None Shall Sleep (Damnatio Memoriae Book 1) Page 11

  “Wait, so did she just disappeared?” Jack asked. “She didn’t die?”

  “No, she disappeared and died.”

  “In that order?”

  Julian shrugged.

  “Hard to say. She died, and the police found the body sometime later.”

  “So that’s what the search party was for?”

  Jack’s voice had lost its edge. Without it, he sounded much younger and slighter than he was, as though he had withered away to something small and weak.

  “Yep.” Julian smirked a bit without seeming to realize it. Whether he found the idea of another strange happening or Jack’s upset more entertaining, it was hard to tell.

  “What else do you know?” Jack said. “What happened? Where’d they find her?”

  “In the woods,” he said. “Halfway between Bickerby and the town, apparently. Right on the path, in plain sight.” His face was twitching as he divulged the details, and he seemed to be in no hurry despite Jack’s insistence to know what had happened. “They said that she was dragged out there.”

  “But the search party was ages ago,” Jack said. “If she was right – right there – why didn’t they find her before then?”

  “Oh, they found her alright,” Julian said, switching to lean up against the other side of the doorframe. “Only, they weren’t sure that it was ... her.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Why didn’t they know it was her?”

  Julian’s pupils had dilated in the dim lighting to such an extent that his eyes appeared to be black holes.

  “Because,” he said quietly, “they found her in pieces.”

  Ch. 6

  Ice crunched beneath my feet as I hurried through the cold to the residence building. Though it was barely two weeks into November, the sky above was threatening snow again and my hands had turned a sickly shade of blotched blue and red from forgetting my gloves. I had intended to spend the afternoon at the library finishing up my Latin assignment for Albertson, but upon looking through my folder I had found that it wasn’t there. As I made my way to the stairs to search my room for it, someone called me back.

  “Hey – wait a second –”

  The voice sounded from my right and I backtracked to see who it was. Josh Brody, the building’s student secretary, had opened the glass window fronting the office and was beckoning me over. I stepped away from the stairwell door and approached him instead.

  “Enim, right?” he asked, smiling as though we were friends. He pronounced my name with the emphasis on the wrong syllable, though; he must have read it off a piece of paper. “Come on around: you’ve got a message.”

  I gave a fleeting look at the stairwell door before wordlessly going around the side of the office and stepping inside. Brody had already begun to flip through a stack of notecards to find the message intended for me.

  “Here we are,” he said after a moment, finding my name amongst the stack. “Eenim … Luhnd?”

  “Lund.”

  “Looned, right.” He smiled friendlily. “Is that Dutch?”

  “Swedish.”

  “Oh, only I thought it might be Dutch,” he continued conversationally, “because you got a call from the Netherlands. Your dad works over there? What’s he do?”

  I was momentarily too shocked to respond. Taking the notecard from Brody’s hands, I stared at the message in disbelief that my father had called the school. He hadn’t done so since my birthday in March and, considering how poorly the conversation had gone, I hadn’t thought that he would call again. My heart skipped several beats as I reread the message several times, but it only gave instructions to call him back.

  “The number looks pretty long,” Brody said, leaning over to take another look at the card. “I can try to dial it out for you, if you’d like. Sometimes those extensions can be tricky –”

  He leaned over as he made to take a better look. Apart from being the building’s secretary, Brody was also captain of the lacrosse team, vice president of Bickerby’s student council, and the third topmost student in the school. I stared at him as he took the paper from my hands again to see if he could discern how to dial the number and a sudden agitation came over me. I tugged the message back away from him.

  “No, thanks, though, Josh,” I said. “I can dial it myself.”

  I picked up the communal phone and pulled it as far from the office as it would go. The receiver would only stretch four feet away from the office desk, though, and I resignedly punched the number in still within earshot of Brody. The phone gave a screeching beep to inform me that the number was not valid. I punched it in again only to receive the same message. Chewing the side of my mouth unhappily, I returned to Brody and asked him to do it for me.

  He smiled.

  “Sure,” he said, pulling the phone back to him and taking the message from my hand. He dialed the number easily and got it on the first try. “It’s ringing,” he said, handing it to me.

  I pulled it away from him again and stepped over to the wall, but knew that he could still hear me from the glass cubicle. Before I could fret over the fact that the first conversation I would have with my father in months would be less-than private, though, the phone clicked and a garbled voice came over the line.

  “Goedenavond, met Jansen.”

  I paused without trying to decipher the words, instead wondering if I was speaking to a secretary or colleague of my father’s, or perhaps someone at a desk in his hotel. Clearing my throat, I said, “Hello, I’m calling for Daniel Lund.”

  “Ik begrijp niet wat U zegt – wacht even.” There was a clattering of noise as the phone was put down, and a moment later someone else had picked it up.

  “Hello, how may I help you?” said the woman in a high, pleasant accent.

  “I’m calling for Daniel Lund,” I repeated.

  “Yes, okay. Are you a client?”

  “No, I’m his son.”

  “His son? I will go retrieve him for you. One moment, very please.”

