Death be Not Proud (25 page)

I should have been at a lunch laid on by the Société d'Histoire Internationale, but Guy had also been invited and, knowing my luck, I would have ended up sitting next to him. So instead I wandered around the side streets and found a tiny craft shop selling hand-dyed wool from remote Scottish islands. The balls of yarn filled the walls in all their delectable colours: squishy, soft bundles with cinched paper waists. Mum would adore the heathery greens and muted bronze – the colour of dried grass against a storm-grey sky. The wool must have been sold by the Troy ounce since it cost its weight in gold, and I spent so much time in there that I was late for the afternoon presentations. I slid in the side door clutching the bag, keeping as low a profile as possible. Even so, Guy had seen me, and I spent the rest of the conference doing my best to avoid him. I also managed to find a couple of small presents for the twins: scale models of knights on horses – accurate enough to satisfy the historian in me, and suitably robust for jousting around the legs of the dining table. But that was it where my family were concerned: no coins for Alex's collection, nothing else for Flora and not a thing for Archie. Dad was OK; he had chosen his present before I came to Maine and he should have it by now. I wondered whether he would have the patience to wait until Christmas before opening it. Beth, however, would both understand
and wait if the post didn't make it there on time, and Rob would be happy with a really good bottle of red wine. And Nanna? Nanna and I had come to an understanding with regard to presents some years back, and every year she chose which charity she wanted to support. Last Christmas it was a couple of goats; this year it would be a teacher. I had asked her how she wanted her present wrapped and she indulged me by laughing.

I spent a long and pleasurable time thinking about what to give Matthew, although getting it in time for Christmas would be another matter. What really bothered me to distraction was what on earth I would do about the Lynes. What
do
you give people you don't know and have barely met? And giving nothing was just not an option.

A random search on Google failed to inspire. I didn't know what they liked to eat or drink or whether they were teetotal or whether, come to think of it, like Matthew, they ate at all. In the end I went for the simplest option and ordered a Fortnum's hamper from the UK, and hoped it would arrive on time. I drew a complete blank on more personal gifts until I recalled Nanna's: bingo – simple and purposeful. I placed the orders and clicked “send”, feeling pretty smug – no, not smug –
relieved
.

I saved Matthew's present until last. I knew what I wanted to buy him. I had known for some time when, in moments alone, I allowed myself to daydream about spending Christmas together.

 

Snow still fell when I left to meet my students, but there was the distinct possibility that it would cease altogether. I felt as pleased to see my tutor group as they were relieved to see me but, once I had asked after their studies and their general
welfare, I gathered from their faces that what they really wanted to know – but were too reticent to ask – were the details of the attack. They had heard the rumours, of course – but why is it that people never hear the truth? And what alarmed me even more was that they needed to ask whether the rumours were true. Only Aydin, in his quiet, reserved way, made it clear that he considered the stories that circulated around campus days after the attack to be no more than malicious gossip.

“People try to understand what happens by making story to fit their ideas. It is not true and it is like fire in the forest that burns very quick and hot, and then it is gone and the wood, yes – it is black – but inside it is still
strong
.”

I found the analogy as comforting as his faith in me, despite being likened to something charred and flaky. Josh – evidently going through a phase of exploring his inner Punk – fiddled with a chain of safety pins extending from his chest to his waist, his
über
cool only spoiled by the fact that the pins he sported were pink-tipped and usually used for old-fashioned nappies.

“Yeah, don't worry about it, Dr D. Nobody's talking about you
now
– are they, guys?”

Holly and Hannah shook their heads but didn't voice their assent. Leo had said very little since entering the room, but reclined in his chair with his hands behind his head. Every now and again, as we discussed their work, I found his eyes wandering over my body, calculating, invasive. I avoided his stare and, apart from the pervasive suspicion I felt sure some of them silently entertained, we managed to get down to some real work. By the end of the session I felt satisfied that my absence had done no lasting damage to their prospects. The question was, what would it do to mine?

The snow held off, as Matthew predicted.

We reached the cabin just as the sun defeated the clouds, revealing an immense sky stretching from summit to summit in a great arc of blue above white. Heavily eaved and dwarfed by the mountain, the cabin hunkered down in deep snow behind a gentle slope that protected it from the worst of the winter weather.

The house was already warm. The log burner in the stone fireplace had been lit sometime earlier, and now the embers glowed sporadically through its glass face. I peeled off the layers Matthew had insisted I wore and wandered over to the full-height window that ran nearly the length of one wall. A long oak table and ladder-back chairs took in the view for which the house had undoubtedly been built, revealing a vast expanse of land as it dropped away from the cabin, matched in beauty only by the display of the sky. Matthew walked straight over to the far end of the room and checked the stove in the kitchen area before adding more wood from a neat stack in a purpose-built alcove next to it. He had not spoken since we arrived.

