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“How is it you consider yourself a student of science, and yet you do not own a microscope?” I asked the following morning as I prodded about the blackened remains of the study with the sharp end of an umbrella. Leather-bound books of high acclaim were reduced to grey pages pinched between sheets of ash. I skewered the worst of these and dropped it into the overflowing rubbish bin just as Keane’s answer echoed from the kitchen.
“I am a man of the mind, Lawrence. One does not collect tools he does not require.”
“We require it now.”
“For the first time in my many years. We could ask Dr. Wilfried down the road.” I heaved another ruined piece of literature into the graveyard of its kin.
“Yes, let's. Of course he would be willing to allow us to examine a photograph possibly depicting government secrets.” It was a few seconds before a boisterous reply.
“Go out and buy a microscope then. Lord knows I have the funds.”
“And reputation. Don’t forget, you are still under suspicion of treason. The only reason you are even considered free now is because all the evidence the prosecution bothered to collect was circumstantial.” Though it took the rupturing of an arguably useless organ to open the eyes of the magistrate.
A rough scoff bounded through the hall, briefly preceding Keane’s appearance. His tweed jacket had been abandoned for the time being, leaving him in trousers held at his waist by a pair of grey braces strapped over a white, cotton shirt. The sleeves had been methodically turned up until the entirety of his pale forearms were exposed. Further up, his hair had been combed and pomaded, and I couldn’t help but be at least a little pleased with myself for the lack of angry cuts dotting his face where I had once more taken up the razor that very morning. Alessandro stood at his side, biting into an apple and paying no attention to the fruit juices running down his chin.
No greater display was there of childhood innocence than ignorance of an impending mess.
I continued picking through the crates of papers and knick-knacks that managed to survive the fire’s glutinous hands. For every piece saved (if slightly more worn, scorched, or scratched than before) its like was lost fourfold. Several wooden boxes were overflowing with books and papers, but it did not deter one’s attention from the ashes coating much of the room. Keane had said nothing of this. No blame had he placed, nor did anger thrash a single porcelain figure lying in a bed of straw. The only object given any true attention upon our return from the hospital was an ordinary milk bottle, broken down the middle with threads of cloth, and reeking of petrol. There had been several of these.
More than enough for the police to have missed one.
But it was not for this reflection of uncivilised hatred that I required a microscope.
A magnifying glass appeared near the bottom of the crates; however, as it made the photographer's print no more intelligible than before, it soon returned to the pile while I burrowed further.
“Lawrence, how would you like to take a holiday?” My eyes jerked to the doorway, only to discover Keane had moved to his scorched armchair; back pressed stiffly against the stinking leather.
“Keane, I don’t think all the morphine has made it out of your system. We couldn’t possibly go on a holiday. Not now. What if the police need us for questioning? Besides, where would we go?” An elegant hand cautiously crept into his jacket pocket to retrieve a manilla envelope lightly creased at the edges, running his fingers over the paper. I stood and snatched the object from him with one hand, while the other deftly brushed the dusting of ash from my trouser knees. The envelope had not been sealed as I might have believed. Instead, a crumbling brochure slipped easily from its grasp. The cogs of my brain stuttered to life until no questions were left on my lips.
“Aberdeen.” I muttered. At last two syllables had fallen together just as the piece of paper found in Alessandro’s pockets would perfectly match the travel pamphlet in both colour shade and style. A salute to Scotland’s own.
Aberdeen.
Deen.
Ah.
I placed the paper back into Keane’s outstretched grasp when a knock on the door ruptured the already fading sanity of my brain. Alessandro disappeared instantly—hiding under the guest room bed—when I turned toward the yellowed apple core rolling across the ash-encrusted floorboards. How quickly those things rotted. Mrs. McCarthy’s raised voice greeted the visitor; shuffling them cautiously down the hall with none so subtle warnings of his presence.
“Professor Keane?” I stared openly at the man unceremoniously deposited on our doorstep. Some signs I recognized immediately—red-rimmed eyes, lines at the temples, the pointed examination of every inch of exposed space—but the gentler touches fell more reluctantly into place. There was a slight limp as he moved cautiously across the littered floor, just as the thumb and forefinger of his right hand had suffered a deformity binding them together when he offered Keane a tentative handshake. My companion motioned tamely to the least blackened portion of the sofa; brow raising and furrowing with every breath or jerk of the man’s sturdy frame. Only when the metal springs creaked beneath an added weight did Keane sit and fold his hands across his knee.
“To what do we owe this visit, Mister...”
“Cambell.” The man stuttered. “Ross is—was—my son.” The world tumbled dramatically left, knocking my shoulder against the papered wall. Sharp, biting splinters of pain forced words foreign to high society from my mouth.
