Chapter 1: Tiramisu
Chapter Text
“This string of killings is unlike anything I have ever seen in my ten years as a detective in the homicide unit. We are begging the public. If you know anything you are asked to contact the authorities immediately…” Music begins to swell. Its beat thuds through the navy blue and gold headphones.
“Good evening…” The music quiets just enough for this new voice to be heard. “I am your host, J.C.R, and this… is the Investigator podcast; a show that dares to explore the dark. On this week’s episode, I want to discuss a case that has been unfolding a little too close to home. As of now, no suspects have been named or arrested. Justice is slipping away from these victims and their families... But first, I want to talk about this week’s sponsor!”
The blue glow of computer screens fills the dark office, barely illuminating the heavy science textbooks on the bookshelves. The beady eyes of a small penguin stuffed animal sitting on the top shelf glint in the blue glare. “Not sure what to have for dinner? Goldner's has got you covered. With fresh and tinned food delivered right to your door, it saves you all the time of going to the store as well as prep time. With meal options for whatever you are feeling, savoury or sweet, lots of meat or maybe just some pudding, Goldner's makes dinner a breeze. And for my listeners, if you use the code ‘JCR’ you get 15% off your first order! Now… On with the show.”
The music quiets.
For just a moment, there is nothing, only silence.
“It was a sunny day in mid-July. Biology student Harry Goodsir had taken his bicycle to the park and intended to search for a species of frog that he had been studying. This park is relatively busy but due to its size and densely forested areas, one can easily get lost.” Birds faintly sing in the background. Wind whispers through the trees. “However, Harry knows his way around. On that sunny day he pedalled to a pond located near the centre of this park. I like to imagine he had a butterfly net… That afternoon seemed like any other and when he got to the pond, the sun was shining on the algae-covered water and dragonflies swooped overhead. It was then that he noticed the smell…”
Milla-seconds flash on the screen. Audio waves rise and fall as they shift from file to file.
“It was… It was perhaps the worst thing I think I have smelled in my life…” A new voice now. It is a little shaky. The microphone buzzes, as if it had been brushed by a nervous hand unsure of where to put itself. “Just… It was just rot. I knew it. I just knew it… And I s-saw the garbage bag partially submerged not far from the pond’s bank...”
“Among the lily pads, algae and cattails, there was a black industrial garbage bag… Not something poor biology student Harry Goodsir expected to be in the pond. This bag was fished from the pond by police and the stench is reported to be unlike anything else. Rot and decay… The stale, metallic smell of blood. The officers who opened the bag were greeted with a sight that they will not easily forget. A bizarre menagerie of limbs, fingers and a male torso filled the bag. There was no head. The limbs were so badly decayed there is little hope for identification and the question was even raised as to if these limbs all belonged to the same person or if they had been collected from several individuals. To make matters worse, chunks of flesh were missing from the limbs. The meatiest bits and pieces-”
There is a knock. Then another. The headphones shift. Silence fills the dark room. Light sneaks in under the office door. The headphones fall back into place. “-Perhaps to be eaten as some 'internet detectives' are theorizing. Along with the missing flesh, markings had been-”
“Babe!” The door swings open and light floods into the office. “Ugh… How can you work in the dark?” The ceiling light flickers on.
“I am editing…” The chair swivels and James Clark Ross turns to look at the young woman standing in the doorway. She rests her hands on her hips, her fingernails sparkling in the light. Her long chocolate hair is perfectly curled. James cannot help but let his gaze drift over her, taking in the short, fluttery pink dress and white lace tights she wears. She narrows her glittering eyes at him.
“You are not even dressed for dinner yet!” she cries, annoyed. She gestures to his navy blue sweatpants and university hoodie with disgust. “Go change! We are leaving in thirty minutes!”
“I don’t think Francis would be offended if I showed up to dinner in sweats.”
“I would be offended,” she says and turns away from him. James smiles as he takes off his headphones, his strawberry curls falling around his face. He gets up quickly, reaching for her. She shrieks as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close against his chest. He presses a kiss against her neck, breathing in the sweet scent of her perfume. “James! Go get changed!” she laughs.
“But Anne… my sweet thing… I am so comfy…”
“You can be comfy after dinner. James!” Reluctantly, he lets her go. She scowls at him but it is all for show. “You have twenty-five minutes,” Anne says as she sits dramatically down on their couch. It is an old thing, given to James by his parents. The emerald green upholstery is faded and since its arrival has been dotted with new stains; food, wine, other things James wouldn’t tell guests about. It sits in the centre of the room, facing an old TV and the tall windows that look out onto the glowing city. The old, second-hand coffee table that doubles as a dining table is covered with styrofoam takeout containers. A purple coffee mug full of cold coffee and an empty wine glass emerge from the remains of last night’s dinner. Underneath the table is an old, jewelled toned rug that had been fished out of a dumpster and heavily cleaned. The old wood floorboards creak underfoot; the whole building seems to always be creaking and groaning as if the exposed brick wall behind the TV might fall apart.
Behind the couch is the small, open kitchen. Pots and pans hang from a rack fastened onto the ceiling; it was James’ first and only attempt at being a handyman. Cups and plates dry beside the sink and the old cracking counter has been cleaned. Magnets and photos cover the white fridge.
“You know… Francis has seen me wear all kinds of things. Even seen me nude. What I wear to dinner is not going to affect him in any way,” James cheekily says as he makes his way from his tiny office to their bedroom on the other side of the apartment. Anne narrows her eyes as she reaches for her phone; a sparkly, sticker-covered thing.
“You are not wearing sweats… or going naked!” Anne cries. James snorts with laughter. “This is an important dinner.”
James pauses in the doorway. “Important?”
“You are asking him to be your best man, remember?” Anne leans her head against the back of the couch as she looks at him. The engagement ring on her left-hand shimmers.
“Oh… Right,” James says quietly. “I told you it's hardly worth asking. I know he will say yes. I was thinking he would show up to the wedding and just assume it’s his job.”
“Ask him… Please, James,” Anne says softly. “I want to do this right.” James smiles gently as he closes the space between him and the couch where she sits. He leans down, gently pressing his lips against hers.
“I know,” he whispers as he parts from her. “I will ask him tonight,” he promises. Anne smiles up at him.
“Go change.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He straightens up and heads to the bedroom. Like every other room in the small apartment, there is barely any space for the bed in the centre of the room. The old white bed frame creaks with every movement. A string of white lights adorns the headboard. Beside the tall window is a bookshelf overflowing with books; classics, romances, crime thrillers, mathematics, history, science and philosophy. Printouts of classical art, photos from various date nights and a map of the world adorn the white and brick walls. Under the window is Anne’s small desk where her laptop resides along with the books she is reading this semester for her numerous English classes. Their closet door never fully closes. Anne’s vibrant clothes outnumber James’, his blazers, hoodies and cardigans nearly being swallowed whole by dresses and sweaters.
Thinking of Anne’s pretty pink dress, James pulls a red sweater and his nice dark trousers from the closet. He finds a clean button up in the dresser in the corner of the room by the door. He tosses his hoodie and sweatpants into the messy laundry hamper in the closet. Sitting down on the creaky bed, James pulls on his socks. The ruffled white duvet wrinkles under him. Resting against the footboard are an array of stuffed animals; James had lost count of how many Anne had long ago. Teddy bears, sea creatures, something called a ‘Squishmallow’.
James lets out a sigh as he slowly lies back on the bed. He stares up at the little chandelier that hangs over the bed, its old crystals glinting in the rainy light that shines through the window.
He wonders if Francis will bring Fitzjames with him to dinner.
“James!” Anne’ voice drifts into the room. “Are you ready?” A small smile tugs at James’ lips. He sits up and heads back into the living room. The bedroom door is left open. Shoes are tugged on and jackets are shrugged into. James grabs his keys and they step out into the dingy, old hallway.
“Did you grab an umbrella?” James asks as he locks the door.
“Oh… Shit.”
“I got it,” James says and unlocks the door again. He steps inside the apartment. He notices the bedroom door is closed. He frowns. Hadn’t he left it open?
Deciding he must have closed it, James grabs his black umbrella resting by the door and steps back out into the hallway, locking the door once more. He double-checks the lock. Anne skips ahead of him towards the creaking stairs at the end of the hall; there is no elevator.
“My mom called me this afternoon. She keeps telling me I have to pick a date to go searching for my dress,” Anne says as they walk down the stairs. The wood groans underfoot. James smiles. “She really said ‘Annie, your wedding is in a few months! Why haven’t you picked your dress?’ as if I haven’t been busy with picking flowers and food and the venue and the-”
“Why don’t you go this weekend? I can pick flowers” James says with a smile as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his navy blue coat. Anne looks back at him with a frown. “Do you not trust me to pick nice flowers?”
“I trust you.”
“Then why frown?” James laughed. Anne’s cheeks burn pink as she looks away from him. “Oh... Are you worried you can’t keep it a secret from me?”
“No!” Anne blushes. She turns and hurries down the stairs. James follows behind her with a smirk. She leads the way through the dingy front lobby, past the wall of mailboxes.
Outside, James opens his umbrella and reaches for her hand. Moths swirl around the light hanging over the front door. In the distance, beyond the roofs of the historical brick buildings, glowing skyscrapers reach for the dark, low hanging rainclouds. “How is editing going?” Anne asks as they walk down the cobbled street.
“It is a different case,” James says quietly.
“Different?”
“It has no ending,” James says. “It's just corpses and no explanations.” Anne grimaces. “I don’t like stories that have no ending,” James adds, looking down at his shoes as they walk over the wet cobblestones. He glances at Anne out of the corner of his eye. He smiles at the disgusted expression on her face. “Don’t look at me like that! I am allowed to talk about the cases I’m covering! How much worse can they be than your silly ghost investigation shows?”
“I am watching them for research!” Anne insists. “So I can find our ghost!” James bites his tongue and turns his gaze back to the wet street ahead of them. The puddles glint in the orange glow of the streetlamps.
Since moving into the old flat a month ago all Anne seemed to talk about was the ghost that wandered among their dirty laundry and takeout containers. First, it was the creaking of floorboards. Then the lights turned on by themselves. Then the cold spots. Now it was knocking on the walls.
“Would you be mad if I bought some… equipment to look for it?” Anne asks quietly. She looks up at him with a sweet smile. James sighs; she already bought it. “I wouldn’t get much. Just an electro… An electromag…” she stumbles over the word.
“Electromagnetic.”
“Yes, that. An EMF Reader. Ghosts can manipulate electromagnetic waves that it registers!” Anne says excitedly. James parts his lips, the words to remind her of his field of study on his tongue. “You’ll believe me when I have proof,” Anne smiles smugly. James squeezes her hand and gives her a sweet smile.
“I believe in your abilities to find proof,” James says. Anne shoves him playfully and he stumbles dramatically, the umbrella swinging through the cool October air. “I am being serious!” James laughs. “I believe in you!” As if to prove his faith, he wraps his arm around her waist and presses a kiss against her cheek. “I am just not sure what you will find, my sweet thing. The building is so old, your evidence would just be the creaking and groaning of the old thing shifting on its foundation… Or maybe you will find a mouse.”
“There are mice?” Anne cries. James laughs. He holds her hand tighter and they continue down the street.
Through the rain and fog, the old entryway to the underground train manifests. Rain drips from the twisted metal railings that surround it. The white neon sign above it glows like a lighthouse, guiding lost wanderers to the station.
The couple descends the damp, cement stairs and soon find themselves standing on the drafty platform. A humid wind swirls from the tunnel and over the platform. James shifts under his navy peacoat as the humid air sneaks down his collar. Advertisements line the walls creating a cacophony of loud colours and flashy words.
“Has Francis texted you that he's on his way?” Anne asks quietly, her eyes on the dark tunnel. James shakes his head. “Maybe he went late teaching again...” she whispers. She glances wearily around the quiet platform. Only a few other people wait, each lost in their own thoughts, worries, and plans for dinner.
“Maybe he got into another debate with one of his students,” James shrugs. “Got carried away. Lost track of time…”
A faint, golden glow appears on the tracks. The shriek of metal on metal echoes towards them. Wind rushes around the platform. The train catapults into the station and shrieks to a halt. The doors slide open.
A young man steps out of the train. His long coat swirls around him. His ginger hair is slicked back; with grease or gel, James cannot determine. A backpack is slung loosely over his shoulder. His hands remain tucked inside his coat pockets as he steps out. As he passes, James meets his gaze. Anne pulls James onto the train, the doors closing behind him.
James grips the cold metal pole in the centre of the car, his right arm snaking around Anne’s waist. He glances around the train car. A few teenagers cram onto one of the benches. They giggle at something on their phones. Behind them, a woman dressed in a blazer and matching pencil skirt stares at the darkened window, no doubt thinking of home and the dinner she will make when she gets there. A man in a red hoodie stands by the closed doors. There is a strange rusty stain on the toes of his white sneakers. His shaggy, dirty blonde hair hangs over his face, obscuring his eyes from curious glances.
“We’re getting off at the next stop,” Anne says, her soft voice nearly lost to the roar of the train as it screeches into the next station. James pulls his gaze away from the man’s sneakers and nods. The doors open. People rush in and out. A mere thirty seconds later, the doors close again and the train begins to pull out of the station. It screams through the dark tunnel and within a few minutes, arrives at the next station.
The couple steps out onto the platform. Anne walks a little ahead of James, the skirt of her pink dress flouncing around her. The white fur on the hood of her coat twitches with every movement. She looks back at James as he catches up to her, taking her hand in his. She skips ahead of him once more when they reach the escalator, jumping onto the step above James so when she turns, she can easily press a glossy kiss to his forehead. She glows under the white lights hanging over the escalators.
Before they know it, they are back in the rain. Anne holds onto James’ arm tightly as they walk down the busy, wet street. The puddle covered sidewalk is a watercolour cacophony of neon colours; reflections of the blinding signs hanging in store windows. Turning the corner they arrive at a small, red neon-lit restaurant. Anne frowns.
“He isn’t out front,” she observes quietly.
“Maybe he is already inside. Who wants to wait in this?” James gestures to the rain pounding on their umbrella. Anne’s frown does not leave her face as they step inside. The warm, humid air greets them. Anne glances around at the other tables where couples and groups of friends sit and eat. There is no sign of Francis. “He is just running late,” James says to her as the host leads them to a table for four by the steam-covered window. “Ramen is an interesting choice,” James says with an amused smile. “Francis doesn’t like slurping his noodles.”
“Don’t say it like that,” Anne hisses but then she giggles and hides her face behind her menu. James smirks as he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulls it out, the screen lighting up. An email notification appears at the top of the screen. James frowns as he stares at the subject line.
How will you keep warm when the cold comes?
The notification disappears.
“We should get some tea while we wait,” Anne says and raises her hand to wave down the waiter. With his brow furrowed, James opens his text messages and quickly types out a message to Francis.
James [6:33pm]: Are you on your way?
James closes the app and stares at the glowing red dot on the email app. He chews his lip as he opens it and finds the email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: How will you keep warm when the cold comes?
There will be nowhere to hide. It will cleanse us. It will cleanse the Earth and blanket it with ice.
Will you be prepared?
“I don’t understand the things people send to my podcast email...” James mutters as he closes the app and sets his phone down on the table. The phone's background is a photo of him, Anne and Francis taken just that past summer at a dinner party. Anne smiles at him as the waiter sets two little cups of tea down on the table.
“Would you like to order?”
“We’ll wait a little longer,” James sighs. The waiter nods and walks away. Anne curls her hands around the warm cup. “He might have forgotten. He’s been easily distracted lately. He said this semester is tough,” James says quietly. “Something about the students is different.”
“Different?”
“Last we talked about it, he said they had strange ideas about the philosophical arguments they are studying…” James says quietly. “I can’t explain it as well as he can. I’m no philosophy professor,” he laughs. Steam rises from the mug between his hands. It swirls through the air. Condensation drips down the inside of the restaurant’s windows.
James thinks of the hours he and Francis spent together, debating and waxing till the sun rose; Francis sees the same kind of beauty in logic and arguments that James sees in numbers and calculations that had kept him up night after night.
“If he doesn’t show… maybe we could have a date night?’ Anne asks quietly. James raises his gaze from his mug. A gentle smile pulls at his lips; it had been a long time since they had a proper date night.
“A date night would be nice,” James says. He glances at the foggy window. He doesn’t recognize any of the human shapes passing by on the other side. “He would have texted by now if he was coming…” James can’t stop the hurt sigh that falls from his lips. Anne reaches for his hand. Her skin is warm.
“He still loves you, James…” Anne whispers. “I know it.”
“He loves James too,” he says, hating the bitter tone in his voice. It makes him sound like the headstrong boy he was supposed to have grown out of. “Francis is probably with him… Probably forgot all about us.” James takes a sip from his tea. It burns his tongue.
“James, don’t say that,” Anne says, squeezing his hand. “He is probably just busy like you said and simply forgot. Don’t worry, my love.” She raises his hand to her lips. The ring on her finger glints in the neon light.
***
The taste of vanilla icing lingers on James’ tongue as he and Anne stroll down the wet, dark street. The puddles gathering over the cobblestones glints in the orange glow of the streetlamps. Rain patters onto the black umbrella James holds over them.
Francis did not arrive for dinner.
So James and Anne ordered, their conversation wildly shifting between topics; the book Anne had been reading for her class, the debate over roses or lilies to go in the centrepieces at their reception, the experiment James had been working on during his studies into magnetism at the university. Between slurping noodles and taking sips of tea, their voices floated through the mostly quiet restaurant. Shadowy human figures passed by the foggy glass, barely illuminated by red neon light oozing from the sign above the door.
As James paid the bill, Anne sucked on the lemon hard candy that came with it. They lingered a little longer in the warm, humid restaurant. James unwrapped his own lemon candy. The hard yellow thing glinted as James put it into his mouth.
When they finally stepped outside, it was raining even harder.
On the walk home, they stopped at Anne’s favourite cafe and bakery. James smiled at Anne as she peered intently down at the array of beautiful slices of cakes, squares of tiramisu, pastel macaroons and chocolate-covered eclairs. After selecting the most perfect piece of tiramisu, they were once more on their way, the little white box held tightly in Anne’s hands.
Now, as they turn the corner onto their quiet street, James could not help but look back over his shoulder. He scans the dark for the eyes he felt on his back. A streetlamp across the street flickers; the light is dying. James steps a little closer to Anne. He lets out a quiet sigh of relief as they climb the old, stone steps to their building.
Inside, the smell of dust hangs in the still air. Anne glances back at James over her shoulder as she scurries up the stairs. There is a glint in her eyes that shoots an electric spark down James’ spine. He hurries after her. Raindrops fall from his umbrella and soak into the old red carpet covering the creaking stairs. As if they were as young as the day they first met, they skip up the winding stairs. Anne giggles as James grabs her hand, pulling her into a breathless kiss. She begins to pull away a moment later and James chases after her, a small whine escaping his throat.
