Wilberforce (10 page)

—You drink that.

Mr. Grieves gestured to the toothglass and then rooted in the open shelving for another tin, water crackers, which he poured carelessly into the lid and set on the table. Dry crackers and water felt oddly appropriate, and under Mr. Grieves's gaze, Morgan drank and ate. His tongue seemed enlarged, its sensibility magnified, detecting the lead of the pipes, the lime and peat of the water, even the dust that must have lined the glass. As he emerged from the cocoon of scarf and coat, he began to sense the outlines of the place: cold, shabby, even more so than the studies back at the Academy. The floorboards here wore a rug, but it didn't look as though it had ever been beaten out, and it was unraveling along one side. Unlike the studies, Mr. Grieves's windows possessed drapes, but they, too, looked thirdhand and possibly moldy. The bed, which Morgan glimpsed through an arch, was larger than his own, but its mattress sagged in a way that made him think of a backache. Only the books on the shelves seemed cared for. Mr. Grieves's clothing hung out of sight somewhere, with the exception of a pair of socks, which dangled below the drapes, clipped in place by the window. Morgan could see no radiator, only a gas heater with a meter on it, like the one they'd had at that dreary hotel in Bournemouth last Christmastime. Beside the armchair languished a pile of exercise books. Mr. Grieves's satchel bulged. A clock chimed the quarter hour, a clock that must have been ticking all the while.

Mr. Grieves unwrapped the pot, poured out the tea, stirred in milk and sugar, and plunked the cup before Morgan with a determined expression.

—Right, he said, I think you had better start talking.

There was a lump in his chest, and his blood had slowed to something hot and viscous. Irresistible, to sit there at Mr. Grieves's table, the man's eyes upon him. No one would disturb them. Mr. Grieves had nothing, apparently, to do besides cross his fingers around his teacup and let his thumb caress the chip.

—I didn't do it, sir.

Mr. Grieves's eyes widened.

—I didn't know about it either. I know who did, now, but I didn't then. I promise.

Mr. Grieves scrutinized him, his eyes deepest brown, impossible in the light even to distinguish from black. And as he stared, a chill crossed Morgan's scalp, announcing something uncanny. His mouth had spoken without his leave, but Mr. Grieves did not ask what he meant.

I didn't do it
would most rationally refer to the explosion in the chemistry lab. It would be reasonable to say such a thing when caught out-of-bounds in the middle of the night. It would be reasonable to inform Mr. Grieves that he was not running away from punishment. But Mr. Grieves was not looking at him as though Morgan were speaking of the explosion. Mr. Grieves was looking at him as though they were speaking of the thing that had come between them three years ago and never quite departed. Mr. Grieves's expression was in fact a tell, one that confirmed Mr. Grieves still thought of that time and bore a grudge.

However freely Morgan might lie about any number of things, he was telling the truth about the Gallowhill business. He had not taken advantage of Mr. Grieves's friendship to ruin the dig. He had not insulted Gallowhill's memory by engineering the prank. He hadn't known who did it when Mr. Grieves questioned him that day.

—I believe you, Mr. Grieves said at last.

A weight, one Morgan didn't until that moment know he bore, seemed to slip from his shoulders, as he felt the pilfered gloves slip from his overcoat. He picked them up and set them on the table beside the cracker lid.

—I stole these, he said.

—From whom?

—Holland.

Mr. Grieves examined one of the gloves.

—Won't Holland miss them?

Morgan nodded. Mr. Grieves regarded him again.

—Why did you steal them?

—I needed them.

—Why?

The bald simplicity startled him, and he felt a pleasurably painful freezing like he used to feel before entering Silk's study for Accounting. Every other grown-up framed questions with commentary, sarcasm, rebuke, or with a clear indication of the answer they required. Mr. Grieves's query in its nakedness was at once more curious and more exacting than any Morgan could have expected.

—The cold, he said.

—And are you cold now?

Morgan dipped a fingertip into his tea and found it too hot.

—Drink that, Mr. Grieves said.

