill to the college. Too briskly. A rattle of asthma tightened my chest. Blast! Relax. Breathe out slowly. Lower the shoulders. And put out of your mind the fact that your asthma spray is safe and sound in Agnes's handbag.

I knew the solitary porter on duty well enough to ask him to phone up to the library if any stranger should appear, and pressed the lift button. Normally I walk up the stairs to the seventh floor, but this time it was better to appease the chest than exercise the legs.

The librarian was wearing a pair of workman's overalls and greeted me from the top of a stepladder. He was lifting books from the shelves and banging them together to shift the dust. This was not going to be a comfortable place.