Holding his hand tightly, she leads the way up the stairs and down the creaking, dimly lit hall. James fumbles with his keys. He throws open the door and they hurry inside. He finds himself with his back against the door. Anne kisses him fiercely. The wet umbrella slips from his hand. When she breaks away from him, James checks twice that the door is locked.
With the little white cake box abandoned on the kitchen counter, the two stumble through the open bedroom door, unable to let go of the other.
***
Darkness hangs over the bedroom. Rain taps against the window. In the distance, an ambulance siren wails. A cold breeze flows through the slightly ajar window and plays with the pages of the books left on the desk. A pink dress lays where it was thrown onto the old floor. A red sweater hangs over the footboard. The bedroom door stands open; a yawning mouth.
The floorboards creak. A weak sigh floats through the dark; a deep melancholy, a dark shadow in the corner. Then the floorboards groan as if in agony.
“James…” a hushed, nervous whisper. “James.” Anne grips his arm tightly. “James…” He slowly opens his eyes. “I think there is someone walking around in the living room…” Anne whispers. “It's like…. someone is pacing.”
“It's just the building,” James yawns. “It's old, my sweet thing.”
“Can you go check to make sure no one is in there?” Anne pleads. She sits beside him, the blanket pulled up to her chin. She stares at the dark, open doorway. He can see the whites of her eyes glinting in the faint orange light that oozes through the window.
“Okay,” James says gently. “I’ll go check.” He sits up, sliding his legs off the bed. He fumbles in the dark, finding his sweatpants hanging out of the laundry basket. He pulls them on before bending down, reaching underneath the bed. His fingers curl around the heavy baseball bat hidden there. He had never played the game; he only bought it after finishing the fourth episode of the podcast. Knives make him nervous. Holding the blunt, heavy weapon firmly, James stands and begins to make his way towards the door.
The silence rings in his ears. It is almost painful.
The air catches in James’s throat as he steps through the doorway. His heart pounds in his chest. Slowly, he scans the darkness. He can barely make out where the couch is. He takes another step forward. His warm breath fogs in the cold air. James glances over his shoulder at Anne who stands by the bedroom door, her bathrobe pulled tightly around her.
A loud bang echoes through the flat.
Anne lets out a terrified cry as she flinches. James grips the bat tighter. The bang comes again, heavy. After the third, James realizes it is coming from the front door. He glances at the clock above the stove; 12:33 am .
Slowly, James starts towards the door.
“D-Don’t…” Anne whispers, her voice trembling. James closes the space between him and the door. With a shaking hand, he begins to unlock the door. James grips the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, he throws open the door.
“I-I’m sorry…” A weak voice says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Slowly, James lowers his bat. The grey light from the hallway spills into the flat. It barely illuminates the pale, rain-soaked complexion on James Fitzjames’ face. Drops of rain fall from his wet curls and soak into his black coat. A blue scarf hangs limply from his throat. His dark gaze is locked on James. It is as desperate as it is hollow. Sitting on his soaked shoes is a large, black Newfoundland. The dog pants under its heavy wet fur.
“James?” Anne is suddenly beside her fiance. She stares at the taller James with wide, nervous eyes.
“I-Is Francis here?” Fitzjames asks, his usually confident voice now trembling. “He said… He said he was going to dinner with you. But it is late and he won’t call me back…”
James’ heart falls into his stomach.
Chapter 2: Poached Eggs
Chapter Text
“And he never showed up to dinner, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Nor did he come home?”
“He didn’t come home…”
“Do you know where he might have last been?”
“At the university, I think. He is a professor there.”
“When did you last hear from Mr Crozier?”
“He left home at 11:30 this morning. He texted me just before his class began at… At, I think 3:30…”
“And what did he say?”
“He asked how my day was going.”
“And none of you heard from him since? Is that normal for him?”
“He doesn't always text us back right away...”
“So you were not concerned?”
Leaning against the cold, humming fridge, James stares blankly down at the black and white tiled floor. His arms rest folded over his chest. Over his shoulder is a photo pinned to the fridge with a magnet; dressed in his warm polar gear, Francis smiles at the camera. Fitzjames and Anne sit at the small kitchen table, their watery eyes fixed on the police officer seated across from them. His uniform is dappled with drops of rain. His hat rests on the table beside him. His boots tracked more rain into the flat.
“I-I… We are concerned,” Fitzjames splutters.
“And yet you waited till one in the morning to call the police?”
“Are these questions necessary?” James asks more fiercely than he should. The officer raises an eyebrow at him. “Francis is bad at texting us back. We’ve gone hours without hearing from him before. It was not a cause for alarm.”
“I see," the officer says calmly, making a note in his small notebook. James digs his fingernails into his arms. "Do you think there is anyone who would want to hurt Mr Crozier?”
Fitzjames frowns. Then he shakes his head, his damp chocolate curls swishing around his pale face. “No… No, I can’t think of anyone who would want to do that.”
“Alright... We will begin some preliminary investigations but as it stands, Mr Crozier might have simply left of his own volition. I would recommend waiting a few days to hear from him,” the officer says with a reassuring smile. James sinks his teeth into his tongue. As if she could feel the waves of anger coming off him, Anne glances over her shoulder at her fiancé.
“Oh, okay…” is all Fitzjames can say.
The officer stands. “I understand your worry, believe me. However the majority of these cases concerning adults, they left because they choose to... But if you don’t hear from him in twenty-four hours, give me a call,” the officer says, taking out his card. He hands it to Fitzjames who clasps it with shaking hands.
“Thank you… Officer Gore,” Fitzjames says quietly. Officer Gore gives him a polite nod and starts towards the door. Anne closes it behind him. She locks it.
“Francis wouldn’t just leave,” James says through gritted teeth. Fitzjames stares down at the card in his shaking fingers. “He wouldn’t leave.”
“What if he did?” Fitzjames whispers. “What if he left us?” James shakes his head; he refuses to believe it.
“No. I’ve been researching missing person cases enough to know that this whole thing feels wrong!” James snaps. Fitzjames stares up at him with wide eyes.
“James,” Anne says firmly. She stands by the counter, her arms crossed in front of her. “Now is not the time.” James blinks. He struggles to find the words to explain the worry that is eating him alive. He drops his gaze to his cold, bare feet on the white tile. “Y-You don’t know what happened. Maybe he did just leave. Thinking of the most awful things that could have happened won’t help us,” Anne says. She takes a deep, shaking breath. “Would… Would you like to stay here, James? It is so late,” she says gently, turning her attention to the young man seated at the old, creaky kitchen table.
“I don’t want to be a bother,” Fitzjames says, glancing at James out of the corner of his eye. “A-And Neptune is a big dog for a small place-“
“Neither you nor Neptune will bother us,” Anne says. Fitzjames looks up at her with an appreciative smile. His pale hand idly pets the fluffy dog sitting at his knee. Anne turns away, busying herself with cleaning the couch and searching for clean linens. James feels frozen in place. He stares down at the tiled floor. He can feel Fitzjames’ eyes on him.
“Weren’t you concerned?” Fitzjames asks quietly. James slowly raises his head, his strawberry curls falling weakly around his pale face. “When he didn’t show up for dinner…” Fitjames whispers. “Did you even call him?”
James lips part as he struggles to think of his and Anne’s defence; they were hungry? They wanted a date night? They wanted tiramisu? All of these excuses fall apart before he can spit them out. How selfish they sound. James tears himself from Fitzjames gaze.
How were we supposed to know? James wants to hiss but he holds the biting words back. He storms out of the kitchen and past Anne who looks up at him as she struggles to pull a sheet onto the couch cushions. He steps into the small bathroom and closes the door behind him.
Anne’s cosmetics and glittering perfume bottles cover the counter. Old nautical-themed beach towels hang from the back of the door. The mirror is smudged. The ceiling fan lets out a quiet hum. Gripping the edge of the cold white counter, James takes a deep, gasping breath. Slowly, he reaches for his phone in his sweatpants pocket.
He finds Francis’ number. After a moment, he presses the call button. The phone rings.
And rings.
Then “I am unable to answer the phone right now. Please leave me a message and I will call you back so-” Francis’ voice is cut off by a loud beep followed by thick, fuzzy silence. The phone records James’ shaking breath.
***
Cold rain patters against the window. A grey murky light filters through the glass and meekly fills the bedroom. Plushies lay kicked onto the cold wood floor; the aftermath of a restless night. Their beady black eyes glint in the grey morning light. The air is cold. It sneaks under the soft, snow-white blankets and finds James, rousing him a brief and restless slumber. His dark eyes flicker open. He stares at the clock on his bedside table.
7:33.
He lets out a quiet groan as he rolls over, pulling the blankets closer as he reaches for Anne. His hand fumbles against the cold mattress; she isn’t there. Frowning, James throws off the comforter and sits up. He takes in the quiet, grey room. Their clothes still lie messily on the floor; evidence of their selfishness. James pushes himself out of bed with a heavy, aching sigh. He pulls on his university hoodie and tightens his sweatpants, tying the white strings tightly. Then he picks up the clothes on the floor. The thought of Fitzjames seeing the mess makes him cringe as he throws them into the laundry basket by the door.
The bedroom door opens with a click. James quietly steps into the living room. Fitzjames lays sprawled on the worn, emerald couch. From his awkward perspective, James thinks he is still asleep. His chest rises and falls slowly. His chocolate curls fall over his face, obscuring his eyes from the red-haired James.
The smell of melting butter and coffee lures James into the kitchen where he finds Anne staring down into a pot of swirling, boiling water on the stove. Steam drifts around her.
“I’m not very good at poaching eggs…” Anne whispers as James approaches her. The little white egg flips and turns, tossed about by the boiling water.
“How long ago did you put it in?” James asks gently.
“Three minutes ago… I think.” She frowns. Taking the spoon from her hand, he gently lifts the egg from the hot water. Steam rises from the egg as he places it down on the waiting, buttered toast. Using a butter knife, he cuts through the soft, white flesh. Golden yolk oozes onto the toast.
“Perfect,” James smiles. He holds the plate out to Anne but she shakes her head.
“You should eat, my love. I can make another one for myself. I think I got it now,” she says gently. A small smile appears on James’ face. He presses a kiss to her temple and quietly leaves the kitchen. He passes the emerald couch and steps into his tiny office. He sets the small plate down on the desk.
Pressing the space key, the two computer screens come alive, filling the dimly lit room with blue light. James slumps down into his chair. He stares at the audio waves of his voice on the screen. With a click of his glowing mouse, the audio jumps ahead.
“-this second bag was discovered in a back alleyway; trash, it would seem-“ James fast forwards. “A witness, a young man named Tom Hartnell, saw the dumping of this fourth grotesque bag of limbs. He saw what looked like robed figures in the woods near the university campus only a few hours before seeing the bag fall into the river- '' James hits the pause button as a wave of nausea rolls over him.
“You need some proper light in here.” James turns to look at Fitzjames who lingers in the doorway. His tired eyes float over the crowded bookshelves, the textbooks and loose papers of calculations. Then his dark gaze shifts to the glowing screens. “Are you really editing that show right now?” Fitzjames mutters. "Why tell these stories?" he wonders as he wanders over to the bookshelf. He looks disappointed with what he finds.
“I-I simply wanted to bring attention to these stories,” James says despite not being sure if Fitzjames wants an answer or not. He glances down at the runny egg. The yolk has begun to harden. “Some people want help to find their loved ones… to get them justice. I know I do right now…”
“Officer Gore said to wait.“
“We don’t have time to wait and you know it, James.” Fitzjames can’t meet James’s gaze. “Francis would not leave without telling us. He wouldn’t. That's not the Francis we know.”
“It isn’t…” Fitzjames whispers as he slowly turns away from the shelf. James stares up at him, searching his pale face just as he had the day Francis introduced them. What he was looking for, he could not say.
“Are you a philosophy student too?” James had asked. He sat awkwardly across from the two of them, their voices nearly lost to the busy chatter of the campus cafe. The smell of coffee drifted around them. Francis’s shoulder brushed against Fitzjames’. Croissant crumbs covered the little white plate resting on the table in front of him.
“Oh, no,” the tall, beautiful James said with a laugh and a toss of his chocolate curls. Francis stared up at him with brilliant blue eyes. James remembered how it felt to be looked at that way; it was like stepping out into the sunlight on a warm, summer morning. “I am a writer,” Fitzjames had said. “I’ll have my first novel published soon! Although I doubt you’d be interested. Francis has told me you are a scientist. What do you study, James?” The red-haired James blinked. He glanced awkwardly at Francis who smiled reassuringly at him.
“Magnetism,” James says. Meeting Francis’ glittering gaze once more, a fire ignited in his chest. “But I doubt you are interested,” James added as he stirred his tea idly. Fitzjames stared at him as he sipped from his frothy latte. His foam covered upper lip twitched.
Now those dark eyes have no spark. They stare down at James, holding him captive in their empty darkness. “It isn’t like Francis to just leave…” Fitzjames says again.
“The police won’t look into it unless there is pressure. To them right now, Francis is just an overworked professor in need of a break,” James sighs, leaning back into his chair.
“So we need proof he isn’t…” Fitzjames glances at the little penguin on James’ bookshelf. “Francis has a penguin like that in his office.”
“The last place he would have been,” James breathes.
“We should go there,” Fitzjames says suddenly. “Maybe he left a note… or something.” His dark gaze narrows at James when he remains quiet for a second too long. “Or is that what we aren’t supposed to do?” James looks up at him with a frown. “What? You are the crime expert after all.”
“I am not an expert,” James says sharply. “But I agree, we should go to Francis’ office. Perhaps you are right. Maybe he did leave a note.”
Fitzjames nods. His dark eyes flicker hungrily to the oozing egg resting atop the buttered bread. “Francis likes poached eggs…”
***
“You really think the police would see me as a suspect?”
“Why not? A young writer moves in with a well to do professor. He likes his apartment and fancy suits so he decides he’d like to have it all to himself. It writes itself, wouldn’t you say so?”
“You’re an ass-“
“James, do you think we can get lunch on our way home?” Anne asks with a sweet smile as she turns on the black, escalator step she stands on to look up at the two, irritated men behind her. James shrugs and slides his hands into his navy blue coat pockets. Fitzjames turns away from him, his arms folded in front of him. He is dressed in the same jeans and button-up he had been wearing the night before. His deep blue scarf flutters limply over his shoulder as humid air rushes up from the underground train. “Maybe we can check the cafe Francis likes,” Anne adds. “I like their smoothies.”
“Sure,” James nods. Her smile wavers as she looks up at the two men. Slowly, she turns back around. The soft, white faux fur on the hood of her coat twitches.
They reach the bottom of the long escalator and walk to the platform. The white lights overhead buzz. A warm draft of air spirals out of the tunnel. James’ fingers find Anne’s. He glances over his shoulder. A young man sits on the bench, his elbows resting on his knees. His dark curly hair escapes the red toque he wears. His leg bounces idly. He turns his head and meets James’ gaze for just a moment before they both look away. James stares down at the blackened tracks. The back of his neck prickles.
Golden light fills the tunnel. In a moment, the train is rushing into the station. The wheels scream as it comes to a halt. James glances back over his shoulder. The young man has retrieved his phone from his hoodie’s front pocket. His thumbs fly across the screen as he types. The train’s doors slide open and they step inside, sitting down heavily on the bench. James squirms slightly as he finds himself sandwiched between Anne and Fitzjames.
“Did you sleep alright on the couch?” Anne asks, leaning around James to meet Fitzjames’ gaze.
“It was comfortable, thank you. Neptune liked it too.” A small smile pulls at his lips. “I suppose we ought to go home today though…” Fitzjames says with a shaking sigh.
“You don’t have to. You can spend as much time as you need with us,” Anne smiles. “James doesn’t actually think you have anything to do with this. He is just as worried as you are,” she adds, shooting a look at James. “Francis will be found safe and sound.” Both nod. “I should warn you, James,” Anne says, meeting Fitzjames' dark gaze. “Our house is haunted.”
“I-I… Pardon?” Fitzjames frowns. He glances at James who merely smiles and slouches down in his seat. The train doors close. In mere seconds they are hurtling through the dark tunnel. “Did you say haunted?”
“Yes,” Anne nods. “We’ve heard footsteps! Doors close on their own. I've even heard knocking on the walls.”
“Really?” Fitzjames glances once more at James out of the corner of his eye. James watches the flashes of white light in the window opposite them.
“I intend to find proof of our ghost,” Anne says. “Perhaps you can help me while you stay with us.”
“I don’t know… '' Fitzjames says, barely audible over the roar of the train. “I’ve never hunted for ghosts before.”
“Me neither,” Anne says with a smile. James stares at their reflection in the dark window across from them. The white lights flash. Beside Fitzjames is an empty seat.
***
Warm sunlight washed over the hot pavement. The glorious summer sky was blue and vast. Students lingered in the warm light, soaking it up as if they were growing sunflowers turning to follow the sun as he journeyed across the sky. Those strolling on the wide cement path that snaked through and around the old campus suddenly found themselves jumping out of the way, their brief sun-induced trance interrupted by the girl racing past them on white rollerblades. The blue laces sparkled in the sunlight.
Her long hair spilled from her white helmet and swirled around her head as she glided over the path. The pins on her pink backpack glinted. There was a hole in her jeans. Her t-shirt rippled in the wind with every push forward. She gasped for air as she raced down the path; only having ten minutes between classes was really starting to become a nuisance.
Up ahead, she barely noticed the two men walking down the steps from one of the old science buildings. The younger man’s strawberry curls looked aflame in the warm, summer light. Lost in conversation, he did not notice the girl until she was suddenly slamming into him. The two fell to the pavement in a flurry of backpacks, paper and limbs.
“Oh my god! I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
“I-I’m fine…”
“You are bleeding!”
“Oh, shit…”
“I’m so sorry!” she said, flustered as the strawberry-haired man pressed his hand over his elbow. Blood soaked through the soft fabric of his white button-up shirt.
“You should be paying more attention, young lady. You could have seriously hurt someone!” the older man snapped at her.
“It’s fine, Sabine.” The younger man smiled gently at her. His glittering eyes lingered on her blushed face. “Are you okay?”
“Me? I am fine! I think you took most of the damage…” she stammered. Wincing, he managed to stand up and offered a hand to the girl. She wobbled on her rollerblades. “At least let me find you some ice or a band-aid,” she insisted as he returned his hand to his bleeding elbow.
“Ice might be nice…” he laughed. She managed to gather up his dropped papers and held them tightly as she led the way to a cafe just down the path. Her class forgotten, she sat with him outside, both sipping from iced coffee while he held a small plastic bag of ice to his elbow. “I-I don’t think I got your name…” she said quietly, her eyes taking in his sharp jaw, confident dark eyes and strawberry curls.
“It’s James. And to whom do I owe my battered elbow to?” he asked with a playful wink. Her cheeks began to burn pink.
“Anne! Are you coming?" She turns away from the little cafe and its rain-soaked tables. Drops of rain spill off her transparent umbrella. She hurries after James and Fitzjames.
“I always get lost when I come here,” Fitzjames says as Anne catches up to them. He lifts his umbrella to look up at the old, red brick and white window frames. Ivy snakes up the brick walls. In the window of a professor’s office, a warm golden lamp glows.