“Lawrence?” Two sets of eyes had set upon me with an eagerness directly opposing the other. Green—widened desperately and analysing my shifted stance—set Mr. Campbell further on the edge of a nervous collapse. Had I sneezed without warning, the man might have been a mile and a half sprinting down the road. The blue irises of the second pair of eyes fell upon me briefly, though without the same physical reaction. I righted myself from the stained and peeling wallpaper to willfully tread a cautious path directly leading to the smallest crate, set well aside, and with glasses packed a bottle of Keane’s standard remedy for any physical or emotional ailment.
Irish whiskey.
A bottle of fine brandy was also present, though hardly distracting enough to keep from snatching up its more potent brethren and pouring myself a generous draught. The concoction was promptly slung back against my throat, lest I hesitate to consider the rather suspicious, brown stain on the inside rim of the cut glass. At once, the oxygen in my lungs ignited with the induced Dutch strength.
When all the room had again—or perhaps finally—settled, Campbell and myself cradled glasses of whiskey, while Keane sat forward with his hands lingering tactfully near a healing row of stitches. While the physitions had insisted a drink or two was permissible a few days after the operation, Keane seemed to be torturing his aching body further with abstinance. I was sorely tempted to pour him a sip all the same when his voice grated against the inner lining of his throat.
“Mr. Campbell, we offer you our deepest sympathies of your son’s untimely death. He was an exceptionally bright young man. If there is anything we might do—”
“I would have thought you and your wife have already done quite enough.” The man snapped, downing every drop of liquor and allowing the glass to fall away within trembling hands. “I apologise. I...I have not been well.”
“Understandable, considering your loss.” Keane assured wisely. Cambell’s head shot up as though stabbed by my companion’s gentle words.
“You can’t lose something you never had.” I had witnessed the tears of grown men on few occasions; however, as that shattered brow bowed forward in defeat, I feared the knot in his conscience might succumb to wrenching sobs. Again, it was the man to whom I was maritally bound who verbally swept forward with all the assurance of the world.
“Mr. Campbell, I am well aware what strains post-war shock causes to a family, but I am certain Ross never once blamed you for the effects of the battlelines.” Post traumatic then. Keane was sure to recognize it first, as it was he who diagnosed it with a startling consistency.
For once, though, this seemed not to be the case.
“You misunderstand. My wife, Darcy, and I were married just after I returned from the western front decades ago. Our marriage was—is—a happy one; filled with as much love and understanding, as indeed you and your wife must share.” I choked on my whiskey; earning an odd glance from Keane. Not even a glare such as his; however, could hide the sudden flush at his ears. Mr. Campbell continued in earnest. “We tried our best for several years to have a child. I believed having a family to support would help rid me of my...ailments. However, even as I found my own financial successes, a child never came.”
“Until Ross.” I added quickly. Our guest nodded reluctantly into his shaking hands.
“Yes. Until Ross.” A generous dose of whiskey was poured and swallowed before he continued. “I have a sister, you know. Cicily. She has always been a foolish girl; travelling to all sorts of countries during the war, fraternising with young men, initiating an unsuitable number of flings. When Ross was conceived, she returned briefly. It was the first I had seen of her in years. For a time, I thought she might have changed; become less frivolous. As soon as our son was able to feed himself; however, she was gone again. I was convinced it was for the best. She would never have made an acceptable mother.”
“Ross was your sister’s son.” My voice was so incredibly sure, yet it took a great deal longer for my brain to comprehend those words born by my lips. Keane appeared far more controlled than I, for he merely settled himself further against the armchair’s backing and reached for his cigarettes.
“Who is the biological father?” Our guest shook his bowed head.
“I never knew. I doubt Cicily does either. I worked for the government during the first war. I took her to a few of the officer parties. It might have been one of them.”
“But you are not certain?”
“No.” Keane crushed the half-finished cigarette into a cut glass ashtray and rose to his feet; with less difficulty than the past few days, I was pleased to note. Hands were offered and clasped with excruciating solemnity, and together Keane and I began the string of stooped mourners as we ushered a battered man to our door. For a third time my companion held out his thin hand.
“Mr. Cambell, I am in earnest. If there is ever anything Lawrence and I could do in this time of crisis, do not hesitate to ring.” I momentarily feared a sob to send our guest sniffling into Keane’s shoulder, but no more than a tear appeared before he released my companion’s fingers and instantly gripped mine instead. Both shaking hands curled around mine in an action strangely casual—almost desperate—despite the fact he must have been a year or two younger than Keane.
