Chapter 6 #2
Davie nodded. ‘Yeah, but this one … isn’t affiliated to the university.
It sounds more like it’s popped up at various universities across the country, sort of in cycles.
It started more than a century ago, when the same inscription began appearing on memorials, the same motif on clothes worn by students at various institutions, the same name cropping up in connection with alumni.
They call themselves the League of Starlings.
’ He arched his eyebrows, obviously waiting for the penny to drop.
It did. Very slowly, reluctantly, because it was all so absurd. ‘Starlings as in … Sturnus vulgaris?’
Davie leant back with a nod, folding his arms.
I could tell he was serious, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel the same.
The mere memory of the password prompted a smirk I fought to suppress.
‘Isn’t this all a bit silly?’ I asked slowly.
‘If you were trying to set up a big-shot secret society, wouldn’t you choose an animal that’s a bit more impressive? The League of Lions, or something?’
Davie’s mouth didn’t even twitch. ‘This isn’t a joke, Mabel. And what they call themselves is irrelevant. It’s what they do.’
‘Which is?’ I asked sceptically. Frankly, I wasn’t sure I could respect any secret society that deliberately compared its members to a bunch of harmless birds.
‘If you believe the rumours, they’ve got quite a rap sheet. Theft, vandalism, plus various other crimes that were never officially solved, even when it sounds like there was clear evidence. It’s like they can do whatever they want, simply because they’re in the wealthiest two per cent.’
‘Okay … and what does all that have to do with us?’
A draught came rattling through the window. ‘I think they’re back,’ said Davie, his voice so guttural that for a moment I couldn’t tell why I was shivering.
I fought to keep the feeling at bay, refusing to let myself be intimidated by that sort of cheap scare. Real things had happened in my life: dark, tragic, sad things. I wasn’t going to let myself be cowed by some silly urban legend.
‘The starlings have flown in, you mean?’ I asked, keeping my face deadpan.
Davie’s eyes darkened. ‘Mabel.’
I forced a grin. ‘Fine. What makes you so sure?’
‘I was at the pub the other day. Overdid it a bit, to be honest – I was pretty drunk at one point. I went outside to find a quiet corner, thought I might have to … well, you know…’ He gestured.
‘Anyway, there were these two lads chatting. One of them, a blond guy, sprayed something on the wall.’ Davie flipped through the file and slid a photograph towards me.
The lamplight had painted the bricks yellow, making the dark lines even more apparent.
I was no biologist, but even I recognised what it was: a bird with a leafy twig in its beak.
‘Okay … and you think this is evidence that the two lads belong to some ancient organisation? All because they graffitied a bird onto the wall? Probably just reliving the glory days of their Art A-level.’
Davie reached again into the file and took out a sheaf of photographs. Some were blurry, others sharp, but all were unmistakeable: each was of the same motif. The same bird in the same pose with the same twig in its beak. My smile grew leaden at the corners of my mouth, dragging them downwards.
‘When you trace the group, this image keeps cropping up.’ Davie tapped one of the photos, which depicted the bird on a door – unless I was very much mistaken, it was the door of a church.
A face appeared in my head, but I pushed it resolutely aside. I didn’t want to to think it. I didn’t want to understand it. Any of it. ‘What makes you think Ashton’s one of them?’
Davie smiled grimly. ‘Because I’ve done my research.
As soon as they went back into the pub, I followed them.
Watched to see where they hung up their jackets, and found an ID in one of them.
Ashton Griffin. That’s the name of Zoe’s friend, isn’t it?
Besides, you said it yourself: the whole group is weirdly secretive and elitist. It all fits, don’t you think? ’
I wanted to say no, but all I could manage was a weak nod. My head was swimming, my thoughts lagging behind the truth I’d just been told. Ridiculous, said a voice inside me. But I couldn’t muster so much as a chuckle to myself, because my insides felt stiff with cold.
Davie took a deep breath. It seemed as though telling the story had lifted a weight off his shoulders. ‘Okay, now your turn. What’s your read on them? Apart from the fact that you think they’re arrogant twats who act like something out of a horror movie.’
I hesitated, fiddling with the ribbon page-marker in my notebook.