  As the phone was put down again, I could hear the clicking of heels as she walked away from it. An uncomfortable silence stretched on in her absence. I dug my free hand into my pocket as Brody pretended to look through an assortment of papers, but his eyes were fixed in place.

  “Enim.”

  My father’s voice cut through the phone so suddenly and sharply that I nearly dropped it in surprise. Turning my back on Brody fully, I pressed the receiver as close to my face as it could go before answering in a low tone.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Enim, I’ve just spoken with Karl,” he said, bypassing a formal greeting. “You’re on academic probation?”

  I should have realized that that was why he had called, but in all that had gone on in the weeks following the visit to Barker’s office, I had assumed that Karl had simply neglected to tell him.

  “Right. Yes, I am.”

  “How can that be possible? You were in the top ten of your class the last time I checked – what’s happened? Is it that roommate of yours again?”

  I rubbed my forehead tiredly. I hadn’t been in the top ten of my class since two semesters ago, though I was hardly surprised that my father had not realized it until now. His quickness to blame Jack for my failure was at least reassuring that not everything had changed, though.

  “No, I just fell behind.”

  “Fell behind? Enim, you’re failing every subject!”

  “I know, Dad.”

  He gave an irritated sigh that came over the line as a harsh stream of static. I pulled the phone back from my ear to keep from promoting a headache.

  “This is ridiculous, Enim. I can’t even believe it – you know better than this!”

  “I know.”

  “Karl tells me that the headmaster is allowing you to stay on,” he continued as though he had not heard me. “I want your grades back up in record time, do you understand? I won’t have you failing out of school.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.” There was a p
rolonged pause as he seemed to consider saying something else, and I pulled in my breath as I both waited for him to ask me how I was doing and thought of how I would answer. Before I could decide, however, he said, “Right, well, I’ve got to get going.”

  “Wait, but Dad –” I said, cutting in before he could hang up. My voice faltered even though the question that I had been agonizing over was so simple. “Are you coming home, soon?”

  He waited so long to respond that I wondered if he had hung up already.

  “Enim, I can’t talk about this now. I’m very busy. If you need something, ask your uncle.”

  “But I don’t want to talk him. I –”

  “That’s what he’s there for.”

  “But I don’t want to,” I repeated, thinking again of Karl’s ease in filling Barker with lies about my mother. My father would have at least told Barker that the matter was private and of no bearing on my academic standing. “I want to know when you’re coming home.”

  He sighed in agitation.

  “I’m very busy right now, Enim. Things are just getting started here with the company.”

  “So what does that mean? You’re not coming home? Not – not even for Christmas?”

  The question was met with silence. If not for the sound of his breathing on the other end, I would have thought that the line had been disconnected.

  “No. I won’t be there for Christmas.”

  “You –?”

  “I’m very busy right now, Enim, and it’s very late here. I’m tired, I have a headache, and I have a very important meeting first thing in the morning that I’m supposed to be prepping for. This is something that you can discuss with Karl.”

  “But Dad, I can’t spend the break with him – not in that house, not with –”

  “Goodnight, Enim.”

  He slammed the phone down before I could begin to explain it to him. The sound of the dial tone blaring from the other end rang in my ears for a long moment before I replaced the receiver. Brody stole a glance at me as I returned the phone to his desk and I turned away as quickly as possible. I was sure that even if he hadn’t overheard the conversation, my expression would give it away.

  Hurrying up the stairs, I plowed down the hall and into my room before I could come into contact with anyone else and slammed the door behind me. Jack, who was slumped on his bed with a newspaper at his side and a cigarette in his hand, didn’t bother to acknowledge me. I gave him an annoyed look before going to the bedside table to search for my Latin assignment.

  He had been oddly distant since the news of Miss Mercier’s death had broken, choosing to fill his time by taking long walks into town for refills of cigarettes to chain-smoke and endless supplies of newspapers that never held any interest. I prodded a stray piece of laundry back over the imaginary line dividing our sides of the room with my foot, both annoyed at the whiff of whiskey that wasn’t quite concealed by the cracked window and that my lost assignment was probably buried beneath the mess he had made.

  Though the students tried, Barker refused to give details concerning Miss Mercier’s death. The local paper had a few blurbs about what was deemed ‘a horrific tragedy,’ but only gave as much information as Julian had. Her obituary was short and focused on her life rather than death, and after it had appeared in the paper the week following her death, her name had all but disappeared from the headlines.

  Barker had not yet managed to procure a long-term substitute for her French class. It was hardly unbelievable seeing as the island had been overturned by such a forceful amount of snow. At times the buildings would shake and send avalanches of it crashing to the ground, taking huge icicles with it. Sometimes they would shatter like glass against the iced-over pavement, other times they would spear the ground dangerously. Whenever a potential teacher came to review the position, the weather seemed to drive them away before they could get off the ferry. Winter on the island was even more brutal than usual.