Morgan lifted the cup to his lips. Mr. Grieves, a human mirror, did the same.

—And? Mr. Grieves prompted.

Morgan held his cup closer.

—As we're in the confessional, you may as well out with it, Mr. Grieves said.

—Out with what?

—All of it.

And a wall rose up before him, like the waves Poseidon raised to crush Odysseus's ship, a wall of everything the question had summoned. Here they were, outside the Academy, somewhere in the free world, subject only to the softly ticking clock. They might stay here forever, that gaze forever upon him, forever ready to listen to the truth.

But he couldn't sit there eternally mute. Time did turn, and patience, even from Mr. Grieves, had a limit. If he continued to say nothing, Mr. Grieves would grow bored with him and decide his problems were better confessed to someone else.

—I don't know where to start, sir.

Mr. Grieves refilled his own cup:

—How about with what you were doing in my landlord's garden at three o'clock in the morning.

—Isn't three o'clock supposed to be the wickedest hour of the night, sir? The reverse of when Christ died on the cross?

—Don't evade.

So known to be cornered thus, the way Silk cornered him, but more clear-sighted. Silk had been able to see to his heart, but sometimes what Silk claimed to see there was only a reflection of Silk's own ideas, the ones from his idea shelf that he kept so proudly polished, regardless of their relation to reality. But Mr. Grieves was not a man to make guesses. Mr. Grieves relied on evidence. Now for instance, he had offered no hypothesis concerning Morgan's circumstances; he merely searched for facts. Already he could tell truth from evasion. Already in his understanding he had sensed the real Morgan Wilberforce, the one Nathan and Laurie missed, the one even Silk mistook, the one his father no longer sought.

—Morgan?

And now he was calling him by his Christian name, as he hadn't in years.

—I didn't know it was your garden, sir.

—Oh, no?

—No, sir. I swear it!

—I believe you.

A tightness in his chest noticed only in the loosening.

—Nevertheless? Mr. Grieves prompted.

—The cats were fighting, and I was … waiting for the mail.

Mr. Grieves turned those brown-and-black eyes on him again—believing, demanding, searching—until Morgan somehow, without the right words, without paragraphing, without thesis of any kind, unfolded the story: the trek through the woods, the post-office van, Wales …

—And yet, Mr. Grieves said, you didn't actually want to go to Wales, did you?

Morgan certainly did want to go to Wales. In fact he still wanted to go there. Wanted to and would!

—You made for Fridaythorpe, Mr. Grieves observed, not the station, which is closer to the Academy. You imagined a post-office van rather than a luggage car, which is bigger and easier for concealment. You chose a vague destination and lacked a compelling reason to go there. And you hid in my garden when you ought to have been pursuing transport.

It made him sound a duffer, fit for nothing but imprisonment in a run-down school amidst people who neither understood nor wanted him. He dug at the table with a fingernail.

—God knows I'm a complete waste of space, sir.

Mr. Grieves straightened:

—God knows nothing of the sort.

His skin tingled as though the air had grown heavier.

—You're focusing on the wrong thing, Mr. Grieves said.

—I suppose I ought to be focusing on how lucky I am to be at a school at all, to have food, clothing, friends, a family who love me …

He almost added
et cetera, et cetera
.

—That's undoubtedly true, said Mr. Grieves, but not just now very interesting.

—What in God's name is interesting, sir?

—Stop taking the Lord's name in vain, please. And stop wallowing.

Mr. Grieves's voice was mild though his words were not, as if he could take any amount of railing and respond unfazed.

—The question you ought to be asking is what.

—What?

—Yes, Morgan, what. What is it in that heart of yours strong enough to wake you in the night and take you from the only home you know to a vague and ill-considered destination you had no desire actually to reach?

The room didn't change color. There was no smashing that he could point to. It was more incremental, as if a heavy mantle had been laid upon his shoulders and was gradually revealing its weight. As he grew accustomed to its pressure, it grew heavier, yet it answered a longing so hidden it could only be known in satisfaction. To be held so always, to have his heart seen, known, and shown to him, to be reeled in from error so lightly, as if someone existed who truly knew right from wrong, someone capable of enforcing this distinction on him, someone for whom it was as natural as breath.

