Dying to Write (7 page)

My usual means of restoring brainpower is to go for a jog. Perhaps it would work today.

Naukez would no doubt have been the best person to ask about good routes, but he was nowhere to be seen, and I hesitated to disturb him in the staff flat. But Shazia was in the kitchen, and I asked her instead.

‘Oh, dear – I'm hopeless at giving directions. Got a piece of paper?'

As a nonwriter, I had no notepad tucked in my pocket. In desperation she reached down the kitchen blackboard. Really it's there for people to jot down items that are running out, but she wiped it clean and sketched out a possible route for me.

‘That bit's a bit steep,' she said. ‘And that part's quite exposed.'

I thanked her and went off to change.

I thought of Toad and chose not my running vest and shorts but a tracksuit. In any case the wind justified it. It was whipping my hair quite fiercely into my eyes. I stopped; there was bound to be a rubber band in my trouser pocket.

Someone else stopped too.

No. I was imagining it. Surely?

I took an unconscionable time to fish out the band and loop my hair through it, but no one moved.

I started again.

There was a well-defined track from the house, through scrubland, to the far end of the park. Then, beyond the motorway, were some old pit mounds.

The twig that snapped was not one I'd trodden on.

I pretended my lace and come untied: I knelt, waiting for someone to come close, poised to bolt if I had to.

Two magpies flew up, cackling. Two for joy. I pressed on.

It was easy running. There was enough of an undulation to make it interesting, but no fierce gradients. The surface was good, too, with no vicious roots lurking to ensnare the unwary. I padded on, perfectly at peace for the first time since I'd arrived. The scientists say it's all to do with the chemicals you release in your brain by hitting your feet on the ground. Endomorphs? Endorphins? Pheromones? No, one of those is the name for the smell that attracts mates.

The sound of the motorway was becoming obtrusive. If I could I would turn away. There was nothing down there anyway but some derelict buildings, according to Shazia. I found a narrow track which would take me through the woods. I would have to slow right down but it was better than all that noise. Not that the woods were silent, of course. The birds were busy telling all the others to keep off their patch. Some blackbirds were excavating the undergrowth. An untimely owl hunched on a tree stump.

And someone was watching me again.

I stopped, and scanned a hundred and eighty degrees.

A shadow moved. A twig snapped. Then there was a definite rustle, but the sound might be moving away from me.

For a moment I wanted to chase whoever it was. No. Much more sensible to head in the opposite direction. I told myself I was there to write, that the sole purpose of my run was to clear my brain so I could write, and that I was heading back to base to write.

For once I listened to myself.

I took a path to the right and accelerated. Anyone wanting to catch me would have to be pretty fit. I lengthened my stride. The breaths came easily. Another three hundred yards and I'd be in sight of the house.

Practically.

Thirty yards away a figure emerged from the shadows. The ground shelved sharply to my left and I hadn't noticed him there. I realised, as my feet carried me closer and closer, that I couldn't reproach myself for not spotting him before. In his camouflage jacket and muddy jeans, Naukez was practically invisible.

He stared at me as I slowed to a halt. ‘Wrong time of day,' he said, ‘for the badgers.'

‘I'm just going back to the house.'

‘Ah. That's OK then. Wouldn't want anything to disturb them.'

We nodded at each other. I set off gently – he wasn't going to know how much he'd rattled me. But I could feel his eyes on my back the whole way.

The first person I saw when I'd showered and pottered along to make a cup of tea before trying – again – to write, was Matt.

He was staring at the kettle as if willing it to boil. I reached across him and flicked on the switch.

‘She's still missing,' he said. ‘All they do is rabbit on about that stupid bitch Nyree, and I can't get them to listen. A woman like Kate doesn't go walkabout, Sophie – does she?'

‘Is that what Chris – the policeman – is saying?'

‘You know he buggered off hours ago. Nothing to do till they get the PM report on Nyree, he says. And it's twenty-four hours before they consider someone missing. That's a long time, Sophie.'

I made the tea.

‘Is anything missing from her room?'

‘How should I know?'

