Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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wouldn’t come again. Not even if she waited until dawn.
Full of her fear, she hugged herself, and started counting minutes, one by one.
Lyn dreamed of Martin. He was waiting in the hall as she came downstairs. You look great, he said, and she could see how much he meant it in his face. The spiteful fights of growing-up were all forgotten now. Still fiddling with an earring, she let her smile grow wider. As she gave him a twirl to show off her dress, the house was spun away into oblivion.
She woke up awkwardly; her room felt unfamiliar and distorted in the dark. A piece of dream went scuttling away. Lyn recoiled, and shrank against the headboard. She felt a rush of dread from out of childhood – back in her old bedroom, with its imps and demons scurrying around. And the pale, grinning skeleton of Death behind the door.
Instinctively she turned her head – then sighed, and let her shoulders slump again. The door was safely closed, of course, her dressing gown a silky wraith against it. The demons melted back into the picture that they’d come from: the print in Daddy’s study that had scared her as a girl. Death of the Miser, by Hieronymus Bosch. It had figured in her nightmares more than once. But not for years …
Athelgar.
Sitting there, she realized where she’d seen the name before. She’d picked at it all evening, like a scab. Now, with the top knocked off at last, she was suddenly bled dry. She curled up, feeling miserable, and didn’t sleep again.
1
Lyn had lent her a bathrobe, but Fran was dressed when she came on through for breakfast. Mucking in like a flatmate was all very well – but she still ventured round with a visitor’s reserve. Finding Lyn at the table in her dressing gown was vaguely embarrassing: like having her friend at some kind of disadvantage. But Lyn looked preoccupied, and pale: chewing mechanically on her toast. Her normally bright greeting was a wan, subdued hello. Being seen half-dressed was obviously the last thing on her mind.
Fran moved past her to the coffee pot and toaster, surreptitiously glancing at the tabletop. The paper was still folded; a couple of brown envelopes lay unopened. So what was up, she wondered?
Sitting down, she saw the shadows round Lyn’s eyes; the pinched look to her mouth. ‘Did you sleep all right?’ she asked.
Lyn shrugged, and shook her head. ‘Not really. Woke up about three, and couldn’t get off again. You know what it’s like.’
Fran knew, all right. She’d lain awake for ages, before snatching back a couple of hours’ sleep. She was just about to say so when Lyn breathed out and went on.
‘I was dreaming about Martin.’
There was a wistfulness in her voice that made Fran feel a little wary. She didn’t know much about Lyn’s brother; had only met him once, when he’d come visiting at Oxford. He had his sister’s dark, straight hair; her brown, expressive eyes. Caught unawares, his clean-cut face was serious, almost solemn. Then Lyn had introduced him, rather proudly, and he’d charmed her with a warm, engaging smile.
‘Oh,’ Fran said. Then: ‘What’s he doing now?’
A moment’s pause, Lyn staring at the table. Then she shook her head again. Said softly: ‘I don’t know.’
Fran put her coffee down, and waited.
‘He left home two years ago. Just chucked everything and went. I got a card from him at Christmas … but Mum and Dad heard nothing. Not a word. It worries them so much.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Don’t know. He didn’t say. I couldn’t even read the bloody postmark.’
Fran bit her lip. ‘God, Lyn. I didn’t know.’ She felt a stab of guilt. ‘You don’t need my troubles on top of yours …’
Lyn waved that off. ‘Don’t worry. Please don’t think that. He’s twenty, he can look after himself …’ She ran her hand back through her hair. ‘We were happy at home, the two of us. Really happy. But it was getting so that he felt cooped up there – always under our parents’ feet. He mucked his A-Levels up, you see. He couldn’t get a job.’
‘I remember him visiting you,’ Fran said carefully. ‘You got on well together, didn’t you.’
‘I think about him every day. I mean, I don’t just sit there moping, but … he’ll get into my head at some point. Just for a minute, maybe; but he’s there.’
Fran thought of them together, in the Christ Church staircase. No shadows there, no worries; just a handsome teenage boy with his big sister. The thought of that lost happiness made her ache on Lyn’s behalf. And how must their parents feel?
Maybe just the same as hers had, when their daughter withdrew into a world of her own: slamming the gates behind her.
‘Anyway …’ Lyn sighed, ‘there’s no point brooding. He’ll get in touch when he’s good and ready.’ She straightened her back, and summoned up a smile. ‘What are your plans for today? You’re seeing Craig again?’
Fran nodded. ‘I’m meeting him for lunch; and then we’ll go … wherever.’
‘Remember what I said about bringing him back. He’s welcome. I’ll cook you dinner, if you like.’
‘That’s an idea. That would be great, actually. When would be a good time?’
‘Well … Not tonight, I want to stay late at the library. How about tomorrow? Ask him.’
‘I will,’ Fran murmured, ‘thanks.’ And even as she smiled, an idea slipped into her head. A sudden thought that left her short of breath. She could bring him home this afternoon, if Lyn was working late. She could shag him on the futon, and her friend would never know.
She glanced down quickly; raised her mug and drank. Surely her guilt was showing on her face. But if it was, Lyn clearly hadn’t noticed. She was opening the paper in a listless sort of way.
Fran let her gaze drift off around the kitchen: a show of calm disinterest while she weighed the options up. She couldn’t take advantage, not like that. But then again … where was the harm? It wasn’t as if she’d lied to Lyn. She could just neglect to mention that she’d brought Craig back for tea. And let him screw her.
The prospect was as thrilling as their very first weekend. He’d taken some leave, collected her at Oxford, and driven them out to that posh country hotel. This wasn’t the place to think of that (though she wanted to, right now). But her appetite was back, and undiminished. Her feelings had lain dormant, like a seed in frozen ground; but now, at last, the thaw was setting in.
Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.
God, it was years since she’d sung that hymn. It made her think of Easter at Aldermaston. She felt a bit abashed about misusing it like that. But only a bit.
‘Any shopping you’d like some help with?’ she asked, as a salve for her conscience.
‘It’s all right, thanks. I’m going to take things easy this morning. You have a really good day.’
The churning in Fran’s belly quite belied her modest smile. I’m going to, she thought. She couldn’t wait.
2
When Fran had gone, Lyn dumped the breakfast dishes in the sink and let them soak. It normally went against the grain, to leave a chore for later; but this morning she just couldn’t be bothered. The apathy extended to her morning ablutions; she hadn’t had her shower yet, nor even cleaned her teeth. She was running on flat batteries – but going back to