“It’s easy once you get to know it,” James says quietly. He steps into a puddle. Water soaks through his shoe and wets his sock. He grits his teeth. He glances up at Fitzjames.
Don’t you come to visit Francis often? he wants to ask. The still bitter part of him wants to rub in all the lunches spent sitting in Francis’ cosy, book-filled office. Every day James brought lunch; one day it would be sandwiches, another day noodle bowls, then the next it would be slices of pizza. Francis’ face would light up as James appeared in the doorway, the mouthwatering smells of food accompanying him. Sitting across from Francis as if he were one of his students seeking his help with a thesis, James told Francis of his morning spent in the lab and Francis would smile and listen as he ate.
On a rainy Thursday in May, however, James arrived with lunch only to find Francis already eating. On the lid of his pasta container was a note; have a good day! love, James.
“I-I’ll have to eat all of this then…” James had laughed shakily. The hot styrofoam containers trembled in his hands. It was the last time he brought Francis lunch.
Now he follows the route he had taken every day, wandering to the large hall near the centre of campus. The three of them hurry up the wet stone stairs and Fitzjames pulls open the door. James closes his umbrella and steps inside. They wander past classrooms and lecture halls, making their way towards the stairs at the end of the hall.
Up they went.
The stairs creak under their wet shoes. By the time they reach the top floor, James is slightly out of breath. He glances over the railing, looking down at the winding stairs. Taking a deep breath, he steps into the hallway. Doors line the hall; some of them are decorated with posters advertising field schools, classes and essay help. One of the overhead lights flickers. The smell of printer ink and dust floats around them as they quietly make their way down the hall. James winces at the loud, wet squeak their shoes make on the old, polished wood floors.
“Here,” Fitzjames says softly. They stop in front of a slightly ajar door. Compared to the other office doors, it is simple. No posters, no friendly signs or encouraging words of advice for nervous students. It is dark wood, a brassy handle and a simple name placard displaying ‘Dr Crozier’ and nothing more. “The door is open…” Fitzjames whispers. “Wouldn’t he have closed it when he left?” James shrugs. He glances at Anne who looks just as puzzled. The three stare at the old, brassy door handle as if waiting for Francis to pull the door open and smile at them.
“I-I close my office door…” James says as if that will answer Fitzjames’ question. The taller James nervously chews his lip. Anne picks at the skin around her thumbnail. James forces himself to take another deep breath. He presses his palm against the door and pushes it open.
They are not sure to expect; perhaps a mess, a chaotic scene as the result of a struggle. Instead, nothing is out of place. Rain patters against the window. The desk is neat. Pencils rest in a simple navy blue mug. A stack of marked essays sit on the side of the desk. Behind the neatly tucked in chair, books fill the shelves beside the window. James steps into the room carefully. He turns on the lamp, the warm golden glow filling the little space. The beady eyes of the little penguin plush sitting on the shelf glint in the light.
“Maybe this wasn’t the last place he was,” Anne says quietly as she sits down in the chair in front of the desk. James carefully makes his way to the window. He looks down on the rainy path they had just walked. A group of students huddled under umbrellas make their way down the paved path. A young man stands under the awning of the building across the way. His green hood covers his face. James cannot tell if he is looking up at the office window or not.
“His laptop isn’t here,” Fitzjames says. James turns away from the window. He stares at the empty desktop.
“Does he bring it to class with him?” James asks. Fitzjames shrugs.
“I don’t know… His T.A. might know. I think his name is… Edward? I think?” Fitzjames frowns as he struggles to remember. James glances back out the window. The young man has disappeared.
“Is he on campus? We should talk to him,” Anne says.
“I don’t know his schedule,” Fitzjames sighs in frustration.
“Francis teaches on Tuesdays and Thursdays…” James says, turning away from the window once more. “Edward will be here tomorrow.”
“What is that?” Fitzjames frowns. He reaches for the pile of essays. The essay on top of the stack has a large stamp on the front; marked for the Dean. James steps towards him, peering down the paper. He takes it from Fitzjames’ hands, slowly flipping through it.
To argue that one's morals are above their practicals at all times is simply put, a mistake, especially in a time when one is put through a crisis-
“What is wrong with it?” Anne asks. “Is it plagiarism?” James blinks as he looks up at her. He turns back to the front page of the essay. Under the course code is a name.
Cornelius Hickey.
“Maybe… But it doesn’t even look like Francis marked it,” James says, flipping back through the pages. There are no pen marks, not even to fix an obvious grammatical mistake.
“Then there is something wrong with the content itself?” Fitzjames wonders.
“We’d have to read it to find out…” James says, not thrilled by the idea of reading a second year’s philosophy paper.
“Um… Excuse me?” The three nearly jump. James looks up, twisting his arm to hide the paper behind his back. A young man dressed in a green raincoat and old jeans stands in the doorway. Rain drips from his coat and pools on the floor. His sandy curls frame his wet forehead. “I was just looking for Dr Crozier. Is he in today?” James glances at Fitzjames out of the corner of his eye.
“No, he isn’t. He’s sick,” Fitzjames says with a gentle smile. “He sent us here to retrieve some of his things while he rests.”
“Oh…” the young man says, glancing at Anne and James. “I was just hoping to get my essay back. Dr Crozier said they were marked.” His eyes flicker to the corner of paper sticking out from behind James’ back.
“Maybe you should wait for him to come back and give them out,” Fitzjames says.
“Are those not from our class?” He points to the stack of papers on the desk. Fitzjames splutters, hesitating to touch them.
"I don't think Francis would mind if we gave the one paper back.." Anne says quietly. James sighs.
“What’s your name?” James asks, reaching for the papers.
“Billy. Billy Gibson.” He watches James fumble with one hand through the papers. Finding Billy’s, he pulls it from the stack and hands it to him. “D-Do you think you could give me my friend’s paper too?”
“What’s the name?”
“Cornelius.” James glances up at him. Billy shifts his feet, his running shoes damp from the rain. James slowly lowers his gaze back down to the papers. His grip on the paper behind his back tightens.
“Unusual name,” James says as he fumbles around through the papers.
“He said he’s named after his grandfather,” Billy says. He watches James intently. After another moment, James slowly straightens.
“It’s not in here,” James says. “Maybe he left it at home when marking it.”
“Oh…” Billy says. His gaze flickers to James’ arm snaking around his back. His eyes seem impossibly large. He shifts his feet again. His Adam's apple bounces as he swallows. “Thank you,” he says quietly. The three watch him disappear back into the hallway. James’ dark eyes slowly turn up to Fitzjames.
“I think we should go…” James says quietly. Fitzjames nods. They set things back as they found it and James turns off the lamp. He folds Cornelius’ essay and tucks it into his coat. The three step out into the hallway. Fitzjames closes the office door.
***
Puddles splash around wet shoes. Raindrops patter on the dark umbrellas. Neon light oozes from store signs; a rainbow of light reflecting off the wet streets. A car passes and the white lights nearly blind James as he, Anne and Fitzjames walk down the sidewalk. Its tyres splash dirty, brownish water onto the sidewalk.
“Will we get in trouble for going there?” Fitzjames asks. He keeps his head down against the cold wind. His chocolate curls flutter around his square face. James shrugs.
“I don’t think so. Besides… my fingerprints were already all over that office,” James says with a laugh. Fitzjames turns his head sharply to look at him, a dark look brewing in his eyes. “Relax, we just ate lunch together,” James mutters. He grips the umbrella he shares with Anne tightly.
“I’m hungry…” Anne whispers to James.
“I can’t really think of food right now,” James admits quietly. Another car passes them in a whirl of lights and splashing water.
“Francis wouldn’t want to hear that,” Anne says, looking down at her wet boots. “You need to eat, James.” They reach a dimly lit intersection. Across the street, the glowing light above the entrance down to the trains calls out to them. It promises them that home is not far away.
“Do… Do you think we could stop at my place quickly?” Fitzjames suddenly asks. James turns to look back at him. “I just want a change of clothes. And I should get Neptune’s food…” His long fingers fidget with the handle of his umbrella.
“Of course,” Anne says. James nods. They turn away from the intersection and the neon sign beckoning to them. The essay tucked into James’ coat feels heavy. Anne shivers beside him. After walking a few more blocks, they turn onto the quiet, old street. The windows that adorn the old row homes stare down at them. Some are dark. Some are warmly lit with lamps and lights hanging over dinner tables. The smell of spices from someone’s soup that had been stewing all day linger in the wet air.
They cross the street and start up the stairs of an old row house now split into three flats. They step inside and shake the rain off their umbrellas. James and Anne follow Fitzjames up the stairs to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, Fitzjames takes his keys out of his pocket and places his hand on the doorknob.
Fitzjames frowns. “Someone’s kicked the door in…”
“What?” James peers around him. The frame is broken, the lock is bent. The door hangs weakly on its hinges. Fitzjames places his hand on the door and pushes it open. It creaks and thuds against the wall. The hallway is dark. Slowly, he steps inside the flat.
“Hello?” he calls out. “Francis?” There is no answer. Orange light from the streetlamps just outside the windows weakly illuminate the beautiful living room; the fashionable grey sofa, the nearly overflowing bookcases, the sooty brick fireplace, the glinting golden frames of the art hanging on the clean, white walls. The orange light dimly reflects off the marble countertops in the kitchen where James stands. Water drips from his coat and lands on the polished wooden floor.
“Don’t,” James hisses as Fitzjames reaches for the light switch. “Don’t touch anything.”
“This is my house,” Fitzjames snaps back. “Our house,” he repeats, his voice rising with anger and fear. James turns his gaze to the open door leading to the bedroom. The orange street light glints off the frame of a piece of colourful modern art hanging on the wall.
“I never thought Francis would hang so much on his walls,” James had said earlier that summer, on a warm July night. Fitzjames beamed as brightly as the glowing candles that sat on the side table beside him.
“I hung it all,” Fitzjames said proudly. James blinked. He swirled his white wine before taking a sip. He glanced at Francis who was busy preparing dinner in the kitchen, his back to the two Jameses. “It was so cold in here! So over the past week, we’ve been picking out art and even the rug to warm it up. Isn’t it soft? Francis said the red would be too much but I quite like it.”
“It is nice...” James said as he sat down in the white armchair beside the sofa. He stared at the brick fireplace. Neptune dozed on the rug by Fitzjames’ feet. “I’m sure I will have my fair share of decorating when Anne and I move in together in September.”
“When are you getting married?”
“In December,” James said, fidgeting with the gold band around his finger.
“Does she like your strange podcast?” Fitzjames suddenly asked. James felt his eyes narrow. He resisted the urge to down his wine in one swift gulp. “Francis has told me all about it. Doesn’t it bother you? Making sponsorship money from someone’s horrific murder?” Fitzjames asked.
“You are making it sound like I murdered them,” James muttered. Fitzjames stared grimly at him. “What bothers me is the number of people who are killed and no one seems to care. That should bother you.” Fitzjames chewed the inside of his lip, no doubt tasting bitter, cruel words. Before he could spit them out, Francis announced that dinner was ready.
Now James stands at the very counter Francis had stood at while labouring over a delicious pasta dinner that would be tainted with bitterness and judging glares. James watches Fitzjames storm across the darkened living room. Glass crunches under his wet boots; broken wine glasses. A drop of something dark and red shines in the dim light.
“Do you smell wet paint?” Anne asks, wrinkling her nose.
Fitzjames continues to the bedroom door. He pushes it open. “The hell?” James steps away from the kitchen and follows Fitzjames into the dark room. Clothes spill out of the closet. Drawers have been yanked out of the dresser and their contents thrown onto the floor. “W-Why…” Fitzjames stammers as he stares down at a pile of shoes that had been tossed out of the closet.
“James,” Anne breathes. James squints against the bright white light that shines from her phone. She holds it up, her eyes on the wall above the bed. Slowly, James turns.
Red spray paint drips onto the white headboard and oozes gruesomely down the wood. Graffitied onto the white wall is the face of a snarling bear.
Chapter 3: Black Coffee
Notes:
apologizes for missing last week. thank you so so much for your support for this fic <3
i've made a playlist for this fic! you can find it here: open.spotify.com/playlist/0yF0vSRK0PF4lgsCv8PYim?si=e5f556f79c6f4bb1
Chapter Text
From: [email protected]
Subject: [untitled]
you have a nice voice, jcr. you’ll be our messenger. you’ll tell the world. the cold is coming and there is nothing that can be done to stop it; only welcome it. don’t be scared. the scripture is already in your hands.
The smell of burned food lingers in the cold dusty air. The white hallway light flickers. Heavy police boots thud back and forth on the old, wood floor.
“When was this place built?”
“Francis… He uh… He guessed the 1850s.”
“Oh…” Red and blue lights flash through the door at the end of the hall and dance across the walls. As the police go back and forth up the stairs to the flat, James, Anne and Fitzjames sit on the hallway floor just out of the way and try not to watch them. Fitzjames stares expectantly at the phone in the red-haired James’ hand.
“Just an email,” James sighs and tucks his phone into his pocket.
“School?”
“No. Podcast…”
“What do people even send to a podcast like that?” Fitzjames mutters darkly. “No, don’t tell me,” he adds when James parts his lips. He turns his gaze to the flashing lights. James leans his head against the white plaster wall.
“You haven’t heard anything?” James asks quietly.
“My phone died,” Fitzjames sighs.
“I haven’t heard anything either…” Anne whispers. “I don’t think he’d call me though.”
“He might,” James shrugs. “If he doesn’t feel safe calling either of us. He trusts you.”
“Shut up.” A sob suddenly shudders through Fitzjames. He hangs his head, curling his knees up to his chest. “Shut up…” he sobs. “This can’t be happening… We didn’t do anything to anyone… I don’t understand…” Anne shimmies across the hallway to sit beside him. She gently takes his hand, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles.
“He’ll come home. You can’t give up, James,” she says gently. “You aren’t alone. We’re here.” Fitzjames shakes his head, his chocolate curls falling over his tear-filled eyes. Another sob racks his shoulders.
“Excuse me…” At the sound of a forced cough, James turns his head to look up at Officer Gore. “We’ve finished searching the flat. Other than the graffiti, nothing harmful has been left behind at the scene. It appears no valuables have been stolen-”
“My shoes,” Fitzjames says, raising his head. “They took a pair of my shoes.”
“Shoes?” Officer Gore frowns. “What kind of shoes?”
“Dress shoes… Nice black ones. I wore them with my suit to my brother’s wedding,” Fitzjames manages to say. “They weren’t in the closet where I normally keep them.”
“Are they expensive?”
“Not really,” Fitzjames shakes his head. “I can’t afford expensive shoes.”
“Can you describe them?” Officer Gore asks. Fitzjames’ brow furrows. As he describes a pair of shoes he had never thought he would have to describe in detail, James lowers his tired gaze to Anne. She smiles sadly at him. A shuddering breath rattles James and for a moment, he thinks he too might start to cry. He wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve.
“Would I be able to get some things?” Fitzjames asks once he has finished his description. “Just some clothes…”
“Of course,” the officer says quietly. Fitzjames manages to get to his feet. James watches him slowly make his way up the stairs. “Is he staying with you?” Officer Gore asks. James nods. “Would you like to have some officers posted at your home? Just for security.” James frowns. He glances at Anne who sighs as she rests her face in her hands.
“I-I don’t know…I don’t…” James stumbles over his words.
“Maybe just for tonight,” Anne says quietly. Officer Gore nods. He turns away as Anne reaches across the hallway for James, taking his hand. She grips his fingers tightly. A warm, salty tear slips down James’ cheek and soaks into the collar of his coat.
***
Rain taps on the tall windows. Lights from the street below flash onto the walls. The TV is on, the evening news filling the screen but no one is listening. The greasy, cheesy smell of pizza fills the small apartment. The two, white square boxes rest on the coffee table. With the couch still covered with pillows, blankets and the large, black dog, James, Anne and Fitzjames find themselves once more sitting on the floor, this time around the coffee table.
James tries his best to swallow the greasy pizza but every bite seems to get stuck in his throat. Aside from the faint whisper of the TV, the patter of rain and Neptune’s quiet snores, silence fills the apartment. James feels that he’s drowning in it; it has filled up to the ceiling and there is no more air left to fill his lungs.
“You should have another slice,” Anne says to Fitzjames.
“I’m not hungry anymore…” Fitzjames breathes. Dark circles swell under his red eyes. His curls hang around his pale face. James forces himself to take another bite; he knows he doesn’t look any better. He looks down at his phone resting on the rug beside him. There are no notifications.
Fitzjames stares down at his empty plate. Anne leans against the couch to gently run her hand over Neptune’s dark fur. James rests his chin on his knees, his stomach rolling.
From the kitchen comes the sudden, ringing sound of a plate clinking against another.
The three turn, looking in the direction of the strange, impossible sound.
“What was that?” Fitzjames asks. James turns his tired gaze to Anne. There is a tearful glint in her eyes.
***
A cold wind whips down the old, narrow street. Rain pounds against the old brick buildings. It is so cold, the rain is almost ice, pummelling against the pavement without mercy. The cold finds its way inside, creeping over the floorboards and finding Fitzjames where he lays on the emerald couch. Neptune snores on the rug beside him. Fitzjames shivers under the heavy comforter draped over him. His dark eyes open slowly. He stares at the tall windows on the other side of the room. Orange, dim light oozes through the wet glass. A floorboard creaks somewhere behind the couch.
Fitzjames turns his head, slowly rolling onto his back. He stares at the partially open door to James and Anne’s room. Beyond the white door with its brassy doorknob, is nearly complete and total darkness. Yet despite that, Fitzjames thinks he sees the faint silhouette of a man’s shoulders and head, dimly illuminated by the orange glow.
“James?” he manages to croak out, still half asleep. He blinks and all there is beyond the door is darkness.
***
“I… No, Mom. I know… I know-” The smell of coffee drifts through the air. Grey, rainy light shines through windows. Dressed in one of James’ t-shirts and pink sweatpants, Anne sits on the edge of their messy bed, her face partially hidden by her hand. In her other hand, she clutches her phone, holding it hard against her ear.
She barely pays any attention to James as he slowly gets dressed, tugging on his nice, dark trousers. He glances at Anne as he pulls on his belt. “I am not going dress shopping this weekend, I’m sorry…” Anne stammers, struggling to be firm. “Mom… Mom, I know I’m running out of time...” Anne sighs and rubs her tired eyes. James opens a drawer and finds his blue gingham button-up. “Of course we are still getting married, Mom, don’t be ridiculous. We just don’t want to keep planning right now… It doesn’t feel right…” Anne says. James buttons up his shirt. “James wants Francis there, Mom. We’re putting it on hold till he’s back,” Anne explains. James adjusts his collar. His eyes sting with tears as he takes out a deep blue blazer from the closet. “Can I call you back later? Okay… I’m fine. Bye, Mom.” Anne throws the phone down on the bed and flops down onto the comforters. They had slept in late. Were it not for the rumbling in their stomachs, they might have laid in bed all day. “Where are you going?” Anne frowns up at her fiance as he pulls on his blazer.