Balancing on one of the comfortable armchairs flanking the log burner, I looked around the honed simplicity of the
interior, noting the white walls to reflect the cool light and the timber furnishings to warm it. Wool throws in chunky-knit fresh greens and fat, cream cushions embroidered in red snowflakes invited idle indulgence, but the rack of expensive skiing equipment in the front porch suggested the owners of the cabin also took an active interest in the world outside their door. I waited, expecting at any moment to hear the footsteps of whoever had lit the fires, but I heard no sound other than the
tik-tik
of the metal burner cooling after fierce heat. Matthew checked the room, added wood to the burner. There was a sense of urgency in his movements, and he was not at ease.

“Matthew, who lit the fires?”

He seemed distracted. “Come upstairs – I'll show you your room.”

He took me by the hand and guided me to the stairs.

“Matthew…?”

He stopped at the bottom step as if he had only just heard me.

“It was lit for us earlier; there's no one else here now.”

I hurried to keep up with him as he showed me upstairs to the main bedroom that shared a view of the landscape with the room below. The entire front wall up into the apex of the roof made a triangle of glass by which a bentwood rocking chair waited. The sun fell on the other side of the house now, the mountains and trees candescent with its sharp, pale light. An antique wood bedstead – cracked and gently coloured by considerable age – sat against the rear wall. From this vantage point, I imagined, the occupants would wake to find their day already blessed by such natural riches as they could see through the window. Matthew turned his back abruptly and went over to a door on one side of the room.

“The bathroom is through here,” he said, standing aside so that I could see its understated opulence for myself, but it reminded me of being shown around a house by an estate agent: impersonal, businesslike, just doing his job. I hung back, trying to fathom what on earth was going on, and his eyes hardly skimmed the bed as he put my bag on the Scandinavian quilt in reds and whites that softened its outline.

“Would you like some tea?” he asked, solicitous despite his distraction. I wondered if – now that we were alone at last – he felt the same edge of nerves that had quivered in me as we left the car and embarked on the seductively slick snowmobile. I considered whether the prospect of discussing our future together made him nervous because of what had happened in his past. Whichever, whatever, clearly something played on his mind.

We went back downstairs and he made me tea, the cold, freshly drawn water taking an age to boil on the wood-fed stove, and then we sat on the veranda that wrapped around two sides of the cabin, and watched the sun cross the sky. The mountain slopes stretched out in a seemingly endless backcloth thickly interspersed with spires of snow-laden trees and the odd outcrop of rock – jarring and unsympathetic to the smooth undulations of the landscape. In the evening light, the glittering white desert bronzed as the sun moved towards the horizon. I put my empty mug down on the step, unable to bear the tension any longer.

“What's the matter? You've been pent up ever since we arrived.”

The temperature began to drop rapidly with the sun, and I wriggled back into the shelter of his arms against the solid wall of his chest. His arms enfolded me, his chin rested on my shoulder, and his breath moved softly alongside my ear, yet he
seemed further away from me now than he ever felt before. Minutes passed before he answered.

“You know that I love you, Emma, and I want you to be happy more than anything.”

His eyes were troubled and he looked out across the snow-fields, avoiding me.

“Yes, I know that; what's bothering you?”

“Why do you think I've brought you here?”

His directness wrong-footed me; no way could I tell him what I hoped would happen, what I hoped he might ask, and I wondered if he had a different agenda from my own.

“I thought it was so that we can be alone together – so that we can discuss… things.”

“Alone. Yes – so that we could be alone.”

But his “alone” and my “alone” appeared to have two very different meanings. I slid right around so that I could see him clearly, and he confronted me now with an unswerving eye.

“Emma, when you look at me, what do you see?”

What sort of question was
that
?

“I see you, Matthew.”

The creases deepened between his eyes, his face became unreadable and I shivered, but not because of the chill wind seeping under the steps.

“Can we go in now? It's getting cold,” I asked, hoping that moving would shake him out of the dark mood that had taken him. He pressed his lips together but helped me stand where I had become stiff from sitting too long.

The fire still burned steadily in its stove. I hung my quilted coat on the back of one of the tall chairs as Matthew walked in silence to the window. Through it, the world lay untouched, glowing in the last light of the sun. Hands in pockets, he viewed it dispassionately, seeing without allowing its beauty
to touch him because his thoughts lay elsewhere.

“But, Emma,
what
do you see?”

He turned, and his expression had darkened perceptibly. Behind the obvious question lay acres of subtlety I wasn't sure how to answer. Everything about him had become unnaturally edgy and I took a step towards him, then thought better of it; he was in no mood to be placated. When I didn't say anything, he turned around and stared at me until I felt obliged to answer.

“I see
you
, Matthew – the man I fell in love with.”

“And who is
that
, exactly?” Unfamiliar acidity bled through his tone and, for the first time, my stomach fluttered nervously with fear. “Do you see a
doctor
, a
widower
, your
lover
? Or am I only a set of dates on a time line – some interesting facts bound up in a scientific anomaly?” He took his hands from his pockets and only then did I see the rigidity in his stance, as if he anticipated conflict. “You once said that the only consistent thing about me were the lies I told. What makes you think you know me at all? What makes you believe you can trust anything I say or do?”

I blanched at the sudden change in him. I took a step back, my hand feeling the edge of the table next to me. He waited for an answer and I stumbled to find one he would accept. Outside, the sun had set, the subtle sky fading into palest blue as the land melted into darkness. I found my throat had gone dry and I could hear the strain in my voice.

