The Secrets Within Pages

Past and Present

I awake to a melody of knocks on the door. Rubbing my eyes, I push myself off my bed and move to greet or scold whoever is here this early. 

"Morning, Love." A sultry voice delivers.

I shut the door in his face. 

"I got you coffee." 

Damn it. 

Shamefully, I let him in. "I know you so well." He exclaims, expecting a confirmation.

I grab the coffee from his hands, "Only in your dreams, Golding." 

"Ah the ones you pray to be in every night?" He quips, taking his coat off to reveal a loose white shirt tucked into simple black pants. 

"State your business, then leave." I say flatly. 

"Not a morning person are we? Noted." He says, sitting down on a chair with his legs spread comfortably, as if he owns the place. 

Ignoring him, I sip the steamy beverage feeling the surge of caffeine rush through me, its warmth coating my throat. 

"What's this?" He asks, rising from his seat and to my dismay, pulling out the cork board of evidence I'd manically constructed nights before. 

"None of your business." I reply, grabbing the other end, attempting to pull it out of his grip. He doesn't budge, rather examines it. 

"Tell me, what is it that you can't figure out?" He inquires softly.

There was a lot, too much that I am yet to figure out. For instance, if Osbourne was slain with some sort of sword-like weapon made to mimic a theatrical prop then why was there a gun in my bag? Who put it there? Obviously, it must have been the one who committed the crime. The man stabbed to death under the Radcliffe Camera, Dominic Quill, was he a victim of the same psychopath? 

I explain it all. Everything that eats at me because I cannot find an answer.

For a moment, he surveys me as I scan the board. "Is there a correlation in the murders of Quill and Osbourne?" He inquires. Without a word, I open Osbourne's laptop, the one I deemed useless since I rarely saw him use it. Turning on the device, it requests a password. Golding looks at me, "Try Vivienne."

Declined. 

"Think of Osbourne. As much he must've loved his wife, he was a very work-oriented man. Oxford, writing, books. Books, what was his favourite book?" I explain, racking my brain to think of all the material we've studied over the years. 

"1984, Great Gatsby, Picture of Dorian Gray..." He lists, running a hand through his hair.

"No, no we studied those but none were his favourite." I explain, closing my eyes urging my mind to conjure up memories of our lessons to bring forth the answer I need.

"All the books we study will seize you at your core and shake you. They will push your mind to the extreme and force you to contemplate all you know. If they do not, then you are reading the wrong book. It will plunge you into an abyss of intrinisic questioning and allow you to see humanity in their truest form, good and bad, perturbing and enlightening." Professor passionately expounded as he walked around the room, using his hands to gesture his vehemence. 

Studying this, nothing and no one had ever filled my heart with such fervour. It was as though my whole life, I'd lived it in thirst, in hunger. An ache in my chest for something more. Something I could never quench, never fully satisfy. But when I read a perfectly crafted sentence or poem or a book that wholly encapsulated what I was looking for, that I felt- otherworldly. It was only when I studied literature, that I felt like that. Literature, to me, was a cloud of freedom. It made me feel as though I was floating atop the world, atop society. I wished to someday make someone feel the same with my writing. The passion that trickled from Professor, I wanted to feel that for the rest of my life. I loved it too much, like Icarus to the sun.

I looked to Golding, how his eyes were agleam. These were the rare moments I'd catch him so enamoured, it was usually the other way around. Where I'd feel him staring at me as I answered a question or melted into the worlds we studied. These were the moments where the barriers of competition we'd forged, would lift. And it was just two students, who loved what they studied. Two humans, reading about other humans. 

The lesson came to an end. As I walked out of the lecture hall, I spotted a book on Professor's desk. Nothing new of course, but it was open with a crease that meant he'd marked it. 

"Are you interested, Eleanor? I can loan it to you when I finish." Professor offered, walking towards his desk. 

"Which book it it, Sir?" I asked curiously.

"Crime and Punishment. Perhaps, my favourite of all." 

Dostoyevsky, ofcourse."May I ask why?" 

"Well, it shows the intricacies of human nature and I know what you're thinking. "Professor, don't all books show that?" yes, most of literature if not all, does. But, there is something about seeing the world from the point of view of such a narcissist as Raskolnikov that one gains a truly new and ameliorated perspective within themselves and their aptitude to such chaos and arrogance. It's terrifyingly exhilirating."

I grin so widely my cheeks hurt. 

"Raskolnikov." I say wistfully. 

"Crime and Punishment? You mean." Golding corrects.

"No, I mean the password is Raskolnikov. It wouldn't be the title of the book. It would be the character that professor was so enthralled by." I argue, typing it in and surely enough its correct.

"Clever girl." His voice, a husky, erotic whisper that ignites... something within me. One, I choose to ignore and refuse to show that it had any effect on me.

Quickly, as if running out of time I search for a 'Dominic Quill' in his emails. 

Nothing. 

I go back to the main site and search his name. All that appears is a number of articles about his murder. I click on the first one, hoping to find information on his life. 

'Professor. Dominic Quill, 79, was a father, a husband and a teacher who left us too soon by the hand of a deranged murderer. Quill was an English professor at Oxford university for most of his life, retiring a couple years ago to spend time with his family and get some well-deserved rest after his impressive work for the highly acclaimed college.' 

I freeze in my spot as I shoot a look at Golding seeing the same expression on his face. Shutting the computer a little harshly, I reach for the journals on the edge of the table and open the photo album. I flick through it speedily until I reach a page with a yearbook photo. One with Osbourne, Fraser, and Chamberlain standing next to what appears to be a younger Dominic Quill. I rip the picture out of the journal and stick it on the board, lining it up with both pictures of Osbourne and Quill to show their correlation. 

Quill was Osbourne's professor. 

"If they were both killed by the same person and Osbourne received this" Golding explained, pointing to the poem stuck on the board. "Then..."

"Then, Quill must've received something similar." I finished.

We both looked at each other, perplexed. Our eyes exchanging what our mouths didn't dare utter.

Instinctively, we both grabbed our coats and rushed out the door.