Chapter Text
The University of Nottingham - 1977
"Soulmates." the professor began, writing the word across the top of the chalkboard and drawing a line underneath it. He turned to face the members of his seminar, that had assembled in Lecture Room T87 on that frosty spring afternoon.
"I’m sure you’ve all heard of this word. We all have. It’s part of our everyday vocabulary. We see it everywhere. In books, in television, in film, in music. And we use it amongst ourselves quite a lot. It trips off our tongues every once in a while, so casually. Perhaps said with a lot of feeling, without thinking about what this word really means."
Christopher Dean, a nineteen year old student, sat in the third row, with a scarf wrapped around his neck and fingerless gloves on his hands, similar to ever other student around him, as Lecture Room T87 was notoriously chilly in the winter. Hidden in the small crowd, he opened his notebook and sat ready with his pencil. The girl sitting beside him couldn’t stop herself from glancing at him. He was extremely handsome, with his bright golden hair and fashionable brown sideburns, with a pair of piercing hazel eyes, and face similar to an angel's. But he didn’t know this, and preferred to stay unnoticed in that little crowd. At the top of the room, Professor Stenhouse continued.
""As I stand here, looking out at this small group of promising twenty-something year olds, who I’m sure live a very exciting life outside the walls of this lecture room, I would say that some, if not most of you have used this word before. Maybe you’ve called a boyfriend or girlfriend this, or maybe you’ve just seen the word used in the various media I’ve listed above. And this is where I take issue with the modern usage of the word."
"It’s been thrown around so carelessly for centuries, we’ve forgotten what it really means. Your soulmate is not, and let me emphasize this, they are NOT just anyone. They are not everyone you ever fall in love with. It’s not as easy, or as fun, as the modern media paint it out to be. You have just one soulmate. And in this world, on this earth inhabited by four and a half billion people, they could be anywhere."
The professor paused for a moment, and Chris leaned forward, intrigued, as was everyone else in the room.
"To find the true meaning of this concept, we need only look at the word itself." he said, watching his students carefully before turning back to the board, and drawing a line down through the middle of the title word. Chris copied him in his own notes.
"Soul. The soul is defined as the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being, and it is regarded as immortal, which explains the possible existence of ghosts, but we’ll talk about that later. Your soul, quite simply, is you. You are your soul and your soul is you. It consists of every fibre of your being. And mate? Mate means two. And only two. It refers to two living things, living together and sharing that existence."
The professor picked up a new piece of chalk and began to draw. Chris felt like he was in a trance listening to him, and proceeded to copy his drawing.
"The Ancient Greeks had a crude, but very interesting view on this concept. They believed that humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. The King of their Gods, Zeus, feared the power of humans, and he wanted to weaken them. So he split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves."
He told this story through his drawing, and Chris looked down at his own version. He nearly laughed at how bad it was, but drew a line straight through the body of the person with two heads, four arms and four legs.
"Now, as I said, this is a very old myth in Greece, but the messages still holds through. We are all created, however you believe we are created, sharing a soul with someone else. And then we are born onto this Earth to find them. And if any of you are starting to think this is ridiculous, or even impossible, I can tell you there is a scientific theory to back it up."
Other people started to whisper about this, but Chris just sat up and leaned forward.
"Fifteen years ago, the Belgian geneticist Anton Janssen proposed that at conception your soulmate, or as he called them your 'dyad', is decided upon. Why? He firmly believed that in your DNA - which holds the code that makes up every part of you, both physical, spiritual and mental - that in your DNA there is one chromosome that is perfectly identical to that of your soulmate. This "dyadic chromosome" lives in both of you and it is the basis of your connection."
"After all, DNA are the building blocks of a human being, therefore this dyadic chromosome is a vital part of your survival. As I said earlier, the soul is immortal. However, if your soulmate dies and you are left alive, does your dyadic chromosome stop working? Of course, it does not kill you. But Doctor Janssen called your soulmate your "dyadic lifeforce" for a reason. So what damage does it cause?"
The air in the room was thick with tension. It felt like it had warmed up! Everyone sat there in silence, mulling over their thoughts as Professor Stenhouse clasped his hands behind his back, watching the expressions of his students. Chris looked him straight in the eyes, and the Professor stared straight back.