“I have a meeting today. John will be there. I have to go,” James says quietly. Anne frowns as she sits back up.
“You are really going to go?”
“I have to… It’s for funding…” James says quietly; it feels like a pitiful excuse. He stares down at the floor as he adjusts his sleeves. “And Edward… Francis’s T.A., will be on campus today. I’ll talk to him,” James adds. Anne chews the inside of her lip. “I won’t be gone all day,” James promises. He sits down beside her on the bed. “I’m sorry…” James sighs after a moment.
“For what?”
“For you having to tell your mom that…” James says, his voice barely more than a breath. “I don’t want to… I don’t want to put our whole lives on hold… But Francis... “ His voice wobbles. “He wants to be there, he said so. I keep thinking about how happy he was when I told him you said yes.” He lets out a shaking laugh. Tears well up in his eyes. “He has to be there… he has to be.” Anne reaches for his hand, holding it tightly. She raises his trembling hand to her lips.
“He will be,” Anne says against his pale skin. “He will be there.”
***
The underground station is busy despite the mid-day hour. People crowd onto the platform. The faint sound of murmuring voices fills the musty, humid air. The white fluorescent lights hum. The station rumbles as a train arrives at the other end, heading in the opposite direction.
James stares blankly down the dark tunnel. His wet umbrella hangs limply from his hand. His messenger bag shifts against his hip with every movement he makes. With a sigh, he reaches into his pocket for his phone and earbuds. The wire has become horribly tangled in his pocket. Gritting his teeth, James tucks his phone back into his pocket and begins to pick at the knot.
The train rushes into the station. The doors open. A flood of people exit and a flood of people enter. James finds a seat in the corner of the car. Slumping down, he busies himself with untangling his old earbuds.
“James? James? He can’t hear me… James!” He had jumped, turning in his chair to the door where his research assistant, a young man named Edward Bird, stood, his fist still resting against the door. He was dressed in the warm sweater they all received from the Antarctic base, and his insulated pants, having not yet taken them off from his recent venture outdoors.
“What is it?” James asked, pulling his metallic earbuds from his ears. The tinny sound of the beat echoed through James’ small room. His desk was covered with papers, his calculator and laptop nearly lost among it all. Above the desk was a circular window that looked out onto the vast, snow-covered landscape.
“You have a visitor,” Bird said with a smile. James frowned.
“A visitor?” James repeated.
Who would come to visit me here at the end of the world?
He glanced at his laptop and the time; 4:33 pm. Anne would be calling him in two hours. She promised she would yesterday at the end of their hours-long call. And Francis he had not heard from in a few days but-
James turned back to the door and his eyes widened. With a laugh, he jumped from his chair. Papers fluttered to the floor. James threw his arms around Francis.
In a rush of screaming wind, the train arrives at the next stop. James looks up from the knotted wire. He watches the flood of people ebb and flow till the doors close and the train begins to pull out of the station. White lights flash through the windows. He drops his gaze once more. His pale fingers pull at the wire.
“It’s so beautiful… So vast. It makes me feel small,” James had said, his hot breath oozing through his muffler and swirling around him. He and Francis walked or rather waddled over the eternal Antarctic snow. Behind them, the research base glittered. The wide-open sky glowed soft and peachy, reminding James of orange sorbet. Snowflakes fluttered through the frozen air. “I feel absolutely tiny!” James laughed. He couldn’t see Francis’ smile but he saw the way his shining blue eyes squinted and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened in a way that made James’ breath catch his throat. “And that is okay,” James said quietly. He stopped and turned to his closest friend. Their moist breath clouded around them. As James met Francis’ gaze, a shiver ran through him. It wasn’t from the cold. “I’m so happy you are here, Francis and I can share this with you… I-I-“ The words got stuck in James’ throat.
Slowly, Francis reached for James’ gloved hand. He held it tightly.
The train screeches into the next stop. James sighs as he stuffs the tangled earbuds into his pocket; he had made the knot worse. He gets up and makes his way off the train, disappearing into the crowd on the platform.
***
With every passing minute, James becomes more and more convinced that he will die in this boardroom.
His eyes keep flickering to the clock above his uncle John Ross’s head. Its minute hand seems to be barely moving; tormenting and teasing James with every infinite second. Sliding a little lower into his seat, James tries to pay attention to the droning conversation. It was days like these James regretted following his uncle into the sciences like an eager puppy dog. Yet he can hardly blame his younger self; he was just a boy with a head full of dreams.
When did you die? James wonders about that young boy with his head in the clouds. When did I bury you? If I dig you up will you smile to see me?
The conversation drones on and on; money and obligations, stakeholders and the university’s expectations, deadlines and reports. James fidgets with his pen. A stain of navy blue ink blooms on his palm.
Maybe it's best if you stay dead.
James thinks of the bright-eyed, strawberry haired boy who had stolen his uncle’s compass from his stuffy, dusty office and spun around it, watching the needle whirl to find north as he twirled around and around.
He broke that compass.
James' gaze flickers to the clock again. Francis’s class started nearly two hours ago. At this rate, he will miss Edward. James’ pen dances between his fingers. He can feel his uncle, chair of the department, watching him with a frustrated gaze.
“James Ross! You stupid, stupid boy!” He can hear his uncle’s voice roaring his head. He can feel the compass’ needle clutched tightly in his small hand, salvaged from the wreck of broken glass and dented brass.
James’ pen falls from his hand and lands loudly on the large table. Eyes flicker to him. James wishes he could melt into his chair.
“Perhaps we should take a break.” Agreement ripples around the table. James looks at the clock.
If he runs…
“I’m going to get a coffee,” James says, quickly packing up his things.
“Can you get me a latte while you are at it?” Sabine asks him.
“Make that two,” John Ross says as James passes his chair. James bites his tongue as he steps into the hallway. He walks briskly down the hallway, careful to not be too fast; they can still hear him. James reaches the doors at the end of the hall. He throws them open and steps out into the rainy afternoon.
Then he’s running.
His bag thuds against his thigh. Rain soaks into his hair. He nearly slips as he steps into a deep puddle but he does not stop. James’ lungs burn. Every step pounds against the pavement and rumbles through him.
When did I last run like this? James wonders as he heaves for air. He thinks of a forgotten book on his desk. It had a bright red cover that had glowed in the soft lamplight. He thinks of Francis’ smile as he said goodbye, as he promises James he’ll meet him at the airport when he returns home from furthest south. He thinks of how he grabbed that book and sprinted through the base as he tugged on his heavy coat. He had slammed against the heavy door, the door held tight against his chest. He pushed that door open and ran out into the cold. The snow had crunched under his boots. His cheeks burned as the cold wind bit at him. He caught Francis, still packing his things into the truck that would take him to the small airbase.
“Y-You forgot this… I know you need it for the paper you are writing…” James had gasped for air. Francis smiled brightly and James thought he would melt right then and there.
Nearly across campus now, James runs up the steps of one of the newly built buildings and hurries inside. Drops of rain splatter onto the polished floor. James eyes the numbers of the lecture halls till he reaches the smallest hall. Still struggling to catch his breath, James opens the door.
The professor speaking is not Francis but someone asked to cover for him. James keeps his gaze down as he walks to the last row and quickly sits down before any more attention can be drawn to him.
“Rather late, aren’t you?” An amused voice quietly asks. James turns, noticing the short man sitting beside him. He has a pointed face and long, slicked back ginger hair. His large coat lays draped over the chair. A notebook is open on the desk in front of him but he’s barely written any notes. “You haven’t missed much,” he says with a smile. “This professor is a real bore compared to Professor Crozier.” James blinks at him. He clears his throat.
“W-Where is Dr Crozier, anyways?” James asks. The young man smiles at him. “I-I’ve heard rumours…”
“Rumours?” the young man smirks. “We aren’t in high school anymore.” James feels his stomach twist. He turns away from the young man and scans the room. He spots Edward Little sitting near the front, an exhausted look on his face. It’s warranted considering the stack of papers in front of him awaiting marking. “I like your pin…” The young man’s voice is close to James’ ear. He looks down at his bag in his lap and the pin that glints on the front of it. On it is his podcast’s name written in gory, blood dripping letters. A fan had made it for him.
“Oh… Thanks,” James says quietly.
“Do you listen to that show? I listen to it all the time…” the young man says with a grin. “I love JCR’s calm voice and his way of telling the story. No bias. No bullshit. Just how it happened. It’s honest.” His teeth glint in the yellowish light. James stares at him. “Don’t you think?”
“I-I… Yeah,” James nods. “It’s good.”
“He must have thousands of listeners from all over the world.” His eyes seem to glow. James cannot stop the laugh that builds in his throat.
“I think you overestimate it,” James says with a smile. He narrows his eyes at James.
“I don’t think I do at all.” He says it so firmly, James might have believed him if he hadn’t checked the show’s statistics the other day. “I think he’s got something important to tell everyone. Just like Professor Crozier… You know, don’t tell anyone this…” James finds himself leaning towards him. “I’m not supposed to be here but I cannot bear to miss one of his classes…”
“W-Where are you supposed to be?” James asks. He simply smiles at James. His teeth shine. A pit forms in James’ stomach. “You know what.. I-I think I walked into the wrong class…” James stammers. “I’m sorry to disturb you.” He gets up quickly and starts for the door. He can feel his eyes on him. The door closes with a soft click behind him.
James lets out a shuddering breath. He leans against the wall, running his hands through his damp curls. His phone suddenly buzzes in his pocket. James fumbles for it. The screen illuminates his pale face as he holds it up.
John [5:03 pm]: Where are you?
James stuffs his phone back into his pocket. Gritting his teeth, he wanders over to a bench and sits down. His eyes linger on the beige, wooden doors to the lecture hall. James bounces his leg. Anxiety ignites in his chest and sends sparks shooting through him, each strong enough to knock the air from his lungs. He keeps thinking the door will open, keeps thinking those piercing eyes set into a pointed face will find him, keeps thinking-
“Coffee…” James mutters. He stands and starts towards the doors. He checks the time on his phone; he has just under twenty minutes. Besides… James thinks as he steps out into the rain once more.
I shouldn’t rush Edward at the end of class. It would stress him out…
***
The black coffee is bitter on James' tongue as he watches the students file out of the lecture hall. Half hidden around the corner, none of them notice the tall, red-haired PhD student. Some talk among themselves, others have already put in their earbuds, others walk away so fast towards the doors one would think their life depended on getting away from the lecture hall.
He finishes his coffee as the last of the students trickle out. James slips into the hall.
“Excuse me,” he calls out as he walks down the steps towards Edward Little who looks up with surprise. He looks tired. His dark hair resists his efforts to keep it out of his eyes. He wears a simple button-up and an ill-fitting tweed blazer over top. His dark jeans are fading, the edges frayed.
“Oh! Y-You’re…” He frowns, struggling to remember his name. James glances over his shoulder. The hall is empty.
“James Ross,” he says, turning back to Edward. “I am Francis’ friend. I think we met once or twice before.”
“Right, of course,” Edward says. He looks down at his notebooks. He stuffs them forcefully into his bag.
“I hope you don’t mind… but I wanted to talk to you about what happened on Tuesday,” James says, taking another step towards the dark, shaggy-haired man.
“I’ve already spoken with the police today,” Edward says quietly. “They told me someone broke into Francis’ home.”
“Yeah… Someone did.” James nods.
“What can you do about it?” Edward asks. James frowns.
“I-I’m just trying to find my friend. Is there harm in that?” James asks. “I’m no philosopher; the arts tend to confuse me. It always blows me away when my fiancee finds something in a text that I couldn’t or the logical arguments Francis strings together just astound me,” James says with a smile as he leans against the long desk that fills one of the rows. He sets his coffee cup down. The black coffee swirls. In its small white cup, it appears almost like an infinite, abyss; a frozen polar sky. “I’m sure you can do it too,” James adds as he crosses his arms. He smiles at Edward. “That said, I still know when something feels like the right thing to do.” Edward’s dark eyes flicker over him as if measuring him against his words. James stares back at him calmly. “I understand if you don’t want to talk to me-“
“You just want to know what happened on Tuesday?” Edward asks.
“And about this.” James pulls open his messenger bag. He pulls out an essay and hands it to Edward. “Why was Francis going to send that to the Dean?”
“How did you get this?” Edward frowns at him. James shrugs. Edward blinks in disbelief. “Cornelius Hickey hasn’t been an easy student and this was the last straw,” Edward says as he flips through the paper. “Francis didn’t tell me much, only that when he read this…” Edward pauses. He sucks in a quick breath.
“What did Francis say?” James asks, leaning towards Edward.
“He said he thought he’d wake up in the middle of the night to see Mr Hickey standing over him,” Edward says quietly.
“Do you think Cornelius is capable of such a thing?”
“I-I don’t think… I don’t think he’d do it himself,” Edward says. He stares uneasily down at the essay in his hands. “There were some days when he and Dr Crozier would get into these tiring debates and Corneileus would somehow get the whole class riled up against him, even if the argument didn’t make sense. I swear, in another life he must have been a cult leader,” Edward laughs nervously.
“Cult leader?” James repeats.
“He’s got this crowd around him and sometimes I think they just hang off every word he says. Like everything he says is fact. He gives me the creeps,” Edward explains. His dark gaze shifts nervously around the lecture hall.
“Was… Was Cornelius here today?” James asks quietly. Edward shakes his head.
“I got an email from him yesterday. He’s gone back home, family emergency or something,” Edward says with a shrug.
“Do you know where he lives? Is it in the city?” James asks.
“I don’t think so. I’d have to look in the system for his address… which I’m not supposed to do,” Edward says. He zips up his backpack.
“Edward, please. It's for Francis,” James persists. Edward shakes his head.
“I can’t afford to lose my position,” Edward says firmly.
“I understand,” James says. He looks down at his shoes. “On Tuesday… Was Francis alright?” James asks.
“He was the same old Dr Crozier,” Edward says and James smiles. “He told me he was going to dinner with a friend after class. He was excited,” Edward says. James’ eyes begin to sting. “He held back to answer some of the students' questions. Cornelius had left before me… but some of his friends were still here. They were up there,” Edward points to the right corner of the lecture hall. “I shouldn’t have left so soon.”
“You… You couldn’t have known,” James says softly.
“I knew he unsettled Francis. I shouldn’t have left him alone,” Edward says, his hands curling into fists at his side. James reaches for his hand. He is not quite sure why he does it but the softening of Edward’s brow as his fingers run over his pale skin tells him it was the right thing to do.
“You can’t change it,” James says gently. “But maybe we can fix it.” Edward nods. He presses his free hand against his tear-filled eyes. His other hand grips James’ tightly. James holds his hand for a moment longer before slowly letting go. “Here… In case you think of anything else, call me.” James says as he picks up his coffee cup. Using a pen from his bag, he writes his phone number on the white cup. He sets it back down on the desk in front of Edward and smiles at him. “Thank you for your help, Edward.”
***
James [5:53]: Do you want me to bring home dinner?
James [5:59]: I’m heading home now. Do you want me to get anything?
James [6:08]: Anne?
*Missed Call (6:13)*
James [6:15]: Are you alright? Please call me!
James [6:18]: Anne!
*Missed Call (6:20)*
*Missed Call (6:23)*
*Missed Call (6:25)*
Anne's scream rings through the flat as the front door flies open, slamming against the wall hard enough for the door handle to dent it. She and Fitzjames whirl around to face James as he steps into the flat, out of breath and wet from the rain. His phone is clutched tightly in his hand.
Anne presses her hand over her rapidly beating heart. “God, James! You scared me!”
“W-Why didn’t you answer me?” James stammers. Anne blinks and looks at her phone on the kitchen counter.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Anne says. “We’ve been busy…” It's then that James notices the equipment she and Fitzjames clutch in their hands. Fitzjames keeps his dark eyes on the EMF reader while Anne fidgets with a digital recorder.
“Busy?” James repeats, struggling to catch his breath. Anne nods firmly.
“Yes. We’re finding proof of our ghost, James,” Anne says with a proud smile. James runs a hand through his wet curls. He takes off his bag and sets it down on the kitchen counter.
“What have you found?” James asks as he kicks off his shoes.
“We got a voice,” Fitzjames says, gesturing to the recorder in Anne’s hand.
“Are you sure it wasn’t just someone out in the hall talking?” James asks pointedly. He pulls off his wet coat and hangs it in the small closet by the door. Rain continues to patter against the windows. Neptune watches them from where he lies on the rug, his fluffy black tail lazily swishing from side to side. Aside from the antique, rosy lamp on the side table on the couch, there is no light. “Or someone’s television? How do you know it was a ghost?” James asks. Anne glances at Fitzjames. There is a strange glint in her eyes.
“It answered our question,” Fitzjames says quietly.
“What did you ask?” James insists. He crosses his arms over his chest. He is tired; it feels like weights have been tied about his ankles and he is sinking deeper and deeper. His stomach grumbles. “Anne…” James sighs when neither she nor Fitzjames answers him. She glances at Fitzjames again, worriedly chewing the inside of her lip.
“Maybe we should show you. There are three of us here now,” Anne says. “What do you always say about testing hypotheses, my love? It's important to get repeating results, right?” James parts his lips in protest. “All you have to do is sit at the table with us. That’s all. Please, James.”
“Fine… Fine…” James sighs. Anne takes his hand and leads him to the kitchen table. He sits down in the chair Officer Gore had sat in only two nights ago. He can see the living room, the rainy windows lit up orange with the glow of the streetlamps below and the sliver of darkness where the bedroom door is. “Are we supposed to hold hands?” James asks as Anne and Fitzjames sit down.
“Not for this,” Anne says. “I think… I think we are just supposed to listen.” James folds his hands in his lap. Fitzjames eyes him out of the corner of his eye. Anne presses record and lays the silver rectangular device down in the middle of the table. The seconds tick by.
“A-Are we supposed to ask questions?” James whispers. The pit in his stomach has returned. He wraps his arms around his torso.
“You can ask whatever you want,” Anne smiles encouragingly.
“Okay…” James takes a deep breath. “Do… Do you have a name?” he asks, his voice rising to just above a whisper. Silence answers him. He glances at Anne again. “Why are you here?” James asks the darkness around them.
“Do you know what happened to Francis?” Fitzjames suddenly asks. James turns on him, his hands curling into fists.
“Don’t. Don’t do that,” James hisses.
“What? Why can’t I ask it that? Psychics have helped investigations before!” Fitzjames snaps.
“Francis isn’t dead!” James cries.
“He isn’t dead but what is the difference between asking a living person that question and asking a ghost?” Fitzjames challenges him. James’ upper lip twitches in anger.
“This has nothing to do with Francis!” James snaps back. “So don’t ask that!”
“You are ridiculous.”
“What if it tells you something awful? Something you don’t want to hear?” James continues. “If it's even real.”
“James!” Anne cries. There are tears in her eyes. James sighs as he leans back in his chair.
“I’m sorry…” James says to her.
“You’ve ruined it,” Anne says. She angrily wipes tears from her eyes before reaching for the recorder.