His father had been that kind of man once, but even then his father had never stood apart from the world as Mr. Grieves had done when he refused to take up arms in the War. Morgan couldn't fathom what would drive a man to such a stance, but whatever it was, it must have come from the clarity Mr. Grieves now possessed.

—Well?

—I don't know, sir.

—Of course you do. Try harder.

The mantle settled again, and a pressure in his throat that made his voice sound queer.

—I …

Was it possible that Mr. Grieves would not retreat? Was it possible that he would sit there telling Morgan to try harder until he provided an actual answer?

—I suppose I must have wanted to be found, sir.

So bald, and so inadequate.

—I thought as much.

Now the eyes! He
thought
as much? How could Mr. Grieves have thought
anything
?

—I didn't mean it like that, sir, I meant—

—Shh.

Then like a coal, Mr. Grieves's fingers touched his wrist, and Morgan saw in those eyes a softness he could scarcely endure.

—You've been lost?

Morgan cast his gaze to the tabletop, to the ridges in the wood where crumbs had collected, but it began to blur, and he retracted his wrist into his sleeve, his hands clasped together like a monk's. He needed a gesture that would make light of Mr. Grieves's words. He needed a rebuttal, but the mantle was so heavy, so protective in its burden, so desirable, so filling.

—You need a lot of looking after, don't you?

The warmth of that voice buckled the last support that remained, and Poseidon's wave struck, drowning his men, splintering his ship, and dragging him into that salty, breathless sea. Was it so easy to demolish his reserves, built with such effort all these years? The last time he'd been reduced to such blubbering had also involved a weight on his chest, a devastating pain there on Silk's study floor. How had Mr. Grieves accomplished as much barely touching him? He buried his head in his arms, helpless against the sea, until, like Ino's veil, a handkerchief appeared at his ear. He put it under his nose.

—I'm too old for that, sir.

—Are you?

Again his throat seized. Again he hid his face in his arms. Mr. Grieves went to put on more water.

—Let's review facts, Mr. Grieves said, running the tap. First, you were sufficiently motivated to abscond from the Academy tonight. Reason not yet established. Second, you left without supplies and you made for an illogical destination. Why? Because you wanted to be found. Third, you have confessed to glove theft, but your manner indicates a person far more compromised than such a crime would suggest.

Through salt water, Morgan's face burned again.

—Are you in some danger at the Academy?

—No, sir.

—Are you a danger to someone?

Was he?

—No, sir.

—Points off for hesitation. Have you done something wrong and fear being found out?

He'd done countless things wrong, all of them commonplace. He didn't fear punishment from any authority.

—I'm not afraid of being found out, sir.

—Then perhaps you're afraid of not being found out.

Morgan inhaled sharply, and in the moment that followed, he saw he'd given himself away. A grin colonized Mr. Grieves's face.

—Of course! Mr. Grieves said. In that case, young Morgan—

He wasn't young! He was seventeen years old!

—I think you had better make up your mind to tell me everything, and I mean everything. I'll grant you the seal of confession for the next …

He craned to see the clock.

—three-quarters of an hour.

—But you aren't a clergyman, sir. You aren't even a proper—

He stopped before he said
Christian
.

—Yes, yes, Mr. Grieves replied airily. We're all imperfect servants. But you're wasting time.

If anyone else had bid him make a full, vocal confession of every wrongdoing, he would have dismissed them as pious or naïve. Now, though, a hunger came over him for the particular form of discomfort Mr. Grieves had been inflicting since he entered the flat.

—I've lied, sir.

Mr. Grieves nodded, giving no indication whether he found Morgan's words surprising.

—I've been lying for a long time.

—To?

—My father. Pearl and Lydon. Everyone.

—To yourself?

He hesitated.

—Go on, Mr. Grieves prompted.

—That's all there is.

Mr. Grieves appraised him:

—You don't want people to know the truth.