Bright Air - Barry Maitland [101]
‘Mm …’ I could imagine her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she thought about it. ‘It does sound right, doesn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re not sure? It’s pretty close to what you thought, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose that’s what bothers me. He already knew all about our trip—Bob had called him.’
‘Oh. But still …’
Then I told her about the poem and the land lobster, and the way they seemed to refer back to Marcus.
‘Damien was particularly keen that we shouldn’t talk to Marcus again. Too upsetting for the poor bloke.’
‘You want to go anyway?’
‘Yes. He also wanted me to get you to back off. You’re too hysterical, apparently.’
‘Hysterical? Me?’
‘Yes. He said you attacked him at the inquest.’
‘Oh, that. It was a bad time for me, Josh. I told you.’
‘Yes. So, you want to go out to Castlecrag tonight? We could grab a bite to eat first.’
I picked her up from her flat that evening at six, and we had a pizza on our way through town. There was a sudden shower and the traffic slowed and became more congested, headlights and wipers on. By the time we reached Castlecrag the light was fading beneath the heavy clouds. I turned off into the winding laneways of the Griffins’ estate, and came to a stop outside the house in The Citadel.
It seemed to be in total darkness and I thought we were wasting our time, but then Anna noticed a glimmer of light from a small side window. I parked on the verge further down the street where it was slightly wider, and we hurried back through the rain towards the rugged stone bunker, brooding beneath its dripping canopy of foliage. I almost slipped in the pitch-dark defile of the entry pathway, treacherous with wet moss, then rapped the knocker on the heavy front door, which swung open of its own accord. A sigh seemed to come out of the house, like a gasp of its own breath, heavy with the odours of damp and mould and sour age, which made the hairs prickle on the back of my neck.
‘Marcus?’ I called out. ‘Dr Fenn?’
There was no reply, and we stepped tentatively over the threshold and I ran my fingers across the cold wall feeling for a switch. I found it finally and switched the light on, a rather dim, low-watt bulb in a heavy shade. Directly beneath it we saw papers scattered across the floor, as if there had been a robbery. We stepped cautiously across them to the sitting room, with its obstacle course of heavy furniture. There didn’t seem to be any obvious signs of disturbance here, but the building’s breath was more pungent, a cocktail of strange odours—burnt sulphur, ammonia, bad eggs, the vapour of concentrated acid. They were the remembered smells of the school chemistry lab.
There was a glimmer of light ahead, through the doorway to the study. Inside I could see Marcus’s throne, illuminated by the small table lamp.
‘Marcus?’
We moved forward cautiously and more of the room came into view. It looked even more chaotic than before, with papers, books, mugs and plates scattered everywhere. As we stepped in a figure suddenly appeared at a door in the side wall, from an adjoining room I hadn’t seen before. I jumped back, startled by the mask over mouth and nose, the goggles, the white coat and gloves.
‘Hello?’ A man’s voice, muffled by the mask. Then he pulled off the gloves and tossed them aside, peeled off the mask and goggles, and we recognised Marcus, wearing a lab coat blotched with chemical stains and burns.
‘Oh, Marcus. Sorry, we knocked and called out, but the front door was open. We thought there’d been a burglary or something.’
He looked at us in turn, frowning as if still preoccupied with whatever he’d been doing. ‘Um? No. I was just working.’ His voice sounded rough and croaky. ‘Didn’t hear you. What’s up?’
‘We wondered if we could have a word. We could come back if you’re in the middle of something.’
‘No, it’s all right. Clear a pew, will you? Want a drink? There’s some Scotch over there. Make mine a big one. Water?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
He turned back into the side room, obviously the source of the smells, which