“Anne,” James reaches for her but she slides her hand out of the way. “I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. She presses the rewind button. Then the play button.
They listen to the silence. Finally, it's broken by James’ voice.
Do you have a name?
There is no answer.
Why are you here?
There is no answer.
Do you know what happened to Francis?
There is no answer.
Don’t… Don’t do that.
What? Why can’t I ask it that?
Then: “F…Fran…cis…” It is a garbled, twisted voice. Nothing about it sounds familiar, not even human.
“Stop it,” James says. Anne grabs the recorder and rewinds it. They listen to the voice again. “Stop…That’s not funny.”
“It’s not his voice…” Fitzjames whispers. Anne rewinds the recorder.
“F…Fran…cis…”
“That’s not him,” Fitzjames says again.
“Then who is it?” Anne asks. She rewinds the recorder. “It’s not… It’s not the voice we captured earlier…”
“Stop…” James presses his palms against his eyes. His hands tremble.
“Play it again,” Fitzjames says. The recorder rewinds.
“F…Fran…cis…”
“I-I don’t understand.” Fitzjames stares down at the recorder in Anne’s hand. Her eyes are wide, glinting with terror. “It sounds like… Like a beast…”
The recorder rewinds.
“Stop it!”
“I didn't touch it!”
The recorder rewinds.
Anne throws it down onto the table.
“F...Fran...cis…”
It rewinds again. Anne jumps up from her chair. Fitzjames stares down at the silver device in horror.
“F…Fran-“ James suddenly grabs the recorder and throws it against the wall. The back of the recorder breaks off as it crashes to the floor.
Anne stares at the broken pieces with wide eyes. “Y-You didn’t have to break it…”
“It wouldn’t stop…” James whispers. Anne slowly makes her way around the table. Slowly, she kneels down in front of the broken recorder. She picks up the pieces and tries to fit them back together again. “Anne… I’m sorry.”
“You… You broke it…” Anne’s voice breaks. James glances at Fitzjames. His wide eyes were wet with tears.
“Anne…” James says as he slowly stands up. “It wouldn’t stop… you were scared…” He reaches for her, his fingers grazing her shoulder. She pushes his hand away.
“Why did you have to break it?” Anne suddenly yells. James steps back from her. “I get you are angry… we all are! You aren’t the only one hurting!”
“Anne…”
“You didn’t have to break it… it was trying to tell us something…” The broken pieces slip from her fingers and clatter onto the floor. “Go away…” she mutters. “You never believed in this. Just go away.”
“Anne… I’m sorry,” James whispers. Like the ghosts, she remains silent. Slowly, James turns away from her. He leaves the kitchen, walking towards the bedroom. He steps into the dark room and closes the door.
His blurry gaze fixes on the window and the wet fire escape on the other side. Slowly, he makes his way to the window. He pulls it open and slowly climbs out onto the iron balcony. He stares down over the railing at the unforgiving pavement three stories below. With a shaking sigh, he sits down on the wet iron ladder.
A sob rattles his shoulders.
James gasps as he presses his hands against his face. Tears spill from his eyes. His body shakes with another sob. Rain soaks down his collar.
Why didn’t you call…. You couldn’t have known…. You should have known… James Ross, you stupid, stupid boy… I feel so tiny...
Movement at the window makes James jump. He lowers his hands. Fitzjames sits down on the sill, his long legs folding up against his chest.
“It's cold,” Fitzjames says quietly.
“I don’t mind the cold...” James answers, wiping at his stinging eyes with his sleeve.
“That’s right,” Fitzjames smiles. “Francis told me about your trip to Antarctica. It sounds so fantastic. I’d love to go there someday…” He rests his chin on his knees. “All that ice and snow… It must be beautiful.” James keeps wiping at his eyes. His tears won’t stop coming. They soak into his sleeves. “When I was a kid I had a book about Antarctica and the explorers who went there… And I still think a lot about Captain Scott… Left alone out there. And I think about the man who walked out of the tent. He told Scott that he was going to be outside for some time... but he never came back. I wonder where he thought he was going…” Fitzjames looks out at the dark, rainy street. Orange and pink neon light from a shop’s sign across the street illuminates his face. “Maybe he knew exactly where he was going.” James’ shoulders tremble as he fights back another sob.
Stop crying…
“I think it was a kindness to tell him he’d only be gone a little while… He made it sound like he would come back,” Fitzjames says. Drops of rain fall from the wet window frame. “Francis texted me before his class. He asked me… He asked me how I was and told me that he would text me again in a little while.” His voice wobbles. “You know what I did?” Fitzjames turns his dark gaze to James. “I didn’t text him back,” Fitzjames says. A tear slips down his face. “I saw the text but I was too ‘busy’ working on my book… I thought he wouldn't see my text for a few hours anyway. I just… Ignored him.” More tears fall down Fitzjames’ pale cheeks. “I didn’t think to respond to him till hours later…” James wipes his eyes again. “Can… Can I ask you something, James?” Fitzjames’ dark eyes search James’ tear covered face. Slowly, James nods. “Do you love Francis?” Fitzjames asks. James stares at him. He shivers.
Slowly, he lowers his blurry, wet gaze to his damp socks.
Sock covered feet rubbing against each other in a small bed in a small research base…
James rubs at his eyes.
A rough thumb rubbing against his pink cheek.
James parts his lips.
Lips against lips…
“We were never anything...” James finally says. Fitzjames blinks, confused.
“But the way Francis talks about you… I thought you were exes or something…” Fitzjames stammers. James shakes his head. “B-But do you love him?”
James takes a deep, shaking breath. “I understand him. And he understands me… At least, I like to think so,” James whispers. “Anne must be furious with me…” He says, letting out a heavy sigh. “I feel awful... I didn't want to break it. It just… It scared me.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten so angry… But it scared me too,” Fitzjames says quietly. “You should still apologize.”
James raises his head. He meets Fitzjames’s sad gaze. The street lights buzz. Drops of rain fall from the metal grate like tears and pool in puddles on the old, cobblestone street below. “I’m sorry, James.”
Chapter 4: Cardamom
Chapter Text
“How did you meet Francis?”
I met him through James of course! He helps me with my class papers. I think I’d like to be a professor like him… Maybe one day.
“How did you meet Francis?”
It was at a party for a mutual friend. I could tell he didn’t really like me at first; too pompous or something. But we had a few drinks and one thing led to another… I am so happy I met him. I love him.
“How did you meet Francis?”
Oh… Well… We… I think maybe we met the summer after we graduated high school… Oh, no. It was the second year of my studies… No. It's so hard to remember it feels like Francis has just always been in my life.
“What makes you think of him?”
Oh! The first frosty morning of the year I always think I should text him.
“What makes you think of him?”
The smell of freshly clean bedsheets…
“What makes you think of him?”
I get hungry almost always around 12:30. I think I should bring him lunch too…
“Are you scared for him?”
Of course. I can’t stop thinking about him.
“Are you scared for him?”
Yes. God, yes. I keep dreading the worst.
“Are you scared for him?”
I feel scared, yes. Terrified.
“Where does it hurt?”
My head. It aches every day.
“Where does it hurt?”
My heart feels heavy.
“Where does it hurt?”
I think I’m drowning.
***
The bedroom is cold. Soft stuffed animals gather at the end of the bed, their beady black eyes reflecting the orange light seeping through the wet window. The sound of water tapping on the window fills the room. Occasionally, a car passes by down below, driving through the puddles that gather on the old cobblestones.
James listens to the rain tapping on the glass and the whoosh of the cars passing by. He listens to Neptune snoring in the living room and the creaking of the emerald couch as Fitzjames shifts restlessly, trying to get comfortable so sleep might finally find him. He listens to Anne’s heartbeat. He lays his head against her chest. In this light, his curls look blood red as they ooze over her collarbone. His eyes are crusty with dried tears. Her fingers occasionally drift over his shoulders. She stares up at the ceiling.
“You’ll buy me a new recorder.” It hadn’t been a question. James nodded. “A nice one. One that’s much fancier.” He nodded again. “And you’ll never do that again... Even if I am scared again.”
“I won’t… I won’t, I promise. I am so sorry. I love you.”
“I forgive you…” Her fingers threaded through his hair as she pulled him close. “That voice… It sounded like something from hell... That was not Francis..." Anne’s lips pressed against his temple. “You should have told us you talked to Edward… and what he said. I wouldn’t have asked you to do that… If I knew.”
“I’m sorry…”
“I forgive you.”
“I’m sorry…”
James listens to the rain tapping on the window. A car whooshes past. The floorboards creak.
***
“James, you should eat. I haven’t seen you eat a whole meal these past few days… You are no help to Francis if you are fainting.”
“I know…”
“Let me make you breakfast.”
“I can take care of-”
“No. I insist.”
James’ eyes slowly open. He rolls onto his side, stretching his arm towards Anne’s side of the bed but finds it empty. His gaze flickers to the half-open door.
“Thank you, Anne…” Pans and pots clang. The gas burner ignites. An egg cracks against the pan and spills into the pan. It sizzles in the hot butter. The salty-sweet smell slowly drifts through the open bedroom door, finding James curled up on the messy bed. A teaspoon clinks against a mug. Neptune’s claws click against the wood floor as he trots over to Fitzjames.
“Did James apologize to you?” Fitzjames asks, his voice low. Anne must have nodded, too concentrated on not breaking the golden egg yolk to turn away, for Fitzjames says “That’s good. I know he loves you, truly.”
“I’ve never seen him cry like that before.”
“Oh.”
“Do you want more coffee?”
“T-Thank you.” Coffee splashes into the half-empty mug.
“Have you heard from Francis at all? Maybe he called you..”
“No. Nothing.”
***
The sound of buzzing rouses James from his restless slumber. He slowly opens his eyes. He stares at his vibrating phone on the bedside table. Beside it is a cold cup of coffee.
Slowly, James sits up. He reaches for the phone.
Incoming call: John Ross.
James declines the call. Laying back on his pillow, he opens his podcast’s Instagram. The last post was from Tuesday.
New episode drops this Saturday! Bags of limbs have been found all around the city. Is this the work of a serial killer?! A cannibal?! I can’t wait! In the meantime, I’ve been enjoying my Goldner’s meal kits and you can too if you use the code ‘JCR’ for fifteen per cent off-
James closes the app and sets his phone back down on his bedside table. He feels sick.
***
“Are you going to stay in bed all day?”
“I don’t feel good.”
“You spent too much time in the rain yesterday. Where is your umbrella?”
“In my bag…”
“James…” Anne presses a kiss to James’ warm forehead. She lays on top of him and the heavy duvet that surrounds him. He thinks he might slowly suffocate like this; the thought makes him smile.
Her soft fingers caress his cheek. Slowly, she leans down to press her lips against his. She tastes like honey. James’ arms slide out from under the blankets and gently wrap around her waist, pulling her closer. A soft whine builds in his throat. His skin feels aflame under the blankets. She parts from his lips and begins to trail kisses down his jaw. She finds the soft skin just under his ear. Her breath is hot and wet against his skin. Strands of her soft chocolate coloured hair trail over his throat. Her gentle kisses are rewarded with another whimper.
As her kisses trail lower down his neck and her fingers find his hot skin under the blankets, James’ eyes flicker to the door. Fitzjames’s tall shadow slowly moves away from the partially open door.
***
“It's cold today…”
“It is.” James lifts his umbrella so he can look up at the dreary grey clouds. A quiet sigh oozes from his aching chest. He lowers his gaze back down to the wet cobblestones. “Neptune doesn’t seem cold at all,” he says with a smile as he watches the large dog trot after Fitzjames.
They walk down the quiet street, James’ umbrella shared between them. The world around them is grey; the sky is grey, the row houses appear grey, the road is grey, the puddles are grey. James pulls the collar of his coat closer.
He had let Anne pull him out of bed. She tossed him his coat and ordered him to accompany Fitzjames to pick up their dinner. Pulling his nice coat over his sweatshirt and pants, James felt painfully groggy. Each one of his joints ached, even his fingers.
“You’ll be alright on your own?” James asked as he tugged on his boots.
“I’ll be fine,” Anne said. “Go stretch your legs.”
Rain patters on the umbrella. Their boots thud softly against the wet cobblestones. Neptune brushes against James, his wet fur dampening his pant leg. They walk a few more blocks in silence. Finally, they come to a stop out front of a small Indian restaurant. The mouth-watering scents of spices fill the cold air. The neon open sign oozes red light. It spills onto the cobblestone and slowly covers James as he steps in front of it.
“I’ll wait out here with Neptune,” James says. Fitzjames nods and disappears inside. James looks down at the big, fluffy dog with a smile. Francis had gotten him as a puppy; his present to himself for completing his PhD. James thinks he got the dog because of the long, lonely, silent hours spent writing. James reaches down, scratching the dog behind his ears.
His phone begins to ring.
James grumbles as he straightens up and pulls his phone from his pocket.
Incoming call: John Ross
James sighs.
“Hello?” he answers quietly, pressing his phone against his cold ear.
“The hell is wrong with you?” John Ross snaps.
“I’m doing fine, how are you?” James mutters venomously.
“You embarrassed me yesterday, James. How could you just walk out? What were you thinking?” John demands. James stares down at Neptune. The black dog rubs his wet head against James' knee. “James! Are you listening to me? Do you not care anymore about your degree? You’ve been lost in your own world lately! And Mr Coulman told me you and Anne are calling off the wedding! What is going on?”
“Francis is missing.”
“Oh…” James can hear John’s wince. He must be regretting every word already.
Well, maybe not every word… James sighs. Rain taps on his umbrella. The red neon light behind him buzzes.
“He went missing Tuesday night. And someone broke into his house on Wednesday.” James hates how his voice wobbles. “Uncle… I think something bad happened to him.”
“Are the police involved?” John asks.
“Y-Yes.” James’ voice breaks. An ugly sob shudders through him. “They aren’t doing anything… Just fucking standing around!”
“James…”
“They aren’t going to find him.” James can barely breathe as he struggles to hold back his sobs. Tears spill down his cheeks. “H-He’s just gone!”
“James.” John’s voice is stern. “Breathe. Can you do that?” James nods even though his uncle cannot see him. His umbrella trembles in his hand. “Do you know what happened?”
“I think… There is this kid in Francis’ class. Something isn’t right with him..."
“And the police aren’t looking into him?”
“I guess there isn’t enough evidence…” James says quietly.
“You could find it yourself,” John says. James blinks. “I know you’ve already been trying to. Is that why you left the meeting?”
"W-What makes you say that?"
“I know you, James. If you were just sitting by I would have thought someone replaced you with a fake,” John laughs. James stares down at the puddles forming over the cobblestones. Across the street, a man leans against the brick wall of an old bank. The end of his cigarette glows red. “What do you know, James?” John asks.
“Someone in Francis’s class… His name is Hickey. He and Francis had a conflicting relationship and… and he threatened Francis in one of his essays. His teaching assistant, Edward… he says some of Hickey’s friends stuck around on Tuesday and they might have done something… And now Hickey is gone apparently; he's gone back home,” James struggles to explain. John listens quietly, humming occasionally.
“That’s it?” John asks.
That’s it?
“I-I… Well… I asked Edward if he could find Hickey’s address but he seemed reluctant to do it…” James sighs. John hums again. “That’s… That’s it.” Cold water drips from his black umbrella. The red neon light buzzes. Across the street, the young man still leans against the brick wall. “I don’t know what to do now…” James admits. The smell of spices swirls around him as the door to the restaurant opens. Fitzjames steps under James’ umbrella. He carries a large brown paper bag. Inside are several hot containers filled with curry, rice and garlic naan bread. The smell of it reminds James he’s barely eaten all day. His stomach gurgles.
“Try talking to Edward again,” John says. "He might need a little more convincing."
“Maybe I'll call him tomorrow… I’m sorry about the meeting…” James says quietly. Fitzjames looks down at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Don’t worry about it,” John says. James chews the inside of his lip.
“I have to go. Can I call you later?”
“Of course.”
“Okay… Goodbye.” James says and slowly hangs up the phone. He slides it back into his pocket. Fitzjames watches him wipe his teary eyes with his sleeve.
“Who were you talking to?” Fitzjames asks as they start walking back down the quiet street. His shoulder brushes against James’. Neptune trots ahead of them.
“My uncle.”
“Oh…” Fitzjames sighs quietly. “You haven’t heard from Francis?” James shakes his head. His shoulder brushes against Fitzjames.
***
Hot water streams from the showerhead and pours onto James’s bare shoulders. It kisses his skin pink. Steam swirls around him. His wet curls cling to his skull. He stares down at his trembling hands. He watches the hot water drip from his fingertips and fall to the floor of the snow-white porcelain tub.
What if he is dead? What if they beat him? Left him in some alleyway to bleed to death...
James forces himself to reach for the soap. The white foam slowly begins to cover his pale skin as he scrubs himself.
What if they tortured him? What if they told him they would hurt us? What if they stabbed him seventy times?
He sets the soap back down in its little dish on the wide rim of the tub. He turns, rinsing the soap off.
What if they dismembered him in a bathtub just like this? Cut him limb from limb… What if they ate him?
“James?” Anne’s voice startles him; he had forgotten she had been washing her face. Now she brushes her teeth. The minty, liquidy paste drips down her chin. “Are you going to be much longer?” She leans down to spit into the sink.
“No… I’m done.” James turns off the shower. Hot water drips from the showerhead, landing on the floor of the white tub with a splat.
***
Snow crunched under James’ boots. His warm breath oozed through his muffler. Snowflakes swirl around him. He took another step forward. Behind him is the rest of the scientific team, gathered around snowmobiles as they look over maps. A bright red case containing his magnetometer rested on the snow. James took another step.
The ice shuddered under him.
And then there is no ice.
James staggered and fell backwards. His hands flew out to stop his fall. Instead, he slammed hard onto the thicker, snow-covered ice. The air was knocked from his lungs. The white world spun, his head rang. His hands trembled. Pain shot through his wrists. The ice cracked and screamed.
Get up! I have to get up!
James pressed his hands against the ice, trying to push himself up. The pain in his right wrist became white-hot and he found himself collapsing back onto the snow. His hands would not stop shaking.
Voices yelled his name and boots thudded on the ice.
Hands grabbed him, dragging him back from the crevasse.
A phone begins to ring; a church bell echoing over a graveyard.
It wakes James suddenly. He blinks, rubbing his eyes. Anne curls against him. Her thin t-shirt has ridden up, revealing the soft skin of her side and stomach. James groans; he does not want to wake up. He wraps his arms tightly around her, pressing his face against the warm place where her shoulder meets her throat. The phone continues to ring. James rolls over, reaching blindly for it. The screen weakly illuminates his tired eyes. It's a number he doesn’t recognize.
Who would call me at midnight?
He answers the phone.
“H-Hello?”
“James Ross?”
“Yes, speaking... Who is this?”
“It's Edward Little. I’m sorry for calling you so late,” Edward says. His voice is quiet. James sits up. He leans against the old bed frame. Anne slowly turns to look up at him. She yawns and pulls the blankets closer. Her hair sprawls across the white pillow.
