S. Bolton - Dead Scared

Her eyes fell to my wrist, the ugly scar still covered by a plaster. I waited for the question that didn’t come.

‘Self-immolation,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s almost unheard of in our culture. And that poor girl on Sunday morning. Who on earth would come up with such an idea?’

A pretty disturbed mind, I thought. And I’d met a few in my time.

‘You mentioned a website,’ I said. ‘I was told you think there might be a subculture that’s encouraging destructive behaviour.’

‘These suicide websites vary from the well meaning but misguided to the downright ghoulish,’ said Evi. ‘I’m afraid something like that is going on here. I just can’t find any evidence of it.’

‘You’ve looked?’

‘Repeatedly. There are internet sites and intranet sites and blogs, and chat rooms and tweets ad infinitum, all relating to life at Cambridge. There’s practically a virtual town and university floating above the real one. All the ones I can find, though, are pretty harmless. My IT skills aren’t great but I can’t help thinking there’s something going on that I haven’t been able to access. I was told your IT knowledge is pretty good.’

‘Not bad,’ I said.

Evi glanced at her watch and then at the computer screen. ‘I have a patient waiting,’ she said, before turning back to me. ‘OK, you’re a mature student of twenty-three who started an undergraduate degree two years ago but had to leave halfway through because of health problems,’ she said, recapping my cover story. ‘You’ve suffered from depression and anxieties in the past and been on medication for eighteen months. It’s all on my system on your personal file. I’ve agreed to let you join my psychology programme because I’ve seen great promise in your previous coursework. I’m also employing you, informally, on a part-time basis to help me with some research. That way, no one will question our spending time together. You have my various numbers if you need to contact me at any time?’

I thanked her and agreed that I had.

She frowned at me. ‘Laura Farrow,’ she said. ‘That’s not your real name, is it?’

I shook my head.

‘Are you allowed to tell me what is?’ she asked.

I couldn’t help but smile. I never told anyone that. Lacey Flint was no more my real name than Laura Farrow was. ‘Better not,’ I said, as I’d been told to. ‘It helps prevent mistakes.’

As I stood, she nodded, vaguely, and I had the feeling she didn’t really care one way or the other. For her, I was a means to an end. Then she surprised me.

‘Dana tells me you’re exceptional,’ she said.

I waited, halfway between her desk and the door, not really sure what to say to that. I’d never been called exceptional before. ‘She also tells me you’ve had a difficult six months,’ she went on, her eyes not leaving the desk. ‘I have a habit of asking too much of people, Laura. Don’t let me do that to you.’

THE PARTRIDGE MAY have seen the shadow of the predator hovering overhead. It may have felt the rush of wind as the falcon dived. It may even have had a split second to look death in the eyes and say how-do-you-do before strong talons crushed the life out of it. The falconer doubted it. He’d rarely seen a swifter kill.

The two birds, hunter and prey, fell from sight behind a hedge and the falconer stepped up his pace. Merry, the older and more reliable of his two pointers, trotted ahead, leading him right to the spot where the falcon’s strong, curved beak was already tearing the partridge apart. The man bent and lifted the falcon before taking out a knife and cutting the partridge’s head off. He gave it to the victor.

Whilst the falcon ate, the man who was sometimes foolish enough to tell himself that he owned the bird looked at the swirling grey sky, the upper clouds just turning the rich, deep peach of winter sunsets. The weak January sun was little more than an echo on the horizon and there was less than an hour of light left. As he fastened the falcon back on to the perch he ran his hand over its head, whispering praise.

The partridge joined the others in his bag and the falconer walked on. When his phone rang he cursed softly but pulled it from deep inside his oilskin coat.

‘Nick Bell,’ he said. Then, after a second, ‘How bad do they say she is?’

A few more seconds passed while he listened. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll head over there now.’

‘SO HOW HAVE you been this week, Jessica?’

‘Fine.’

Evi smiled. There couldn’t be more than five years between the girl sitting in the chair opposite and the policewoman who’d just vacated it, but Evi couldn’t imagine two more different faces. The police officer had been close to classically beautiful, but with a face as silent as stone. She gave nothing away. This girl, on the other hand, with her large brown eyes and coffee-coloured skin, couldn’t hide a thing. Flickering eyelashes, the gleam of a tear, eyes unable to maintain contact and so fidgety she could have just rolled in itching powder. This girl might say she was fine; her body language said she was anything but.

‘I’m glad you came today,’ said Evi. ‘I was worried last week, when we didn’t hear from you.’

Jessica Calloway looked down at the hands in her lap, then up again, to the large window. She raised one hand and rubbed the side of her face. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I phoned, the next day. Maybe a couple of days later.’

‘Yes, you did, thank you,’ said Evi. ‘The message I got was that you’d been ill, is that right?’

Jessica nodded. She pushed a finger into her hair and started twisting a tight blonde curl around it.

‘Nothing serious, I hope,’ said Evi. She already knew Jessica hadn’t been to her GP. If she had, Evi’s clinic would have been notified.

‘Just a bug, I think,’ said Jessica. ‘To be honest, I can’t remember much about it. I just crashed. Slept through a day, a night and another day. Woke up feeling like shit. Sorry.’

‘No problem. I feel like that myself sometimes,’ said Evi. ‘How’s your appetite?’

Jessica sighed, like a teenager whose mother was on her case again. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Pretty good.’

Evi let her eyes travel down Jessica’s body to the fur-lined boots that swamped her lower legs. Jessica’s jeans were loose on her and the shoulder seam of her top dropped halfway down her upper arms. She looked as though she’d lost even more weight in the two weeks since Evi had seen her.

‘Have you had any more trouble with practical jokes?’ Evi asked.

The glint in the girl’s eyes became brighter.

‘Anything you can tell me about?’ Evi pressed.

Jessica shook her head. ‘I don’t know what goes on in some people’s heads,’ she said. ‘What have I ever done to anyone?’

‘Nothing,’ said Evi firmly. ‘We both know that what’s happening is not your fault. Some people see gentleness and sensitivity and they don’t have the intelligence to understand what they’re looking at. So they register it as weakness and they prey upon it. Those people have a serious problem and I can’t help them with it. I can help you, though.’

‘Do you know what they did this time?’ A hint of anger there now, which was good. Anger was better than acceptance. Evi waited.

‘They came on to our corridor, where the airing cupboards are, and found my clothes. They took my underwear.’

‘They stole your underwear?’

‘Yeah, but that wasn’t the worst. They replaced it with enormous stuff. Granny pants and massive great support bras. Like they were saying, who are you kidding, this is what you really need to wear.’