Читать книгу The Forest of Souls - Carla Banks - Страница 6

When Faith was a child, she thought that she lived in a forest. Her grandfather’s house, where she spent her childhood, was surrounded by trees, beech and sycamore and chestnut, their heavy leaves shielding it in summer and their branches standing like guardians when the winter stripped them bare. The garden was a playground of green tunnels and damp leaf mould where the sun would sometimes break through and dapple the ground with sudden colour–the vivid green of a leaf, the scarlet of a berry.

The house itself was a place of dark corridors and closed-up rooms, cold and rather comfortless. But she could remember the evenings she spent with her grandfather when he read to her from his book of fairy tales with pictures of witches and goblins, dark paths and mysterious houses in forest glades. And he would tell her stories about his own childhood in a house built deep in a forest, somewhere far away.

And she could remember the way his face would change sometimes as he talked. His voice would falter and then fall silent, and he would pat her hand absently and say, ‘That is enough, little one.’ He would go to his study and the door would close behind him with the finality of silence…

Faith woke suddenly, sitting up in bed, the quilt that had tangled round her as she slept sliding on to the floor. For a moment she didn’t know where she was, then the confusion cleared. She was in her house in Glossop, where she had lived for just a month. It was still dark. She could see the square of the skylight above her, and the silhouettes of the bedroom furniture emerging from the gloom. She switched on the lamp, flooding the room with warmth and colour. Dreams of her childhood faded from her mind.

Her bedroom was an attic, with slanting walls and odd nooks and corners. It was the first room she’d decorated once she’d bought the house, stripping off the dingy wallpaper and painting everything white, adding colour with throws and blinds so that even on this dark winter morning, the rain beating on the skylight above her head, the room looked warm and welcoming.

She went down the winding staircase to the bathroom. Her head felt muzzy with sleep as she stood under the shower, so she turned the temperature down and woke herself up with a blast of cold water. She wrapped herself in a towel, shivering as she went quickly back up the stairs. A spatter of rain blew across the window.

It was the start of her second week in her new job at the Centre for European Studies at the University of Manchester. She had recently been appointed as a senior research assistant to the director, the eminent historian and political philosopher Antoni Yevanov. It had been a hotly contested post that she had won after a gruelling three-day interview. She knew that a lot of people were surprised when she was appointed–they thought that at thirty-two, she was too young, that she didn’t yet have the experience–and the professional knives were out.

She dried her hair. It had grown over the summer, and it hung heavy and dark to her shoulders, so she pulled it off her face and secured it with a clip. She hesitated as she tried to decide what to wear. The day was going to be bitty–she had a meeting first thing, she had an article to complete for an academic journal about the role of statistical analysis in historical research, and there was a departmental meeting at four, which would be the first she had attended at the Centre. She knew the importance of first impressions.

After a moment’s thought, she chose a cream skirt and a tailored jacket. She’d be walking a lot today–the corridors of the Centre, the campus–so she opted for shoes with a low heel. She was tall enough to get away with it.

It seemed strange to be back in Manchester. Faith had spent her childhood in the city, brought up by her grandfather who lived in the affluent suburb of Altrincham, but there had been no sentimentality in her decision to return–the opportunity of working with Antoni Yevanov had been incentive enough.

Her attachments to the city were simply a bonus. It was good to be near her grandfather again, and she was working with her oldest friend, Helen Kovacs. The thought of Helen brought a frown to Faith’s face as she packed her work bag. Helen was still struggling in the early stages of her academic career–she had left academia after she had graduated, and had only recently returned and completed her PhD. It was hard in the current climate for a woman in her thirties with children to compete against the unencumbered twenty-three-year-olds who were applying for post-doctoral appointments now. Faith’s meeting this morning was with Helen, and it would be the first time she’d had to act in her position as Helen’s line manager.

Faith and Helen had met at the prestigious grammar school they both attended. It prided itself on its academic excellence and appealed to parents who wanted their children to have a traditional education. The uniform they wore was supposed to iron out any differences of background that the children brought to the school, but the adolescent jungle of status and conformity operated there just the same.

Faith, who lived with her immigrant grandfather and had no visible parents, was an object of suspicion. Helen, whose parents were working class and who lived on a modern housing estate in Salford, was a complete outsider. Her father was a builder who was earning just enough to buy his daughter what he believed would be the best education for her. Helen’s accent was wrong, her clothes were wrong, she lived in the wrong place and had the wrong parents. The pack turned on her.

