The Matrix by Jonathan Aycliffe Page A

was a long-standing member. I had been particularly intrigued by him, for he did not fit the stereotype of the cult adherent in terms of social class, intellect, education, or anything else, as far as I could see. We had spoken at length once or twice, and I had marked him down as someone I should get to know better. At the same time, I had been a little wary of him, fearing that, with his unusually incisive mind – a mind long practised in sniffing out inconsistencies and nailing lies – he would see through my flimsy cover.
    I shook hands and told him I had been ill.
    ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. He was a man of about fifty, in excellent physical shape, conservatively but expensively dressed, and well groomed. He spoke with the upper-class accent of a Scot who had attended Fettes College and taken a first degree at Oxford before studying law at Edinburgh.
    ‘You were becoming a familiar face at our meetings,’ he went on. ‘The Fraternity can always do with fresh blood, and for my own part, a little intelligent conversation never goes amiss. I had high hopes of receiving you for initiation before long. Are you better now?’
    ‘Yes . . . yes, quite better,’ I stammered. He made me nervous in some way, I did not know how. As though his gaze penetrated me, as though his thoughts reached beneath my skin.
    ‘Well, then, I trust it won’t be long before we see you back at Ainslie Place.’
    I reddened, not knowing if Jurczyk had spoken to him about me or not.
    ‘I’m afraid . . .’ I started, coming to an abrupt halt almost at once. I decided there was nothing for it but to confront the matter head-on. ‘Look, I may as well tell you, if you haven’t heard already, that I had a . . . a spot of unpleasantness with your Mr Jurczyk. I think he suspected me of trying to steal a book from the library.’
    ‘Did you?’
    ‘No, of course not, I . . .’
    ‘Then I don’t see why you should make a thing of it.’
    ‘It was just . . . He was very angry. I thought he might have spoken to other members.’
    ‘Jurczyk? No, he couldn’t have.’ He paused. There was a trace of whisky on his lower lip. His look was disconcerting. ‘I take it you know about Jurczyk?’
    There was something in his voice that made my heart shiver.
    ‘Know?’
    ‘What happened to him.’
    ‘No, I’ve heard nothing. What . . .?’
    ‘He was found dead a couple of weeks ago. Margaret Laurie found him in the library one Thursday morning when she went in to type some letters. He’d been there overnight, so the doctor said.’
    My heart had stopped shivering. I was cold everywhere now, just cold, as if it had become winter inside me.
    ‘How . . . How did he die?’
    ‘Heart attack. So they say. Margaret said she thought something might have frightened him. She told me his face was contorted, as though he had tried to cry out. But that’s not unusual in a heart attack. I’ve listened to enough medical reports in my time. Pain, I told her, not fear. That’s what made him look like that.’
    I put down my drink. I was feeling sick. He was lying there, Jurczyk, I could see him on the library floor. Crying out.
    ‘When was this exactly?’ I asked.
    He looked at me oddly.
    ‘When? I’m not sure. Early this month, a week or so after New Year.’
    ‘Could it have been the eighth?’
    ‘It could have been. Yes, I think it was. What’s wrong?’
    ‘That . . . was the day I had the argument with him. You don’t think . . .?’
    He smiled reassuringly.
    ‘Oh, I’m sure not. He was an old man. A sick man. It was just a matter of time. You shouldn’t worry about that. Put it out of your head.’
    I looked up and caught sight of Iain on the other side of the lounge, coming towards me. As was usual when he was lecturing, he did not wear his dog-collar. For some reason it relieved me that he did not. As he came up and greeted me, Mylne got down from his stool and picked up his coat.
    ‘I’ve got to be going,’ he said. ‘I