“No, it's alright,” James says. “What is it, Edward?”
“I found Cornelius Hickey’s home address.” James’ eyes widen.
“Y-You did? What about your teaching position? I don't want to get you in trouble," James stammers.
"It's for Francis, isn't it?" Edward asks. James parts his lips but no words come. “I’ll text the address to you. I just… Don’t tell anyone I gave it to you, okay?” Edward's voice drowns in worry.
“I promise. I won’t tell,” James says. “Thank you.”
“I’ve sent it…” Edward takes a deep breath. James' phone vibrates as the text message appears on the screen. "Please be careful.”
"I will."
"Will you call me when you learn more?" Edward asks, his voice wobbling.
"Of course," James nods.
"Good... Thank you..." Edward sighs. "Goodnight, James."
Chapter 5: Butter Cookies
Chapter Text
“You broke your wrist? Oh my god! James!”
“I’m lucky I’m not dead…If I had fallen in-”
“You didn’t fall in the crevasse,” Anne’s voice sounded angry as it rang through the speakers of James’ laptop. It rested on his thighs, the warmth oozing through his sweatpants. He laid in his narrow bed, his cast bound wrist resting on a pillow beside him. “You are lucky. You didn’t fall in so please my love, stop thinking about what could have happened.” James stared down at his cast. The white plaster was tight and itchy. “Have you told Francis yet about your accident?” Anne asked quietly.
“No…”
“Do you want me to tell him?”
“No… I’ll tell him later,” James said. The idea of telling Francis about his near-death made him feel nauseous.
“I’m sorry I can’t sign it,” Anne suddenly laughed. He looked up at the screen. Her face glowed. Her soft brown curls were pulled back with a pink headband. Sunlight shone through the window behind her. “Sign it for me.”
“What would you have me write on it?” James asked, a small smile pulling at his lips.
“The biggest heart! You’ll think about me whenever you see it!” Anne said, her eyes shining.
Later that night, after saying goodbye, James rummaged through his things with his good left hand and found a red sharpie. He drew the little heart on the inside of his wrist, the lines wobbly, the red ink oozing over the white plaster. It made him smile just like she said it would.
The cast was off a week before James made his journey back home. He never told Francis; he could not bear the thought of scaring him.
What would I do without you?
What would I do?
***
The wet, murky, dark world rushes past the wide train window. Rain droplets dot the thick glass. Through the fog and rain, orange street lamps still shine. The sun has not yet broken the horizon.
James stares at his distorted reflection in the window. He is merely a splash of blood-red illuminated by the lights of the train, a body made of shadow. He is so translucent, the trees barely notice when they pass through him. Occasionally an orange light flashes past and dark eyes, as infinite as the night sky, shine.
James turns his gaze away from the window and once more, he has a body made of flesh, blood and bone. Anne sits beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. She is half asleep. Across from him, Fitzjames rests his chin in his hand. His dark eyes watch the dark, slowly waking world fly by. In his other hand is his phone. It hasn’t rung in days.
“I should have had another coffee…” James says quietly. He doesn’t have to say it, he’s been yawning once every few minutes, but he hates the silence and constant clicking of the train’s wheels. Fitzjames’ dark eyes flicker to him. A small smile pulls at his lips. They stare at each other. The dark world flashes by unnoticed between them. Fitzjames’ long legs tangle with James’.
Orange light shines through the window and the train shudders; slowing down ever so slowly, hot iron grinding on hot iron. Raindrops ooze down the glass, wet and cold.
Anne stirs. Her fingers interlace with James’s. He leans his head against her’s, breathing in the sweet smell of her rosy shampoo. His tired gaze lingers on Fitzjames, memorizing the curve of a smile he has never seen before.
Beside Fitzjames is an empty seat.
The train comes to a stop inside the little station. In the train, it is as if time itself has stopped. Everything is frozen; no landscape flies by the window, no one moves for they have not yet arrived at their destination. Anne opens her eyes and looks up at James. Then, her bright eyes turn to Fitzjames. She smiles at him. Under both of their gazes, Fitzjames finds himself squirming ever so slightly in his chair. His breath gets caught in his ribcage.
The train’s engine lets out a scream and every train car shudders as the massive wheels begin to turn once more. It pulls out of the station, slowly at first then all at once, getting faster and faster till the dim world is a blur.
***
“You are there already? James, do not be stupid. You are not a cop.” A gull soars through the grey, cloudy sky. The old street is quiet. James leans against the damp brick wall. To his right is the wide window that looks into a little cafe. On the other side of the glass, Anne and Fitzjames talk but their voices are inaudible to James. All he can hear is his uncle’s voice coming from his phone.
“I know, John. I just want to see if he is here,” James says, looking up and down the quiet street. Old brick row homes line the street. The smell of its industrial history still hangs in the cold, wet air; coal and smoke, rotting wood and salty tears.
“And what will you do if he is there?” John asks. James chews the inside of his lip. He has not thought that far ahead yet. “You will call the police,” John says matter of factly.
“O-Of course,” James says quietly. “If he is hurt, he will need help.”
“I thought we were talking about Mr Hickey.”
“Oh… Right,” James sighs.
“Do not approach him, James. Someone willing to kidnap someone in public like that is not to be trusted. He's a psychopath, if you ask me,” John hisses.
“I’m not asking you,” James mutters. “We don’t know what exactly happened.”
“Don’t get smart with me, James. I’m trying to help you.” James resists the urge to hang up the phone. He bites his tongue and stares at the wet road. “What are you going to do? Stake out the house?”
“I was thinking I would just knock on the door.”
“You are really ungrateful, you know that? I’m trying to help you,” John snaps. James winces. “When was the last time you spoke to your father? He is worried about you, James.”
Tapping on the glass behind James startles him. He turns, looking down at Anne who points to his breakfast that the waitress had just placed on the table.
“I have to go,” James says.
“Fine. Just… don’t be stupid.”
“I won’t.” James hangs up before his uncle can say another word. He heads back inside, sliding his phone into his jean’s pocket. He hadn’t packed any nice clothes with him, only his jeans, his unwashed red sweater and his tweed overcoat. In his backpack was a basic change of clothes. After Edward’s call, he hadn’t been able to sleep. He booked three tickets on the first train out of the city and quickly packed an overnight bag before lying back down. He stared at the ceiling till Anne’s alarm went off. Then they pulled themselves from their beds, dressed, took Neptune to Edward's small apartment and headed to the train station with just enough time to catch their train.
James sits back down beside Fitzjames. The bitter smell of coffee swirls around him.
“Who was that?” Fitzjames asks as he spreads jam onto his toast.
“My uncle again,” James says. He reaches for his dark coffee and takes a sip, praying it would make the headache behind his eyes go away.
“You didn’t look very happy talking to him…” Fitzjames observes. He keeps his eyes on the ruby red jam. Anne glances between them as she sips from her tea. James meets her gaze. It is soft and goes right to his heart.
“No… Talking to him doesn’t usually make me happy,” James admits. Fitzjames’ brow softens. He sets his knife down. His long fingers reach for James’ wrist. Anne watches them over her teacup. “He… He calls me stupid,” James says. “Even though I graduated with honours and he didn’t… He even plagiarized me once,” James laughs. “I was so proud of that work too… Not that you would be interested,” he adds without thinking.
Fitzjames blinks. Then he begins to laugh; a beautiful, musical sound that makes James and Anne smile wider than they had in days. He grips James’ wrist tightly as he laughs. He only stops when he becomes breathless. There are tears in his eyes.
“I-I’m still not very interested,” Fitzjames says. His fingers slowly, almost reluctantly, leave James’ wrist and curl around his hot coffee mug. “But you might be able to convince me now.” He meets James’s dark gaze. Then it flickers to Anne. She smiles, a sugar-sweet pink appearing on her cheeks. “Can I convince you to read my book?” Fitzjames asks. “It's romantic.”
“Romantic?” James raises an eyebrow.
“I would love to read it,” Anne says. Fitzjames smiles at her. It turns to a questioning smirk as he turns to the red-haired man sitting beside him.
“What about you, James? Should I get you a copy?” Fitzjames asks, his tone as thick as honey. James swallows, his gaze lingering on Anne who smiles encouragingly at him.
“Yes…” James finally says. “Please.”
***
The street they find themselves on is not what James imagined it would be. Gardens that now are bare but come Spring will be overflowing with flowers, vegetables and herbs. Some houses have decor up for Halloween; carved pumpkins on front steps, mesh spiderwebs draped over bushes and skeletons hanging from trees.
The sound of children’s loud voices echoes from one of the quaint, brick townhouses.
It's the picture of childhood; pure, simple and quiet. There are no signs of cults, kidnapping or cannibalism. Then again, James thinks, what are the signs?
James stares at the numbers on the houses. Something about this little neighbourhood, identical to hundreds of others, reminds him of his own boyhood. Pure, simple, quiet. He thinks of his polished school shoes pounding down the road, the wind turning his cheeks pinks and the smell of dinner in the air. He thought that life would always be like that. Pure, simple, quiet. Everyday. It would never end.
“Is that it?” Fitzjames suddenly asks. James blinks, looking up at him with confusion. Then he realizes he is pointing at a house just across the street. Ivy creeps up the brick. White lace curtains hang in the windows. A cold, dying garden sits under the front window.
“I think so,” James says, double-checking the number with the address Edward had sent. The three of them, Anne, James and James, stand frozen on the wet pavement. Rain patters on their umbrella.
“What do we do if he is here?” Anne asks quietly.
“We get Francis out,” James says, his heart in his stomach. Fitzjames swallows nervously. “How scary can Hickey really be?”
“You are the true-crime expert…” Fitzjames says. “I try not to think about how scary people can be.”
“Here…” Anne reaches into her coat pocket and withdraws a knife; it is the same kitchen knife she had used just the other day to slice apples. James pales.
“I-I don’t think we need that.”
“What if we do? We don’t know what Hickey will do. Take it,” Anne hisses. James hesitates. Fitzjames reaches around him and takes the knife. He hides it in his coat.
“Thank you…” James says quietly. Fitzjames nods. Slowly, they begin to cross the street. They make their way up the little front path to the door. They hear what sounds like faint music, violins, cellos and flutes, playing inside. James takes a deep breath. He knocks on the door. It's a polite sound.
Footsteps begin to approach the door.
James’ heart thunders in his ears. Fitzjames’ grip tightens on the knife. Anne stares at the door with wide eyes.
The handle turns and the door opens.
“Yes?” James blinks. An older woman peers at them, her wrinkled gaze shifting hesitantly from James than up to Fitzjames than to Anne. “You aren’t reporters, are you? I thought I told you all to go to hell.”
“What? No! We’re not reporters…” James stammers. “We… We are friends with Cornelius.”
“Oh..” Her gaze softens. Thin strands of greying, orange hair fall over her pale, tired face. “He never told me… he made friends at school. He was only there for such a short time… That whole time, I thought he had been alone… Oh… Come in. Please." Tears glint in her eyes. She steps back from the door and gently ushers them inside.
The smell of lemons hangs in the air. To their right is a small, old kitchen. Two chairs sit by the kitchen table. On the fridge is a photo of a boy; he had curly ginger hair, round pink cheeks and a cosy green sweater. James stares at the photo. The boy does not look like a cult leader.
“Please, sit down,” the woman gestures to the living room and the old, floral green couch with a lacey blanket laid over the back. Slowly, the three sit down, Anne stuck between the two Jameses.
“I-I’m Anne. And this is James.” She points first to her fiance. “And this is James.” She says, gesturing to the taller man on her right side.
“Oh! What a lovely coincidence,” she says, sitting down in a matching, floral armchair. She is dressed in a simple, blue knitted sweater and cream-coloured trousers. Her greying hair is tied back into a bun at the nape of her neck.
“Are you… Are you Cornelius’s mother?” Fitzjames asks. The woman takes a deep breath. There are more tears in her glassy, green eyes.
“Yes. Oh… I’m so happy he had friends. You see, he only went to the university to see an advisor and sort out his dorm. It was only a few days… You three seem older than he was…” Mrs Hickey says, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“Leadership,” James says quickly. “Us older students volunteer to help the freshmen get oriented. That is how we met Cornelius.”
“Oh... How sweet. Was he… Was he happy?” she asks. Anne glances at James.
“Yes…” James says because he feels it is the right thing to say. Mrs Hickey smiles sadly.
“He was so excited…to go to school…” she sighs. James stares at her pale hands. “Oh... You must not know what happened… I didn’t let those god damned reporters say his name. I couldn’t bear it. My son’s name out there… forever attached to the-“ She is cut short by a shaking sob. “The horrible things they did to him.” Fitzjames’ eyes widen. He looks at James’, reeling with confusion.
Edward saw him… Edward saw him… His name is on the paper… The paper he gave to Francis…
“Horrible things…” Anne repeats. A kettle in the kitchen begins to whistle. Mrs Hickey gets up quickly.
“Would you like some tea?” she asks as she disappears into the kitchen. She does not wait for an answer.
“What is she talking about?” Fitzjames whispers. “Cornelius is in Francis’ class. He’s been talking about him all semester.”
“Maybe he's hurt?” Anne asks quietly. James stares at the empty chair where Mrs Hickey had just been sitting.
“This feels wrong,” Fitzjames says. “We should go.”
“No… No, I want to hear about what happened,” James says, finally finding his voice in the pit of his stomach.
Did Francis do something to him to escape? James thinks as he watches Mrs Hickey walk back into the living room, her pale hands clutching a silver serving tray. She sits it down on the coffee table and begins to pour the tea into old, floral porcelain teacups. It is a red, hibiscus tea. Did Francis kill him? James takes the teacup offered to him. He stares down at the deep red tea, watching it ripple in his cup.
“Gosh… It was two years ago now…” Mrs Hickey sighs. James looks up. A strange concoction of relief and confusion shimmers across his face. “It happened on a Friday night… Just a few days before he was to head back to campus and start school. Cornelius told me he was going out with a friend. He was nineteen, I wasn’t going to stop him… I worried about him though. He never raally had a lot of friends growing up, he was a quiet boy. He liked to read…” She sniffles and reaches for her teacup. She takes a sip. Anne glances at James out of the corner of her eye. “I still have all his books. I can’t touch his room. Some days, I can't even open the door.” She rubs her dry lips together and looks around the living room. James wonders how much of it, if any, had changed since her son walked out the front door. “They found him in the morning… In the canal. Not all of him was there…” Tears slip down the poor mother’s cheeks.
“Not all of him?” Fitzjames frowns.
“Someone dismembered him…” James whispers.
“They cut my son into pieces! They put him in a garbage bag and threw it in the canal!” Mrs Hickey cries. Anne reaches over the table for her hand, her eyes glinting with tears.
“A-A garbage bag?” James repeats.
Among the lily pads, algae and cattails, there was a black industrial garbage bag… Not something poor biology student Harry Goodsir expected to be in the pond.
“Yes…” Mrs Hickey nods. James looks away from her. His mouth hangs open as he struggles to breathe, his stomach flipping and rolling with panic.
“I’m so sorry,” Fitzjames says quietly. Mrs Hickey sniffles again.
“I apologize for being so cold with you when you first arrived. The only people who knock on my door these days are reporters and those amateurs with awful podcasts, just wanting to use my son’s death to shock people. He was a good boy. He did nothing wrong,” Mrs Hickey says, her voice wobbling. James lowers his gaze to his shoes. “That friend he went out with… The police never even looked into him. I-I… I can’t even remember his name. It began with an E… I think. E..C… Something.”
“Is he still around?” Anne asks. Mrs Hickey shook her head.
“He left not long after Cornelius’ death… I don’t know where he went…” Mrs Hickey sighs. She sniffles again and the sad look on her face hardens. “They tried to tell me that someone tried to eat my son, that’s why they cut him up. To eat him!” She rolls her eyes angrily. “How dare they tell me that? Why did they think I wanted to know that?”
To make matters worse, chunks of flesh were missing from the limbs. The meatiest bits and pieces-
“I’m so sorry…” Fitzjames says again. Mrs Hickey takes another sip of her tea.
“I’m sorry… You probably weren’t expecting to hear all that… I’m sorry. Here… I have some cookies, let me get you some.” She stands again and returns once more to the kitchen. James stares down at the red tea in his cup. He becomes aware of Anne’s knowing gaze on him. Fitzjames rubs his eyes.
“Christ…” Fitzjames breathes. “Fucking Christ…” He lowers his hands as Mrs Hickey returns. She holds out a plate of butter cookies to them. James takes one but he can’t bring himself to put it in his mouth. The white icing sugar sticks to his fingers.
“I keep thinking about that night… watching him leave. I wish I had told him no. I know he would have listened to me. We would have had dinner together like we always did and watched a movie with some popcorn… Like we always did on Friday nights,” Mrs Hickey says. She takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes with her sleeve. She has the same curly hair and round nose as the boy in the photo hanging on the fridge. “Sometimes I can’t sleep because I’m thinking about all the things I didn’t tell Cornelius. I didn’t tell him why his dad left. I didn’t tell him about how low on money I was, the two jobs I worked so I could give him whatever he wanted, to send him to university. I didn’t tell him those things because I loved him; there are some things you don't tell people because you love them. And maybe he knew but he never said anything… He was a smart boy.” James stares at the white icing sugar on his fingers. He thinks of warm fingers against his sore wrist on a cold, November morning. It had hurt; a reminder of the recent break. He had winced. And then Francis’ fingers were there, curling around his weak wrist, his gentle blue eyes meeting James’. “And I think if I had told him all things, maybe he wouldn't have gone out, maybe he wouldn't have hung out with bad people, he wouldn't have... I must sound crazy… What an awful mother I am,” Mrs Hickey sighs.
“No... We understand,” Anne says quietly. Fitzjames nods, his dark eyes on his hands resting in his lap. Silence falls over the small, living room that has been abandoned by time. No one can look each other in the eyes so they stare at something else; their shoes, snow-white icing, their dry hands, the old floorboards. The moment of silence stretches on and on. For a moment, James begins to think that everything has been silent his whole life; his memories are silent, his dreams are silent, Francis is silent.
“Could we… Could we see Cornelius’s room?” Anne asks and the moment of silence is over.
“Oh… Of course,” Mrs Hickey says. She gets up and starts towards the narrow staircase. James, Anne and James, follow her up the stairs, the wood creaking under their feet. On the cream coloured wall are framed photos of a life that ended too soon; Christmas mornings, school photos, graduation, days at the beach. In one of them, Cornelius stands in front of the house. It is Halloween; the lawn has been decorated with skeletons and Jack-O-Lanterns. He wears a white sheet over his head with little holes cut out so he can see. The little ghost waves at his mother.
Mrs Hickey reaches the top of the stairs and places her hand on the door handle of the first door. She takes a deep breath and opens it. Dust shimmers in the grey light. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me…” Mrs Hickey says. She hurries back down the stairs as if running from the dusty room. James slowly steps inside. The narrow bed is tucked into the corner beside the window. It has a blue plaid comforter and matching pillows. A teddy bear with a green bowtie sits against the pillow. Its smoothed down fur suggests it had a well-loved life. On the desk is a book left open, as if Cornelius had just walked away from it; This Side of Paradise. Beside the desk is a tall bookcase, filled and overflowing with all kinds of books. There aren’t any posters on the wall, just faded green wallpaper. The closet door is closed. An old green coat hangs on the handle.
