Dead Scared

CYCLING BACK TO St John’s I was trying to remember when I’d last been on a date. As I pushed my bike through the main gate, I realized I never had. As a teenager I’d had boyfriends, probably more than most girls – I was no angel – but I’d met them on street corners, on park benches, by climbing the railings of children’s playgrounds after dark. We’d met, hung around, drunk cheap booze and smoked. The snogging and the petting had gone further and further, until by sixteen there wasn’t much I didn’t know about sex.

At seventeen I’d left home and had spent time living rough. I’d hit rock bottom and then discovered there are places even worse. Gradually, though, I’d pulled myself up and sorted myself out. I’d joined the RAF reserves, then the police, studied for a law degree and established a career. It hadn’t left much time for socializing and, besides, I’d decided long ago that I couldn’t allow anyone to get close. Which pretty much ruled out boyfriends.

I certainly wasn’t afraid of men. Until recently I’d had a pretty active sex life, I just didn’t try to convince myself that the men who passed through my life were about anything other than sex. Now I was in my late twenties and on the verge of my first date. With a man who might just be a monster in human form. Well, they did say dating was a minefield.

I could hear heavy rock music from the other end of the corridor. I opened the door to a wall of sound and found Tox sitting in the middle of the rug. Her plum-coloured hair was twisted up on top of her head. It looked like she hadn’t combed it in weeks and seemed to be held in place with a pair of chopsticks. She was wearing pink leggings with a hole in the bum. One leg, her right one, was twisted up and doubled back so that her ankle rested behind her head. The other leg was curved in front of her. Her hands were by her side for balance. Her eyes were closed. She didn’t open them as I came in.

Shaking my head – kids! – I walked past her and into my own room. In spite of what I’d told Evi, I still didn’t feel great. I had two hours to let paracetamol, strong coffee and hot water work their magic.

The music died. ‘Hi, hon,’ I heard Tox call from the main room, when my ears had stopped pounding. ‘Can you give me a hand a sec?’

I walked back. Tox hadn’t moved, except to shuffle round a bit on her bottom so that she could face me. ‘I’m stuck,’ she said. ‘Can you just, like, unhook me?’

She was winding me up. ‘You can’t be stuck,’ I said. ‘Just bend your head forward.’

‘Doesn’t work,’ she said, and in fairness, she was looking a bit red in the face. ‘My leggings are caught on the back of my choker. I can’t unfasten it. I’ve been fiddling and fiddling and I’ve just made it worse. There’re some scissors in my top drawer.’

I bent to look. Sure enough, several strands of wool had got caught on the fastening of the thing she was wearing round her neck. I tried to release the choker, but the wool was wrapped round both sides of the fastener.

‘It’s not going to unfasten,’ I said.

‘Scissors,’ said Tox. ‘For God’s sake, I’ve been like this for an hour.’

After I’d cut her free, she used both hands to unhook her leg from the back of her neck and lower it slowly. Then she stretched out and rolled over on to her stomach, her face pressed against the rug.

‘Yoga?’ I said, when she’d stopped groaning.

‘Tantric,’ she muttered to the carpet. ‘Does wonders for your sex life.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I replied, glancing at her iPod on the floor beside her. ‘And the Killers were to drown out your screams?’

She reached out and picked up the iPod. ‘The Killers were to attract attention,’ she said. ‘I knew sooner or later someone would come and complain.’ She reached back and started massaging the flesh of her right buttock. ‘Oh, Christ, I’m in pain,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve pulled something.’

‘I’ll run you a bath,’ I offered.

‘I know you’re laughing, you unsympathetic cow,’ she called out to me as I walked down the corridor to the bathroom.

Nearly two hours later, I’d followed Tox into the bath and soaked until I was in danger of coming out wrinkled. Then I’d dosed myself up on codeine and paracetamol. I’d drunk another gallon of water and a couple of cups of very strong coffee. I was feeling better and probably as good as I was going to short of ten hours’ sleep.

