Moth to the Flame (19 page)

‘Everything seems OK,' he admitted grudgingly. Then he leaned back cockily in the chair, and said more firmly, ‘Yeah. All right, let's do it. What's the next step?'

She felt her throat constrict, and realised, too late, that she'd been hoping he'd back down. But now there was nothing stopping her. The destruction of Gareth Lacey could go ahead.

Gareth! She swallowed the anguished cry back, and took a deep breath. The unspoken cry seemed to echo around the inside of her skull, like a trapped banshee. Grimly, she reached for the satchel and extracted a slim folder.

‘Those the . . . er . . . things?' he asked nervously. ‘Can I have a look?'

Davina's lips twisted. ‘That was the general idea, yes,' she said and watched him glance through the Modern Poetry exam papers.

‘These multiple-choice questions are killers,' he whistled. ‘I'd have been guessing at least half of them, if not more. OK. So what's the next step?'

‘The next step is to have one of your tutors accidentally find these papers in your possession,' Davina said crisply.

Gavin grimaced. ‘And how are we going to arrange that? They don't go around
demanding
that you show them your books, or rifling your pockets.'

Davina nodded. ‘I know. So. How are we going to do it?' she mused, drumming her fingers on the table. For a while they were both silent. Eventually Davina sighed. ‘Well, there's no way we can be subtle about it,' she said at last. ‘You do have to hand in essays every now and then, don't you?' she asked Gavin sharply.

‘Yeah. Usually to that new bloke, Mr Carter.'

‘Right. So, when you hand in your next essay, slip one, only one mind, of the pages from the multiple-choice into it. Then, when he takes you aside and asks you what it is, you can act scared and defiant. Tell him the paper must have got caught up in your essay by mistake. Try to grab it back. He'll question you, and you, very reluctantly mind, tell him that you paid good money for those papers. That Modern Poetry was your weakest subject and you knew you needed a little extra help if you were to pass the exams. Tell him that you heard on the grapevine that Gareth Lacey could be paid for advance copies of his papers. That he'd done it before. So you contacted him, and he told you it was a thousand pounds a paper. You paid it.'

‘Right,' Gavin grinned. ‘Mr Carter's still wet behind the ears, and this is his first teaching post, so he's bound to fall for it. Funnily
enough,
I think he got his degree at Oxford. Yeah, don't worry. I can handle Mr Carter all right.'

Davina nodded. ‘Right. So you'll do it this week, yes?'

‘I can do it tomorrow. I've got an essay due about Ted Hughes and some Pike.'

Davina winced and pushed away from the table. ‘Well then. That's all settled,' she said. But couldn't quite convince herself of that. She walked to the door, and out into the wet and windy day. It was settled. It was settled. She was about to achieve what she'd come to Oxford for. Justice for David, and revenge for herself. She walked back to the railway station, and on the way to Oxford took out her notebook and composed a short poem about the glories of revenge right there on the train. It flowed out of her, like molten lead, heavy, ponderous, deeply human. It was one of those rare moments when a poem wrote itself. Except, when she'd finished it, it wasn't glorious at all. It was sad. And empty.

And she knew it was going to be one of her finest poems.

*          *          *

In his room, Gareth Lacey saw the attractive blonde student to the door. ‘And remember, Leigh Hunt and Keats need to be explored together. Take them separately, and you don't
get
half the sense of power in their work.'

The blonde nodded enthusiastically as Gareth gently shut the door behind her, ignoring the interested look in her eyes.

He walked to his table and gathered his papers together, wondering if he could push the girl to a First. At the moment she was strictly 2.1. But with some effort . . . He put her file away in the cabinet, and as he did so, the file of another student caught his eye. The tag on the side was black. Indicating that the student was deceased.

Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled it out. David Garrett.

Just the sight of the boy's name made everything inside him wince. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the innocuous beige folder. He should just leave it. Should just close the drawer shut, and then get on with something else. Life had to go on.

Last term he'd had this beige file out time and time again, torturing himself with it. Asking himself over and over again if he'd done the right thing. If he shouldn't have spoken out . . . He sighed and lifted the folder clear of the cabinet drawer, walking with it to the big leather armchair set at right angles to the log fire, blazing away in the hearth. He sat down, and reached for the tortoise-shell glasses lying on the table, slipping them on and opening the folder, already knowing its contents by heart.