“It would be wrong to go through his things…” Anne whispers. “Besides… I don’t think we’d find anything…”
“How...How is it possible? Did we go to the wrong Cornelius Hickey?” Fitzjames asks. James watches him slowly cross to the window and look out onto the quiet back alleyway. The sound of rain pattering on the roof echoes through the small roof.
“No… I think we came to the right one,” James whispers.
“Are you suggesting that the one Francis knows is a fake?” Fitzjames asks. James nods.
“Maybe that E.C kid stole his identity…” James says. "A free ride to university..."
“James… What were you telling me about the case you are covering this week?” Anne breathes. Fitzjames frowns.
“What case?” Fitzjames stammers. James parts his lips but finds himself unable to speak. “James.” Fitzjames closes the small distance between them. “James. What case?”
“Bodies… Bodies have been found just the way that Mrs Hickey described… Cut up… eaten… in a garbage bag. Thrown into water… The only thing missing is the symbols someone carved into them…” James explains. He feels nauseous. Fitzjames stares at him in horror. Slowly, he turns away from James. The words hang over them but no one says them.
The stairs creak and a moment later, Mrs Hickey appears once more in the doorway. “Is everything okay?” she asks.
“We… We are okay…” Anne manages to say.
“You know… Cornelius is buried in the cemetery not far away from here. I can tell you where if you want to visit him,” Mrs Hickey says.
“Oh... James dear, you should eat your cookie. You’ve gotten icing sugar all over your nice coat.”
***
Wet leaves squelch under James’ boots. Skeletal trees rise from the wet, muddy earth. Their fallen leaves glow in the grey light; bright oranges, reds and browns cover the earth and surround the hundreds of gravestones. They stand in neat, pretty rows. The newer ones are made of marble and shine under the wet raindrops that drip down them. The older ones are stone, the names slowly being smoothed away with each rainstorm.
Slowly, James, Anne and James make their way past the headstones. They stare at the names and dates. Rain patters on their black umbrellas. Clutched in Anne’s arms is a bouquet of lilies. Their soft white petals glow; their soft fragrance floating around them.
Fitzjames stops. He stares down at the little marker set into the earth. It does not stand up, does not call for attention. James stares down at the grave marker.
Cornelius Hickey; An Angel Flown Back Up to God.
Fitzjames’ bottom lip wobbles as he stares down at the little grave. Slowly, Anne crouches down and sets the lilies on the boy’s marker. James’ eyes sting with tears. A rock forms in his throat and he wonders if it might strangle him. A crow calls from somewhere among the skeletal trees. Rain drips from their umbrellas.
“I think he’s dead…” Fitzjames says.
***
“I almost wish there was a ghost here… It is so quiet.” Anne’s voice is barely a whisper. Her head rests on James’ chest. She listens to his steady heartbeat. Her eyes watch the darkness that fills the small hotel room. It is not yet 8 pm but neither of them wants to do more than lie in the dark. James stares up at the dark ceiling. Slowly, he turns his head to look at Fitzjames who lays in the second bed. He has fallen asleep facing them as if fearing that if he turned away, they too would disappear. “I wonder if Cornelius haunts his mother’s house…” Anne says softly. James can feel her warm breath ooze through his shirt, feel her lips move against his collarbone. He runs his fingers through her long hair. “The whole house felt sad…” Anne breaths. “Maybe he’s still sitting at his desk, reading his book. Maybe it happened so fast, he didn’t even know it happened… I hope that is true… And if Francis…” Her voice wobbles. “I hope it was fast… I hope he is still sitting at his desk, waiting for us to come see him… I hope that is where he is right now… H-He thinks it's another busy day and soon it will be lunch and we’ll bring him something to eat…” James can only nod. Anne closes her eyes. James continues to stare up at the ceiling.
Slowly, he closes his eyes.
The darkness is the same as his first night back from Antarctica. How warm he had felt, back in his bed. Anne had laid her head on his chest just the same way, her bare skin pressed against his. When James opened his eyes, he saw Francis lying beside him, his fingers entwined with James’.
That night was so perfect; he had no idea it was the last time Francis would spend the night in their bed.
James opens his eyes and stares at the hotel room ceiling. The memory is silent but he can still see Francis’ bright smile, the pink glow of his cheeks, feel his hands on his skin. It had been a warm summer day and the sun did not set till nearly 10 pm. They had dinner at James’ favourite restaurant and had tiramisu for dessert. How good it felt to be home.
Somewhere in the dark, a phone begins to ring. Its vibration sounds like a distant horde of wasps. Fitzjames, half asleep, sits up and reaches for his phone on the bedside table. The blue light illuminates his pale face and red eyes. He frowns at the screen before answering.
“Hello? Yes, speaking…” Fitzjames manages to say. “I’m sorry… What?” He turns sharply to look at James. “H-Hold on…” He lowers the phone and presses the speaker button. “Can you say that again?”
“Oh… Um…” Officer Gore’s voice comes from the phone. Anne sits up. James stares at the phone, dreading the words about to come through it. “There’s been something found at the university… Would it be possible for you and Mr Ross to come by?”
“W-We’re out of the city right now.”
“You aren’t in the city?”
“We went to see Francis’s sisters,” Fitzjames says. “We thought he might be with them…But he isn’t.”
“Would you be able to catch the last train?” Officer Gore asks urgently. Fitzjames glances at James who nods.
“Yes… Yes, we can catch it.” Fitzjames takes a deep shuddering breath. “Can I ask what was found?” Officer Gore hesitates. They can hear his trembling breath. James grips Anne’s hand tightly. A tear slips down Fitzjames’ cheek.
“Remains… Human remains.”
Chapter 6: Red Wine
Notes:
I apologize for the wait <3
You can find me twitter @ghosst_kid <3
Chapter Text
From: [email protected] (SENDER BLOCKED)
Subject: stop ignoring me
we know you’ve seen our messages. you can’t run from us. you’ll spread our message. if you don’t, we’ll find you.
The train wheels click. The car gently sways. Orange lights flash in the darkness. The lights inside the train car have dimmed so the late-night travellers might get some sleep.
James stares out the window, watching the city begin to emerge from the cold, wet earth. Orange lights, quiet suburbs, the occasional bridge. On the other side of the glass, the dark night sky is infinite. There is no moon, no stars; only blackness. Staring up at it, James imagines it swallowing him whole. He is drowning in it.
“James…” Fitzjames whispers. James blinks. He turns away from the window and looks down at his white-knuckled hand gripping the armrest that separates him from Fitzjames. Across from them, Anne lays across two seats. She uses James’ and Fitzjames’ coats as blankets. Slowly, he lets go of the armrest. “You should try to sleep.”
“We’ll be arriving soon,” James sighs. “No point.” Fitzjames frowns. The train car sways gently. The wheels click against the tracks.
“Will you not even close your eyes for a few minutes?” Fitzjames asks softly. James slowly raises his gaze to him. “It is okay to sleep now…A few moments won’t change whatever is waiting for us…”
“I know…” James whispers. “I know it's not going to change…”
“So why don’t you sleep?”
“Because I see him every time I close my eyes…” James breathes. Fitzjames stares down at him, his eyes filled with sorrow. James takes a deep, shuddering breath. Fitzjames raises the armrest between them and tugs gently on James’ arm. He moves closer to him and slowly rests his head on Fitzjames’ shoulder.
“Close your eyes… Tell me what you see…” Fitzjames says. James takes a deep breath. Then he closes his eyes. James’ hand curls into a fist on his thigh. “What do you see?”
“I-I… I see his office. And he is sitting there… I can’t remember why I’m there…” James whispers. “It is the morning… The sun always shines in his window in the morning.” Fitzjames nods. His fingers begin to creep slowly towards James. “I don’t think I'll see him again after this…” James says, his voice wobbling. “I stopped by after my lab in the morning… I asked him if he still wanted to get dinner later…”
“And what did he say?” Fitzjames asks. His fingertips brush against the soft knit of James’ red sweater. He traces the crisscrossing threads, his pale hand slowly moving higher and higher. James shakes his head.
“I-I can’t hear his voice…” James whispers. “I’m terrified that I am going to forget it.”
“How could you forget that voice?” Fitzjames asks, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Close is nothing… Worse than nothing,” Fitzjames says, trying his best to recreate Francis’ voice. He smiles as James begins to giggle. His fingers follow the threads of his sweater a little higher, nearly reaching his throat. James presses his face against the white threads of Fitzjames’ white sweater. His fingers gently, curiously, caress against James’ pale neck.
Slowly, James opens his eyes. He lifts his head, meeting Fitzjames' dark gaze. Neither move, neither can breathe. James’ eyes flicker down to Fitzjames’ pink lips; lips that had kissed Francis, lips that had met every inch of his freckled skin. Fitzjames’s fingers dare explore a little higher, discovering the softness of James’ strawberry curls; red curls that Francis had run his fingers through, curls that left red strands sticking to Francis’ coat, his pillow.
“James…” the red-haired man whispers. He glances at his fiancee who isn’t entirely asleep. He thinks of the warm blanket and Anne's warm thighs that had laid over him. A tall shadow had stood in the doorway just over her shoulder. “Were you… listening… to us yesterday?” Fitzjames stares down at him. He parts his lips then seals them again. He glances hesitantly at Anne. James can see the flurry of questions in his eyes.
Did they catch me? Do they think I’m disgusting? Do they want me out? Does James Ross want me to take my hands off him?
The train sways. Orange light flashes through the windows. James leans into Fitzjames. As he does, he tilts his chin up. His lips graze the corner of Fitzjames mouth.
“The door was open…” Fitzjames whispers. His lips brush against James’ as he slowly turns his head down to him.
“The door is open.” James stares up at him. He barely has a moment to take a breath for Fitzjames lips are on his. It's a gasping kiss; both searching and tasting salt. Perhaps they were searching for Francis in each other, perhaps a bit of him might still be trapped on the other’s tongue, on the other’s lips, in the other’s stomach.
James finds himself falling till his back presses against the window, Fitzjames leaning over him. His long fingers thread through James’ red curls, his lips hot against James’.
The orange light flashes through the wet glass. Hot iron grinds against iron. The enormous wheels scream as they begin to slow, hot sparks shooting out into the dark. The conductor’s disembodied voice echoes through the train; they have reached the last stop.
Slowly, Fitzjames pulls away from James. He stares down at James who is still catching his breath. No words are said as Fitzjames moves off him. Slowly, they gather up their things. As he gently pulls his coat from Anne’s shoulders, James caresses Anne’s cheek. He knows she wasn’t sleeping even though she makes a show of fluttering her eyes open and stretching. She blinks and smiles up at him. His heart flutters in his chest.
“Are we here?” Anne asks. James nods. She turns her gaze to Fitzjames and smiles gently at him. They double-check that no umbrellas are left forgotten under their seats. James follows Anne off the train, the three of them stepping slowly down the narrow steps onto the platform. They navigate through the station and head towards the underground. As they walk, Anne’s hand finds James’. Her other hand reaches for Firzjames. “I keep telling myself that we aren’t going to find Francis there,” Anne says. She looks up at the old brick buildings that surround them. Most of them are dark, their inhabitants safe and sound in their beds. “To think he was in such an obvious place this whole time makes me want to cry.” Fitzjames runs his thumb gently over her knuckles. “But… If he isn’t there waiting for us… Where does that leave us? If they find nothing, the case will go cold and we will have to go on living. I almost want him to be there. Then we’ll know.” She meets James’ sad gaze. “I want to know.”
“I want to know too… Even if it is awful,” Fitzjames whispers. James nods.
“Even if it is awful…” he repeats. Anne holds their hands tighter. Silence falls over them like the rain as they walk. The neon sign over the entrance of the underground glows.
A man stands by the stairs. His shaggy blonde hair falls over his face. His red hoodie under his grey coat glows in the neon light. The colour makes James think of boiled lobsters. They descend the wet stairs.
The platform is nearly empty at this late hour. Anne stands close to James, her eyes on the dark, abyssal tunnel. James can feel Fitzjames’ chest brush against his arm.
Rainwater drips from James’ umbrella and begins to create a small puddle by his shoe. His dark gaze sweeps the platform. At the far end, another young man stares down at the tracks. His dark, curly hair escapes from his hood. His heel taps in time to the music he is listening to. He raises his gaze to James who quickly looks away. He curls his hands into fists.
Warm light begins to glow on the train tracks. Wind rushes into the station. Footsteps descend the stairs, getting louder and louder. The train screams into the station, coming to a halt in a swirl of humid wind. The doors slid open. Only a handful of people get off. James leads the way onto the train. They stand by the doors; they do not have far to go. James grips the pole in the centre, his left arm snaking around Anne’s waist. Fitzjames stands behind him, his hand gripping the red pole just above James’. Cold, white light illuminates the train. The doors begin to close. James turns his head to the right.
A man sits facing them, his green hood pulled up over his face. He stares at his hands. The man raises his face as the train begins to leave the platform and shoot into the tunnel. In the flashing light, James thinks the man is Billy Gibson, but he lowers his head too quickly for James to get a good look.
“Should we tell Officer Gore about what we found out?” Anne asks, turning to James and Fitzjames.
“It’s all purely circumstantial…” James says quietly. The train shudders. It whirls around a corner and rushes into another station. “None of it will help Francis.”
“Wouldn’t the essay be proof?” Fitzjames asks. “We should give it to him.”
“I agree…” James nods. The doors open. The man in the green hoodie reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out his phone. James watches him out of the corner of his eye. The doors slide closed once more. James’ heart thuds in his chest. He forces himself to look up at the map above the doors. One more stop.
He holds his breath as the train roars through the tunnel. He can feel Fitzjames’ warm breath against his neck. He can feel Anne lean into him. He closes his eyes and prays for the train to go faster.
Finally, the doors open and they step out. Their pace quickens as they reach the stairs, hurrying up them as fast as they can. James takes a deep breath when they finally get outside. He opens his umbrella; it is raining harder now. By the entrance, a tall young man, barely more than a boy, watches them go by. He sticks his hands inside the pockets of his big, puffy blue coat.
James holds onto Anne’s hand tightly, practically pulling her along with him. They walk quickly down the quiet street. They can see the university campus up ahead. A car goes past, its wheels splashing through the puddles on the street.
James cannot help the sigh of relief that escapes him when they finally reach the campus. The old brick buildings stand mostly in darkness. Orange street lamps glow, lining the narrow streets and paths. They turn the corner. James stops. Out front of the science building he knows so well, are several police cars. Their lights flash, illuminating the historic building in a nauseating purple glow. Without a word, they hurry across the street.
“I would have sent a car for you, I apologize!” Officer Gore calls out to them as they approach. He lifts the yellow tape for them.
“Did you find Francis?” Fitzjames blurts out.
“Well… We aren’t sure,” Officer Gore says. “Please, come inside.” He turns, leading the way up the stone steps. The heavy door is held open. James pauses, closing his umbrella. Something glowing across the street catches his eye. He looks up. A dark figure in a long coat stands on the cobblestone. His cigarette glows. Anne curls her hand around James’ arm and pulls him inside.
The faint smell of cleaning chemicals hangs in the still air. Every door to every science lab stands open. James follows the detective. Each step becomes increasingly familiar to him. In his gut, he knows where they are going. They climb the old stairs. Every door stands open; marines at attention.
One door remains closed.
James nearly trips over his feet; it’s his lab. His mind races. The last time he was there, he had cleaned the small room, put away his equipment and tidied up his notes before walking across campus to Francis' office, intending to ask him about dinner that dinner.
“James, what took you so long?” John Ross says as they approach them.
“We took the train…” James says but he doesn’t look at his uncle. He stares at the closed door. A police officer stands in front of it, guarding whatever lay beyond it. James knows what is behind it; white tables, white chairs, his whiteboard he had filled with equations and maps, his equipment, his photo of Francis on his desk. Yet there is something else now; something not meant to be there.
“What is it?” Fitzjames asks quietly. “What did they find?”
“What did I find,” John Ross corrects him. Fitzjames stares at him, his eyes widening. “It’s not a body.”
“Then what is it?” Fitzjames demands, his voice rising.
“A human leg,” Officer Gore says. “It is wearing what we believe to be one of the shoes stolen from your home, Mr Fitzjames. We were hoping you would be able to positively identify it.” Fitzjames pales.
“A leg…” Anne repeats. She grips James’ hand tightly.
Rot and decay… The stale, metallic smell of blood. The officers who opened the bag were greeted with a sight that they will not easily forget. A bizarre menagerie of limbs, fingers and a male torso filled the bag.
“We also understand that this is your laboratory, Mr Ross. I wanted to ask you a few questions,” Officer Gore says. James nods. He holds onto Anne’s hand. She anchors him to the floor while the rest of the building does pirouettes around him.
“He has been away all day. He had nothing to do with this,” John Ross says sharply.
“I understand,” the detective nods.
“Do you?” John Ross hisses. The pirouettes are getting faster and faster. James clings to Anne’s hand. He doesn’t hear Officer Gore’s response.
“Which leg is it?” Fitzjames suddenly asks. Officer Gore blinks.
“Which leg?”
“Left or right?”
“Left, I believe.”
“Can I…” Fitzjames takes a deep breath. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “Can I see it, please?”
“James…” Anne breathes. She shakes her head. “Y-You don’t have to.”
“I want to see it,” Fitzjames says firmly. Anne sighs. She slowly turns to the detective.
“Are you sure, James?” Fitzjames blinks as he looks down at James. He nods.
“Alright…” Officer Gore relents. “Just do not touch anything.” Fitzjames nods. James watches him follow the detective to the door. They step inside the lab and the heavy door closes with a soft click.
“Christ…” John Ross mutters. James winces. The pirouettes will not step. His head spins. His breath catches in his lungs. “Is there something you aren’t telling us, James? Why would there be a goddamned leg in your lab?” John Ross snaps. All James can do is shake his head. “What does this freak have against you? Why would he do this?”
“We don’t know,” Anne says. The white lights overhead buzz. Rain patters on the window at the end of the hall. The stinging smell of chemicals hangs in the air.
“This is obviously not random!” John Ross says. “Why James? Why target him like this?”
I love JCR’s calm voice and his way of telling the story. No bias. No bullshit. Just how it happened. It’s honest.
The voice of the young man sitting in Francis’ lecture hall runs through James’ mind and hits him hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. A gasp forces itself from his lungs. His legs tremble.
For a moment, he thinks he is standing in front of that crevasse again. Large snowflakes the size of cherries swirl around him. They land on his red curls and slowly begin to melt. The abyssal crevasse opens in front of him. His breath escapes his dry, parted lips in humid little clouds. The echoing of shattering ice sounds like a voice but its words are lost to James. He feels himself stumbling backwards. Any second now he will hit the snow and his bone will break and the air will be shot from his lungs. Maybe it was all a bad dream…
Yet, he does not hit the snow. Instead, he falls back and hits his head on the creamy white wall, the smell of cleaning chemicals and brass stinging his nose.
