Death of Connor Sanderson: Chap 1:Part 9.

Chapter One: Part 9.
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The figure leaned forward until the face was undressed of its shadow, and a handful of bony digits waved slowly in a gesture of acknowledgement.

Connor expected fear...he had not expected relief. The prospect of answers was a heady infusion that brought a smile to his lips. Ah, Malachi. Confusion creased his brow. Where did that name come from?
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The pale skin glowed with an eerily waxy sheen as Malachi grinned and nodded slowly, and Connor knew. He put it there, inside my head. As Connor lifted his chin and met the probing regard head-on, pain pounded in his temples and then darted around the back of his skull as the slide show of his own body lying in the morgue, smeared in blood, marched across his retina.

As the images melted away, Connor eased his tight shoulders. “Okay,” he whispered, “Midnight.”

“First sign of madness, you know?” said Reginald under his breath as he slipped quietly onto the wooden bench seat next to Connor.

“What?” said Connor, losing his focus on Malachi for a mere second, but when his keen gaze combed the shadows again, as Connor knew he would be, the figure was gone.

“Talking to yourself...it’s the first sign of madness.”

“I thought you were in the front row?” Connor looked at his best friend, Reginald Cranham, with new eyes. Tilting his head as the vein in Reggie’s forehead throbbed with a mesmerizing rhythm. Connor inhaled deeply and the scent of red-berries fermenting in sugar wafted into his brain and played havoc with his concentration.

“Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all for today, and if you have any questions, I’ll be in my office for one hour." Sir John's clipped words ricocheted off the walls in the domed space as he gathered his notes.

A smattering of applause accompanied his departure, followed by a moment of breathless silence.

Punctuated by the clattering of tens of dozens of notebooks and pencils being hastily gathered and soles of shoes hurriedly scraping over the wooden decking of the amphitheater platforms, the sudden surge of movement broke the spell. Connor automatically rose to his own feet and glued his intent gaze at a spot between Reggie’s shoulder blades as he followed him through the doorway back out into the corridor.

As the jostling students, impatient to escape, weaved their scurrying bodies in between the two friends, Connor whistled gently and stepped out of the tide. Settling his shoulder on the wall, he waited as Reggie swam against the flow of bodies and finally stood beside him.

Idly watching the frowning earnest young men moving purposefully past, Connor could feel Reginald’s speculative gaze boring into his face, and he took a casual step backwards, seeking out the shadows clustered in the corners.

“Well, I was down the front, Cornelius Sanderson,” teased Reginald. “And where, pray, were you hiding? Sir John’s disapproval was burning a hole in your empty seat.”

Although Connor’s features wore a mask of shadow his derisive snort pulled a grin across Reginald’s cheeks.

“May I call you Cornelius?”

“Not if you expect me to answer,” said Connor darkly.

Reggie laughed gently as their ritual unfolded. “I consider myself reprimanded...Connor it is.”

Connor heard the muffled thud which signified that Sir John had left the teaching wing by the rear door, probably seething with disappointment, and he switched gear.

“How is your Uncle Edgar?” Connor asked nonchalantly. His avid gaze tracked the enthralling flow of human bodies as the stragglers trickled along the hallway and disappeared around the corner.

“He’s well.” A raised eyebrow accompanied Reggie’s answer.

“And his psychiatric research?”

“His theories on electro-shock therapy will be published in the Lancet in January.” Reggie’s chest puffed out with pride. “His trip to America was worth every hour of seasickness, so he said.” Reggie chuckled lightly. “He sadly saw little of the dining room during his six days onboard the Lusitania. Its domed engraved ceiling was not conducive to his sea legs at all. He could not tell which way was up, I believe, were his exact words.”

“I hear the White Star Line is launching sister ocean liners that will dwarf Cunard’s fleet. Perhaps he will find the Olympic, or Titanic, kinder to his constitution,” said Connor distractedly.

“And I hear they will sail from Southampton. Much more civilized than trekking hundreds of miles north to Liverpool.”

“Just so.” Connor smiled tightly, “Is he attending the family’s dinner tonight? I’d like to pick his brains on his findings.” Connor no longer believed he was insane. But Malachi had hinted at a far worse explanation and maybe a lobotomy or the blissful oblivion derived from electrodes on his head would still be something he would welcome. I may as well be prepared.

“He is, yes.”

“And Lavinia?” said Connor, laying a smoke screen which he knew would distract Reggie.

Reginald smiled widely this time, “If I didn't know you better, Connor, I’d suspect you had designs on my sister. Sadly, I do...and unrequited love is a painful place, so, be kind to her, hmmm?”

“It’s an adolescent crush, nothing more. She’ll be horribly embarrassed a few years down the line.”

Reggie’s face was serious for a moment. “Lavinia is no longer an adolescent.” He shook his head ruefully. “I do not blame you Connor, you barely notice she exists. You are much too busy making your mark as Sir John’s houseman to consider courting. Sadly, that matters little to a young woman and her tender heart.”

For a moment, the thought of a tender heart, enchanted him and set his tastebuds tingling.