.

.

.

The following morning Charles wakes up earlier with intention to go running, which is a bit unusual for him, but the need to stress out his body and thus placate his mind is stronger than morning sleepiness.

He runs until his throat feels iron-hot and constricting from the inside. Runs past a line of small and old cottages, featuring red roofs and tall chimneys, and turns to the park. At daybreak sky is still grey and pregnant with heavy clouds. It is going to rain in the afternoon according to forecast. Lightheaded, he stops to catch a breath and wipes his sweaty forehead with his sweatshirt sleeve. He puts his hands just above his knees and bends down, heaving. Cruel cold immediately gets to him, since air seems to carry a promise of chilly wetness. After giving himself no more than two minutes of rest he starts moving again.

Whilst running down the meandered path between shedding trees, Charles has a perpetual sense of being far out and alone. The feeling which, by no means, is induced by oppressive stillness. Yet, exhaustion works its brilliant magic and by the time he is done with a shower he feels like himself again.

Time has whizzed by like a speeding train.

In a blink, his last lecture of the day is coming to end, and although these children are fresh from school and they used to be oh so immature, he notes that at present there is something curious about them. There are about forty of them, which is a very good attendance marker as far as he should be concerned. It's not what nags at him. As he comments on the next slide a thought springs to mind. What is different? And the answer is — the entire auditorium appears to be in a state of constant anticipation: a classic pack of humans displaying their groupbehaviourin crises of various severity. Never before had her class watched him with such bright feverish eyes and rapt attention. They are opportunists today, he thinks suddenly, in weird detachment. They test their prey, sensing any weakness or vulnerability through visual cues and even through hearing. And though the metaphor he has just involuntary used is unsettling, it's quite apt. He is indeed longing for an echo of bell.

"Any questions?" he asks routinely, wrapping up a presentation.

"Are you sure about Jubilee, Professor?"

"What did you mean when you said "police might be looking in the wrong direction"?

"Have you ever done criminal profiling?"

"What made you say that?"

Charles calms the chorus of voices by raising both hands palms up, as though directing a wayward orchestra, which he is doing, in a way.

"Are you sure you are in the right room, because Extended Journalism course is elsewhere."

He gets a couple of nervous laughs in response to that and considers that a success.

"I'm afraid, I can't answer," he says calmly and honestly, not entirely sure that they would be able to understand that in today's world of liberty too much of it can do you a bad favour.

Expectedly, his words are met with a low hum of disapproval, which he stops with a curt gesture, perfectly accompanied by the full and resonant sound of the bell.

When he comes inside his office to collect his things, the rain is already pelting against glass hard. It immediately gets darker to the point that he has to flip a switch. Charles spares a look at the clock. It's a quarter past four and he's got a counselling session at five.

It is not on the coat hanger. No, not again.

Gently rubbing his temples, Charles fights the creeping fog of exhaustion.

His gaze travels over the layout, while he urges his mind to come up with a recollection where he put his umbrella. If anything, he should have moved the furniture from the start, because current accessibility is poor, indeed. The side of his desk is too close to the window and a spare chair always gets in his way when he tries to water a scraggy corner plant he inherited together with the desk.

Harbouring a fraction of hope, Charles checks the gap between an imposing old wardrobe with leaded glass door and a newer looking filing cabinet, but comes back empty-handed. He couldn't have put it in one of the drawers, it just wouldn't fit, he reasons. It is not on the shelves either. Those are full of identical blue folders, so his umbrella would be easy to spot. He lowers his eyes down, on the faded carpet. Rain doesn't show any signs of stopping, so if he attempts a run to the car park, he'll get soaked in an instant. He finally discovers it leaning on the filing cabinet from the side facing the window. When he picks it up, he also tugs at the corner of some thin file, snugly stuck in the tiny breach between the back of the filing cabinet and the wall.

There's a name scribbled on top of it. It is a tad dusty, unfamiliar, so Charles presumes that it has belonged to whoever occupied this office before him.

Aware of running late, he leaves in a hurry and accidentally stuffs that yellow folder in the bag with his own papers.

.

.

.
.

Charles noticed a car on the roadside after he had already passed it.

It has orange lights at the front and at the back, flashing on and off repeatedly, and if not for them, the curtain of darkness and drizzle would completely conceal it from the eyes of the world. His car skidded to a stop, a bit too hard, and he lurched in his seat and so did his bag, for it didn't have the advantage of wearing a seatbelt. Back in the hospital, he was told that this road is not used often, so it'd be unfair to leave whoever they are alone, at this hour, and in this dreary weather, somewhere in the backwoods of Glirham.

Sighing, he darts a glance in the rear view mirror. Someone is coming, so he leans over and opens the passenger door and comes face to face with very wet and very ghostly Lehnsherr.

