As with all of the pieces in ‘Lost Chapters’, this is an excerpt from the first draft of my published mythological mystery book, The Athenian Murders (Bloodhound Books). I removed most of the character Moira’s backstory for lots of good reasons. However, I still love these chapters and want them to be shared.
The Duveen Gallery at The British Museum was poorly lit. Moira was aware of the complaints about the shadows on the marbles which “hid their true agenda”.
She disagreed.
It brought a mood to them, required one to move about, inspect them from every angle possible. Which is what she had instructed her seven students to do today.
It was a Wednesday afternoon and the gallery was empty apart from her group and a couple of tourists slowly observing the Parthenon frieze. Moira enjoyed listening to their analyses: ‘Fine legs, meticulous legs, unbelievable that then, all that time ago, they were able to portray horses’ legs so well!’
Her students dispersed about the gallery. She’d led them straight to the Parthenon sculptures, because she wanted them to devise a narrative thread between each of the figures on the pediments. This was a teaching technique she had developed recently; it got them talking.
She gravitated towards the east pediment, the messy, glorious, broken scene, once showing the birth of the goddess Athena, erupting from her father Zeus’s head. What remained was still impressive. Her favourite was the god Dionysus, carved fully rounded. She walked behind him, thinking it was funny how the Athenians hadn’t thought to present him like this. In situ, on the temple itself, his smooth buttocks would never have been seen by human eye. Yet here he was, far from home, reclining, relaxed, wine glass in hand, seemingly ignorant of the bombastic scene happening behind him. All the other figures, despite losing their heads over the centuries, reacted with astonishing intensity, the aftermath of the violent birth rippling through them.
Her undergraduates made studious notes.
She observed the way their eyes flicked up to the sculptures, how they frowned, considered the figure, and then scribbled another word. Out of habit, she searched for the ones who seemed truly consumed by the task. Over the years, she’d proven useful in the sourcing of volunteers for Simon’s experiments. Potential candidates tended to trust her, over Simon and Vincent, at least. Especially since their demise... or, less dramatically put, their rough patch.
After years of working in the museum’s stacks, the university had grown impatient about their lack of findings. Their lack of rigour. Their lack of anything, really. So far, they had only proven that more blood flowed to a viewer’s brain the longer they looked at a given statue. Moira had spent many hours staring, her eyelids taped up until she could bear no more, torches shining into her pupils. Simon had made notes on what he called “reciprocal dilation”, as if he knew what was meant by this. He’d vaguely spoken about electromagnetic waves. Over the years, even Vincent had lost interest.
No gods, no actual knowledge, nor even writing, materialised. The university let them stay on as nothing more than a kindness, if the truth be told.
Although she couldn’t voice it (for her, it would be career suicide), Moira actually believed they were onto something. There was no denying what she felt when she interacted with the sculptures. Instead of speaking out, she’d encouraged from the sidelines and otherwise left them to it. She hadn’t stopped, however, sending the odd undergraduate to them. But she did so with increasing unease.
A correlation had emerged between the students she sent to the lab and the students who lost their way. Moira hadn’t attended an experiment in a long while and suspected that, rather than searching for the gods, her friends now searched for pleasure, escape. They often returned from a day in the lab dry-mouthed, waxy-skinned and hazy.
Moving away from Dionysus, Moira walked to the opposite end of the gallery. The west pediment was even more incomplete: a fragmented view of what should have been Athena winning the competition for the patronship of Athens. The goddess would have been shown planting her sacred olive tree and Poseidon with his trident in the ground, creating an ill-advised stream of salty water.
Moira pursed her lips at the mutilated torsos suspended above the plinths. Stealing a glance at the official on his stool, whose head was buried in a newspaper, she leaned forward, hand outstretched. Her forefinger followed the concave line down the middle of the river-god, Ilissos’s chest. She reached his abdomen and rested her palm there. And there was the certainty, that inexplicable comfort. She bowed her head, as if in prayer. As if in mourning for his complete form.
A clearing of the throat from behind her.
She rounded, prepared to answer a question from a student, ready to explain away her behaviour. She had spotted a dark spot, was trying to clean it; as an expert she was able to judge these things – students should not, not ever, touch the marbles, you understand. But it was not a student, or at least, not a student in her current museum group. Andrew stood, looking past her, at the naked midriff where her hand had been placed.
Moira clasped her hands together and began to walk away.
‘It’s a shame,’ Andrew said. His voice was soft but deliberate. Moira turned to face him. This was a supervised tutorial. By all means, if he had a ticket, he had every right to be in the gallery, though her attentions should only be made available to her designated students. She was not a fan of special treatment.
‘What?’ she replied, as shortly as possible.
He turned to face her and she inhaled quietly at those grey-blue eyes. Eyes that had fermented in her imagination for the last six days. Eyes that reminded her of Hermes. Andrew, remaining where he stood, stretched out his own hand and felt the torso where her hand had been moments ago.
She began to tell him to stop but he spoke over her.
‘A shame he’s incomplete.’
Moira’s eyes fell upon the river-god’s maimed crotch. Andrew raised an eyebrow and she turned away, blushing. Thank goodness her student group were working on the opposite side of the gallery.
‘I’m teaching,’ she said. ‘If you have a question about an assignment please wait until…’
‘I’ve upset you again.’
She spun towards him, annoyed. ‘No. No. I’m just in the middle of a tutorial.’
She wanted to ask him to leave but couldn’t form the words, and anyway, he’d technically done nothing wrong. The problem was hers. She was unable to gain control of this boy. To remember that she was in charge.
She didn’t look back as she made her way along the frieze on the wall. She eyed the layered, shallow figures, dancing, carrying jars, musical instruments. There was much to occupy the mind. It was a feast for all the senses, this piece. It was scintillating, the way it modulated, little by little, the procession it depicted growing busier, intensifying, as the eye followed it, wrapping around the room.
But of course, friezes are continuous.
And she found herself following its inescapable path. One foot before the other, placed in that way that feet are always placed on the stone floor of museums, she circulated the great gallery, past her students, past the guard. Back to Andrew.
She considered how her heart sounded. Loud and fleshy. Her Hermes had never responded to such a sound. Andrew, however, was capable of response.
The skin around his eyes tightened. His head tilted to one side. His forefinger massaged his thumb in repetitive circles.
It is difficult to know when Moira made her decision. It is difficult to know whether this was a decision at all. But actions, like statues, speak for themselves. She took his hand. Felt the bones beneath the skin. Felt the coarse and the soft. He did not resist, of course, he did not resist. Behind the sculptures of the west pediment, behind the victory of maiden Athena, Moira pressed Andrew against the unforgiving walls. She touched him as she had many a sculpture.
Two sets of breath. Two sets of wants. Then, as she had never done to a sculpture, she placed her lips on his. And, as his lips moved in response, she was moved in a way that was both human and divine. She thought, in that moment, that she had found the gods.
If you’d like to read The Athenian Murders, then order it here in ebook, audio or print.
Ordered both books!