The two girls, with the well-honed survival instincts that six years in the school system had given them, had drawn together. They were both bright, they were both athletic, and Faith soon discovered that Helen had a dry wit and a talent for sharp mockery that matched her own. They had seen off their tormentors and established a friendship that had endured into adulthood. They had gone to Oxford together, shared a flat through their student years, seen each other through the ecstasy of first relationships and the subsequent heartbreak. And even though their lives had gone down different paths since then, they had stayed close.

Faith went into the kitchen and put some bread in the toaster. There was coffee left from the night before. She poured some into a mug and put it in the microwave. As she watched the light of the LED, her phone rang. She checked the number. It was her mother. Katya Lange rarely phoned her daughter. Their contacts tended to be Christmas and birthdays and the occasional good-will call that Katya was hardly likely to make at 7.45 in the morning.

Puzzled, she answered it. ‘Hello?’

‘I’m glad I caught you.’ Katya’s voice was brisk. ‘Listen, Faith, there’s a bit of a problem with Marek.’

‘What is it? Is he ill?’ Her grandfather, Marek Lange, was in his eighties. He was stubbornly independent and would accept almost no help, though Faith had tried often enough to persuade him.

‘Nothing like that. You’d be the first to hear. It’s this journalist…’

Faith sighed. She really didn’t want to have this conversation again. A journalist, a man called Jake Denbigh, wanted to interview Grandpapa for a series of articles he was writing about changing attitudes to refugees. Marek Lange, a Polish refugee who had fought on the side of the Allies in the last war, had attracted his interest.

The interview seemed a valid enough enterprise to Faith. She’d read some of Denbigh’s articles and she’d heard him once or twice on late-night discussion programmes on Radio 4. As far as Faith could see, the interview would be something her grandfather would enjoy. He was an opinionated man, and would relish the chance to express his views. She thought it would add a bit of variety to a life that was becoming more and more circumscribed by old age, but Katya had been against it from the start.

‘I told you what I think,’ Faith said now. ‘It’s up to him. It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘It’s more urgent than that,’ Katya said. ‘Marek’s agreed to do the interview. It’s happening this morning.’

‘Well–good for him.’ Her toast was done. She hunted round for the spread.

‘I’m not so sure. I’ve had a bad feeling about this from the start. I don’t trust this Denbigh man, so I looked some stuff up. A few months ago, he got involved in a witch-hunt in Blackburn about a man they said was an ex-Nazi. It got nasty.’

‘Oh.’ That gave Faith pause for thought. Her grandfather had escaped from Nazi-occupied Poland to join the Polish Free Forces in England in 1943. He had arrived alone, his family and his past lost in the chaos behind him. All that was left were the stories he used to tell her when she was a child, stories about his own childhood, a childhood that had been obliterated as surely as the cities of Europe had been razed in the final destruction of that conflict. His war years in occupied Europe were something he never spoke of, ever.

If Jake Denbigh’s focus was Nazis, especially if he was looking for lurid headlines, then Faith shared her mother’s misgivings. ‘He isn’t going to talk to any journalist about it,’ she said slowly. ‘He wouldn’t discuss it with his own family, never mind a stranger.’ She sometimes thought it would have been a good thing if he had done, but now it was probably best left where it was, sealed away in his mind.

‘I wish I shared your confidence,’ Katya said. ‘This man is a professional. It’s his job to get people talking.’

‘I’m not confident. I just don’t know what to do. It’s still up to Grandpapa in the end.’

‘I thought…’ Katya said, the tentative note in her voice triggering Faith’s alarm system, ‘…that maybe you could go over. Sit in on the interview. Then if this Denbigh person tries anything…’

Perhaps she should. ‘I’ve got meetings today. It depends what time they’ve arranged the interview.’

‘Eleven,’ Katya said.

She was meeting Helen at nine–that would take less than an hour, with luck. She’d pencilled in the rest of the morning for writing the article…she could work on that tonight, cancel her plans for the evening. She’d still need some time to prepare for the meeting, but it was doable. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll be there.’

She checked the clock as she put the phone down. It was almost eight–she’d better get going. Her meeting with Helen today was a professional thing, part of her new role. If the two women hadn’t known each other so well, it could have been tricky.

Helen had left Oxford with a First, but instead of pursuing the academic career she had planned, she had come back to Manchester to marry Daniel Kovacs. This decision had been beyond Faith’s comprehension. Helen was pregnant, but that didn’t seem to be a good reason to give up her academic carer. Faith didn’t like Daniel–he was attractive, but there was a watchful hostility about him, a coldness that made him a strange choice for the warm, vivacious Helen. Despite Faith’s misgivings, Helen had been unstoppable. She had asked Faith to be godmother to their son, Finn, who had been born six months later, and this had gone a long way towards healing the slight breach in their friendship.

