Free Chasing the Dark by Sam Hepburn

mask. Maybe mine was stuck like that, too.
    The centre of Cambridge was a maze of old buildings the colour of half-sucked toffees and cold mashed potato, all fluffed up into domes and towers. The Prof said he’d give me a tour after lunch but first we’d go to his rooms.
    Walking through the gates of St Saviour’s was like stepping into one of those costume dramas Mum used to glue herself to on Sunday nights, only instead of girls in bonnets trying to bag themselves a husband it was full of students in jeans lugging books around. The Professor picked up his post from the porters’ lodge, which was a kind of office to one side of the main gate, packed with keys, phones and pigeonholes. He introduced me a tubby bloke with wolf-man eyebrows and a bowler hat standing behind the desk.
    â€˜This is Albert Brewster, Joe, our head porter. Rules this place with a rod of steel.’
    Albert looked me up and down. ‘Pleased to meet you. And since you’re a guest of the Professor’s I’ll turn a blind eye to the dog. Just this once.’
    We traipsed across a couple of windy courtyards, through a maze of stone corridors and up these narrow steps to a massive book-lined room that smelled of leather, wood, paper, polish and coffee all stewed up for years and years. Through a half-open door at the back I could see a bedroom.
    He told me to make myself at home. Yeah, right. As if any home I’d ever live in would have a carved wooden desk the size of a tennis court and those big pointy windows you get in churches, with a view straight on to the river. It didn’t bother Oz. He went straight over and stretched himself out in front of the gas fire like he owned the place.
    I put down Ivo’s holdall and stood next to him, listening to the flames hiss and pop while the Prof fussed around making tea and telling me how glad he was I’d come. The mantelpiece was crowded with photos of Ivo and a dark-haired girl who looked just like him.
    â€˜Is that Bitsy?’ I said.
    He nodded, clearly pleased I’d remembered her name.
    We talked a bit about Cambridge and him teaching philosophy and what exactly that meant, and he showed me some book he’d written about old coins and said he’d been collecting them since he was a kid. Neither of us mentioned Mum or Ivo till the Prof picked up the holdall and took out Ivo’s notebook, holding it gently like it was a precious old relic.
    â€˜I’m so glad you brought me this, Joe. Somehow these blank pages seem to keep his potential alive. Is that stupid?’ I shook my head. ‘But I’d like you to keep his laptop.’
    â€˜Thanks, Professor,’ I said. But he’d turned away as if it hurt too much to think about why it was going spare.
    I waited, listening to the wind rattling the windows and watching his grip on the edge of the desk grow tighter. After a bit I said, ‘That thing you said about Ivo’snotebook. Yur . . . a friend said something like that about the way it hurts when someone you care about dies.’
    The Prof’s shoulders stiffened. ‘Said what, Joe?’
    â€˜That the pain is good because it keeps the dead person alive in your heart.’
    His head sank on to his chest, as if it had suddenly got too heavy to hold up. He stayed like that for a long time, with the notebook clasped in his hand and this sad feeling fluttering between us like it had a life of its own. After a while he made a tearing noise in his throat and put the notebook down.
    â€˜So, Ivo’s laptop. Did you find anything interesting on it?’
    Careful, Joe. Watch what you tell him. Take it slow and steady .
    â€˜There was something . . .’
    The look he gave me was mostly pity but he couldn’t hide the glint of curiosity in there as well.
    â€˜Ivo emailed this bloke at The Times and asked if he could write him an article about the KGB archives in Kiev – interviewing people