Guilty Conscious, Oliver Davies [small books to read TXT] 📗

mum put her foot down. Nothing was more important than Edward doing well in school. Get the grades, go and do a Master’s at Oxford or somewhere equally stuffy.

“Why did you call, Dad?” he managed to ask without blowing his lid.

“Your mother and I are having a dinner party on Friday. Some of my old work colleagues will be there and some old friends. We’d like you to come along.”

“To have dinner with a load of people I don’t know?” Edward asked.

“There will be people you know,” his father assured him. “Mikael and Walburga will be there with their children, and Desmond and Riley. And your mother would like to see you actually when you’re not hungover or here to use the washing machine and eat all our food.”

Edward wondered if those were mum’s words or dad’s.

“I’ll have to see,” Edward told him, fixing his bag back onto his shoulder and walking off again. “It depends on if I get those assignments done in time.”

“You can do them over the weekend,” his dad told him.

“That sort of defeats the point of having a weekend, dad,” Edward pointed out.

“Really, Edward,” he could hear him getting annoyed now. “We just want you to come home and have dinner for one night. It is not that difficult of a request!”

There were some murmurings on the other side of the phone, and then his dad’s laboured, irritated breathing was gone.

“Eddie?” came a softer, gentler voice.

Edward sighed. “Hi, mum.”

“Hello, darling. What’s all this about essays and assignments then?”

“Professor Altman wants me to rework mine by Thursday.”

There was a slight pause. “You have rugby on Thursday,” she said.

Edward smiled. “I do.”

“And what about your other course work?” she asked, annoyed on his behalf. “Doesn’t he know he’s not your only professor?”

“I think he’s forgotten.”

“Really,” she scoffed. “Well, darling, if you can’t make it on Friday, don’t you worry.”

Edward paused on the path again, squeezing his eyes shut. “How many people will be there?” he asked quietly.

“About eight,” she answered.

“What are you making?”

“Whatever you want, darling.”

“Roast beef!” his father shouted over the top of her. She shushed him, and Edward could picture her waving her hand to silence him.

“Whatever you want,” she repeated. “I can do the lamb you like? And pavlova for pudding?”

Edward sighed through his nose; anything was worth that dinner menu. “Wouldn’t miss it, mum.”

“That’s my boy. See you on Friday, my love. Bring a friend if you want to,” she added. “Maybe that nice girl we met last time?”

Freya. Bringing Freya would make the whole thing more tolerable, but he didn’t want mum getting attached to her. Freya was fun, but that was about it.

“We’ll see. Chat later, mum.”

“Alright, darling. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Edward replied, hanging up the phone. He let out the groan then, kicked a tree trunk too. Rework the essay, get his assignments done, dinner party with mum and dad and all their heinous friends. And he couldn’t even play a game of rugby to make himself feel better.

As he walked across the campus, back to his room, he remembered that Freya was coming. And that Freya happened to be something of a genius at writing. If she did it, he could have his essay squared away tonight, get it to Altman early, squeeze in a game of rugby. Lovely. She’d take some convincing, though, but he’d manage that.

He got back to his room early, with around twenty minutes until she was due. He tossed his things onto his bed, kicked his shoes off into the corner of the room and left his laptop on the desk. Edward had a quick shower, trying to wash away the stifled, stale air of Altman’s office from his skin, and padded back to his room with a towel around his waist, dripping water on the floor. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a jumper that Freya had complimented before, tugged on a pair of socks, threw his towel in the washing hamper, and stood in front of the mirror, fixing his hair.

He turned the radio on, tuning in to a local station as the news was finishing up.

“Police in West Yorkshire are appealing to anyone with information about the disappearance of a teenage girl from Leeds following suspected sexual assault. Any witnesses from the area are asked to come forward and share with the police what they know.”

Edward reached over and tuned into another station, playing mindless pop music that he hated, but Freya liked. He sprawled out on his bed, waiting for her to arrive. She was late, of course. He pulled up the news app on his phone, skimming through stories about a crisis in the Middle East, European politics and local news stories. He froze over the picture of a girl’s face. A girl who’d committed suicide about a week ago.

He scrolled past. Still no Freya. The girl needed a proper watch, like his. He was fond of his. It had been his grandfather’s once, and it was worth more than most things the family had. The look on his father’s face when grandad’s will had left it to Edward rather than him had been one of the best sights in Edward’s life.

At last, someone knocked heavily on the door. Edward opened it up, surprised by the face on the other side. The door closed, and a short while later, it opened again, a blood-drenched figure racing into the growing evening.

Edward lay on the floor of his room, his vision splotches of black and red. His head hurt. The black took over, washing out the red.

Two

Thatcher

“We’re going to be late,” I called through the front door. I stood outside, dangling my house keys in my hand, waiting for Liene.

“I know, I know,” she answered, coming tripping to the door, putting one shoe on and carrying the other in her hand with her bag and coat. “Blame the museum board. They don’t half drone on.”

She made it out of the house, both shoes on