Their lives had taken different routes after that. Helen had stayed near Manchester, moving with Daniel to Shawbridge, one of the small cotton towns on the outskirts of the city, to live on a road that was not much different from the one where she had grown up. Daniel’s work as an electrician was thriving, and Helen became a full-time housewife and mother.

Faith had stayed at Oxford to work on her PhD. She took her duties as godmother seriously, visiting as often as she could, writing letters, sending cards and presents, surprised at how much she enjoyed Helen’s baby, who grew up into a bright, serious little boy. Five years later, Helen’s second child, Hannah, was born. Faith decided she had been wrong. Helen seemed happy with her life, with her children and with her enigmatic husband.

But then Helen had got restless. She decided that she wanted to take up her career again, and despite Daniel’s opposition had embarked on a PhD. Once she had completed that, she had landed a three-year research post at the Centre for European Studies. She had been lucky to get it. Her search for work was confined to Manchester. Even this level of commuting was difficult as Daniel insisted that his work hours made it impossible for him to deliver or collect the children to and from school.

And then, just a few months ago, after twelve years of marriage, she had left Daniel.

Faith pulled her coat around her as she left the house. It was one of those bleak January days. The wind was whipping the clouds across the sky and blew gusts of rain against her face. She threw her bag on to the back seat and edged out into the rush hour. The grey winter streets made her think longingly of Mediterranean landscapes, of blue skies and warm breezes. One day she was going to work somewhere where the sun shone for more than six weeks a year, somewhere that had warmth, light and space.

Stuck in the stop-go queue into the city, she tried to focus on the meeting she had with Helen in half an hour. Helen was currently working on a paper for a major conference in Bonn, in May. The paper was supposed to be complete by the end of the month–the organizers wanted camera-ready copy in advance–and Helen had fallen behind.

It was understandable. Her life was in chaos. Daniel, outraged by her departure, was fighting her for custody of the children and for the house. He was being as difficult as he could be about child support, and Helen’s salary barely covered her expenses. On top of this, the crucial deadline for the Bonn paper had been too much for her, and she had appealed to Faith for help.

Faith ran possible solutions through her mind as she negotiated the roundabout on to the M67. She wanted to manage it so that it didn’t become a big issue to Antoni Yevanov. Helen’s position at the Centre was vulnerable in the face of ongoing cuts. Her appointment was due for review at the end of her first year, and its continuation depended very much on her successful completion of the paper and the reception it got at Bonn.

The traffic was heavy all the way, and it was almost nine by the time she got to the university. There was a queue for the car park and she was tempted to look for a space on the street, but she wanted a fighting chance of seeing her car again. The rain was falling hard by the time she managed to park. She could feel the rain dripping off her umbrella and trickling down inside her collar as she hurried across campus to the Edwardian façade of the Centre for European Studies. She pushed open the glass doors and entered the lobby, blinking the rain out of her eyes.

The warmth of the building enclosed her with its smell of new carpet and paint. The soothing murmur of activity filled the air, a subdued clatter from keyboards, the distant sound of doors opening and closing, the clunk and hum of the lift. She paused on her way through the lobby to catch her breath, and looked at the display boards. Amongst all the fliers for conferences in Madrid, Paris, and New York there was a glossy poster for the forthcoming Brandt Memorial Lecture. Antoni Yevanov: ‘After Guantanamo–International Law from Nuremberg to the 21st Century’. She made a note in her diary. She wanted to go to that.

A group of post-grad students were clustered outside the library. They looked across at her and smiled. Faith had given her first lecture the week before, and her face was becoming known. One of them, a tall young man with fair hair, detached himself from the group and came across. He said rather diffidently, ‘Faith, have you got any time today? Could I come and see you?’

She gave him a shrewd look, pretty sure what he wanted. She recognized him now: Gregory Fellows, one of the stars of the post-grad intake. He was due to deliver a seminar on his work to the group who monitored and evaluated research carried out under the auspices of the Centre. He was very bright, but most of his energies, Faith had been reliably informed, were focused on his work as a drum and bass artist. She was pretty sure he was looking for a postponement of the seminar. He’d need a good excuse. ‘My office time is at three,’ she said. ‘I can see you then.’