“Miss, I was told you were with my Ross when he...fell.” Fell: a word carefully chosen to calm a tragedy and invoke the bitter feelings of divine irony. My voice became a cold mass of sickness in my throat; therefore, I managed only a slight nod in answer. The hand became clasped even more firmly at the once familiar nature of the action. Not to say it was painful, but unintentionally fierce, such as a jagged breath at the end of a long battle; sharp, swift, and final. His voice was very much the same. “I am glad you were there. I... I was afraid he died alone. No one should die alone.”
––––––––
“‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.’”
“Should I take that as a mark for or against my character? Really, Keane. Brutus? He murdered Caesar. That is hardly a thing to be proud of.” A soft chuckle, well ingrained upon my trained ears, forced me to lower my gaze from the dark velvet of the night’s sky to face the figure in the full illumination of an electric torch. He placed a basket beside me on the rock before having a seat himself. From the corner of my eye, I noted less hesitation than what would have arrison a few days before at such a simple action, as well as a variable torn clean from my companion’s presence.
“No Alessandro?”
“Inside. He wanted to build a castle—or some such defiance of gravity—with a few books from the rubbish bin.” Keane nodded back at the rectangular bits of light seeping from the cottage a little ways behind us. “Remarkable child.”
“A bit prideful, are we?” An eyebrow raised, though I found he did not rapidly deny my accusation.
“Are you aware he is proficient in at least three dialects? Perhaps more, if given the chance.”
“Gàidhlig, and... ”
“Latin, as well as French. Possibly Italian. There may be a few strands of old German cognizant in there as well.”
“I imagine that would be some cause of celebration.”
“Celebration? Lawrence, in two decades—even one—that young lad will give the world something to cherish. So sharp a mind as that comes once every generation, if that.”
“If the police don’t arrest him.” I snapped. Somewhere above our heads, one of the uncountable stars imploded in another galaxy, leaving only a gaping, black hole. Though such things remained unseen, the theory was still holding strong in the fibres of wandering minds. Beside them, the moon made its magnificent appearance; one half hidden, while the other glowed brightly upon the earth. It was rather like Keane’s face at that very moment. What bit I could see of his features stared down into my skull, though without any malice or anger.
I sighed and laid back against the rough, cold surface of the large boulder.
“Do you believe there are creatures up there?” Keane peered curiously—or perhaps speechlessly—at my face, then turned his attention toward one of the many pinpricks dotting the great dome of the atmosphere.
“On the moon, or in general?” I shrugged within the warm confines of my leather jacket.
“General, I suppose. I mean, we can’t be the only living organisms in the universe, can we? That just seems...”
“Lonely?” I jerked slightly at the understanding tone of the word. Certainly it might be lonely—damnably so—but that gave him no right to be omnipotent on the matter. I squinted at the smallest star placed furthest to the left, only to be ripped away again by the shattering brightness of the north. “Lawrence, it would be terribly arrogant to ignore the possibility of other life forms, but what category of life are they? They may only be bacteria—or shrubs, even—peppering the soil of another planet. Is there even soil? What if, rather than mere dirt, there was only water? Or brandy? Or chocolate? Or—”
“Be serious, Keane.” I laughed, sitting up to face my uncharacteristically bleary-brained companion. His eyes bore not even the slightest touch of fog. There was only the brightest clarity digging deep into my mind and a familiar twist of his lips below. The left side of his mouth was tugged up a bit higher than the other, giving the expression an almost boyish turn. But there was something else too. There was—oh, God—victory.
“Christ.” I moaned, dramatically falling back against the slab of rock once more as Keane began rifulling around in the basket pressed idley between us. From it was born two wrapped sandwiches, apples, scones, cheeses, and a bottle of fine madeira. I rightfully believed the latter of these to have been an addition from Keane himself, but he quickly waved away all other credit for the generous spread.
“Mrs. McCarthy thought you might be hungry.”
“And you as well, by the looks of it.” My companion raised an eyebrow and took a ravenous bite from the first pile of bread and meat. As I began on my own half of the meal, I noticed a long, graceful hand reach for the wine and start the ritual of pulling away the cork and pouring the sparkling liquid into two glasses appearing from deeper within the wicker basket. One dose I took willingly between my hands, though I could not conceal my curious stare as Keane brought his own draught slowly to his lips. The hand paused.
“I hardly think a glass of wine will cause a haemorrhage.” He assured, promptly taking a trained sip of the alcohol. I rapidly did the same.
Through Keane’s refined influence, I had become aware of a great many flavours and vintages when it came to wines and whiskeys, but there was always something remarkable about madeira. It was extraordinarily sweet—almost like toffee—with undertones very near to that of nuts or fruits. Often it was both.