The
first page was the usual form containing the student's personal details. After that, end-of-term reports. His Prelim Exam results. Then . . . The mass of paperwork that dealt with his cheating.

Then his notification of expulsion. Then the stark announcement of his death. Gareth had clipped out his obituary notice from the local Hastings Paper that he'd asked the Librarian to get for him. No need for it, of course, but by then . . . By then, Gareth thought, he was feeling as guilty as sin. Because he should have known there was something wrong with the boy. Hell, it was obvious for anyone who was looking. The trouble was . . . he hadn't been looking.

Gareth leaned back in his chair, slipping off the glasses, his eyes filling with tears he could no longer shed. When David had first come up he'd been a typical First Year student. Bright, but not brilliant. Open, refreshingly honest, and with a cheeky sense of humour that had instantly endeared him to everyone, Gareth included. And then he'd begun to change . . . to get moody. And paranoid. And then . . . angry . . . Gareth sat up in the chair, pushing the glasses back on his face. He should have known something was badly wrong.

Instead he'd put it down to teenage Angst and the Oxford blues. And he'd just blithely assumed that David would eventually settle, that whatever was bothering the lad would sort
itself
out. And therein lay the guilt. The awful sense of failing the boy. All that pain he must have been going through . . . Grimly, with a sense of dread, Gareth turned to the very last page of the file. To the letter that he had shown no one, not even Sin-Jun. The letter that he had kept back even from the Coroner.

The letter David had written him even as he started to succumb to the massive dose of sleeping pills he'd taken . . .

Gareth read it again, although it was already committed to memory. For ever burned into his brain. And, once he'd read it—yet again—he shut the folder, and put it back in the filing cabinet, and locked it. And then he reached for the typewriter and the final chapter of his latest book on the life and times of Alfred Lord Tennyson.

But the ghost of David stayed with him, long into the darkening evening.

*          *          *

Alicia walked into the noisy theatre, still feeling as if the weight of the whole world was on her shoulders.

The ride back from Warrington had been a nightmare. Rupert had been effervescent, talking without stopping; about what a hit she'd been with the family, about how happy she'd made him, about their wonderful future together. It was as if he didn't dare pause for
breath,
and she had had to sit and listen to it, with a growing sense of horror and helplessness, fighting back the urge to scream.

It had been a huge relief to get back to St Bede's yesterday afternoon. To finally be able to say goodbye to him. To finally drag herself to her room and the blessed peace and quiet and sanctuary of it. But last night, as she'd lain in bed, sleepless and heart-sick, her mind had just gone round in ever widening circles. All night long she'd tossed and turned, going over her options. The Warrington Ring still throbbing on her hand, too tight to remove.

She'd thought about going to the Principal, but something about telling Sin-Jun of Rupert made her uneasy. Wouldn't he be more inclined to believe that it was she who was being hysterical, not Rupert? No, somehow, rightly or wrongly, Alicia just didn't trust Sin-Jun.

She was sorely tempted to go to Dr Lacey with it all. She felt instinctively that Gareth Lacey would believe her, or at the very least, listen to her. But that morning she'd risen, huge shadows beneath her eyes, having come to the conclusion that it simply wasn't fair for her to talk to anyone else until she'd had a chance to talk to Rupert.

She was a grown woman now. She owed it to herself to think things through very carefully before she acted. And surely, by now, Rupert must have wound down enough for her to
speak
to him rationally? After all, she, and everyone else, had assumed him to be a functioning human being all this time. He couldn't . . . his mental illness, surely, couldn't be all that . . . advanced, that he wouldn't listen to reason?

She was so woefully ignorant about things like this. She felt, all at once, too young to cope with it all. But it was Rupert, poor Rupert, who was the one in real trouble.

She'd tried again to remove the Warrington ring with soap, but the damned thing seemed to be possessed. She simply couldn't get it over her knuckle. Now, as she walked into the theatre and listened with a lurching heart to Jared's voice as he cajoled Emily into a more understated performance, the ring throbbed on her hand, a ghastly reminder of her predicament. She needed to speak to Jared, of course. She realised that the moment she heard his voice again.

