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OK, let’s
face it, he rubbed everyone up the wrong way at one time or
another.”
    “ He had strong
opinions.”
    “ And an
equally strong personality. I’m aware of that.”
    “ So, did you
just want to chew over Charles’ traits and peccadilloes, or did you
have a favour to ask?”
    “ I was just
getting to that.” Sansom leant back against the cold stone of the
chapel, his face disappearing into the blackness.
    “ I thought
so.” Ellison turned to leave.
    “ We go back a
long way, Barnard, the three of us,” called Sansom out of the
shadow.
    Ellison turned
back to him, the evening sun framing his silhouette, masking his
expression. “Do it yourself, Hedley.”
    “ Yes. I
would.” His even tone signposted the but that followed. “It
wouldn’t really be appropriate though, would it?”
    “ You mean it
wouldn’t do to be seen taking sides when you’re hawking around for
a new job?”
    There may have
been a snort or a sigh; or it may have just been the verger closing
a door somewhere inside the chapel. “I mean I’m not doing it,” said
Sansom.
    “ Don’t you
think it would look better if the Warden spoke up for one of the
college’s brightest lights? Showed more, what’s the right word?
Solidarity. But then the college’s interests never have been your
top priority, have they?”
    It was
impossible to see if Sansom reacted at all, but his voice remained
absolutely level. “I’ll say a few words at his funeral. For Haydn.
But I’m afraid you’re speaking at the Memorial Service.”
    “ And if I say
no?”
    “ The
invitations have already been printed with your name on. They’ll be
in people’s pigeonholes tomorrow morning. Besides, I’m sure you’d
be much better placed than me to compose something suitably
solemn.” Hedley pushed himself up from the stone. He ambled up the
steps and out into Martyr’s Quad, turning right to walk the twenty
yards or so back to the Warden’s Lodge. He smiled at Ellison. “And
you’d certainly be better at composing something with the
appropriate gravitas for the college you care so much
about.”

____
    5
     
    The orange
grey of night enveloped the top floor of Tommy’s house. On the
carpet sifted piles of Professor Shaw’s papers threw shadows on the
floor, but it had been too dark for a long while for Tommy to try
and read. Slowly the straining chords of Mahler that came out of
his sound system faded; the rush of the cars outside followed, and
he was alone in the noise of his thoughts.
    Emily’s body
pushing through cotton drenched blue by night. Her lips quivering
in the shadows cast across her cheeks by spikes of hair leached
grey. Her skin, sheening with anticipation, reaching, arching
towards him with desire, cowering hidden beneath her shirt. The
rise and fall of her breasts uneven as she fought to steady her
breath, strained cruciform to remember why she mustn’t.
    Thinking of
Emily’s body made him think of numbers. Like many of the world’s
fastest arithmeticians, Tommy had synaesthesia. He experienced
things through unusual or inappropriate senses. Numbers appeared in
his mind as shapes, landscapes, the contours of a woman’s body.
Answers to long multiplication sums would come to him not through
calculation but a gradual transformation. He told people he saw a
woman turning to make love to him. Numbers. 1972. 1982. The wines
on Professor Shaw’s table. Eszencia from 1972, the finest Tokaji
vintage from the whole communist occupation of Hungary. Chateau
Cheval Blanc from 1982, the greatest mature Bordeaux vintage of the
last 40 years. 1972, 1982. Emily turning
her back to him.
    In an instant
the thoughts were gone and the cacophony of engines and piano
chords rushed in to fill the vacuum.
    Tommy turned
on the light. He’d set the disks and flash drives to one side. He
would wait and buy a new, untraceable laptop before he touched
them. He’d sorted the papers only by appearance. Most of the
handwriting was too small and untidy for