Pearced (27 page)

“What an incredible story Daniel, such a web of intrigue,” I sit back on the sofa. “Has anyone come close to discovering the hidden meaning behind the artefact that was saved, are there any documents drawings references to what it might be?” I like drawings of course.  Cleaning his fingers on a wipe and folding the empty boxes neatly he adds them to the burning logs on the fire, crackling and glowing to life.  His phone demands his attention, now I know how annoying it must be when I do that to him, he answers it.  Mouthing sorry as he fingers the keys on the screen, really fast, he must do this a lot.  It’s a complex message, he looks into clear space to think for a nanosecond, then continues.  Once he’s done, he takes a very deep breath, puts the handset away, his expression is one of annoyed? Irritated? Not sure yet, don’t know his face enough yet.

Standing up slowly, he continues.

“My family have spent fortunes trying to locate the final burial spot of this item” he pokes the fire, “we have a house in Chachapoyas which has been used as a base for a few hundred years hoping to locate this box,” he finishes poking the fire,  “no one has ever found it.”

I stare at him waiting for the ‘however’ part of his story, but it doesn’t come.

JG: “Have popped some hay out for the boys, but off now” OK, thanks

TC: “Thanks babes” I mean it.

“And
your
interest Daniel, assuming this tale leads us somewhere?”
“I believe
I
am supposed to find it Tharie.” I lean back in the seat.  “And discover what happened to my Dad.” I rest my arm over the back in a casual way, because I don’t feel casual at all. “And this is what I want to show you.”

“That isn’t it?” I say almost laughing, “that incredible story full of mystery is the cake, and you’re about to tell me the icing?” This would be the
exciting incident
Agatha writes, the twist.

“Here” he says, passing the last box, “cake?” Chocolate fudge, well I do have to eat.

“Yes.” Daniel watches me intently, as if trying to read me, but he can’t.

“But it’s a look, not a
tell.
” OK.

He begins to stand, not taking his eyes off me, “I have something to show you.” He grabs the hem of his jersey top and pulls it off his head in one swift motion.  God this man is so hot, his lean muscly body drawn over with ink. Perfectly sculpted to fit perfectly to my own lean body, like two pieces of a jigsaw, I snap back to the moment at the sound of his voice.  “Since I was a young man I have had tattoos.” He stands before me, naked from the waistband of his black jeans up.

Oh yes. Stop thinking Tharie!  I’ve seen him naked and tattooed but never really noticed all the intricately worked ink work all over his beautiful body before.  Well with such a gorgeous canvas would you notice the paint? True story.  His abdominal muscles tight, his body firm and he's breathing deep and steady, like he’s trying to control his emotions. “I mean Tharie,” he looks at his own torso, running his fingers through his hair to tame it, “I wake up with them,” what!  “And I don’t know how they get there.”  A deep sigh.

This can only mean one thing, all my years as a crime drama fanatic was about to pay off!

“What?” that's right, the all-important question, because, what else could I say?

“I loose hours, sometimes days, I can’t remember anything except a blinding light, and even then I think I imagine it.” the white room?

I shake my head in disbelief, it doesn’t however stop me finishing a huge slice of warm chocolate cake, all gooey and yummy in the middle.

“So all these pieces of artwork,” I ask as I stand beside him fork in hand pointing, then tracing my fingers up his side along the more recent tattoo, “are like guerrilla art?” I can’t really believe what I’m hearing but being a big fan of Agatha Christie and Banksy too, I’m willing to give it a go.

“They are worked onto my body, and recently some of the symbols are recognisable, you can find them around this room.”  Waving his arm around to add effect, he’s now a little calmer. “Some are small, like these on my fingers and one on my foot, this one is the largest piece.” He looks down at my fingers as they move over the fine work of both the tattoo and his sculpted body.  Tracing his ribs and hipbone I move my hands slowly over the contours of his body.

“You have any idea who's doing this to you?” I look into his eyes and see a softness there I haven’t seen before, it's like he wasn’t expecting me to still be standing here once his story was told, I’m made of tougher stuff, Pony Club remember?  He’s not just a great arse.