‘Just wondered. And – Christ, Matt, has anyone fed Sidney?'

‘Sidney? Oh, the rodent. Never thought. Come on, bring your tea and we'll go and see.'

‘You're not keen on rats,' I observed as we went upstairs.

‘It's their tails. Don't mind their front ends, and I quite like their starry little feet, but it's their tails. Come on, we'll go through my room.'

The tutors' rooms were impressive, now I had time to look round. There was a study-bedroom, larger than an average bed-sit and comfortably furnished. Then there was a private bathroom, luxurious with mahogany and brass, with a dense carpet and a proliferation of towels.

Then Kate's bathroom, a mirror image of Matt's, and into Kate's room.

Sidney's cage was empty.

Matt groaned. ‘Why didn't I think of that before? The bloody animal's got out and she's looking for it!'

That seemed to be the logical explanation; I wanted to accept it. But I couldn't stop asking myself: ‘Why didn't she leave a note – ask us to keep an eye open for him? And surely she'd have been back by now?'

‘She may have lost track of the time.'

‘She must have left before the Nyree business. It's – what? – three twenty now. That's a long time to be hunting a rat with no help.'

‘So you think she might have gone looking and been taken ill?'

‘I wish I knew what to think, Matt. My brain's still fuzzy; I thought running would help but –'

In my mind's eye I suddenly saw Naukez, heard the invisible presence in the woods.

‘I think we should talk to Chris Groom again,' I said.

Although I knew it would be impossible, I tried to make myself write for what little remained of the afternoon. I sat in my room and stared and doodled and achieved not even a kind memory of George. Eventually I gave up and went in search of strong coffee. The kitchen was full, of course: I made myself scarce as soon as I could. But I didn't want to go back to the silence and the unyielding pen and pad. I went out on the terrace again, to find Shazia with a watering can and a grim expression, staring at Toad's back.

‘And when I want your advice I'll ask for it,' she muttered.

After a moment she started moving regularly across the paving stones. I decided not to make a joke about weedkiller. Instead, without preamble, I launched into my worries about Kate.

Shazia agreed with me: Kate was simply not the sort of woman to go off for such a long time without telling anyone. As soon as Chris returned – he'd left a message with her saying he'd be back by seven – I should talk to him, she said. With or without her and Matt in support. I was to decide.

I retired to a bench in the watery sun to think. Somehow. I still felt hazy, as if I were missing on one of my cylinders. It would be terribly easy to drowse off, even now.

But something was executing a tap-dance on my left foot. I made my eyes focus downwards. Sidney!

I looked around hopefully: maybe Kate was somewhere in view. She was not.

Sidney continued to tap.

His fur was sodden, and lay in dark feathers across his flanks. He must have been burrowing through the wilder parts of the estate – there were bits of grass and a couple of dandelion petals garnishing his head.

Now it came to it, I wasn't sure how I felt about picking up a rat. How would the rat feel about being picked up by me? He was even less sure than I was, and struggled. There must be quite a lot of muscle to struggle with, and rats come equipped with needle teeth. But clearly I had to return him to the safety of his cage. I pressed him to my chest.

He struggled more purposefully. Then he slipped clear. But instead of diving to freedom, he clawed up my shoulder and on to my neck, where he lay, heavy, warm and wet. Presumably this was what rats considered first-class travel.

I simply walked into Kate's room via Matt's, which happened to be empty and unlocked. But there was no food around, apart from a sprinkling around the edge of the room, a giant parabola of brightly coloured confetti. The packet of digestive biscuits had gone from Kate's table too. I thrust the rat with some loss of his dignity into the cage, balanced the litter tray on top, and retreated to my own room, where it would be easier to keep an eye on him. Food? A rapid raid on the kitchen produced cheese, the heel of a granary loaf, an apple. The biscuit barrel was empty.

Sidney eyed the apple and cheese with disdain. It was a good job I'd thought of the bread. Plainly there was more to rodents than I'd realised.

I nibbled the cheese and apple myself, and started to feel better.

