Free Birdkill by Alexander McNabb Page A

a quick think about how to approach this.’
    Archer sat back, his boyish features open and engaged. ‘Super. Let’s hear it.’
     
     
    They sat for three hours and four сafetières of coffee, talking over her English lessons. Her head was buzzing as much with caffeine as the result of their discussion. A highly informal approach, very interactive. Start with assessments, look at some appropriate texts and introduce critical analysis and perhaps form some views of narrative and dialectic. Week two, they could start to build on that.
    She liked Archer, but found him evasive every time they started to steer towards the Institute’s research work or the kids’ relationships with the research staff. It reminded her of the strangers’ warren in Watership Down . Don’t talk about the snares, you sleek rabbits.
    Finally, they both sat back, snapping shut notebook lids. ‘Done. You can work on the granularity of it all tomorrow so you’re well prepared for Monday. I think you’re going to have a blast.’
    ‘It’s a little daunting. And they’re clearly going to start by making points and trying to trip me up.’
    ‘And you’re not going to get drawn into that. You’ll be fine. If you have any questions, just call me. Heather should have given you an extension list, if not ask her when you go down through reception. In the meantime, I look forward to having a drink tomorrow night.’
    Later, back in her apartment, she sipped the last of her merlot and resolved to go into town and stock up on supplies Friday. She replayed her memories of Simon Archer and was a little perplexed to realise he’d managed to get under her skin. Damn that boyish charm and that little streak of raffishness in him.
     
     
    Lawrence Hamilton hated the trips to London, his usual room at the Berkeley and his club notwithstanding. The train always lulled him and put him into a sitting sleep from which he would invariably wake in an uncomfortable position with his muscles moaning. This time he’d drooled onto his lapel and woken to find the woman sitting opposite smiling at him pityingly with what she clearly thought was kindness and looked more like dyspepsia. He thought better of wishing her to go to hell just in time to stop himself vocalising the sentiment, but his face had clearly betrayed him and she glanced away to study the countryside. Rather pointedly, if anything.
    The taxi from the station to the Institute was cold, the cabbie indifferent.
    Simon Archer was standing in reception talking to Heather when Hamilton came in out of the darkness and drizzle. ‘What are you two jabbering about? No work to do?’
    Archer turned at the sound of his voice. ‘I see you had a pleasant stay in London, Lawrence.’
    ‘I did not.’
    Archer followed Hamilton into his study, closing the door behind him. Hamilton hurled his beige Crombie at the armchair and dropped his attaché case. ‘Sherry?’
    ‘Thanks.’
    Hamilton poured pale sherry into the small glasses, handing one to Archer, who didn’t much care for sherry but was too polite to say so. ‘So how did it go? With Raynesford?’
    ‘A rubber stamp. The man is simply gross. We’re going to get our funding, but the Shaw girl is a huge problem to them.’
    ‘Why? She’s fine, settling in nicely. She’ll be a good teacher.’
    ‘If she remembers…’
    ‘She doesn’t. She’s starting afresh and we’re going to help and support her.’
    Hamilton raised his sherry glass, index finger accusing. ‘Keep your eye on her. The slightest sign she’s experiencing any awakening, any return to her trauma, you let me know.’
    ‘Fine.’ Archer drained his drink and wiggled the glass at Hamilton. ‘Thanks. I’ll be getting off.’
    Archer heaved at the door. He turned. Hamilton was peering into his empty glass, his shoulders slumped. The whisper sounded like ‘Murderous bastards’ but Archer didn’t quite catch it.
    Archer propped himself against the doorframe. ‘I’m