“I think I do know, yes.” He holds both my wrists in his fists like delicate manacles, and clutches them to him in earnest.  “I don’t want you involved in this Tharie, I can't guarantee your safety, my family...well, they are all keen on getting their hands on this box.”

“I take my lumps when it suits me” I tell him, “nobody tells me what’s good for me, I decide that”, I kiss his cheek gently, “besides I event two crazy Trakehners, danger is my life.  True bloody story people, and anyone who doesn't believe it, has never ridden a crazy Trakehner.  They are clever, and they are fast.

”I kiss his fingers one by one. “I have the broken bones and bruises to prove it.” I sound braver than I feel.

“More tea?” He smiles.

“Certainly, no army can march without it.” Spirit of the blitz ‘n all that jazz.

“We're an army now are we?” He laughs, “
We’re not Scooby do you know?”

“Agree, we’d need a kick-arse van.” I’m already picturing it aren't you?

“I have a Range Rover, will that do?” Maybe.

“A Landy? Of course,” I wink.

“So Thelma, what next?” Thelma, really?

“Oh yea of little faith, I know just who to ask for help to find that box.” I head to the kitchen ahead of Daniel and put the kettle on.

He laughs, “You’re incredible.”

“So people tell me, but I remain humble.” I laugh too.

“The cups are in there.” he points.

“I have a college friend Liza,” I find tea bags, “she rides of course, all the best people do,” I wink at him and wonder if he’d know one end of a horse from another.  “She works at the British Museum she’s an anthropologist, I’ll call her tomorrow and ask if she'll help us.”  Smug and thirsty for tea and Daniel, renewed energy from the cake remember? If you were wondering.

My life interrupts.

HC: “Mum says you don’t eat properly” bloody hell.

TC: “You’re her PA now is that it?” I already know the answer.

HC: “She doesn’t pay me if that’s what you’re asking” stop passing messages onto me, I’m a grown up.

TC: “I’ve just had pizza” there!

HC: “I’ll tell her” see that you do.

He’s watching me.

I order the cups on the work surface haphazardly, the exact opposite to Daniel, he watches me with amused interest as I pour the hot water into the pot.  “Her boss, who's about seventy” I swirl the hot water around the pot agitating the leaves, “is an expert on ancient hieroglyphs, lost symbols and writings.  He might be able to....” I look him up and down smiling, appraisingly, “decipher you.” I explain with a wide grin.  Daniel looks at me lovingly, but of course I’m inventing that since he's never used those words, but right now I feel it.  I desperately want to stay with him, to make love to him but my Dad's watch tells me it's time to go home. It would of course tell me all sorts of things if I knew how the damn thing works. Anyway, I have creatures that need my attention.

“You’re leaving?”

“Daniel, I have to get home, I haven’t seen the horses all day and I miss them and Jinni isn’t available tonight, her boyfriend is in a band and they’re playing tonight.”

“Can I come with you?” I pass him a steaming cup of tea, startled.  I’m a little surprised at my casual acceptance, I don’t like people in my cottage.

“Just don’t mess with my stuff” I jest, but there is truth in the faux warning, he really better not, his sweet laugh is like medicine.

“Of course.”

We need to buy milk on the way.

Chapter seventeen, Monday
morning
: 28thoctober2013 the museum

HC: “Hi Sis, howzit!” He thinks he’s down with the kids, such a shame.

TC: “Finished your tour?” What does he want he never calls me, god I sound like Mum!?

HC: “Until Christmas, we’ve got The Academy then, Mum wants to know where you are” there you are.

TC: “The British museum” I love it here.

HC: “Very cultural Tharie, I’m jealous” liar, you’d hate it, all the women are fully dressed, it’s cold in here.

TC: “…and yes, I’ve eaten properly” ha!

HC:  “I’ll tell her” see that you do.

As we enter the lower underground of the back end of the museum I hold Daniels hand tightly, he is obviously nervous at getting strangers involved in the mystery. 