“I… I also said that you have total integrity, Matthew. I understand why you couldn't tell me who you are – how could you? And I know you haven't told me all that there is to know, but then that's why we're here, isn't it? To talk? That's what we agreed.” He seemed to be listening intently, watching the nervous movements my hands made, so I continued. “It's irrelevant to me when you were born, and I don't love you
because of what you are, whatever that might be, but because I love the man I
know
…”

I stopped as he ground his teeth, the muscles in his jaw contracting, and he looked as if he were only just managing to restrain his temper. Whatever I said seemed to enrage him further, and I felt suddenly exposed and very, very vulnerable. I resisted the urge to put the table between us and stood my ground.

“And you think you
know
me now?” He became quiet for a moment; then, when he spoke, his voice expressed anguish and I thought that the squall might be over. “Ah, Emma, what do you really know of me?”

I wanted desperately to go to him, to hold and comfort him, but I stayed put, not trusting this lull, knowing that whatever lay behind it had not yet shown its face.

“I know what you have told me, I know what I have learned… that you are a good man…”

“
Good?
” He spun round, glaring. “You think I'm a
good
man? Christ in Heaven, have I made a
fool
out of you as well as a…”

He shook his head violently, stifling the words, pent-up emotion on the brink of exploding. I backed around the table, feeling the solidity of the wood, but knowing that if it came to it, it wouldn't be enough against his strength and agility. He watched me with eyes that were mere slits and he laughed – a harsh sound, cruel and alien. He took a step closer.

“You're frightened of me; I wondered how long it would take you to realize what you're dealing with. And you know nothing –
nothing
of me. Frightened? You should be. I can kill you so easily; I can squeeze the life out of you as I would have done to Staahl, and no one would know. My
secret
…” he used the word disparagingly, “… would be safely buried up here.”

He pulverized the air inside the crypt of his hand, and my heart thudded against my chest as I fought to breathe, keeping my voice steady although my legs were jelly and all I wanted to do was run.

“You're not a killer, Matthew. I don't know what's wrong and why you're behaving like this, but you won't kill me.”

He curled his lips back over his even, white teeth and his eyes burned with a changing fire, although his words were now ice and he enunciated each with cold precision.

“But you are quite wrong – I
have
killed. I have wrested the life out of men for no other reason than their being my enemies – and what is that compared with what I have done to you?”

“What have you done?” I whispered, fear gluing me to the floor. “Why have you brought me here?”

Fists clenching and flexing convulsively, he moved until he stood over me, struggling with internal demons, his breathing harsh and ragged as he reached out a hand to the cross at my throat. I reacted instinctively, memories of Staahl and my impulse to survive making me lash out. He caught my wrist before I could hit him, holding it in a grip that could crush it like a cobnut in a vice.

“I could take you here and now.” He pushed me back against the table – pinned and helpless between its sharp edge and his thighs – his eyes glass stones, blank and devoid of humanity. “I could make a whore out of you and then snap your spine…”

“No Matthew, stop it; this is not you…”

“… then I would be the monster men feared I had become.”

I struggled, but the side of the table, no more yielding than his body, bit into my back. “You're not; I don't… please, let go of me.
Stop!
You're
hurting me
…”

Stunned, he released me as if burned, his eyes glazing in shock, seeing me for the first time. Hunching, then whipping round, he smashed his fist into the plate-glass wall. The window shivered and cracked in a radiating series of lines from the epicentre of impact, as a stone shatters the virgin ice on a pond.

 

I should have run – I should have taken the opportunity while his back was turned and fled into the snow. I should have ripped the door open and plunged into the known blackness to escape the unknown darkness that tore at his soul.

But I didn't.

Perhaps shock prevented me from moving, perhaps the knowledge that to flee into the wilderness was as good a way of ensuring my death from exposure as Matthew deliberately snuffing out the flame of my life. But neither was true. I stayed because I would gladly – willingly – have given him my life if it could have made his suffering any less. I stayed because he didn't expect me to, and because he needed me – and because I needed him.

 

I neither moved nor spoke. My mouth had turned to ash and every breath I drew through it was desiccation. My heart no longer thudded, but jumped – fitful and sporadic – like the convulsions of a decapitated frog. The table became a welcome friend, propping me up until my legs once more had a role to play in supporting me.

We continued to stand where we were and silence stood with us, its presence oppressive. Eventually Matthew straightened. I could see his reflection in the black mirror of the window, fractured with the pale cobwebs that shattered his image. He stared back at me, his eyes dark points glaring from the phantom of his face. His voice sounded flat and dead.

“Why are you still here?”

I remained silent, waiting for the re-emergence of the molten anger that had erupted from nowhere. He turned from the window. “
Why
are you still here, Emma?” he repeated, and this time, his question was one of genuine bewilderment.

I found my voice from somewhere. “Where else would I go?”

He knew I didn't refer to the frozen land beyond the cabin. I waited, and the minutes passed. Finally, I could stand it no longer.

“What was that all about, Matthew?”