A Heavy Conscience

Lawrence woke up to the sound of the wind howling, the fireplace smoking, his papers ruffled and spilling all over.

Over the sink, he glanced at his face in the mirror and grimaced. Below his eye, obscured by a few days’ growth, a purple-blue bruise blossomed angrily. He ran a finger over it gingerly, the skin tender and sore, and pulled a face before snatching his coat and rushing out into the street.

He ran into Cecilia in the corridor, balancing a stack of books. He felt her watching him, but was too engrossed in his thoughts, too nervous and worked up, to meet her eyes; at the bottom of a flight of stairs he glanced up briefly, but she was gone.

The wharf was deserted except for a few grimy fishermen sheltering from the salt spray. They were laughing around a fire, hunched over empty wooden crates which also made makeshift stools. Lawrence navigated the passageways, recognising them faintly through the hazy lens of last night's excitement; one alley led to a steep, twisted staircase hidden in darkness. A solid oak door stood at the top, glowing with light. He knocked and waited. He could see shadows moving through the cracks and stood by impatiently as the bolts were drawn back. An eye peered at him suspiciously.

It withdrew almost instantly, and he was ushered to a familiar sitting room and presented ceremoniously to an older man in flannel and slippers, who appeared to be in the middle of a late breakfast. He gestured to a seat across from him mechanically, as if these interruptions were a daily occurrence for him and resumed his tea.

Lawrence sat awkwardly, unsure of what was expected of him; a shadow flitted across the room, and a small tabby cat, stretched, yawning, and curled up in front of the fire, watching him uneasily, its eyes yellow slits.

'All that fuss about some tea. Outrageous,' the man said, lifting his cup as if demonstrating his outrage and tossed it back, smacking his lips contentedly and sighing.

'Let’s see...' the man pressed a finger to his temple. 'Don't tell me...It's Mr. Wallace. Yes. Yes.' He clapped his hands, overjoyed with himself and, still writhing with delight, pounced to his feet and tossed the newspaper he was reading into the fire. It flared for a moment and then died, shrinking to ash.

'Now, how can I help you Mr Wallace?' Lawrence was taken aback by the directness of the question and floundered under a penetrating gaze.

'I...I.'

The man nodded sagely. 'I see. You are still afflicted with the heavy conscience. A frightful thing for a young man.'

The cat unfurled itself and jumped into the man's lap; he stroked it fondly and it rubbed against him, purring with delight.

'But as I said...' he gave the cat one last caress as it sauntered away. '...I can't make you into something that you are not. All I can do is make your situation more desirable.'

'It's just that I don't remember what happened last night. I'm usually a particular person. And this,' he pointed to indicate the state of his face, but the man, inspecting it closely, simply waved it away. 'I can explain that very easily. What you got up to after you left, I can’t be sure, but you did leave here in quite a state. Raving, ready to conquer the world. You did have a drink or two. To fortify yourself.'

The man smiled, revealing a chipped tooth and Lawrence smiled back, still uncertain.

Lawrence found Cecilia in the guest library, pouring over historical manuscripts and scribbling in a notebook. She didn't notice him at first, engrossed in her work and he watched her for a moment, hair falling over her eyes, her sleeve stained with ink, but then turning to the bookshelf she caught him watching and smiled. In that moment, his anxiety disappeared.

'You've deciphered it.'

She nodded enthusiastically. 'It's not an inventory as I once thought.' She indicated to a spot on the manuscript where the symbols were blotted out, 'it's a religious text.' She smiled up at him, giddy with happiness. He cleared his throat.

'I wanted to talk to you about last night.' She frowned and his stomach lurched. 'I don't remember much, but I just wanted to say that if I said something or did something…' She flushed, and Lawrence cursed himself for his thoughtlessness.

‘We had dinner. We had a walk on the pier, and you saw the fishermen...'

'I didn't get into a fight did I.'

She shook her head. ‘You seemed really interested in the fish. You talked to them.'

Lawrence smiled wanly. 'What a strange thing to do.'

'Well...after that you did try to climb the tree in the courtyard. I had to call the boys to get you down and then when they tried to grab you, you fought back.' She gave him a tortured look. 'Robert had to knock you out.'

Lawrence’s hand went up to his cheek.

Lawrence stalked languidly into the room; he drank from a saucer, slurping milk loudly and made himself comfortable on the couch. He heard voices and, suddenly alert, lifted his head.

'I hope you don't mind...' the voice was muffled. '...the poster outside.'

'Yes, yes. Please, make yourself at home.'

The two men appeared in the room, the older of the two leading the way.

The other man noticed the tabby cat.

'I hope you don't mind. Wallace likes to meet new people,' the older man said, smiling crookedly.