Tox, having hobbled up to the Buttery for food and back down again, was kneeling on one of the easy chairs, her buttocks presumably still too sore to sit down properly. ‘Town or gown,’ she called to me.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Your date. Town or gown?’

‘Six stinky old fellows and a couple of moustached lesbians,’ I replied, finding my jeans from the wardrobe. I’d told her I’d been invited to a departmental dinner. She hadn’t looked convinced.

‘You are shitting me,’ she said, watching me wriggle into them. ‘Those are fuck-me jeans. There is actually a hole at the crotch.’

‘There is not,’ I snapped, although, strictly, it was debatable. The jeans were a pair I’d bought a couple of years ago in Camden Market. They were made of old, distressed denim and would have been skin-tight had they not been more holes than jeans. All the way down each leg, the denim had been slashed in a series of horizontal tears. They were Lacey jeans, not at all the sort of thing Laura would wear, but if I was going to get through the evening I was going to have to let Lacey out of her box for a while.

‘You are going to get frostbite,’ my self-appointed mother-stand-in went on. ‘Do you know it’s actually snowing outside?’

She had a point. Sometime over the last couple of hours soft white powder had started to collect in the window corners. Not that I had time to rethink and change. I pulled my sweater over my head. Ten minutes to go. Was there any chance of getting rid of Tox before Nick arrived?

‘Are you actually staying in tonight?’ I asked her.

‘Shit no,’ she said. ‘I’d be chewing the furniture by ten o’clock. Barney’s team’s been playing away, though. He’s not back for another hour. That is a great colour on you.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. The sweater was powder blue, the fabric a poor-woman’s cashmere. I was never entirely sure about it, always wondered if it was a bit …

‘And I love the two styles screaming at each other. You know, rock-chick-slut and the postmistress’s grandmother.’

‘That’s what I was going for,’ I said, wondering if I did maybe have time to rethink and change.

‘You know what, I have the perfect pair of earrings for that outfit.’ Tox had climbed down off her perch and was hobbling to her own room.

‘Actually, I don’t really do earrings,’ I called after her. ‘Earrings are a bit wasted when you have long hair.’

She was back, brandishing a pair of huge, dangly earrings as if she were presenting me with the Holy Grail. ‘Absolutely perfect,’ she said, holding them up against my sweater. ‘You need something to get your hair out of the way though.’

She disappeared again. Each earring was several powder-blue feathers hanging from a miniature mirror ball. They looked like something that might tumble out of a cheap Christmas cracker. At that second there was a knock on the door. When I opened it, a man with snowflakes in his copper-coloured hair stood on the other side. Just nudging six foot, I judged, the perfect height for a man.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Yowsa,’ said Tox from behind me.

‘This is Talaith,’ I said without turning round. ‘But unless you’re about to take up holy orders, you have to call her Tox.’

‘You can call me anything you like,’ said Tox, as I stepped backwards to let Nick come in. From the corner of my eye I saw she had dropped the hobble and was slinking across the room like a cat teaching deportment class. She held out her hand to him as if she were the Queen Mother.

‘Nick Bell,’ he told her. A second later, he glanced down. She was still holding his hand.

‘So do you want to reconsider?’ she asked him, looking from him to me and then down at herself. ‘Cos in the Cripps Building we like to offer a choice.’

‘Get out of here, you tart,’ I told her. ‘And let go of his hand. You’re scaring him.’

Tox stepped closer to Nick, still clinging on to him. ‘She called you a stinky old fellow,’ she said. ‘She’s not polite.’

‘You’re a scream,’ he said, his smile faltering just a fraction.

‘That would be blood-curdling,’ I said, glaring at her. ‘We should go. She’ll only get worse.’

I turned for my coat as Tox finally dropped Nick’s hand. ‘Earrings!’ she yelped.

She took them from me and, not without a few painful jabs, shoved them into my ears. Luckily, because she didn’t check, they have been pierced.

