A Chance Encounter by Rae Shaw (e manga reader TXT) 📗

been making enquiries and there’s a chance for you to join a dig near Wicklow. Bronze age.

Seriously? Anything to improve her chances of winning a place at university. She was starting to look at courses again.

It's not the same as a university. It's paid work including accommodation. I've put in a good word for you.

When?

Next month. Can you get the time off work? A few weeks?

That soon!

I'd quit work to do it. No joke. Sod her boss and his uselessness.

What about Mark?

What about him?

Does he know about me?

No. A scant mention when drunk didn’t count.

Why not?

I didn't see any point in telling him. You're over there. I'm here.

Perhaps you should.

She froze. Freddie had surprised her three times: no lecture, an offer and now cosying up to Mark.

He's busy. I still haven't moved in with him. I will soon. He's seeing a solicitor about Dad. If I tell him about you, what do I say?

That we're friends. Do you think all friends meet in pubs or workplaces? It's just how we met that bothers you.

You don't normally show an interest in Mark. Or meeting me.

I don't think your behaviour with that man was appropriate or healthy. Perhaps if you met me, you'd trust my opinion more. Start by telling Mark about me.

That we're friends?

That's the truth, isn't it?

No sweetie, she noticed. In fact, it had been a while since he had called her that. Recently, he had treated her with greater maturity, less banter and less humour. She was growing up. She wasn't a teenager anymore and maybe he was hearing the adult in her words and actions.

I'll think about it. What's the Z stand for?

I'll tell you, if you tell him.

Ellen was more worried about telling Nicky. Mark was probably too busy to care that much about what she did online. Nicky met people all the time that way, but he had rules about how to go about it, and going to Dublin, unaccompanied, was probably breaking one. Who should she tell? Nicky, her friend and confidante, or Mark, her brother and soon-to-be flatmate?

Freddie sent her the details and a form to fill in for the accommodation: a hostel on the outskirts of Dublin. She held off returning it. Instead she battled through another week at work. Her boss, Hugo, was insufferable, flapping about everything and barking orders. She had to throw together a brochure at the last minute for a new client and he picked it apart.

‘If you gave me more than a few days’ notice,’ she said under her breath.

While eating a hurried ham sandwich, she spilled mustard on her skirt. Hugo accused her of looking drab. The others in the office simply rolled their eyes, chewed on their gum and soldiered on with the project. Ellen bit down a retort about him being a misogynist. She was so close to quitting.

In the midst of the mayhem, Mark rang. It was late, past six o'clock and she was stuck in work.

‘Ellen.’ He sounded breathless, as if he was running to catch a train. ‘We need to meet. I've got something to tell you.’

‘Mark, I'm up to my eyeballs.’

‘It's important. I'm on the way to see Sophia. The appeal; she’s got fresh evidence. Can we meet, this evening? I'll pay the taxi fare.’

Hugo had left, leaving her and two others to sort out his mess. She didn't have to stay. She could come in early and finish things off. New evidence? Ellen was aware of the finer details of that day, so what evidence was Mark referring to?

‘Yes.’ She folded the brochure and slotted it into a drawer. ‘Your place, I assume?’

  15

Mark

The call to meet Sophia came through by the end of the strenuous week, during which he had refused an offer of a night out with Julianna. She had not been happy with him anyway. Moody git, she declared during the telephone call, accompanying the comment with half-hearted laughter. He hadn't told her about the witness either.

Sophia's office was hidden away on a backstreet east of the City. Mark checked his watch; the appointment was scheduled for five o’clock. He went straight from work, keen to hear the news. The meeting had been arranged by Sophia's assistant, who apparently knew nothing about the case when Mark attempted to question her. He wasn’t one for praying, but he hoped that there was good news waiting for him.

The cab drew up outside the bleak building. The wooden window frames were shedding paint – flakes of grey collected under the sills. The filthy glass was barely transparent, the interior hidden behind blinds. Inside, some investment: the tasteful decor was minimalist and untarnished by pollution.

‘I’m here to see Sophia Crawford. I have an appointment.’ He was sweating; a habit that was becoming increasingly problematic, along with the persistent stabbing sensation along his forehead. His overcoat was unnecessary and the briefcase a burden to carry.

‘You are?’ the receptionist asked, picking up the phone.

‘Mark Clewer.’

‘Hi, Sophia, I have a Mark.... right.’ She hung up. ‘You can go straight to her office. Third door on the right down that corridor.’

There were tagged dockets, yellow pads of notes and a swathe of documents piled on her desk. The computer hummed and the wall clock ticked aggressively. Sophia operated in a working climate that Mark wouldn’t be able to tolerate. He wondered how Luke coped.

She blushed and pushed a stack of papers to one side. ‘I know. Luke wouldn’t stomach it, the mess. At home I’m very different.’ She pointed at a chair. ‘Please sit, Mark.’

Mark took off his overcoat and hung it on the back of the plastic chair.

‘Luke’s chambers at Lincoln Inn are so grand compared to this place,’ Sophia said. Her attempt at