After about a minute, he spoke again. "This, I will leave to you to think about over the weekend. It’s almost time to leave and I think I’ve piled enough on you for today. On Monday we’ll be continuing the discussion, so I expect to see you all here! Read over your notes..."
Noise erupted in the room as everyone got up and began to pack. As they left, they chatted about the seminar, or what they were doing for dinner. Chris stood up slowly and shoved all his things into his backpack. He left the room the way he arrived. Alone.
Outside, the morning rain had disappeared, but the sky was still grey. Chris made his way to Market Square. Friday afternoon was always the busiest time of the week in Nottingham, with school kids and students milling around, rush hour traffic and plenty of eager shoppers about. Chris sat down on one of the benches beside the flowerbeds, checking his watch. 4.43. He wasn’t meeting Karen and Nicky until five.
He was exhausted. Physically, mentally, everything. He thought by going to university his life would brighten up, but it just added more stress, mundane routine and loneliness. At least he could still go for a quick skate at the rink tomorrow morning.
His life hadn’t been easy, from the very start. He grew up in Calverton, a mining village outside the city, where every boy born went straight into the pit as soon as they turned fifteen. His mum left when he was six. He never figured out why, and never asked his dad, but he eventually came to the conclusion that it was because his mum didn’t love him.
He loved skating. Adored it. He even competed as an ice dancer as a young boy. But his father put his foot down when he was fourteen, telling him that "you won’t get no income prancing around for the rest of your life." He wanted him to go straight into the mines after his GCSEs. But Chris had other ideas.
He did stop skating. But after he got his results and left school, he joined up as a police cadet. His father never spoke to him again. And he ended up failing his exams in Dishforth. So he couldn’t be a policeman either.
With no job, no qualifications or no family, he moved in with his best friends Nicky, who was studying in Nottingham, and Karen, who was studying in Manchester. For an entire year he did nothing. He stayed in their apartment most of the time, doing the housework so Nicky could rest when he came home. They welcomed Karen home every holiday too. But he did nothing else. He was only seventeen, and he had given up.
He didn’t believe in love either. Why would he? He never experienced it. Besides, if relationships were like what his parents had, he didn’t want one. So he always bottled up everything, and never told Karen and Nicky the truth when they asked how he was feeling.
But they were still so good to him. The previous summer, they sat him down and told him that the three of them were going to take out a loan in order to get Chris into university. And that’s exactly what happened. They got the loan, and he started studying General Arts, picking and choosing his subjects as he went. He was incredibly grateful that they had helped give him a second chance, but as the year went on, he was sinking back into the rut. He went skating to help him feel something, but it didn’t help all too much. He just felt... lost.
The bells ringing in the nearby cathedral reminded him of his dinner with the lads. He stood up, scattering the pigeons that had gathered around him, and dashed to Mouse’s House, the cafe that had become their hangout.
Inside, Karen and Nicky were seated at their usual table, and she jumped up to greet him. "Chris!!" she laughed as they hugged. "Longtime no see Barber! Mitching again are we?" he replied with a grin. "I got bored! I needed to come home for the weekend and see the old Notts again, being away is draaaining!" she said dramatically as they sat down. "Christ you could give Laurence Olivier a run for his money. Come let’s order I’m starving!" Nicky chimed in.
They chatted over their dinner about anything and everything. Their studies, the football, the general election, how exactly Nicky managed to get a pancake stuck yo their ceiling for over a week - anything.
"So the flipping thing comes TEARING down the roof, screaming it’s head off and starts knocking all our flipping tiles off! I was ripping, didn’t get a nights sleep at all! Bloody cats." Karen was saying, cutting her steak furiously. "He’s not sleeping either." Nicky added, pointing to Chris. "Oh?" Karen asked.
"Go on tell her." Nicky said, elbowing him. "No it’s ridiculous." Chris mumbled. "Chris come on there’s nothing you can’t tell me! Out with it!" Karen prompted, taking a mouthful of coffee.
He sighed and looked down at his food. They were going to think he was mad.
"Well... it’s been happening for a while now. I don’t know how to explain it. I can’t really..." he began. "Go on. You can do it mate." Nicky encouraged him.