My companion dutifully returned his glass to the basket when the last drops of wine had disappeared, as had a sizable portion of his sandwich. He sat back with a hand thrown behind his head and his eyes raised up to the vast painting above us.
“‘It is better for us to see the destination we wish to reach, than the point of departure.’”
“I would have never thought you a Verne sort of man.” I replied, searching his face for some jest, when there was only a haze of shadow and the first, light traces of cigarette smoke. “It just seemed a bit too fanciful for you.” A soft puff of white entered into the air and danced beneath both stars and moon.
“It is, really. Now. But I was a boy once—yes, Lawrence, even I—and found stories of the imagination far more telling than the drivel vomited by the scholars of the day. Fantasy is really only an appetiser; something to quell wonder until the world is ready for you to discover something even better.” I was shocked, and very nearly concerned, at the sincerity of his words. Not because I believed him constantly insincere, but such personal lines were rarely uttered beyond the confines of the study, and practically never over a piece of fiction. Keane; however, appeared unchanged by his words; as though the journey from his mind to mouth left no lingering flavour. His eyes swept from star to star as they must have a thousand times. There was no light reflected in his irises, for they gave a light of their own; blue and gentle against the unyielding darkness.
Suddenly, my companion sat up—though a bit too quickly for his comfort—and began sweeping the last remnants of our dinner into the basket. I jumped down from the rock in a heap of leather and together we trudged up the path toward the stone cottage. The nearer we came to the brightly lit windows, the more visible smoke from Keane’s cigarette became. What had started as thin wisps thickened into clouds of bitterness; sweetened somewhat with their familiarity. I was about to make a comment when an explosive noise inside the house shattered the silence of night.
Like a gunshot.
I immediately set into a run, only for my feet to stutter slightly when I realised Keane was not sprinting ahead of me, nor even at my side. My body turned around before my brain thought twice. There he was, a ways behind, rushing clumsily with a hand pressed over his stomach and eyes ablaze when they met mine.
“For God’s sake, keep going!” It is not often I do what I am told without a few questions, but I also knew it to be far better to follow Keane than it was to stampede against him. I ran again. Each step bit into my legs. Every gasp of air froze my lungs and stopped my heart. The food in my stomach congealed into one, solid lump as I rounded up onto the gravel drive. My shoulder forced the oak door open without hesitation or apology.
First, the study.
No one.
Had Mrs. McCarthy gone home for the night? She might have. It wasn’t difficult to prepare a picnic basket. The kitchen was empty. She must have gone then. That left only one known person.
Alessandro.
Up the stairs—two, no three at a time—onto the wooden platform.
Master bedroom?
Nothing.
Washroom?
Empty.
I checked the various other rooms to the same result. I had missed something, but what? What had I—
“Lawrence!” That was Keane’s voice. Unmistakably his. But where? Then I too was shot; metal piercing the heart and bringing brains to stupidity.
Where it all began.
The guest room.
I flung myself down the staircase; boots thudding against polished wood. Around the end of the bannister. Straight. Keep going. My legs propelled me forward into the room.
There, sprawled across the floor were several crates worth of books; all of which were exceedingly heavy and lay in a crumbled mass. I had seen similar destruction in London during the war. The rubble before me; however, was not torn apart by gruesome explosions, but instead the architecture of an inexperienced youth.
And, in the middle of it all, stood Alessandro as he scooped up armfulls of the books and once more began stacking and leaning them together into the first semblances of a building. Keane appeared similarly distracted; dragging himself to the bed and stretching his limbs across the mattress.
It was enough to make a person laugh in neurotic hysterics.
So I did.
I gasped for air as the full situation—which really was not a situation at all—tumbled upon me piece by piece. There is an occasional joy in being wrong. I staggered breathlessly around the fallen debris and crumbled onto the bed beside Keane.
“I could have died from a heart attack.” I hissed between ragged breaths. As though to help me toward an early demise, my companion dropped a book that had been inadvertently caught beneath his back onto my ribs with a painful crack. Muttering a genius selection of vulgarities, I turned the book around to read the page, only to discover it made little sense in either direction. The words seemed not to be words at all, but an odd mixture of symbols with a direct ancestry from numbers. I peeked under the cover.
The Language of Interethnic Communication
As my lungs searched desperately for breath, another object was gently placed before me. I thought of the photograph again, though with a few imaginary scratches of pencil beneath the blurred, chalky symbols.
ракетная бомба велес
Veles Missile Bomb
“Keane, is it possible the information is not trying to be given to the Soviets, but stolen from them?”