He was right: I really should learn to listen. Right now he was making it pretty fucking easy for me. He couldn’t really have made it any more obvious how he saw me. The way all these people saw me: as somebody beneath them.
Summoning what was left of my dignity, I held my chin high and strode past Blake and his friend. ‘Right. Well,nobodyis leaving. Have a great night.’
As I stepped out into the chilly October air, I felt my mind clear. Suddenly I didn’t know why I’d let myself get so carried away, why I was wasting my time on Blake at all. He clearly had no intention of giving me any relevant information about his friends, and that was all I wanted from him. All I was supposed to want.Allowedto want. If I took that away, then it was true what he’d just said: I was nobody to him and he was nobody to me.
It was time to focus on what really mattered. First: take care of Zoe. Second: find out what Davie knew. Third: eliminate any last lingering part of me that wanted to see Blake as anything but what he really was: an arrogant bastard.
Chapter6
Mabel
Ioften thought of Cambridge as a bit like a secret compartment, with a false bottom. There were places so heaving with tourists that you could barely put one foot in front of the other–and there were others so carefully concealed that few people ever laid eyes on them. Places you discovered by chance and were wary of sharing with others, knowing that the magic that clung to them would be further worn away with each inquisitive stare. Sometimes, I imagined that the city, like the university, had evolved these secluded nooks and crannies all by itself: small fortresses steeped in history, where silence and reclusion defended the last vestiges of atmosphere from the flash of tourists’ cameras and students’ Instagram profiles.
My favourite of these secret places was tucked away in the Wren Library. At the end of a corridor between two bookstacks was an unassuming wooden door with a sign that readNo Access. For the most part it was kept locked, but this morning when I tried the handle it turned easily. I knew immediately that Davie must be inside. It was the same place he always went to ground when he needed peace and quiet, either because he was deep in the weeds of research and didn’t want to be interrupted or because he was in the mood to hide. Even, lately, from me. Or so it seemed.
Cautiously I opened the door a crack, until it caught on the latch. I took a biro out of my pocket, slid it through and lifted the small metal hook until it sprang out of the eye. With a last look over my shoulder, I pushed the door wide and stepped through.
I refastened the hook and climbed a set of stairs. The higher I climbed, the more the smell of old paper was overlaid by Davie’s distinctive cologne and the aroma of his favourite eucalyptus sweets. Upstairs, I glanced into the narrow room with the bay window, the walls of which were lined with books. They were all very old, and the library staff had stashed them away up here to minimise how often they were handled. If you wanted to look at them you had to fill out an application form, which happened so rarely that nobody ever really came up here.
Nobody except for Davie, who had stumbled across the books–and thus the room–while researching an article. Afterwards he’d brought all his charm to bear on the librarian, who agreed to let him keep a key. He told me the story the second time we met, swearing me to secrecy. After my first visit, I understood why. In here, the clamour of the university seemed so far away, although you only had to lean out of the window to be reminded that you were in the heart of Trinity College.
The light that streamed through the casement window fell directly across the wooden table in the middle of the room, where Davie sat on one of two chairs, leafing through a stack of papers.
I cleared my throat and stepped into the room. ‘Davie Waverly, you’re hiding from me.’
He jumped, startled, and looked up at me. A look of surprise flitted across his face, soon turning to resignation with a trace of guilt. ‘That’s not true.’
I walked over and put my bag down beside the table. ‘You’ve been ignoring my calls. And this morning you were out of your room by seven, even though I know that on the weekends you don’t get up before eight.’
He shrugged, but I saw the way his eyes darted to the heap of papers. ‘I’m busy.’
I sat down on the chair opposite. ‘Yeah, I know. You’re supposed to be explaining what the hell happened yesterday when you came barging into my kitchen. You promised.’
Davie rubbed his face with the back of his hand. The circles under his eyes seemed especially dark today, yet his expression was oddly harried. I had a suspicion he hadn’t slept at all since last night’s visit. ‘I thought you might give me a bit more time.’
‘You thought wrong.’ I opened my bag to take out my notebook. ‘But I didn’t come empty-handed. I’ll give you myinformation in exchange for yours.’
In a flash he seemed considerably more alert. ‘Did you talk to Zoe?’ He tried to reach for my notebook, but I clamped it to the table with both hands.
‘Not exactly. But I did a bit of fieldwork of my own.’ I forced my mouth into a guileless smile, knowing he wouldn’t be happy to hear what I was about to say–frankly, I wasn’t too thrilled about the memory of it myself. ‘I went to a little get-together with Ashton and his friends last night.’
In an instant, the last traces of drowsiness were wiped from his face. ‘What? You promised me you’d stay away from those guys! How long did that last? Five minutes?’
‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? But I had no choice. Zoe wouldn’t let me talk her out of it. What did you expect me to do, let her go in there alone? Anyway, nothing bad happened. Apart from a UTI, maybe.’
‘Not yet.’
‘What does that mean? Davie, you really need to explain to me why you’re so worried about this.’
We stared each other down. The daylight pouring into the room was keen and wintry-silver, sharpening the edges of Davie’s face. He narrowed his lips. As he put his arms around the stack of papers in front of him, I saw the corner of a file peeking out from underneath. Two, three seconds, then it dawned on me: that was the file I’d seen in his office yesterday.
Suddenly the pieces were coming together. Davie, who was working on a new story–something really big. Davie, who stared at me in horror when I mentioned Ashton’s name. Davie, who had made me promise to stay away from them–because they wereseriously bad news. I’d imagined those two things were separate, but now I realised: it was all connected.
‘Your research,’ I said bluntly. ‘It’s about Ashton and his friends, isn’t it?’
Davie hesitated, but he didn’t deny it. Instead he eyed me dubiously, almost unhappily. ‘If I tell you about this,’ he began at last, in a low voice, ‘you have to keep it between us. Promise?’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, my social circle isn’t exactly huge. Who am I even going to tell?’