"What a surprise!" Charles calls out of sheer reflex.

"Indeed," parries Lehnsherr immediately, though the scratchiness sucks sarcasm out of his voice.

Nasty chill from the open door is edging inside and Charles cringes sympathetically. Life has its funny ways.

"Sorry, I could —"

"Can you —"

As though synchronized, they start talking simultaneously and stop at the same time.

"Well," probes Charles cautiously, "would you like me to give you a lift?"

"Yeah, thanks. That bloody wrecker is stuck god knows where," nods Lehnsherr sharply. "Wait a minute."

With this he shuts the door and Charles watches him striding back to his car and knocking against the glass, so that the person inside can roll down the window and pass something to him.

Soon, Lehnsherr is back. As he makes himself comfortable in the front seat, his black raincoat is producing teeny squelchy noises, coming in contact with upholstery.

"Didn't you, by chance, abandon anyone in the car?" Charles wonders aloud, starting the engine.

"Of course," admitted Lehnsherr hoarsely as he pulled out his phone and pressed it to his ear. "I can't leave my car in the middle of nowhere unattended. Obviously. Listen, you'll have to wait for me. Gonna be late. No, not sure. No, I couldn't have left the keys. You know why."

The phone conversation is brief. As Charles is eavesdropping out of his volition he realises that Lehnsherr has trouble speaking: his voice is strained, as if he's got something stuck in his throat. After he finishes speaking he tucks his phone back and stifles a cough.

"Detective, could you please reach back and grab my bag? I've got a flask there."

"A flask?" his expression darted from confusion to comprehension rather fast.

"Yes, some hot tea will do you no harm," says Charles in a tone that allows no room for alternative interpretation and which he uses to softly subdue the impediment youngsters.

In all honesty, the reaction is more malleable than anticipated from the man of Lehnsherr's disposition. He simply takes the flask and takes a long draught of tea.

"Where shall I take you, by the way?"

"Anywhere habitable."

"If you have any peculiar destination in mind, I'd be glad to help."

"Drop me by the railway station, then," grunts Lehnsherr, clearing his throat. It doesn't seem like he can articulate anything else at this point, and though Charles is longing to ask some questions, just resting on the tip of his tongue, he opts to stay silent.

When their quiet journey ends a block away from the railway station, Charles turns to see Lehnsherr's eyes fixed on him.

"Thank you. I'll be seeing you," he gives Charles a meaningful nod before leaving.

The slam of the car door jerks Charles back to reality. He watches Lehnsherr turn around the corner and tightens his grip on the wheel. He appears to have lost a sense of time while driving. He also didn't say good bye, did he?

"I should have asked," he says softly. "Time is running out. No. Not good analogy… can't even penetrate the boundaries of the subject. The absence…"

Here was the coincidence thrown into his face, the one he wasted in vain.

.

.

.

Having made a considerable detour he stops the car opposite a new, partially lit block of flats and gets out. He finds himself looking up at mute windows. She used to live here, somewhere inside this mass of concrete and steel. One autumn evening, about a week ago, she left the flat she's recently moved into with her parents to never come back.

Charles crosses the street and stands with his back to the entrance. What he sees directly in front of him is an older, shabbier building of local school. To the right, almost on the intersection, there is a bright convenience store, standing out like a bad tumor on the background of towering high-rises. He feels gusty wind in his hair and breathes in sogginess. Alone on the street, except for an occasional car swooshing by, Charles keeps wondering, and not for the first time, where everyone is. No dog-walkers, no late passer-byes. In this town, the streets get empty quite early, in spite of large student population.

He hears indistinct, phantom footsteps behind him — someone running down the stairs. This someone looks slim and petite even in a shapeless hoodie. They carry nothing but a small backpack and their steps are very light: where the feet contact the ground the soles of good sport shoes make just a tiny bit of grit. It's her. She seems to be in a hurry and to compensate for that she takes large steps, striding down the void-like street, sliding past lamp posts and finally turning at the corner opposite the convenience store.

Charles follows her faint footsteps, keeps his eyes on her ever fading retreating back as she walks on and on, past the shadowed boulevard, past the pale church. He circles the block with her and stops at another intersection as her back gets fully erased by the darkness.

What made him think that he could add anything new? He shuts his eyes and goes over her route one more time.

Last time she was spotted it happened right when she was leaving her house. It was all in the paper. A school guard, when double checking the gate, recalled seeing someone of slim stature walking down the street. It would be logical to presume and therefore exploit the conjecture that Jubilation, or Jubilee, like she insisted to be called, had left on her own volition; that someone must have waited for her, most probably, in a vehicle of some sort. All in all, it did look like a case of fleeing lovers. But, for once, there is that crumpled note, which is screaming, practically yelling that something is missing, something is wrong.