“James!” Anne grabs onto his arm but she can’t stop him from sliding down the wall till he finally sits down on the floor, the old floorboards wet from the rain tracked in by police boots. He stares around the bright hall, the familiar doors and the familiar flickering lights. “James…” Anne stammers as she kneels beside him. “What is it?”
All James can do is weakly shake his head.
“James.” His uncle says firmly as he kneels beside his nephew. “Come on, speak up.” James presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. He sees flashes of white as he rubs his eyes harder.
“Could you go get him some water?” Anne asks John. He blinks, surprised by her firm tone. “Please?” John glances at James for a moment before he slowly stands.
“If you know something you should tell the Officer, James,” John says before turning on his heel. James listens to his retreating footsteps.
“You didn’t have to do that…” James mutters. Anne sits beside him, her back against the white wall. She reaches for James’s hands, pulling them gently away from his eyes.
“Yes I did,” Anne smiles. “You wouldn’t tell me the truth if he was still here.” James blinks. Her grip on his hands tightens. “What is it, James?”
“He… Hickey… I think he has been sending me messages…” James finally says. Anne’s eyes widen. All those dings and buzzes, the confused expression that would paint her husband’s face, his dark gaze becoming distant. “He wants my voice.”
“What?”
“He wants me to say something for him on my show, to broadcast some message from whatever kind of cult he’s leading...” James explains. A spluttering, ugly sob suddenly bursts from his chest before he can stop it.
“Shh… My love…” She lets go of his hand and reaches her hand to his pale cheek, gently wiping away his tears.
“H-He could hurt you and James over my stupid show,” James blubbers, leaning into her hand. Anne shakes her head. She pulls him close enough to place a kiss on his forehead.
“He won’t,” Anne whispers. James raises his gaze to meet her’s.
“H-How do you know?”
“He’s a coward,” Anne breaths. “A big fucking coward.” She smiles at the taken aback look on James’ face. “He steals a boy’s name to get into university, he can’t win an argument unless he’s got a crowd of yes-men around him, he’s sending you emails because he can’t get a message out like you can. He’s a coward.”
“But… if he is who we suspect he is… He’s killed so many people,” James stammers.
”Then he is soulless as well as a coward,” Anne says firmly. “And if he thinks he can get away with hurting Francis too then he’s a fool too. I’m not scared of him.”
“Anne…” James sighs.
“I’m not. And you shouldn’t be either,” Anne says. “Do you hear me, James? You shouldn’t be scared either. He’s not a ghost, not a creature, just a man. That’s all he is. Please, don't be scared...” She cups his face in her warm hands and pulls him into a kiss. Its soft and sweet. James melts like snow under her warm touch. Her gentle fingers caress his skin, slowly finding their way into his red curls.
“I love you,” James whispers against her lips as he parts from the kiss.
“I love you,” Anne breathes.
The door to the lab opens. Fitzjames slowly steps into the hallway. He fidgets with his sleeve. His eyes are filled with tears. James and Anne quickly stand up.
“W-What did you see?” James asks. Fitzjames sniffles. His face is pale and James wonders if he might be sick.
“It was a left leg… on the table… It’s bloody… And it is wearing my shoe,” Fitzjames manages to say. Anne reaches for his hand, holding it tightly. James places his hand gently on Fitzjames’ shoulder. He shudders. James frowns. Fitzjames is laughing. “But it isn’t Francis’s left leg…” Fitzjames says, a trembling smile spreading on his face. “Francis has a freckle… on the inside of his knee… There is no freckle on this leg.”
***
James’ head nods forward, his heavy eyelids drooping. Orange city light flickers through the back window of the police car. The engine hums. Rain patters on the windows. The windshield wipers dance right to left, right to left, right to left, right to left.
“Please send me those emails, Mr Ross,” Officer Gore had finally said when James completed his accounting of events. He sat on a bench in the foyer of the science building, the water bottle his uncle had given him clutched tightly in his hands. The detective stood in front of him, the gold buttons of his uniform glinting in the white light. “You shouldn’t have pursued this on your own.”
“I-I…” James shakes his head. He can’t think of anything to say.
“However, These emails are a good place to start searching for a suspect and we will find whoever sent them,” Officer Gore reassured him. “We’ll have Mr Little give us a physical description of this student. Mr Crozier could very well still be alive and well. Hope on, Mr Ross.” James held back a sob. He forced himself to nod. “I can have your home protected tonight, but I recommend you find somewhere else to stay for the time being in case the suspect follows through with his threat. Perhaps your uncle could help?”
“Perhaps…” James muttered. The detective sighed.
“I’m sorry I can’t do anything more for you,” Officer Gore said. James shrugged.
“What more could you do?” James pulled a loose red thread on his sleeve.
“You should get some rest, Mr Ross,” Officer Gore said gently. James raised his head then and looked to the doors. On the other side of the window, Anne and Fitzjames waited for him. “I’ll have an officer escort you home.”
Now James fights off sleep and her gentle embrace, sandwiched between Anne and Fitzjames in the back of an officer’s car. He knows it is only a short way home but it feels infinite. Orange and neon light flash through the windows. James’ eyes droop shut and he cannot will them to open again until the car finally comes to a stop out front of their building.
Slowly, as if every muscle in their body aches and glass fills their joints, they get out of the car. James thanked the officer and they start up the steps, unused overnight bags hanging from their shoulders. James unlocks the door and they continue inside, up the old creaking stairs. A draft left a chill in the air. Anne shivers as James struggles to unlock the front door; the key always gets stuck. James opens the door slowly.
“Just let me check first…” James whispers. Fitzjames pulls the knife from his backpack and hands it to James. He hesitates before wrapping his fingers around it, his cold skin brushing against Fitzjames. He and Anne watch James slowly walk into the flat, turning on the lights as he goes. His gaze lingers on the messy sheets and blankets on the emerald couch, the takeout containers on the kitchen counter and the partially open door to the bedroom. He steps into his office, turning on the light. Everything is as he left it. He makes his way through the small, old flat, turning on the kitchen lights and the lamp by the couch.
James stops in front of the bedroom door. He remembers closing it. “Is someone in there?” James asks, his voice too low for Anne and Fitzjames to hear. “I’ll give you one chance to come out. If not, I’ll call the police.” James looks back over his shoulder at Anne and Fitzjames.
“What is it?” Anne calls to him. James gestures for her to stay where she is. Slowly, he pushes the bedroom door open. Rain taps on the window. The closet door stands open. Dirty clothes spill out of the laundry hamper. The black beady eyes of the stuffed animals on the bed glint in the orange street light that shines through the window. James looks around the room, the floorboards creaking under his boots. He peers into the closet, finding only clothes, a few storage boxes and summer shoes. James closes the closet door. The floorboards creak behind him.
“Francis… is that you?” James asks aloud. There is no answer. Of course, there is no answer.
James turns away from the closet. The knife in his hand glints in the light. He walks to the bed and slowly kneels, peering under the bed. There is nothing; just a lost sock, a science textbook and the bat James had bought for protection. He stands back up and walks to the bedroom door. “There is nothing!” James calls to Anne and Fitzjames. “Nothing.”
***
“Will this killer ever be caught? Will we ever find out if they actually ate their victims? Why did they cut them up and put the parts into garbage bags? Why the symbols on the flesh? One witness states it was the head of a bear he saw carved onto a torso! There are so many unanswered questions. We can only hope that the police will be quick to make an arrest. Again, if you know anything you are asked to contact the police-” The spacebar clicks and the audio recording pauses. James stares at the waves of his voice, the thin green lines glowing brightly. He raises his hands to his dry, tired eyes. For a moment, he sees only static and stars. Lowering his hands, he dares to look at the clock. He winces at the ungodly hour. Behind him, his office door stands open and warm amber light from the lamp beside the emerald sofa spills into the tiny room. Anne and Fitzjames sit on the sofa, their voices just soft, disembodied whispers mixing with the faint sounds of the late-night, black and white film on the TV.
James reaches for his mouse and highlights the conclusion segment of the episode. He hits the delete button. Reaching for his microphone, James stands. Anne glances over the back of the sofa at the office door, watching it close. She sighs and turns back to the movie. Fitzjames holds his hand out to her and she takes it gently.
James sits back down in his chair. He sets the microphone in front of him. He fixes his headphones, checks the recording settings and takes a sip of water. Then he hits the record button.
“Good evening. This is your host, JCR. I’m recording this at a much later date than the rest of this episode.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. He measures his words carefully. “I’ve been told to tell you all that it is going to get cold soon. What will you do when the cold comes? I want you to find the people you love and hold them close. Text them back. Tell them… Tell them you love them before it’s too late.” James wipes his eyes with his sleeve. The red knit comes away wet. “I’m going to go away for a little while. I might be a while…” His voice wobbles. He forces himself to take a deep breath. “Good night. Stay safe.” He hits the stop button. Without editing, he adds this new segment to the end of the episode. Once it is saved, he begins to upload it. He watches the percentage climb higher and higher. And then it is up. Slowly, he turns off his microphone and takes off his headphones. He pushes them to the side of his desk and turns off the computer.
Anne looks up as the door opens and James slowly walks out of his office. He walks to the couch and sits down beside her. He rests his head on her shoulder.
“Do we have any chamomile?” James asks quietly.
“I can check,” Anne says softly. She kisses his red curls before getting up. James moves to fill the gap she left behind, leaning against Fitzjames. He watches the black and white couple on the old TV dance across the screen, the music too quiet for him to catch the words they sing. “We don’t have any chamomile,” Anne says. “We have red wine,” she adds with a laugh.
“That’ll do,” James yawns. Fitzjames smiles. They listen to the sound of the wine falling from the bottle and spilling into wine glasses. A moment later, Anne appears behind them, handing them each a glass. James takes a sip from the wine, the warmth of the alcohol settling in his stomach. He sinks lower against the sofa. Anne sits beside him, sipping from her own glass. They sit in silence, savouring the taste of the dark red wine on their tongues.
Slowly, their wine glasses empty and the dark night sky outside begins to turn a deep, navy blue. The stars glint, they know they will disappear soon. Anne refills their wine glasses. James idly swirls his wine, watching the black and white images swirl across the screen. Fitzjames’s fingers lie gently on his thigh. Anne leans her head against his shoulder.
By the time their glasses are empty once more and the credits are rolling, the sky has slowly come a soft, icy blue. Anne sets her wine glass down and slowly makes her way to the bedroom, unable to keep her eyes open anymore. James slowly follows her, finishing the last tiny drop of his wine and leaving the glass on top of the desk in their room. Slowly, almost painfully, he takes off the red knit sweater and the long-sleeve he had worn underneath. Then his trousers follow, all finding their way to the overflowing laundry basket. James doubts he’ll ever wear that red sweater again. He sits on the bed, pulling off his socks.
“James…” Anne says softly. James turns. She stands by the door, now dressed in one of his shirts and grey pyjama shorts. She looks at Fitzjames who still sits on the emerald sofa. He stands when he hears her call his name. “Would…” Anne glances at her fiance. “Would you like to join us?” Anne asks as she looks back at the taller James. The floorboards creak. A small smile pulls at James’ lips. Fitzjames appears in the doorway, his dark eyes taking in the small, cosy room. As he undresses, James manages to crawl under the blankets. Anne snuggles beside him; her feet are cold. James gasps as they brush against his legs.
The bed frame creaks as Fitzjames climbs under the blankets beside James. He watches as Anne sits up and reaches over him for Fitzjames. “Can I…” she whispers, her eyes on his soft, pink lips. Fitzjames nods as he leans towards her, kissing her softly. She never kissed Francis but he is there in the gentle touch of her fingers as she cups Fitzjames’s face. She pulls away slowly. She brushes away a chocolate curl that had fallen into his face. She lays back down beside James, pressing their kiss to his cheek. James smiles softly as he turns to her, catching her lips. He can taste the wine they shared. When he breaks away, he finds himself caught by Fitzjames in another breathless kiss.
Were it not for the wine and the liminal hour, they might have gone further, might have let their hands wander, might have tasted the salt on their skin, might have forgotten about the ache in their chests and let pleasure swallow them whole. Instead, they simply search for warmth in each other, nestled close under the heavy blanket. Icy blue light shines through the window.
As James feels sleep gently overtake him, he thinks of what will happen in a few hours. They will rise and he will call his uncle. He will bit his tongue as his uncle makes sharp remarks and asks questions he already knows the answer to. James will ask him if they might stay at his house in the country for a little while; he is not using it this time of year. Of course, he will say yes. James will owe him.
So he will help Anne pack up their bags. He will take one last look around their flat, gathering up his books, his laptop and other things he might need. He does not know how long they will be gone. Then they will leave, stopping only at James’ flat quick enough for him to gather up a bag. Fitzjames will cry as he packs, sorting through Francis’ things and taking only what he needs. He will take a photo, a polaroid sitting on the mantle of the two of them at a Christmas party, and stuff it into his coat. They will try to not look at the bear's head painted on the wall.
Before fleeing the city, they will retrieve Neptune from Edward. James will stand on the front step, doing his best to explain what he knows to Edward. He will tell him to protect himself. “You should think about finding a safe place too. There is no telling what Hickey could do,” James will say to Edward who will nod quietly. Then he will watch them leave and slowly step back inside, now dreading how quiet it is without Neptune.
They will rent a car to get out of the city. The drive It will take an hour or two. They might talk, trying to find something to preoccupy their minds. Or maybe they will be quiet, watching the world fly by. They will arrive at John Ross’ house in the afternoon. He won’t be there yet but a key will be under the mat. The house will be just as James remembers it from boyhood; brick and cold stone, jewel-toned rugs and dusty chandeliers. Old paintings of long gone Ross family members hang on the walls, framed in gold. They will stare at James as he climbs the stairs, carrying his and Anne’s suitcases. He will find the room he had spent every holiday in and set them down on the floor. The bed isn’t very big but it will do. There is a model of a ship with almond coloured sails on the window sill. He will stare at it for a moment before leaving the room in search of Anne and Fitzjames. He will be hungry and he remembers there is a good little pub in town.
They will have dinner there and the salty chips will taste like the best thing James has ever eaten. They remind him of a time where there was not a constant ache in his chest. Afterwards, they will walk back to the old house afterwards, raindrops dancing on their umbrellas. John Ross will be there by then and he will berate James for not telling him where they were; he could have given him a heart attack.
The days will pass slowly at first. At first, James will not want to work on anything. Halloween will come and children will run up to the door in their finest costumes; sheet ghosts, zombies and superheroes. All three of them will stand in the door and smile at each one. November will arrive and so will the darkness of winter. Still, James will not find the will to work on his research. He will eventually take down his podcast’s social media accounts. Then he will wander through the house, haunting the study Fitzjames will sit in day in and day out, staring at a story, at a sentence, he cannot finish. He will manifest in the front sitting room where Anne will read and struggle to find the right things to write about the books she reads. He will stand, like a shadow figure, in his uncle’s office and stare at the awards, plaques, photos and certificates on the wall. He will find a compass sitting on the shelf, glinting and beautiful. He will not touch it, he fears he will break it. He will be an apparition in the kitchen, holding his phone to his ear as he calls Officer Gore again and again. “Is there anything?” he will ask.
“No, not yet.” Officer Gore will say.
November will become December without James noticing. Slowly, pearly lights will begin to appear on the houses that dot the rolling fields. John Ross will sit Anne and James down, asking them earnestly about their wedding; it was supposed to be this month after all. Fitzjames will hover in the doorway, not quite sure if he belongs in this conversation or not. “Next year…” Anne will say gently. “Not now.” John Ross will sigh but relent. There will be no changing their minds. James will turn to look at Fitzjames and smile at him. Fitzjames will step into the kitchen then and stand just behind him.
Christmas will come with a great big tree in the front room, pine-scented garlands on the bannister and the arrival of Anne’s parents for Christmas dinner. James will smile and try his best to keep up with the conversation, glowing in his green knit sweater. Anne and Fitzjames will sit beside him, neither straying too far. Just when James will begin to think that dinner has gone on long enough, everyone will leave and the three of them will go for a walk on the quiet, snow-covered street. The church bell will begin to toll, ringing in the midnight hour. Their breath will fog in the cold air. The stars will dance in the light.
They will barely notice the New Year.
January will become February. One morning, James will wake up to soft kisses and breakfast in bed.
February will become March. The conversation about going back to the city will come up. They will know they cannot stay here, in this quiet home forever. “Your lives are waiting for you,” John Ross will say. James will stare down at his blue slippers. He will wonder what life his uncle is speaking of.
March will become April. They will return to their flat only this time to pack everything up. James will dismantle his office bit by bit, packing up his books, giving away his recording equipment, and gently storing the little penguin that sat on his shelf. Slowly, they will take boxes out of the flat that was supposed to be their beginning; their first home as a married couple. When they are not packing up their home, they are helping Fitzjames pack up his. Together, the three of them will sit on the closet floor and go through Francis’ things. Sometimes they will laugh at a memory, other times they will cry. They will paint over the bear with snow-white paint.
In May, they will start again. The three of them will find a new flat, one that is a little further from the University but it will have big windows, a view of the city and a rooftop patio. James will think about getting a telescope. The kitchen will be bigger and the bedroom will be bigger. The floors will not creak and there will be no cold spots. One morning, Fitzjames will get a call; they need someone to clean out Francis’ office.
Summer will come in all its warmth and glory. They will spend late nights on their patio, watching the stars and drinking in the heat. They will sleep with the windows thrown wide open. One evening, James will sit down at his desk and begin reading over his research. He will find where he left off and fix a mistake. Eventually, by August, he will stop calling Officer Gore.
On a warm September afternoon, Anne will go to pick her wedding dress. All at once, their lives will be consumed with the colours of flowers, the colours of suits, the colours of invitations, the colour of plates, the colour of the venue’s floor, the colour of the chair covers and how many of them they will need.
James will find himself caught in a blur, going from home to the shops to his lab. He will have thrown out the table with a rusty red stain in the middle by then; he will haul it out himself, sobbing all the while.
And then it will all come to a halt on a clear day in December. Fitzjames will help him into his glinting suit and run his fingers through his soft red curls till they sit perfectly. He will gently pin a white rose to James’ lapel and gently kiss his cheek. His heart will race in his chest as the ceremony begins and everyone in the pews stands. All he will see is Anne, a glowing north star in her white gown. Fitzjames will stand where Francis would have.
On and on it will go.
There is one thing James knows for certain; until the day he dies, there will never be a morning when he does not wake up thinking of Francis. He will always be there, waiting for him to sit up and rub the sleep from his eyes. James will remember how he looked standing in the Antarctic snow with him, haloed by an orange sorbet sun.
Anne shifts in her sleep. Rain taps on the window. Fitzjames’ dark curls sprawl across the snow-white pillow. James looks around the small bedroom, illuminated by the icy blue morning light shining through the window. He glances at the partially open door. Slowly, he lowers his head down to the pillow and closes his eyes.
The floorboards creak.