Deep Damnation

This is a work of fiction. All portrayals of persons, places, institutions, and companies are fictitious, and do not relate to any real persons, places, institutions, or companies.

The action takes place mainly in a minor university town in England, around the year 2000, with some flashbacks to a North Yorkshire town and moors some twenty years earlier.

* * *

"Is this what I've got to look forward to from now on? An endless succession of boring bloody faculty soirées? Tea and macaroons with the college wives?" Gladys sought to mask her nervousness behind a display of aggression against her husband. In the States she had known how to handle social occasions, but back home in England she was not sure that the same techniques would apply. She did not like being unsure. She preferred to be in control.

Peter kept his eyes on the road as he drove, concentrating on keeping the car in the left hand lane. They had been abroad long enough for him to have lost the habit. "It won't be that often," he replied wearily. He had long since learned that it was useless to oppose his wife's nagging - it only made her worse. "There might not be another one for ages. This one is just to introduce me to the rest of the faculty."

Gladys had no intention of lacking a grievance. "I hope you're going to assert yourself," she said. "Remember that this is just the first rung of the ladder."

He was stung into objecting, "First rung? A professorship?"

"That's right. How many of their absent-minded dons can claim to have had twenty years as an important executive in a top-flight American corporation? In today's market your career plan should aim at being college principal within two years, and chancellor of the university within five. I'll certainly do all I can to get you there, but I can't do it on my own. You'll have to pull your weight."

"I think we should count ourselves lucky that I got this appointment at all."

"Lucky?" Gladys exclaimed fiercely. "Nothing to do with my advice and guidance, I suppose? Do you think you'd have got the post if it hadn't been for me? If I'd let you put 'honorary' after your doctorate on your resumé as you wanted to, do you think they'd have given you the job?"

Peter muttered to himself, "Perhaps not, but it would have been the truth."

"Joined the boy scouts now, have we?" Gladys replied scornfully. He should have known she would hear him, he thought. She was never one to miss an opportunity to put him down. "The truth," she continued, "is that you are a no-talent loser. The money and position we had in America we didn't get by telling the truth, let me remind you. When I think of how many silly wives I lunched, and how many sweaty palmed husbands I was nice to. And we lost everything I worked for because you are infirm of purpose and didn't have what it takes to keep hold of it. My husband! You're as spineless as Duncan was. How I ever thought otherwise I can't imagine."

Peter spotted his objective ahead, and swung the car through a signboarded gateway and up a tarmac drive. "Give it a rest," he said. "We're here now. Try to be pleasant."

"Aren't I always?" she replied. "If there's one thing I do know, it's how to be a corporate wife."

The building came into sight. A young man stepped from the brightly lit portico and guided the car towards a parking spot among a number of other cars. As they came to a stop he opened the passenger door for Gladys.

"Mrs Betcham?" he queried. "Professor Betcham?" They nodded confirmation. "If you'll just follow me. The Dean is expecting you."

He led them to a vestibule where they were able to leave their coats, then through double doors into a reception room.

* * *

There were a score of people in the room, standing around in twos or threes, chatting animatedly. A waiter and a waitress descended upon the newcomers with decanters of sherry and platters of canapés. A rotund man sailed towards them with a conventional smile. "Ah, Professor Betcham, I was beginning to fear you might have lost your way. And may I assume that this is Mrs Betcham?"

Peter dutifully introduced his wife. "My dear Dean," Gladys enthused. "I have so been looking forward to meeting you, Peter has been singing your praises so," and she aimed her most practised smile in his direction.

The Dean however appeared to be abstracted and was looking around the room as if searching for someone. He spotted his quarry and gestured. A couple detached themselves from the mill and approached. As they neared, the Dean said to Peter, "Now here's someone you must meet. This is Dr. Duncan King, your Senior Lecturer in IT. Duncan, this is Professor Betcham, the new head of department. I'll leave you to get acquainted." With that, he moved away with the satisfied air of a man who had just ticked an item off his to-do list.

Duncan proffered his hand, saying, "I'm pleased to meet you, Professor. I look forward to working with you."

Taking Duncan's hand, Peter looked into his face in puzzlement. "I . . . I . . . Duncan? Duncan? Is it you?"

