Page 22 of In Doubt

Giorgie

“Shit!” I hear him gasp at the same time a loud clunk rings out in our trench. I spin around on my toes.

“What?” I say, unable to help but crawl towards him.

Has he found something?

“My trowel, it hit something hard.” His voice brims with excitement.

“What is it?” I ask, creeping closer still and trying to peer over his shoulder. To my surprise, he moves to one side to let me look. I’d have expected an arsehole like Jake Grantham to keep any find to himself.

“I can’t tell yet. It could be nothing.”

“Or it could be something. Should I go get the professor?”

“No, we should see if it’s actually worth reporting first.” I note his use of the word we, and my mouth drops open in surprise. “I don’t want to look like a tool if it turns out to be an old coke can.”

“True,” I laugh.

He digs his finger into the dirt, attempting to feel the object, get a sense of its size.

I wait, crouching beside him, my heart hammering in anticipation, my gaze flitting between his face and his hands. They are strong hands with long fingers, and I’m reminded of that strange spark when he took my hand.

Not an unpleasant sensation.

“Well?” I ask, impatient to know.

“It feels pretty big,” he says with even more excitement in his voice. His voice is usually full of sarcasm and cynicism and I realise I like this sound of his voice much more. Like it belongs to the real him.

“Not a coke can, then,” I joke.

“No,” he says, turning his head towards me and nearly knocking me backwards with the full force of his smile. The man is so bloody good looking it’s hard to look at him sometimes, especially when he smiles like that. His row of straight teeth framed by plump lips, one side of his cheek dimpling and his eyes even bluer. “Shall we see what it is?” He sounds just like a kid who’s found an early Christmas present.

I can’t help grinning back. “Yes!” I nod.

He explains to me where he thinks the object starts and ends, and then together we scrape at the soil. Even more gently than before.

“Good job, Giorgie,” he says. “I think we’re getting there.” Usually a comment from him like that would set my teeth on edge, but today his compliment warms my belly in a way I try not to examine.

It’s the excitement, that’s all. Of being here, of actually finding something.

Finally, we reach the surface of the object and swap our trowels for brushes, sweeping away the sand and the dust, the edge of whatever lies beneath becoming clearer and clearer with every sweep of our hands.

“Look!” I tell him, as the first hint of colour becomes visible. He stops his own work to come closer to mine, and I notice that warmth of his body again and the depth of his scent. It’s always smelt good to me, much better than I’d ever admit out loud to anyone. Sometimes in class, I’ll suck in mouthfuls of it and let it melt onto my tongue. So rich, like the darkest, bitterest of coffees.

With a feather light touch, he traces his fingertips over the hues.

“Egyptian?” he asks. “From the New Kingdom era?”

“Yes, I think so too.”

“Shit, I can’t believe it.”

“I think we should go and fetch the professor,” I say, feeling strangely sad to break this moment and also a tad jealous that he will gain all the credit for this find. It’s fair enough. He found it.

“I want to uncover some more first,” he says, sweeping sand away with his brush.

“But we were told to fetch the supervisors as soon as we got the slightest hint that we may have found something.”