She hated being late, she once confessed online, but she always was, despite her best efforts. Was she enthusiastic about this date? Or wasn't she?

What if she had just come across a random stranger? Just a predator on the lookout?

Charles runs both hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. He feels like he is stuck in a desolate chamber with constant static noise, where she is the only person who can let him out — his judge and his persecutor.

.

.

.

Voices come when Charles is doing the dishes. A male and a female are talking rather loudly outside. And though he is normally curious about his mysterious neighbours, this morning his head is lethargically woozy due to last night's investigative endeavour and late return, so his interest is turned down to the lowest degree.

"No, I've had enough!"

The woman raises her voice so much that the words get carried inside through the top portion of kitchen window, which he usually keeps open.

The reply is indiscernible, granting the idea that either the man's voice is naturally harsh and rumbling or the other is trying to subdue emotions from leaking into verbal exchange.

"Oh, yes?! It was awfully thoughtful of you," she laughs in a strained way, which makes Charles regret that he started listening to this argument in the first place.

Doesn't this man notice how deep is affront in her voice, how hurt she is. Maybe they have been together for so long that he doesn't pay attention anymore; desensitised to her emotional needs and feelings.

Thankfully, his phone begins ringing, playing the most annoying melody he could find on the list, and buzzing on top of the table. He wipes his hands with a dish towel and after checking the caller ID presses his phone between his shoulder and ear. To avoid any more cutting noise Charles drags his sluggish body to the living room and shuts the kitchen door.

"Hello," says Jean. "How are you doing today?"

She is always less formal on the phone.

"Decent," picks the right adjective Charles and Jean chuckles in response.

While mulling over the question, which he intended to ask, Charles misses her next words entirely and says a random "I guess", which apparently was exactly what she was hoping to hear.

"Okay! Please, don't forget about it next Saturday. And I don't know how it's done elsewhere, but here we expect our guests to arrive on time. I'll mark you as confirmed. And also I'm obliged to remind everyone that it is a "black tie preferred" event," she says mildly and trained tediousness in her tone is more telling than a thousand words. "Do you know how to get there?"

"I'll be fine," he says, thinking that there is too much hassle around this Town Day.

"Goodbye, then, Professor. See you on Monday."

"See you," he echoes and puts the phone on the table, next to that yellow folder he retrieved from his office.

"I never asked whose it was," he grumbles aloud and looks up.

Seated as she is, in the armchair opposite his, she watches the ceiling and her lips are moving slightly, as though she is praying.

He thumps his stone-heavy head back. When he looks at the armchair again she's gone.

"What I need is more information to pinpoint who is lying. Someone is. Family? Friends? Police?"

But what can he do? He can't approach her grieving family and start asking questions. This is a sure way to face charges and get suspended and thus offer Stryker a splendid opportunity to fire him.

The thing is: Charles genuinely likes it here.

That yellow folder suddenly catches his eye, tantalising him, feeding him a promise of an easy mystery, which is as close at hand as it can be.

Whatever he decides to do about her case will be done later. He can't stand inaction right now.

It is an ordinary thin folder with a rubber band keeping its contents from falling out. Charles carefully pulls it back and opens it. There are a few empty blanks and a brown envelope inside. After looking through blanks he dismisses them as clean and takes the envelope. It is made of rough quality paper and its bottom is a little protruding. Apparently, it wasn't sealed properly, because when Charles shakes it, the contents spill out on his coffee table and on the carpet. Yellowish human teeth scatter all over the place and his eyes widen as he slowly puts the envelope back on the table.

.

.

.

On Mondays Charles has an after lunch lecture on Introduction to Social Psychiatry, which is not exactly his subject to cover and which was literally shoved into his face after the prior lecturer had been sacked along with a dozen of others. He leaves the lecture hall oddly exhausted: his blood is simmering, nose is stuffed with cotton, and his throat is hot oven.

It doesn't take a genius to recognize the nasty bug creeping closer. Wary of his state, Charles bundles up very carefully despite sunny afternoon.

Bright sunlight and golden foliage seem to be mocking his misery and being tremendously successful. He squints up at the sky and almost misses a flash of the person he wanted to talk to since morning.

Doctor MacTaggert has just disappeared around the corner, her brown jacket melting in the distance. Charles tamps down the urge to let it be. He adjusts the strap of his bag and quickens his pace.

He catches up with her when she's pulling open the cafeteria door and she seizes him up with a look which seems to be a lot colder in comparison to their introduction exchange some time ago.

"Excuse me, Doctor MacTaggert, I—"

"Are you coming in or not?" she arches an eyebrow, holding the door open.

