The Secrets Within Pages

Revelations Ricochet

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The ceaseless sound of the tap mocked the chaos spiraling in my mind. There has been more action in the last couple of days than there's ever been in the entirety of my boresome, quiet life. I thought I liked it that way. But as sick as it was, I couldn't help but relish in the adrenaline, the intrigue, something other than the same clockwork existence i'd been enduring. Looking around at my drafty dorm, the lack of any furniture besides my desk and bed accompanied by stacks of books, a realisation dawned on me, how devoid of life, my life is and that it took death for me to able to see that. In the presence of adventure, albeit perturbing, I recognised the lengths my solitude had brought me to. I was living alone in a dorm with no friends, no roomate, nothing but my studies.

Ink and paper, it seemed, had enveloped most of my life. I don't have any siblings nor did I ever have many friends, only acquaintances at school most of whom only entertained me when they required help with schoolwork. My introverted tendencies meant that my parents and I were very close and although we still are, the distance from London and my studies, resulted in the inevitable- only really catching up during holidays and the occasional phone call. Growing up, loneliness was a gusty wind that came and went, sometimes it would linger and sometimes it wasn't loneliness rather a sense of embarrassment that I had no one but my parents. It was only when I saw how broken others were from the absence of their own families, that a pang of guilt and sympathy seeped into my heart. I wondered if that was all humans were capable of- desiring what we do not have and neglecting what we do.

~~~

It was a sharp knock that announced his arrival. Cautiously peering through the peephole, I open the door. Hands in pockets and hair ruffled from the havoc of the earlier revelations, I gesture for him to enter. I take a deep breath trying to gather my thoughts as he sits down and I explain everything to him- the contents of the letter, spying in Osbourne's office.

To my surprise, the bastard begins to laugh.

Noticing my annoyance and perhaps rising anger, he says in between cackles,

"You're ridiculous! What do you think this is? An Agatha Christie novel? You can't seriously believe whatever that stupid letter said. And let's just entertain this idea of yours, did you ever consider that it might've been from the murderer himself or one of his accomplices? Or perhaps someone is trying to play a prank on you, I mean you're not exactly the hardest person to trick, you've proved that much by believing this shit."

Taken aback I don't speak a word, I throw my bag in his face.

"Look through it." I demand sternly, eager to see his smile fall and pride wounded as it becomes clear who the ridiculous one is.

Shaking his head, he reaches in and takes out all the journals, papers, photographs.

"This is Osbourne's stamp, the one he uses whenever he marks our work," I say showing him the letter. "Initially, I believed it was you who was playing a joke on me. I didn't suspect the murderer because Osbourne was killed by the globe theatre, in London. Thus, he wouldn't have possibly had the time to deliver the letter himself or have one of his accomplices do it so close to where Osbourne resides." I finish, inquiring eyebrows raised, awaiting his response.

His elbow, stable on the tabletop as his fingers hold the tip of his face, inquisitory eyes examining me.

"Sit down." He finally says.

His audacity never ceases to shock me, only he would dismiss a person then expect them to follow his orders.

"Don't tell me what to do, Golding."

He sifts through the papers and settles on the photograph. "That's Vincent Fraser and Waylen Chamberlain." He says pointing at the tall, brown skinned man and his fair counterpart.

Responding to the confusion on my face, he elaborates "Vincent Fraser, Waylen Chamberlain, and Gael Osbourne all attended Oxford 30 years ago. Best of their class, they went on to revolutionise the English language and Literature department at the esteemed college but 10 years after finishing their studies, they had a fallout."

"How is it you know all this?" What I actually wanted to say was 'How do you know all this and I dont?' but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how this bothered me.

"They're admired by all in Oxford, even put on the pedestal of legends. That, and I like to eavesdrop on Madam Rosebury's conversations, its pitifully obvious how much she fancied Osbourne. In fact, I should be asking, how are you not aware of them?"

Prick.

As I approached him to look at the photo, there was a knock on the door. Frozen, I stare at Golding unaware of who it is and paranoid of who it might be. Hastily, I pack everything into the bag when I realise the gun is still in here.

Shit.

"Miss Burroughs, it's the police."

Fuck.

With sweaty palms I grab the gun, manically searching for somewhere to hide it whilst panic erupts within me, like a firework exploding as the sparks fly.

Running a hand through his hair, Golding signals me into the bathroom and walks to the door.