EC: “Catharine, I’m worried about you” tell me something new.

TC: “Mum, I’m fine, I had a healthy dinner and am leading an active life” true story.

EC: “You’ll never find a husband if you don’t look after your appearance” I almost shake my ponytail in response.

TC: “Mum, Superhero’s can’t have a family.” and that, dear reader, is a true story if ever there was one.

TC: “Spiderman wasn’t married.” no-one likes a boy who wears Lycra.

EC: “His outfit was smart and he brushed his hair” I’m not winning this one am I?

TC: “OK mum, I’ll get my haircut” sometime.

In the
archive room
, it’s very dark with shelves upon shelves, stacked from floor to ceiling, packed tightly with white plastic fully labelled boxes containing finds from digs all over the globe, lit from behind. It’s like the Bread Kitchen but instead of wine, its antiquities.

My phone buzzes.

EC: “I’ve booked you an appointment with Gail” bloody hell.

Phone away.

A short, friendly man approaches, clearly juggling several past conversations in his head, I know the feeling. He’s a squat man with salt and pepper thinning hair and a very warm, engaging, friendly smile with clear as crystal blue smiling eyes that match his mouth.   His tweed jacket is original seventies, with corduroy elbow patches worn and frayed around the edges of the pockets and cuffs from constant use.    Wearing a Fender Stratocaster t-shirt under his lab coat, it doesn’t close, the professor likes his food. The embroidery above his breast pocket which has two pens with no lids a pencil, a penknife, a plastic fork and a plectrum in it, says Professor Dr. Nigel Cummings.  He reaches out a warm friendly hand with thick soft fingers to greet us “hello.”  He pushes his glasses up his nose, I bet he does that a lot I think to myself.  “I’m Professor Cummings, call me Nigel or Professor.” That's clear.  His trousers are too short, they’ve been altered because his legs are short and a mistake has been made with the measurements in the wrong direction, but clearly fashion is not a priority for Nigel, they still function as trousers.   Plus the stitching is orange and his trousers are mole brown, he wears grey cable knit socks and those nasty chunky neoprene sandals with buckles on them. Its winter.

Behind him is my friend Liza, blonde hair the colour of wet hay, long and swept up in a very professional but casual bun.  Her slight boyish frame lost under the white lab coat she is wearing at least two sizes too big, they probably don’t make them in a size 6.   Her name is tidily embroidered on the breast in navy blue sanserif, Dr Liza Cartier.  We all exchange pleasantries, and Nigel leads us all further into the maze that is his domain, I am already terribly lost, but that’s to be expected.  Chattering away to us or himself it’s hard to tell, Liza glances at me with an eye roll to suggest he does this a lot and it’s OK to ignore him, just as long as he doesn’t notice.

“I notice everything Dr Cartier, it’s why I know so much” adds the Professor, we laugh out loud.

“You still riding at the weekend Tharie?” Liza asks me with an exaggerated eye-roll as we follow the men through this store room. 

“It’s the Grand Prix, we’ve been working for.”  Chocolate Mousse is a Dutch Warmblood, much bigger than my Trakehners, longer in the back, less sharp.  He is very dark brown almost black, and his focus is dressage.  It’s like watching ballet on horseback, stunningly beautiful.

“You got rosettes last weekend I hear?” She asks me trying to bring the conversation back to something that connects us.

“Yes, we did quite well,” I confess to being proud of our performance.

“And this event?”

“Yep, all set to go, lorry filled with diesel, tack all clean, boys are ready, you know they’re both competing this time?” I answer, always happy to chat about horses.  “If I’ve finished my class in time I’d love to come watch you do your Prix St. George, I just love watching Mousse dance.”

Liza smiles affectionately, whether at me or the thoughts of her horse it's impossible to tell, but I assume it's me and happily carry on.

“George will win it for sure, if you can just keep Harry’s attention for more than five minutes you might get somewhere on him too, he's very talented, he's just a little....” Liza searches for the correct word, accessing her head library, being deliberately careful to use the correct phrasing so as not to upset.