Duncan gave a short laugh. "Is it me? Am I me? Let me see now. Is that a linguistic or an ontological problem? Perhaps I could paraphrase Descartes and claim, 'I think I am me, therefore I am me.' What do you think, darling?" he asked playfully, turning to his companion. "Am I me?"

She replied, "Well I must admit I did look at you this morning and think, 'He's not quite himself today.'"

"Ah! Not quite myself," Duncan mused. "I am not Schrödinger's cat then. I do not have to exist or not exist in toto. I can be Lewis Carroll's Cheshire cat, and exist fractionally. So there's your answer, Peter. I am me, but perhaps only partly." As if suddenly remembering his manners he said, "I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce my wife. This is Peggy. She works for the University too, in administration."

Peter was looking increasingly bemused, and even a little unwell. "Peggy? Peggy?" he replied. "But that was . . ." In response to a nudge he swiftly said, "This is my wife, Gladys."

With a look of innocent amusement on her face, Peggy said, "How do you do, Mrs Betcham?"

Gladys had appeared a little shaken at first, but she had now collected herself and replied brightly, "Peggy! Peggy Coward! Don't you remember me? Gladys? Gladys Stoney as was?"

"Oh, I remember you, Gladys," Peggy replied. "I remember you very well. Gladys Stoney, and then Gladys King, weren't you? Now you're Gladys Betcham. I remember the last time we were all together - you and your first husband, me and Peter. We went to the pictures together. Do you remember?"

Gladys replied, "Yes, I remember," and her mind went back to an evening twenty years earlier. Of course she remembered that evening. Over the intervening years she had recalled it many times with pride. The turning point of her life. The moment she had had her Big Idea.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

They had been to the cinema to see Orson Welles' Macbeth. Duncan's choice, of course. Trust him to pick some boring intellectual twaddle. The only fun bits had been the ludicrous scenes with the witches. They had come out of the cinema, she with her husband Duncan on one arm and Peter on the other, as was her right. She was the Queen Bee in those days. Peggy had ranged herself alongside Duncan, not Peter, although she was engaged to him. So transparent, the silly little madam!

Gladys remembered that she and Peter had been joking. "What a load of old cobblers that was!" she had said. "The wicked witches of the west? I nearly wet my knickers laughing!"

Peter was laughing with her. "What a hoot! You nearly got us thrown out."

She heard Peggy quietly murmuring to Duncan, "I enjoyed it."

They had crossed the road to the waterfront and leant upon the railing. Below, the river made shushing sounds as the wavelets lapped against the stone wall.

When she suggested, "Where to now then? The Prince of Cumberland?" Peter had readily agreed.

"Good idea. Let's make a night of it."

But Duncan had objected. "No, not tonight, Pete. We've got to make an early start tomorrow if we want to get to Burnwood Caves in good time."

His stupid hobby again, always spoiling their enjoyment. She had let her views be known. "Oh, you're not going potholing again? I don't know what you see in it."

That crawler Peggy of course had sucked up to him. "I think it's fascinating. Like going back into the womb and emerging reborn. Can I come with you, Duncan?" looking at Duncan in doglike devotion.

Gladys remembered with quiet satisfaction how Peggy's face had fallen when Duncan snubbed her, talking down to her like an elder brother admonishing a younger sister. "Only to provide transport, Peggy," he had replied. "We're going to see if the caves connect right through to the other side of the hills and come out above Annunside. It would be a great help if you would drive round and collect us."

Peter had looked unhappy. "I'm not too sure that it's a good idea, Dunc. The weather could turn nasty. There's rain forecast."

That was the point at which the conversation had taken a crucial turn, she remembered. Duncan had laughed dismissively. "Oh you. You're never too sure about anything. You weren't too sure I could code Hoffmeyer's algorithm to achieve the matrix transformations, were you? But I did it."

Peter's face had lit up at the change of subject. "Why don't you do something with that program, Dunc?" he had asked. "One of the Vice-Presidents of BobbiSoft is in London just now. Ask for a meeting to demonstrate the program. It could be worth millions to them."

"Money isn't everything, Pete," Duncan had observed, reproachfully, in his usual pious way. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that? Look at the reflection of those lights on the water," and he had wandered away along the quayside with Peggy in tow.

