Death to Palaeography IV...

More mishaps from the inept heroine...

After several tense minutes had passed, when she felt sure that the Professor had resisted throttling her at least three times, she murmured tentatively,

“Perhaps we ought to call the police.”

“No!” His violent outburst startled her, the vehemence of his answer unequal even to the anxiety of this particular situation. He must have seen the confusion that creased her brow, for he ran a hand through his hair and said more quietly, “No. It’s a bad idea to involve the authorities. Besides, what do you suggest I call them with? Both of us have misplaced our mobile devices.”

“But still we -” He cut her off. If he had surprised her before with his exclamation, she was completely thrown by his next comment.

“I’m going to go back to the house.” He unfolded his long body from the stool on which he had perched as sudden decisiveness infused his movements.

“But we just left the house. Why would you go back? I thought it was unsafe? What about those men?” With each question her hysteria levels, and the pitch of her voice, rose higher. Yet she manfully contained the need to grab hold of his leg to stop him leaving.

“I need to go back and get your bag. I need to get a look at that piece of paper. I need to know what that manuscript said.” The desperation in his voice was alarming and she flinched as he turned and gripped her shoulders. “Wait here. Do not move an inch until I come back for you. Do you understand?” There was something wrong with what he was asking of her, but she nodded her head obediently, too bewildered to offer any resistance.

Wordlessly she volunteered the gun that had been up to that point cradled close to her body. His hand gripped hers over the barrel and as he gazed down at her she noticed the frantic look that had been present before when she had mentioned the manuscript. Their eyes held for a second too long before he turned away. “Thanks.” He shoved it casually behind his back revealing that he had read one too many spy capers as a boy. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Try to stay out of trouble.” He did not look at her again but she watched him until finally his tall upright figure was swallowed up by the night.

Closing the ill-fitting metal door behind her she turned her focus to the cramped confines of what could be at best described as an outbuilding and at worst as a shack. Several old candles lit the space, the flames contorting like gymnasts with every wheezy breath of wind which punched through any gaps in the structure of the building. A nearby tree brushed finger-like twigs across the corrugated frame and she released a shaky breath. Sinking to the floor she rested her head on her knees, recollecting how a yoga teacher had once walked out of the class in exasperation when she had failed to master the simple act of breathing.

“Right.” She said with a burst of false cheerfulness, looking across at her canine companion, in an attempt to not relive every horror movie she’d ever sat through. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Do you know it? It’s got to be one of the longest poems I’ve had the misfortune to suffer through in school. So I imagine it’ll take me so long to recite it the Professor will be back before we know it.” The dog wagged its tail in an unhelpful reply. “Erm okay, let me think. How does it go? Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink.” She screwed up her eyes hoping to rekindle her memory, but unfortunately nothing more was forthcoming. “Damn. I thought I knew more of it than that. Well so much for that well thought out plan.”

She lapsed into a deadening silence which was broken only by the over loud ticking of her wristwatch. Time inched ever slower around its circumference and she felt herself going cross-eyed as she willed the hands to move faster. She closed her eyes and restrained herself from peeking down at the face more than twice a minute.

The pitiful moaning of her stomach eventually reminded her that whilst the mariner might have been thirsty she was quite hungry. She had noticed earlier what looked promisingly to be like camping equipment. If luck was on her side then there might be some left over tinned spam or something that was as equally appetising to only those who were starving.

Lurching to her feet she began to search through the odds and ends that were stacked on the bowing shelves. She shuddered when a thick cobweb brushed across her hand but hunger made her soldier onwards. After a thorough search she drew out a couple of tins and moved into a better light so that she could read their labels. Cracking open the least offending item that was a mere two years out of date, she scooped out the contents with her finger and nibbled gingerly. The dog at her feet growled. She wrinkled her nose at the taste but scoffed the rest regardless. Outdated food was less likely to kill her than men with guns.

Setting down the tin she began to pull absentmindedly at the unravelling edge of the tatty scarf. She twiddled the length around and around her finger. Wallowing in the events of the past day she unwound the thread and glanced down at the spiralling length of wool. It was then that she noted the brownish-red stain. Her gaze tracked slowly in wide-eyed horror to her hands. Blood welled from a small cut where a jagged metal edge must have snared her skin as she had attempted to open the Fort-Knox that was the ancient tin lid. Yet her heart lurched uncomfortably in her chest as the sight vividly recalled the blood which had only a few hours earlier swathed her skin.

Abruptly did she realise what had felt so wrong about the Professor’s exit. Suddenly did she know what had provoked her attention about the photograph back in his house. Rapidly did she begin to feel less than safe at the prospect of his return. It had been so overwhelmingly obvious she felt a fool for overlooking it. The man, whose arm had been slung so familiarly around the Professor’s shoulders as they leant on the union bar, was familiar to her also. It was his blood after all that had been encrusted in her nails. Panic seized her as frenzied unanswerable questions presented themselves. Was the Professor in on it all along? Had he lured her to this deserted outbuilding? Was he bringing back those men to kill her?

The dog growled again and suddenly she realised that it wasn’t in jealously of some unpalatable and undeterminable tinned paste but presumably at some noise from outside. Grabbing a solid looking travelling frying pan from the shelf she crept to the door. There was most definitely someone outside. And that someone was most definitely entering the building as the door gave its tell-tale scrape of admission. A tall figure stood unidentifiable in the darkness, but she registered the glimpse of light shining off the barrel of a gun. With a frightened squeak she mustered all her strength and clobbered the man about the head with the frying pan.

Clank!

“Bloody hell!”