‘You can’t see them,’ she wailed and raced back into her room. I looked at Nick. He shrugged. Tox came back and started grabbing my hair by the handful. Five seconds later she pushed me in front of the mirror.

‘There,’ she said. ‘Rock chick meets postmistress meets …’

‘Deranged poultry keeper,’ I finished for her. Powder-blue feathers hung from my ears. Half my hair had been twisted up and secured in place by combs, all with more powder-blue feathers. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I owe you.’

Tox waved us off, trilling like a real mother sending her baby girl off on a first date, wishing us a lovely evening and insisting Nick didn’t keep me out too late.

‘I’ll take these out in a minute,’ I said, as we walked down the stairs. I was acutely conscious of pieces of dead bird sticking out of my head at all angles.

‘I kind of like them,’ he replied. ‘Makes you look less serious.’

*

‘Know this place?’ he asked me, as the waitress settled us down at a table on the mezzanine level, above the main room of a restaurant called the Galleria. We’d walked for ten minutes through the thickening snow to Bridge Street and to a brick building almost on the bridge itself. Outside the windows the river gleamed at us like oil against the snow-frosted banks.

I’d been in Cambridge less than a week. There had hardly been time for fine dining. I shook my head. ‘No, but it looks lovely,’ I said, thinking that was a suitably Laura thing to say.

The room was large and light, the table linen white, the cutlery and crystalware very simple. Diners who’d arrived in the last few minutes had left trails of melted snow across the wooden floors.

Nick put the wine list down. ‘So what happened to the dog?’ he asked me.

‘Staying with a friend until its owner can be traced,’ I said. ‘Which reminds me. I heard the weirdest noise last night at your place. Just before Sniffy showed up.’

‘What sort of noise?’ he said. ‘And Sniffy?’

‘It’s what she does,’ I said. ‘A very scary noise,’ I went on, remembering how freaked I’d been. ‘A bit like a scream and a bit like something being strangled. And a bit like a wild animal about to attack.’

Nick had been frowning. His face relaxed. ‘Muntjac,’ he said. ‘Almost certainly. Most people get alarmed the first time they hear one.’

‘And a muntjac is …’

‘Small, stocky deer,’ he said. ‘Generally considered a bit of a pest in these parts.’

‘Do you shoot them?’

‘If they don’t run too fast. What are you going to have?’

I picked up the menu. ‘Do they do muntjac?’ I asked.

‘You should come out with me,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow afternoon, just before the light starts to fade. The duck in Chinese spices is excellent, by the way.’

A second date in as many days? This guy worked fast. Or did he have other reasons for wanting to get to know me better?

‘Duck it is,’ I said, closing the menu. ‘And don’t you want to see how the evening goes first?’

‘Oh, I’m smitten already,’ he replied. ‘How do you get on with Evi?’

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Old friend of yours?’

‘We studied medicine here together, although she was a couple of years behind me. I tipped her off when her current job came up.’

‘She’s worried about the number of student suicides the university has seen in the last couple of years,’ I said, deciding to risk taking the conversation up a level.

He was nodding at me. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘She’s had a bee in her bonnet about it for a while now.’

‘Do you think she’s worrying unnecessarily?’ If he tried to make light of Evi’s fears, it could suggest he didn’t want anyone else taking them seriously.

He shook his head. ‘Sadly, no,’ he said. ‘I think she’s probably right to be concerned. Which makes it only a matter of time before the national press gets wind of what’s going on and media attention will make it a dozen times worse.’

‘She thinks there’s an unduly influential subculture of glamorizing self-destructive behaviour,’ I said, slightly smug at how easily I’d embraced psychobabble.

Our starters arrived, giant prawns in citrus butter for Nick, tomato and basil salad for me. ‘And,’ I went on, ‘that someone could be feeding it.’