As soon as they were out of earshot Peter had lost no time sidling up to her, like a fly to honey. "Don't you mind Peggy mooning after Duncan the way she does?" he had asked. "He is your husband, after all."

"And she's your fiancée, isn't she?" she'd replied, flirtingly. "I don't see you doing anything to stop her."

Gazing into her eyes, Peter had sighed, "She can moon after him all she likes if it leaves me alone with you," and he had moved closer until their shoulders were touching.

She remembered thinking how easy it was going to be, men were so stupid. "Oh Peter," she had said, in her most helpless and vulnerable voice, "I often wonder if I did the right thing, turning you down for him."

He had not been able to hide the hope in his voice. "Aren't things going too well between you?"

"You know what he's like," she had replied. "He's got no ambition, no get-up-and-go."

"That's Duncan," Peter had agreed.

That was the turning point. He had taken the bait; it was time to strike. In as casual a tone as she could manage she had asked, "This program of his, is it really worth a lot of money?"

His reply had been reassuring. "I'll say! It could be the making of him. Empires have been built on less."

"Have you got a copy of it, Peter? Could you demonstrate it to this Vice-President chap?"

"Yes, I could if it came down to it. What have you got in mind, Gladys?"

She remembered the relief that had flooded through her. Everything was in place. Now all that was needed was to get him to commit himself.

As if idly thinking aloud, she had mused, "If anything happened to Duncan, I suppose the program would belong to me, wouldn't it? I could do what I liked with it. Of course, I wouldn't know what to do with it. Unless I had someone like you to help me, that is. Someone who's not without ambition."

"You know I'd do anything I could to help you, Gladys. Anything at all."

She had looked into his eyes and seen a mixture of hope and fear there. She had pressed her breast against his arm, and lust was added to the mix. "You will be careful in those caves tomorrow, won't you, Peter?" she had murmured. "Accidents can so easily happen. I'd hate it if you were the one who didn't come out again."

The other two rejoined them then, and Duncan had showed off in the annoying way he had, quoting a bit of the film they'd just seen. "Time to call it a day. We don't want it to be so late, friends, ere we go to bed, that we shall lie too late."

Oh yes, she remembered all right. An evening she'd never forget, in fact.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Gladys' mind was jerked back to the present by Peggy observing brightly, "I won't embarrass Peter by remembering him. It wouldn't be fair after he did such a good job of forgetting me."

Peter was saved the trouble of responding by the Dean coming up to them and asking, "Now then, how are you good folks getting along?"

"We've been remembering old times, Dean," Peggy replied cheerfully. "But we mustn't keep the good Professor and his lady from meeting the rest of the faculty, so we'll leave you. Come along, Duncan." She took Duncan's arm and led him away.

Peter had been looking increasingly uneasy during these exchanges, and now seemed to be on the point of fainting. His knees buckled under him and he clutched at Gladys for support. "Get me out of here," he gasped in her ear.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Gladys said. "My husband isn't feeling very well. I think I'd better get him home."

"Oh dear," the Dean replied. "He does look green and pale. I hope it wasn't those vol-au-vents. Here, let me help you." He and Gladys supported Peter as they moved towards the door.

* * *

There was no conversation in the car as Gladys drove them home. Peter was glad of the safety belt as he sat limply in the passenger seat, hoping desperately that he wouldn't be sick. Gladys gripped the wheel, white-knuckled, and operated the pedals with vicious jabs. There were grinding noises every time she changed gear.

"This bloody country," she snarled. "Can't even fit automatics to their sodding cars." Peter hoped that she would never find out that he had been offered an automatic, but had chosen a manual shift because he thought it looked sportier.

She pulled up on their drive and let Peter out. He went into the house while she put the car into the garage, denting both the car and the lawn mower in the process. When she entered the sitting room, Peter was at the sideboard, a glass in his hand.

"That's right. Go on. Take a couple of whiskeys on top of the sherries, why don't you? That'll solve everything."

"Can't you stop bitching for once? Shut up and let me think."

"What's there to think about? That was him."

"It can't have been. He's been dead for twenty years," Peter protested.

"Has he? We've only got your word for that, haven't we?" Gladys said spitefully.

"For god's sake, woman, you identified the body."