It was hard to put my thoughts about Ashton and his crew into words.
Especially because it wasn’t Ashton who first sprang to mind.
It was Blake. And because my conflicting feelings about him confused me more than I wanted to admit.
Davie’s theory sounded absurd, yet at the same time it was almost eerily logical.
I had sensed right from the start that there was something off about them.
Was it so far-fetched to imagine that they belonged to a special club?
And if I let myself think along those lines, what was the next rational step?
‘We’re not good people’, Blake had said yesterday.
Was that code for: We’re in an exclusive secret society whose members thinks they’re superior to everybody else and flout social conventions at will, regardless of how much havoc they wreak?
‘It’s complicated,’ I began slowly. ‘They’re strange, but they’re not doing anything I can put my finger on. It’s like they’re communicating in a secret language merely by virtue of existing. Even when they’re not looking at me, I feel like I’m being made fun of.’
‘But they haven’t … got too close to you?’
I had to smile. ‘I can look after myself just as well as Zoe can. Anyway, I don’t think I’m their type. Poverty isn’t something they find attractive.’
I’m not interested. There it was again, that soft voice in my head, where it absolutely did not belong.
I screwed up my eyes until it dissolved away, and flipped my notebook shut.
The corners of the paper were ragged, some pages wrinkled with damp.
I’d jotted down most of my thoughts by the Cam last night, keeping an eye on Zoe.
After my frustrating conversation with Blake, I’d gone back to the bridge and spent the next hour trying to eavesdrop as inconspicuously as possible.
Until Zoe returned to me, hair dripping riverwater and eyes drowsy, asleep on her feet.
Ashton had offered yet again to walk us home, and yet again I declined, wondering as we left what it was about his company that made Zoe so tired, her mind so clouded.
This time, I’d seen for myself that she had nothing but a few glasses of wine all night.
It must be Ashton himself who had such a powerful sedative effect.
I supposed in a way it was nice that he had such a calming influence on her – but still, I found it odd.
I found the whole thing odd. I had so many questions.
But Davie’s theory, as improbable as it first seemed, might actually offer some answers.
‘Okay, let’s say you’re right, and Ashton really is a member of this secret club. What’s your plan? Where does your research take you next?’
He let out another short laugh – gentler this time.
‘We’re talking about a society that has remained a mystery for more than a century.
There are no official records, no lists of members, no verified photographs, or really any proof of its existence beyond hearsay and rumour.
To this day, nobody knows how the League decides when to move on to a different university, how it selects its members, how it’s financed, what its traditions are.
They’re ghosts, Mabel. Ghosts who have been haunting England for donkey’s years but somehow have never been caught.
If I’m right, and they’re currently here in Cambridge, then you tell me: am I going to stop now?
’ His voice was rougher with each word, his fingers drumming agitatedly on the edge of the table.
I knew what that meant: although Davie was genuinely worried about the group, it only made him more eager to keep digging.
And as strange as it seemed, I understood him.
‘Great, in that case I have something for you,’ I said, unfolding a sheet of paper.
‘A list of names I’ve collected so far. I’m missing a lot of last names, but maybe we can figure those out.
I’ve noted down as much information as I could.
Subjects, colleges, appearance…’ When Davie reached out to take the piece of paper, I yanked it back.
‘Hang on. First you have to promise me something. I want us to work this case together.’
‘This case?’ He laughed. ‘Mabel, I’m the editor of a student newspaper, not a CIA agent.’
I leant back, unimpressed. ‘All the more reason why you could do with some help.’
We stared at each other. Different shades of brown, same kind of stubborn, Zoe liked to say when Davie and I were arguing.
Finally, Davie rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.
It was flecked with ink, leaving tiny smears.
‘Nope, no dice. If I’m right and they’re somehow dangerous, there’s no way I’m dragging you into all this. ’
‘I’m already neck-deep in it, Davie.’ After last night, I was more aware of that than ever.
‘Zoe is my best friend. As long as she’s hanging out with these …
people, so am I. And I know Zoe well enough to be pretty sure that this’—I tapped the folder—‘won’t keep her away from them.
I’ll need to get more conclusive proof. With or without your help. ’