The Sin Eater(40)

‘I don’t remember much about it,’ he said, but Michael, who had become accustomed to looking at students’ eyes in case they were taking drugs, saw that Benedict’s eyes slid away when he said this. That was a lie, he thought, and glanced at Nell to see if she had noticed.

But she only said, ‘I didn’t do anything except call the paramedics. You were unconscious when I got there.’

‘Was I? All the time?’

‘You did sort of half come round while we waited for the paramedics,’ said Nell. ‘But you didn’t say much.’

‘Didn’t I? I’m sorry you had a wasted journey, Nell. Will you be able to go back there?’

‘Yes, I’d like to. I think there might be a few interesting things,’ said Nell. ‘I didn’t get the chance to look at anything in any detail – oh, except for a chess piece I found.’

There was no doubt about Benedict’s reaction this time. Michael thought it was as if the planes of his face shifted, and as if a different person was sitting there. He said, ‘A chess piece?’

‘Yes. I’m going to get it properly appraised, if that’s all right with you,’ said Nell. Michael could not tell if she was aware of the change in Benedict. ‘If the whole set is there it might be worth quite a lot of money. I’ve only found the king so far, though.’

Benedict said, ‘But the king is the most important,’ and Michael looked at him sharply, because his voice had suddenly sounded different. Softer, silkier. Irish? thought Michael. Is this the other persona taking him over? Is this how it happens? He was aware of a faint unease.

Nell said, ‘Do you like what you’re reading at university?’ and Michael realized she had heard the different voice as well, and that the question was meant to bring Benedict back to some kind of reality. ‘Criminology, isn’t it?’

‘Criminology and law. Yes, I do. It’s a very wide subject, but it’s really interesting.’

It’s all right, thought Michael. He’s sounding like himself again.

‘I’ve been doing some research on individual crimes in the late-nineteenth century,’ said Benedict.

‘I should think that would be a rich seam to explore,’ said Nell, sounding interested.

‘It was a wild old place, London,’ said Benedict. ‘You’d never know the half of it, not until you walked through those streets and saw the people . . .’ He looked at them as if he was assessing them, and Michael caught the glint of blue in his eyes. No, surely it was only the light in here. But his unease deepened.

He said, carefully, ‘Benedict, if I can help at any time—’

‘With the criminology course?’

‘With anything,’ said Michael. He fished in his pocket for a card. ‘Here’s my phone number. Ring me if you want to.’

Benedict said, in a voice so low Michael only just caught the words, ‘No one can help me.’ Then the door of the flat was flung noisily open, and a breezy voice called out apologies for being late, but the shops had been full to overflowing with people buying the most frightful junk in the sales – and honestly, if the world was due to end and the four horsemen of the apocalypse were waiting to ride down Oxford Street people would still queue up to get a bargain in the January sales.

The glint of blue in Benedict’s eyes – if, indeed, it had ever been there – faded. He’s all right, thought Michael again. Or is he?

‘What did you think of him?’ asked Nell as they waited for the train back to Oxford.

‘I think he’s very confused,’ said Michael, guardedly. ‘I hope they can put him right, though. He’s clearly intelligent – he could have a very good career ahead. Did you believe him when he said he couldn’t remember what happened in the house that day?’

‘Not entirely. I think he remembers more than he’s letting on, but he’s frightened to admit it. I’m glad you gave him your phone number,’ she said suddenly.

‘Yes, so am I. I don’t suppose he’ll call. Do you have to go back to Holly Lodge?’

‘Yes, I expect so. I haven’t fixed anything definite, though. Here’s our train.’

Nell had detested lying to Michael – she detested lying to anyone – but somehow it had been impossible to tell him she would be returning to Holly Lodge.

Come on the 18th . . .

The words of the unknown man – the man Benedict had called Declan – had stayed with her. She had thought she would mention him to Nina, but she had not. It’s because Nina was caught up with being concerned about Benedict, thought Nell, staring through the train window. But she knew, deep down, it was because she did not want Declan to be given an ordinary identity. She did not want to hear that he was a second cousin, or someone’s brother-in-law, or that he worked in an insurance office or taught geography. She wanted him to remain mysterious and slightly sinister, which was entirely absurd – it was like a teenager infatuated with a character in a TV soap opera or a film. She had noted the date down in her diary although she had been annoyed to realize she had used red ink, and sketched the outline of a chess piece around the figure eighteen. How sad is that, thought Nell.

They got a taxi from the station, which dropped Nell by the arched entrance to Quire Court; Michael waited to make sure she got across to her own shop safely, then the taxi chugged off into the night.