He looked puzzled, so I explained the websites I’d found where suicide wasn’t just glorified but positively encouraged. Where people in despair were taunted, coaxed and cajoled into acts of self-destruction. All the time I was talking I was watching his eyes, for just a flicker that might tell me he was more involved than he should be. Nothing. Either he was genuine, or a very cool customer. I could probably push him a bit more.

‘I’m supposed to know a thing or two about psychology,’ I said. ‘But the truth is, I don’t get it. I don’t get why people want to harm others that they don’t even know.’ I stopped and shrugged. There was a tiny patch of stubble on his right cheek where he hadn’t shaved too carefully. And he had just a smattering of grey hairs an inch or so above each temple, so few I could probably count them.

‘Well, there are any number of textbooks on the psychology of evil,’ he said. ‘But ultimately, I guess it all comes down to power. We do it because we can.’ He broke off to pick up his bread roll. ‘When I was studying here one of the other students told us a story about a kid whose father committed suicide when he was young. He shot himself in the head. The kid’s three-year-old sister found their father’s body. Traumatized both of them for years.’

‘Well, it would,’ I said, as the waitress took our starter plates away. ‘So what happened to him?’

‘Well, as I remember, at school he got in with a crowd of bullies. They plagued the life out of a classmate. One of the younger ones. Made his life an absolute misery until one day he hanged himself in his dorm with a ripped sheet.’

‘Nasty story,’ I said. ‘And was that the end of it?’

‘If only. The ringleader got a real buzz out of it, apparently. The feeling of power was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It made him want to do it again.’

A story of fifteen years ago, being told in quite some detail. I found myself wondering if Nick had a sister.

‘And this was somebody you were studying with? Someone who came here?’

He shook his head. ‘The guy I studied with told the story,’ he said. ‘Supposedly about someone he’d once known.’

‘Supposedly?’

Nick shrugged. ‘He was an odd chap, to be honest. Thin, a bit geeky. Dropped out at the end of his third year, I think.’

‘Remember his name?’

Nick sat back in his chair. ‘Why?’ he asked, and looked at me carefully through narrowed eyes.

Shit, I was close to blowing it. Why on earth would Laura want the name of a geeky Cambridge dropout who’d once told a good story about suicide?

‘Evi told me a similar story,’ I lied, making a mental note to tip her off the next day. ‘Only she seemed convinced the guy was talking about himself. She mentioned a Scottish name, McLean or McLinnie or something.’

‘Could well have been,’ said Nick, shaking his head. ‘Sorry, it’s gone.’

By the time we finished dinner, I still had no idea whether my date for the evening was an exceptionally nice and seriously good-looking bloke, or a cold-blooded killer playing cat and mouse with me. And given my history with men, the chances seemed pretty evenly split.

We left the restaurant to find snow had covered the ground outside and Nick suggested we take a longer route home to enjoy what he described as the city with a coat of whitewash. Despite jeans that were more hole than fabric, I agreed, because I still hadn’t worked this man out. Besides, there is something about snow, isn’t there? About the way it softens harsh sound and brightens the darkness, hiding everything that’s ugly and making the world look clean. As we walked through the town, students had left their buildings, even the pubs and cafés, to come outside and play. All around us were the sounds of fun: footsteps crunching at speed, high-pitched squealing and good-natured taunting.

For a few minutes we followed the river, watching flakes fall and melt on its slow-moving surface, then we turned across a stretch of field that Nick told me was Jesus Green. There was an epic snowball fight going on.

‘That lot are Jesus, the others are Queens’,’ said Nick, as he gallantly put himself between me and the fight. ‘Keep your head down and walk fast, they might not spot us.’

‘How can you tell?’ I asked.

‘Jesus attracts an inordinate number of red-haired women,’ he told me, ‘whereas Queens’ men are known for wearing their jeans very low down on their hips.’

I looked over at the skirmish. A girl with a Peruvian hat was rugby-tackled to the ground by a man wearing nothing warmer than a sleeveless vest. She didn’t seem to mind too much. No red-haired women or low-slung jeans that I could see. I gave Nick my best quizzical look.