She hurried down the aisle, dumping her bag and coat in the seat and walking forward, eager to get back into his orbit. To feel his presence beside her. To touch him, if only in passing . . .

‘Ah, here's the sleeping beauty at last,' Emily grinned from the stage. ‘Author, tell this buffoon that the murder victim has a right to go over the top.'

Alicia smiled at her friend, wanting to kiss her. Emily was so . . . normal. Such a breath of
reality.
So uncomplicated. ‘You clown,' she laughed back. ‘You know full well you've got our tragic heroine down pat by now.'

Today was April the First, the day before the play was to be shown, and nerves were running high. Jared ran a harassed hand through his hair, and looked at Alicia. He knew he'd have to do it eventually, so he might as well get it over with.

He'd just endured the longest weekend of his life.

When Rupert had invited her home during the Party in the SCR, he'd been torn between the desire to march up to them and tell Rupert where to stick his party, whilst another part of him, a more treacherous, unsure, feeble part of him, had insisted that Alicia deserved fancy parties, in big glamorous houses. That she'd been raised in that environment, and that he'd been dreaming when he thought that she could be happy in a totally different world. His world.

And so he'd stood, rooted to the spot, too cowardly to act, but all the time willing her to say ‘No'. Silently sending out telepathic messages, begging her to turn him down.

But she hadn't, of course. Why should she?

And when he'd seen the look of triumph in her brother's eyes he'd felt sick. When he'd seen the flare of relief that so clearly stated that the other man had won, and he, the upstart, had lost, he'd wanted to smash
something.
And it had hurt him. Stupid, he knew. But then, he'd been stupid all along to think that he was good enough for her. To believe that their romance had ever stood a chance.

So he'd spent the weekend forcing himself to come to terms with it. Nights spent tossing and turning, imagining her dancing in Rupert's arms. Days spent telling himself that love was just a fantasy worth having, but not a reality that was ever going to be his. At least, not with Alicia Norman.

But now, standing beside her again . . . The fantasy was back. Stronger than the reality. Like a beautiful weed, determined to grow, no matter what. ‘So, how was the Ball?' he heard himself ask cheerfully. The others too crowded around, eager to hear the details and Alicia did her best.

‘But, that's enough of that,' she finally managed to fend off their curiosity. ‘How's the dress rehearsal going?'

Taking the hint, the cheerful cast began to disperse back to their marks on the stage. But before Jared could turn away, she reached out and grabbed his arm. ‘Jared,' she said urgently. ‘I need to speak to you. Something's happened.'

Being so close to her now, he could see the dark shadows beneath her eyes. The tense set to her mouth. He felt himself stiffen. ‘What's wrong?'

But
before she could speak, the others on the stage gave a sudden roar of ribbing and mock-handclapping, and they all turned to watch Rupert jogging down the aisle towards them.

‘Sorry I'm late,' he called breathlessly. ‘I overslept.'

‘Who with!' one of the wags, who was busy setting up the scenery, shot back drolly. Catcalls and whistled followed.

Jared, who was still standing so closely to her, saw the way Alicia paled. ‘Alicia,' he said, his voice sharp. ‘Alicia! What's the matter?'

Rupert's head slowly turned their way. For one instant, his eyes narrowed on them, then he smiled, walking forward. ‘Darling,' he said, in a clear, loud, ringing voice as he made his way towards her, hands outstretched.

Alicia couldn't help herself. She took a step back. One part of her knew she was being hideously unfair and immature. The other part screamed at her that this man needed help, not neglect. That, for better or worse, she was the only one who could help him. She must persuade him to see a psychiatrist. She simply must make him seek help. She cringed at the thought of going to see an analyst on her own, and coming out with that old chestnut, ‘Doctor, I have this friend who needs help . . .' No. She had to make Rupert see for himself that he needed help. She would be there for him. All the way. And she wasn't going to do
that
by backing away from him whenever he came near. So she forced herself to take a step towards him. To smile. To look pleased to see him.