Matt stared at the periodic table of elements pinned to the wall. He’d put it there at the start of term, a symbol of his new life, his new focus. It wasn’t working.
He was supposed to be exploring the mysteries of atoms and reactions. Instead, he was collapsed on the creaky, lumpy single bed of his dorm room, trying to forget the outcome of his other exploration, the one he wasn’t supposed to be following. The one that led down a path he’d hoped, rather than believed, he’d left behind.
Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron… her name had been Beryl, the cheerful older lady from the coffee shop. Now she was a corpse.
The police should find her soon, probably by way of a hysterical phone call from an early morning runner. And knowing his luck, the runner would be Aled, or Graeme, and he’d have to hear all about it over breakfast.
Matt had calls of his own to make. Best to wait though. Wait until the police were there and the scene secured, or whatever it was they called whatever they did.
Couldn’t wait too long though, or he’d be accused of not doing his duty. A duty he’d never asked for, never wanted. If he was late, or failed to report the incident at all, would they replace him?
Not bloody likely. He’d be ‘reprimanded’, possibly ‘disciplined’. And when he’d healed enough to be able to function again, he’d have to find another name, another home, and the cycle would begin again.
He pulled a contact up on his phone and hit ‘call’.
The cultured, cut glass tones of the voice he hated answered in two rings. “Mattias, an unusual hour for a call.”
“Your fucking demon got loose again.”
The DNA of Stories 