Chris had made his own plans for the evening meeting. He'd asked Shazia, Matt and me to join him in the staff flat above the rabbit-hutches, then he wanted everyone together after supper so he could make a general announcement.

Shazia welcomed us politely and showed us into her living room. The room contained a genial mixture of Impressionist prints and Islamic art. There were a number of holy texts in Arabic lettering; Shazia followed my gaze and said quietly, ‘Yes, we made the hajj two years ago.'

I was impressed – they were very young to have made the expensive pilgrimage.

Chris gestured at the dining table: it might be more businesslike to sit there.

‘The pathologist's report,' he began, in his official voice, ‘confirms that Mrs Compton –'

‘Nyree?' asked Matt.

‘Mrs Nyree Compton died of a mixture of alcohol and barbiturates,' Chris finished. ‘Specifically, as you saw, she choked on her own vomit.'

‘So it's what we thought,' said Shazia, visibly relaxing. ‘We all warned her about her drinking.'

Or thought about it. I'd never spoken aloud.

‘Stupid woman,' said Matt.

‘Or a very sad one,' I said.

‘Oh, there's no suicide note,' said Chris. ‘Don't think we didn't check,' he added smugly.

‘Her whole life was probably a suicide note,' I said, thinking of the Stevie Smith poem about drowning. ‘You can't behave like that if you're happy,' I continued. ‘I wish I'd made an effort. I just let her make me mad. If I'd tried –'

Chris looked at me sharply. ‘Any particular reason? For you to be mad with her?'

‘She was unkind.' I stopped. I didn't want to tell him about Nyree's ogling Shazia's husband. Nor did I want to introduce my cousin Andy at this stage of the conversation. ‘I might be unkind myself at times, but I don't really like unkind people.'

‘I think you're very kind,' Chris said, ‘for all you pretend to be waspish.'

‘I am waspish. I'm waspish because I should have found other ways of dealing with my irritation. I could have hidden her sleeping tablets, rationed them or whatever.'

Then we remembered we had an audience. Chris coughed slightly and resumed his official voice: ‘The pathologist reports she took round about the standard dose. So you probably wouldn't have done any good if you had tried to interfere.'

‘She wouldn't have thanked you for trying,' said Matt.

I tried to imagine myself acting as night nurse, doling out a pill at a time. And failed. I tried to imagine Nyree being sober enough to shake just one tablet out of a bottle. And failed. She'd have dropped them all over the floor and had to scrabble for them. There might even be a couple under the bed for the police to pick up.

‘Are you all right?' asked Shazia.

‘Yes. No. I was just wondering what would have happened to Sidney if he'd chanced on one.' And I remembered with a flush of guilt I'd told no one about the rat's recent adventures. Now was certainly not the time. I'd waylay Chris later.

‘They'd come in a bubble pack,' said Chris, dismissively. So I caught his eye, to be rewarded with a long, slow flush. His expression changed from complacency to pure panic, taking in horror on the way. Chris had not yet seen the tablets, had he?

Which meant, of course, they hadn't been in Nyree's room.

I let him talk on: he had no objection on the course continuing –

‘Well, I bloody have,' said Matt. ‘How can the course bloody continue when one of the tutors has gone missing and you lot aren't even interested?'

Chris's expression was opaque. So they were interested, but he wasn't admitting how. I would probe a little.

But Matt pre-empted me.

‘She leaves her room without telling anyone, is missing all day – bugger it, it's time we had a search party out for her. She may be lying out there sick or injured, and all we do is talk about Nyree and her angst. And whether the course will go on. Do something about Kate and then I'll talk about the course!'

He pushed away from the table. We heard him slam out of the flat and could follow his footfall until the sound insulation mopped it up.

It was better not to remark on it. We smiled our thanks to Shazia and left.

‘We have to talk, Chris,' I said, as we reached my corridor.

‘Later.'

‘Now. There are things you need to know to help you make your decisions. Apart from finding those tablets you assumed were hers – you could get one of your underlings to check for that, surely?'

He flushed. ‘I've had the room sealed to preserve the scene. Anything in there will turn up.'