Dreaming Of The Bones

“Whatever happens now won’t make any difference to her, you see that, don’t you?” said Darcy. “I’m sorry she’s dead”—his voice quavered and he cleared his throat—“but it was an accident, and I don’t see how ruining our careers and our parents’ lives will help her.”

“You’re crazy.” Nathan licked his lips. “We’d never get away with it.”

“No one would ever know. Not unless one of us tells.” Darcy looked at them each in turn. “And if one of us tells, we’ll all suffer for it.”

In the silence, Nathan saw his hoped-for First in natural sciences turn todust, saw his parents shamed beyond bearing by the scandal And he had tried to save her, he’d done all he could…

“What …” began Lydia so softly that he might not have heard. She rubbed a dirty hand across her tear-streaked face. “What would we…”

Darcy sat back on his heels and closed his eyes for a moment, then took a shuddering breath. “I know a place, in the Fens…”

Nathan crossed the road below the mill and took the path to Byron’s Pool. It was treacherous where it ran along the river, humped and barred by twisting tree roots, and he went carefully in the dark. When he reached the edge of the clearing by the pool, he stopped. After a moment, he made out a darker darkness between the trees a few yards away, then he heard the snap of twigs beneath shifted weight.

“Darcy.”

“You were always punctual, Nathan. It’s one of your more endearing traits.” Darcy stepped forwards, brushing at his waistcoat. “But I didn’t know you had a penchant for the cloak and dagger. This is a bit much, insisting on a clandestine meeting in the woods.”

The air felt warm and moist against Nathan’s skin, as it had that long-ago night. He knew now what he should have done then; he had always known, just as he’d somehow known it would come to this. He felt his rage settle into icy calm. “You’re a bastard, Darcy,” he said. “You were always a bastard, but until today I thought you had some scrap of human decency. I didn’t know until today that you’d killed them—Lydia … and Vic.”

He heard Darcy’s quick inhalation, sensed him regrouping. “Don’t be absurd, Nathan.” Darcy’s voice held the concerned condescension one used to a child. “You’re talking absolute nonsense. You’ve been ill, and I’m afraid your policeman’s been giving you very upsetting ideas. Why don’t we go back to your place and have a drink, talk it over.”

“Do you think I’d be fool enough to drink with you? Lydia should have known better—she knew what you are—but even she must have believed you wouldn’t sink to premeditated murder.”

“You’ve no proof of anything,” Darcy said, still unruffled, but Nathan saw him lean forwards a bit, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. The moonlight washed the color from his clothes, making a monochrome of the affectation of his waistcoat.

“I don’t need proof.” Nathan swung up the barrel of the gun and racked in a shell, the sound ominous and unmistakable in the silence. The gun rested easily in his hands now, angled slightly across his body. His father had taught him to shoot, years ago; the old pump-action shotgun had been his pride and joy… Never point a gun at someone, son, unless you intend to shoot them. “It’s long past that,” he said, and he wasn’t sure if he answered Darcy or his dad.

“Nathan, you can’t let some stranger’s suspicions destroy a lifetime of friendship,” said Darcy, changing tacks. “We have a history together, a past to protect. You can’t just throw that away.”