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Chapter Twelve
‘In a word, I was too cowardly to do what I knew to be right, as I had been too cowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong.’
CHARLES DICKENS, Great Expectations
They were well into Hilary term before Griffin resurfaced. So many months had passed by then that Robin had stopped checking his window with his usual rigour, and he would have missed the note if he had not spotted a magpie trying in vain to retrieve it from under the pane.
The note instructed Robin to show up at the Twisted Root at half past two the next day, but Griffin was nearly an hour late. When he did arrive, Robin was astounded by his haggard appearance. The sheer act of walking through the pub seemed to exhaust him; by the time he sat down, he was breathing as hard as if he’d just run the length of Parks. He’d clearly not had a change of clothes in days; his smell wafted, attracting glares. He moved with a slight limp, and Robin glimpsed bandages under his shirt every time he raised his arm.
Robin was not sure what to do with this. He’d had a rant prepared for this meeting, but the words died at the sight of his brother’s obvious misery. Instead, he sat silently as Griffin ordered shepherd’s pie and two glasses of ale.
‘Term going all right?’ Griffin asked.
‘It’s fine,’ said Robin. ‘I’m, uh, working on an independent project now.’
‘With whom?’
Robin scratched at his shirt collar. He felt stupid bringing it up at all. ‘Chakravarti.’
‘That’s nice.’ The ale arrived. Griffin drained his glass, set it down, and winced. ‘That’s lovely.’
‘The rest of my cohort’s not too happy with their assignments, though.’
‘Of course they aren’t.’ Griffin snorted. ‘Babel’s never going to let you do the research you ought to be doing. Only the research that fills the coffers.’
A long silence passed. Robin felt vaguely guilty, though he had no good reason to be; still, a worm of discomfort ate further into his gut with every passing second. Food came. The plate was steaming hot, but Griffin wolfed his down like a man starved. And he just might have been, too; when he bent over his place, his collarbones protruded in a way that hurt to look at.
‘Say...’ Robin cleared his throat, unsure how to ask. ‘Griffin, is everything—’
‘Sorry.’ Griffin put his fork down. ‘I’m just – I only got back to Oxford last night, and I’m exhausted.’
Robin sighed. ‘Sure.’
‘Anyhow, here’s a list of texts I need from the library.’ Griffin reached into his front pocket and pulled out a crumpled note. ‘You might have some trouble finding the Arabic volumes – I’ve transliterated the titles for you, which will get you to the right shelf, but then you’ll have to identify them on your own. But they’re in the Bodleian, not the tower, so you won’t have to worry about someone wondering what you’re up to.’
Robin took the note. ‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Really?’ Robin couldn’t suppress it anymore. He expected callousness from Griffin, but not this blank pretence of ignorance. His sympathy evaporated, along with his patience; now the resentment, which he’d kept simmering for a year, rushed to the fore. ‘You’re sure?’
Griffin cast him a wary look. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘We’re not going to talk about last time?’ Robin demanded.
‘Last time?’
‘When the alarm went off. We sprang a trap, we sprang a gun—’
‘You were fine.’
‘I was shot,’ Robin hissed. ‘What happened? Someone messed up, and I know it wasn’t me, because I was right where I was supposed to be, meaning you were wrong about the alarms—’
‘These things happen.’ Griffin shrugged. ‘The good thing is that no one got caught—’
‘I was shot in the arm.’
‘So I heard.’ Griffin peered over the table, as if he could see Robin’s wound through his shirt sleeve. ‘You seem quite all right, though.’