Charles' sense of smell is dead and buried, because every visit to this place is associated with overpowering aroma of fresh pastry and coffee. He also has trouble concentrating on her words — an unwelcome discovery.

"Of course, I'm coming. Thank you," he nods and then holds the door for two laughing girls in fancy long coats, who are balancing one coffee take out container per hand.

By the time he joins her at the counter she is already pouring milk in her tea and is quickly typing something on her phone. Under different circumstances Charles would bet that she is avoiding his eyes on purpose. At the moment he wishes his brain matter consisted of active neurons not dysfunctional zombie cells.

"Please, something hot," he rasps to the solemn-looking barista named Scott.

"Can you define something, please?"

"Anything is fine," Charles squeezes out a smile.

The girl, wearing the same brown apron as barista, and busy with wiping the counter stifles a snicker.

"We don't sell alcohol," warns him overzealous Scott.

"I'll make you tea, sir," chirps in the girl, whose name-tag is suddenly blurry.

"Thank you."

After shrugging off his coat Charles sits on the stool next to hunched MacTaggert and adopts a light, friendly tone.

"Will you let me treat you to a dessert in exchange for a brief chat?"

She jolts up, slightly, and though her face remains impassive, she leans forward and tilts her head to the side — Charles' clue that he's probably doing it right.

"No, I won't," she tells him so very dryly without a hint of pleasant interest that was there before. "We can talk though, only if you agree to call me Moira, because I feel ancient when young staff members refer to me with honorifics."

"Charles, then," nods Charles, swallowing a remark about young staff members with ease born of constant practice. From his viewpoint, Moira doesn't look like she has aged a single day after thirty, but Charles knows better than anyone how deceptive looks are.

"What's the deal?"

"I'm in need of your professional expertise," he adopts a serious voice, appealing to her sudden hard bitten side.

She sits straighter, taken aback.

"Unless you accidentally uncovered an early man site I haven't heard of, there's not a lot I can do for you," she is openly studying his face and her interest is like a shroud, insphering her utterly and completely.

Charles takes his time sipping a newly arrived tea and gathering his thoughts. Distracting, feverish heat is licking his face and his neck as though he is sitting next to the bonfire.

"I've just acquired a copy of your "Theories of Primitive Rituals". Your work is simply outstanding," he begins.

"Well, thank you."

She smiles, still tight-lipped, and thus there comes a wish they were in the bar instead. Alcohol fumes are certainly some famous conversation booster.

"So it happened, that right now I'd appreciate a brief sympathetic magic tutorial. That is, if you can spare a minute or two. You might be wondering why, so let me clarify it first," Charles says as smoothly as he can, and though it's not exactly a lie he's going to tell, his heartbeat speeds up nonetheless.

"Okay, I'm all ears."

She instantly locks gazes with him and Charles realises how dark and deep her eyes are. Like the well. Like the abyss.

"I've just started working at the Grey Yard, you see."

The expressions that flicker on and off her face are rather odd.

"Uhm, well, rumour has it they don't take well to outsiders," she rumbles, seemingly to herself, and the corner of her lips twists downwards.

"I hope you can understand why it should be confidential," Charles lowers his voice conspiratorially, "I've got a patient: a difficult, troubled man, who seems to be obsessed with a particular idea. I absolutely can't disclose anything now, and, um, any guidance kindly provided by you would be very helpful. In order to help this person I have to study this phenomenon."

Charles plays patient confidentiality card with remorse. However, truth be told, had he just approached her and started asking questions about the significance of human teeth in certain rituals, she would probably be even less pleased.

"Are you familiar with the concept of Law of Similarity and Contact? Like you can you use the lock of hair to lay the curse on the victim, or, for instance, some ground from the graveyard dusted on their doorstep is believed to summon death. Crude methods the likes of which are still used all over the world. More often than I previously imagined, to be honest," she hums, somehow amused and exasperated.

"Amazingly enough, I agree," says Charles, "and thanks to your book I've got a notion of a disturbing kind."

And thanks to whoever decided to drop thirteen human teeth in his office. Here Charles has to gulp down a lump for there's a subliminal, almost primal urge to shrink away from it, to sweep it away and wipe his memory clean.

"What exactly?"

"You strongly imply that savage ascendancy is what remains constant throughout humankind even in post-industrial era."

"The so-called average person in the general population has mentality of that born in the Middle Ages, Charles," she starts and then her phone buzzes.

The sentence is left hanging in the air, as well as entire conversation.

"Sorry, it's urgent," Moira quickly types a reply and then meets his eyes. "I have to go. I also feel that I have to apologize. You know that, right? That nasty article left quite an impression. I might have misjudged you."

"Oh, you're neither the first person to tell me this nor the last. I will refrain from interviews from now on," smiles Charles thinly.
.

.

.