  Though Senora Marín had offered to teach the class in lieu of another teacher, she quickly become overwhelmed with it – undoubtedly due to the fact that she didn’t speak the language in question – and a series of other teachers began taking turns with it instead. Even Volkov had taken the time to teach one of them, and from what Jack relayed, he had been one of the better French speakers, Russian accent and all. Yet they all cycled through so unregularly that it was unquestionable as to why the course had come to a standstill: homework assignments assigned by one teacher were graded by another, lessons were forgotten or repeated but never in order, and quizzes and tests were out of the question.

  Occasionally, after one of those confusing French classes, someone would mention Miss Mercier, but it was only ever in passing. Her name was uttered with a type of quick whisper that was reserved for the dead. There was a memorial for her on the bulletin board inside the Foreign Language Building. Pictures of her smiling and waving from various class activities over the years, or from between happy-looking students in the graduation gowns, or lined up with the other teachers in yearbook pictures gazed down at me whenever I crossed through the building to Latin. Seeing her there so blissful and full of life when she was anything else perturbed me. More than once as I passed the photo-covered board, I had the urge to yank the entire thing down. She was dead – they should leave the thought of her life alone.

  When the Latin assignment didn’t turn up in any of my other notebooks, I dumped my bag out on my bed and searched through the contents a second time, swearing and running my hands through my hair in frustration when it didn’t show up. The translation was the largest project of the semester. I had been working on it painstakingly in an attempt to show Albertson that I was repentant for how poorly I had done all semester; if I lost it, there would be no time to redo it before it was due the next day.

  “Have you seen my translation of the Aeneid?” I asked Jack as I stooped to search beneath the bed. I patted the dark ground and pulled open every book piled on the shelf as I searched for it, turning my side of the room into a state that rivaled Jack’s untidiness.

  “What?” His reply was slow and his eyes unfocused as he tried to distinguish me from a heap of clothing on the carpet.

  “My translation,” I repeated. “It’s a blue notebook, it says ‘Latin’ on the front – it has my homework in it –”

  Jack only shook his head, clearly unconcerned with what I was saying. I sighed angrily at him before snatching up my jacket and hurrying from the room.

  Jogging down the stairs and out onto the grounds, I pulled my scarf around my face to ward off the harsh chill that bit at my skin. It occurred to me that I might have left the notebook in Albertson’s room and that someone had turned it into him. I reached the Foreign Language Building and ran inside, skidding to a stop outside of his room and going in. The room was empty and dark. I switched the lights on and combed every inch if it in search of the notebook, but it wasn’t there.

  My stomach dropped and left a hollow pit in my abdomen. The assignment was worth thirty-percent of my already low grade, and if I didn’t turn it in then I wouldn’t pass the course. The realization that I wouldn’t get off academic probation and would be suspended indefinitely at the end of the semester shook me. I felt sick to think that I would have to return to the house in Connecticut with Karl, and worse so with the knowledge that my father wouldn’t make an appearance at all during the weeks that I would be there. I leaned up against an empty desk and swallowed hard. The room buzzed all around me.

  I retreated back outside numbly, halfheartedly trying to come up with a way to recreate the lost translation before class the next day or else come up with a good excuse to present to Albertson as to why I didn’t have it, but my thoughts were decisively blank. I was halfway across the campus when my shoes caught the ice and I slipped: my feet flew out from under me and I crashed onto my back, and when my head struck against the frozen ground with a deafening impact my vision ducked in and out of black.

  A group of students sni
ckered as they passed me on the path and my face grew hot in the cold. I moved to get up but nearly immediately slipped again and fell back to the ground. I threw out my arm to break my fall and my elbow bent backwards as I did so. I groaned in discomfort and curled up in the snow, irritated and cold, as I waited for the shooting pain to die down.

  “Are you all right?”

  Julian appeared next to me on the path. As he stared down at me with a concerned frown, I scrambled to stand back up again.

  “Fine,” I responded shortly. My loafers slid on the ground and I moved to get off the icy patch that I had hit before I could fall for a third time.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Julian observed me with an uncertain nod.

  “Right, you just looked a little ... off.”

  I straightened and ran a hand through my hair. My clothes were wet from the snow, but I righted them regardless in an attempt to appear less rattled.

  “No, I’m fine.” Both my arm and head were throbbing painfully, but I refused to admit as much to Julian. He was staring at me as though waiting to pinpoint something wrong with me; I averted my eyes quickly, but I couldn’t hide the fact that the skin beneath them was thin and dark from dozens of sleepless nights.

  “You should probably get some better winter shoes,” he advised, looking down at my loafers. “Those ones aren’t good for the ice.”

  “Wow, thanks Julian,” I said angrily. “Great idea.”

  He gave me an odd look before biting down on his tongue.

  “I’m just trying to help,” he responded coolly. “Jesus, it’s no wonder you don’t have any friends.”

  He shook his head and turned away down the path. I watched him disappear around the bend before taking another cautious step forward; my loafer caught the ice again and I fell back to the ground. I swore loudly at the blank white sky.

  When I finally made my way back up to the dorm room, still at a loss as to what to do about the missing assignment, Jack was still lying on his bed. After eying him to ensure that he was still conscious, I gave him an irritated look and dropped my bag down with a thundering sound that made him clutch his head in discomfort.