‘Scarves,’ he said. ‘Jesus are red and black, Queens’ are green and white.’

A stray snowball came our way and caught him on the side of the head.

‘Serves you right,’ I told him.

‘Ouch,’ he said. ‘That is very cold down the back of my neck.’

We walked on, leaving the squeals behind us, and approached the town again. As we left the Green, I thought for a moment, and then took his arm. In front of us was a long, low house of honey-coloured stone, the ledges of its tiny paned windows frosted with snow. Over our heads a snowball soared through the air and exploded against the stonework. We turned a corner and beautiful buildings, gleaming white and gold in the lamplight, rose up around us. It was like stepping into a fairy tale.

‘I never tire of it,’ Nick said, as we made our way along the pavement and snow covered our footsteps almost immediately. ‘My parents both worked at the university. Their worst arguments when I was growing up were over which college I’d attend. My idea of teenage rebellion was threatening to apply to Oxford.’

My idea of teenage rebellion had been torching cars in the Cardiff docks. It didn’t seem like the moment to mention it. ‘So where did you end up?’ I asked.

‘Trinity,’ he said. ‘Dad’s old college. He’d died by that stage and my mother thought it would be a kind of memorial to him if I went there.’

His father had died. How exactly? Natural causes or … we were in amongst the buildings now. Towers and turrets stretched up above us.

‘It’s at moments like these,’ said Nick, who was looking up towards the rooftops, ‘that I always hope I’ll see a night climber.’

There was a tiny scar on the underside of his chin. This close, he smelled good. Something warm and rich. ‘Sounds like a low-budget horror film,’ I said.

‘I think that’s night crawlers,’ he replied. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the night climbers.’

Careful now. This might be something every real student in Cambridge was expected to know.

‘Rings a bell,’ I said. ‘I think I just assumed they were a myth.’

‘Oh no, they’re very real,’ he said. ‘Any amount of photographic evidence. Most years in December you’ll see a Father Christmas hat on one of the pinnacles at King’s. All of them on a good year.’

‘So who are they exactly?’

He smiled down at me. ‘No one knows, that’s the whole point. There’s no club or society you can join because it’s all strictly against the rules. Get caught climbing and you’ll be sent down. No argument.’

‘And what do they climb?’

Nick raised his hand and gestured at the sky around us. ‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Rooftops, chimneys, drainpipes, spires, turrets. It started in the old days when colleges were locked at ten o’clock. Men who stayed out late had to climb their way back in. Some of them got a taste for it.’

I looked at a nearby church spire. It looked pretty high off the ground to me.

‘Do they ever fall?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely. A few years ago a chap got impaled on some railings. Story is he was so drunk they operated without anaesthetic.’

We’d reached the main gate of St John’s. Cambridge is a small city. Nick greeted the porter on duty by name as we stepped through the small inner door into First Court. A group of third-year students were building a snowman.

‘So, did you ever night-climb?’

‘Ah, that’s the thing,’ he said. ‘We never climb and tell.’

A cat watched us from a first-floor window ledge as we approached the main entrance to the Cripps Building and I could feel the beginnings of a nervous tickle. Nick would expect to be invited up.

We’d reached the door. He turned to face me, taking hold of the lapels of my coat to pull me closer, and I actually found myself considering it. He was the best-looking man I’d met in a long time and it wasn’t uncommon for undercover officers to have sexual relationships with people they were investigating. It was all part of infiltration and establishing trust.

On the other hand, wasn’t it turquoise eyes, not russet-brown ones, that I wanted looking down at me the next time I had sex?

‘So tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Three o’clock. My house. Come out hawking with me?’

I could not have Joesbury. Not ever. He was the one man in the world I would never be able to keep at arm’s length.

‘OK,’ I agreed, tilting my head back so the angle between his mouth and mine was perfect. All he had to do was lower his head. He smiled at me.

‘See you then,’ he said. Then he let go of my jacket, turned, and walked away.