"That body wasn't Duncan's, you fool. I only said it was to get the death certificate. I wasn't going to hang around for seven years for a presumption of death, was I?"

"If Duncan survived, why has he never said anything?"

"What do you mean, if he survived? You testified that you saw him die, remember?"

Of course I remember, Peter thought. Heavens, he'd rehearsed his lines so many times before the inquest that they were burned into his mind forever. And over the ensuing years he had rerun them so often that they now served as his memory of what had happened, the true memory being buried deep, deep down, hopefully never to emerge. Of course he remembered his testimony.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

It was quite dark down there, of course, but we had torches. The tunnel we were exploring ended in a cavern. We shone our torches around. It was bare except for rocky outcrops and a shaft in one corner. I said, "That's it, then. This is a dead end. We'll have to turn back," but Duncan wanted to go on. He moved to the shaft, lay down and shone his torch down it.

I said, "Are you kidding? Come on, let's go back. It's been over two hours now. We've got further than we ever have before."

He replied, "There's water down here. I'm sure it's flowing. If water can get out, so can we."

He stood up and took a coil of rope from his shoulder. He tied one end around a rock, and shackled the other end to his harness. Then he asked me to lower him down the shaft. I told him he must be mad, but he insisted. I took hold of his rope and paid it out as he descended down the shaft.

Suddenly he panicked and started threshing about on the end of the rope. I could hardly hold him. I could see that the rope had snagged on a sharp rock. His movements were rubbing it against the rock. I shouted to him to be still, that if he wasn't careful the rope could be severed, but it was no use. He had completely lost his head. The more I warned him, the more he kicked and struggled.

I could see the rope getting more and more frayed, and then it snapped. I heard him hit the water below. I rushed forward and shone my torch down, but there was no sign of him, just ripples on the water where he had gone in. I waited at least ten minutes, but he never came up again, and I knew he must have drowned.

Normally he was a strong swimmer, and could handle himself well in the water. On this occasion he must have lost consciousness. Perhaps he hit his head when he fell, or perhaps the shock of the icy water did it.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

For twenty years he had persuaded himself that that was what had really happened, and now Duncan had reappeared to destroy the illusion. Peter felt cheated. "I don't see how he could have survived, but he must have somehow. You saw him. Peggy can't possibly have met another man who looks like Duncan, talks like Duncan, works in the same field as Duncan, and even has the same name as Duncan. The odds must be a million to one against."

"I agree," Gladys said. "I'm going to call on Peggy tomorrow and have it out with her. I'll get to the bottom of this if I have to wring the truth out of her."

* * *

The following day, the Betchams drove to the university together. While Gladys went in search of Peggy, Peter was shown to his office by the secretary who had been allocated to him.

The office had the usual furnishings: a hat-stand, a desk, chairs, filing cabinets, and waste paper basket. On the desk was a computer keyboard and monitor, a desk diary, a telephone, a directory, an intercom, and a blotting pad.

"This is your office, Professor," the secretary said. "I'm next door, through there," she added, indicating an interior door. "My name is Susan. You can call me on the intercom. There's an internal telephone directory next to the phone. Dial 9 for an outside line."

She crossed to the inner door and started to enter her office. Peter approached his desk and saw for the first time that on his desk blotter lay a short piece of rope, one end cut and the other end frayed. He recoiled.

"What is that doing there?" he demanded.

"I've no idea," Susan replied casually. "It wasn't there when I got the room ready for you. The cleaners must have found it on the floor and put it on your desk in case it was something you wanted."

Peter abruptly ordered her, "Get rid of it!"

She crossed to his desk, picked up the piece of rope, and dropped it into his waste paper basket.

"Not there, you idiot!" Peter shouted. "Take it away! Right away! I don't want it in the room!"

Susan looked at him in surprise. She picked the rope out of the waste paper basket and took it towards her office. At the door she stopped and turned. "You have a lecture at eleven," she said coldly.

* * *

Informed by a clerk that there was a Mrs Betcham waiting to see her, Peggy leaned back in her chair with a smile. "Show her in," she said. She correctly anticipated Gladys' mood, and was relishing the prospective interview.

Gladys wasted no time on preliminaries. "I want to know what you're up to, Peggy Coward!" she demanded. "Don't think you can play games with me. This is Gladys you are dealing with."