His face fell. ‘I wasn’t planning on being in all day,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you could…’

‘Three o’clock,’ Faith said. He gave her a wry smile of acceptance and she hurried up the stairs, aware that it was already after nine. She unlocked the door of her office, puzzled at Helen’s absence. She was only a few minutes late. She phoned Helen’s extension, but there was no reply.

Helen worked in one of the small cubicles on the other side of the building. All the research assistants were based down there–one of them might know where she was. Faith went along the corridor, her progress snagging on people who wanted to talk to her, either to set up meetings or to lobby her support for various projects that were being discussed that afternoon. She fielded these as diplomatically as she could, and asked if anyone had seen Helen, but no one had.

Helen’s cubicle was empty. The desk was tidy, the computer shut down. There was no coat on the hook, no bag under the desk. A photograph on the side of the computer made a splash of colour. Faith looked at it. It showed Helen, her eyes screwed up against the light, with her arms round her two children, Hannah, small and dark-haired like her mother, and the taller, more solemn Finn.

There was a pile of books on the desk–presumably in preparation for the meeting. Faith glanced through them; they were all standard texts about the role of women in National Socialism, except for one. The Memorial Book of Mir. Mir?

But no Helen. She checked the time. It was well after nine. She tried calling Helen’s home number but there was no reply. Then she tried Helen’s mobile. It was engaged. Faith let out a breath of frustration. She scribbled a note on a yellow post-it and stuck it on the monitor, then went back downstairs to the secretary’s office. She wanted to check the teaching schedules.

Trish Parry, Antoni Yevanov’s secretary, glanced up when Faith came through her door. ‘Can I help you?’ Her voice was cool. She had been unfriendly and obstructive from the day Faith arrived. Faith assumed it was to do with the fact that she had been given the job, rather than the internal candidate, but Helen had offered an alternative explanation. ‘She’s okay with the men. It’s the women she doesn’t like. She thinks they’re rivals for Yevanov’s affections.’

‘You mean she and Yevanov…?’ It seemed unlikely to Faith, though Trish was certainly attractive in a neat, English rose sort of way.

Helen grinned. ‘In Trish’s dreams,’ she said.

‘Have you seen Helen Kovacs?’ she said to Trish now.

Trish barely looked up. ‘Not this morning. She said she might not be in. Something about an appointment.’

‘Has she phoned?’ It wasn’t like Helen to leave people in the lurch.

Trish shrugged. ‘She mentioned it yesterday afternoon. Before she left. Early.’

Faith couldn’t understand why Helen hadn’t contacted her, unless…maybe she’d been relying on Trish, and Trish hadn’t bothered to pass the message on. ‘Did she ask you to let me know?’

‘Caroline deals with things like that, not me,’ Trish said coolly.

Faith didn’t say anything. Technically, Trish was in the right. There was a procedure for reporting absences. She made a mental note to warn Helen not to give Trish ammunition, and looked at her watch. She might as well start work on the article. If she left at ten thirty, she should get to Grandpapa’s by eleven, just about.

‘Let me know if Helen phones,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in my room.’

‘Just a minute.’ Trish picked up the phone and keyed in a number. ‘Professor Yevanov, I’ve got Faith Lange here.’ She listened, then said, ‘She isn’t in. Again.’ Another pause. ‘Are you sure? Faith can give me the–’ Her eyes narrowed slightly as they moved to Faith. ‘Yes. I’ll tell her.’ She put the phone down abruptly. ‘He wants to see you,’ she said.

‘Now?’ Faith was surprised. Since her arrival, Yevanov had been devoting his time to his ongoing commitments in Europe, and was rarely available. Faith’s contact with him had been minimal.

‘Of course not. He can see you this afternoon at one.’

Faith raised her eyebrows slightly at Trish’s tone. ‘One o’clock then.’

As she headed back to her room, she tried Helen’s mobile again, but this time it was switched off.

The 999 call came in at 8.45 a.m. The operator listened to the crackling line, and repeated her message. ‘Emergency. Which service?’ There was no response, just the hiss that told her the line was open. The call was coming through on a cell phone–probably stuffed in someone’s bag or pocket without the keypad locked. She wished the people who did this knew about the time and the money it cost when…

But now she could hear something. A hitching, gasping sound as though someone was out of breath after running, or…frightened, the panicky sound of someone who couldn’t get their breath but was trying not to be heard. ‘Emergency,’ she said again. She kept her voice calm and level. ‘Can you tell me where you are? I need to know where you are.’

The gasping breath again, then a voice tense with strain. ‘I–’ There was a clatter as though the phone had been dropped.

The line cut out.