Chris looked out the window before he spoke again. "Every night I’ve been hearing things. It’s always outside my window. A voice."
Karen raised an eyebrow. "A voice?"
"Yes." he replied. "And my window rattles like mad."
Karen nodded, looking at Nicky, who shrugged. "I told him I think it’s a pervert." he said, causing the other two to burst out laughing.
"Bloody hell Nick. You could be right. Either that or it’s that cat following me from Manchester!" Karen giggled. "You might be right! Never mind that, what are we doing tomorrow for Kaz before she heads back to the big smoke?" Chris asked, eager to change the subject away from himself. "Can we pleeeease go to the Castle?" Karen begged, clasping her hands. "The Castle?? Why the hell do you want to go there?" Nicky asked, looking appalled. "We've never been! And it won’t hurt to learn a wee bit about our city. It’s always there and the only time we were ever there was to go drinking behind the walls!" she clamoured. Nicky looked at Chris fo help, but he just shrugged and said "I don’t mind."
"Alright. We’ll visit the bloody castle like a bunch of granny tourists." Nicky sighed, and Karen sipped her coffee in triumph.
They got the bus home and went to their local for a pint, before returning home to watch Top of the Pops. They then proceeded to stay up talking until midnight, before calling it a night.
In his tiny, cramped room, Chris lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His body was so weak and tired, all he wanted to do was sleep.
But then he heard it. That same voice.
"Come and find me! Come back to me!" a girl’s voice wailed outside, and the frame of his window began to shake. He turned over and screwed his eyes shut. "She’ll go away Chris, she’ll be gone in a few minutes like she always does." he whispered, pulling his duvet over his head. "Please! Come and find me! Please!" the voice cried, sounding desperate. He heard tapping noises as she called him. "PLEASE! COME TO ME!"
Chris didn’t budge.
***
He didn’t tell them about it the next morning, and they didn’t ask. They figured he didn’t want to talk about it.
When they arrived at the Castle, it was rather quiet. A few American and French tourists were their company. Karen booked them in for a guided tour, despite Nicky’s grumbling.
They went through the exhibitions, Karen and Chris listening in, Nicky barely. It was both art from Nottinghamshire artists and the history of the city through the ages, with some Robin Hood stories thrown in.
"And here we have our Hall of Prestige. It features the portraits of many of Nottinghamshire’s most famous sons and daughters, and examples of their work." the tour guide announced as they entered a large ornately decorated hall towards the end of the tour. The three wandered around, taking it all in. There was D.H Lawrence, Lord Byron, Ada Lovelace and a large collection of politicians, artists, poets, playwrights and sportspeople.
Chris was reading a poem of William Howitt’s when he saw something shining out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and noticed a pair of white ice skates, resting on a scarlet cushion on a pedestal, protected by a glass case. He went over, intrigued. He’d never heard of any famous skaters from Nottingham.
The skates were obviously ancient, as they looked very different to the ones of his day. They were wrinkled, with dirty laces and some tears. The blades were no better, shining but well-used. He looked at the picture of the skater in question.
He felt the breath being pulled right out of his lungs.
The picture of this skater was in black and white, but it was still as clear as day that he could guess the various colours. It was a simple picture. A girl, possibly in her teenage years... or perhaps her twenties? She was dressed beautifully, in a white silk dress with her long golden hair decorated with a ribbon. But it her face that took Chris’ breath away. She looked like she was a sculpture, chiselled to perfection by someone like Michelangelo. She looked pale, with rosy cheeks and pink, soft lips. And her eyes. Her eyes were the most enchanting thing. They were what was drawing him in. They looked big and bright, possibly a shade of blue, with long, long lashes. And they were brilliant. Like she could have told a thousand stories with just one look.
Underneath the picture, there was a tiny description:
"Jayne Torvill
1892 - ?
Born in Nottingham"
Chris immediately turned around and called the guide over, asking him who she was. "Ah yes, Jayne Torvill. She was a figure skater, a massive star in Edwardian times! There was no competitions back then, so she was just a performer. Travelled around the world performing her own shows, and they say she was one of the biggest celebrities in her day." he told Chris, pointing to the skates. "And she was from Nottingham? From here?" he asked, getting lost in her eyes again.
The guide laughed. "I know! It’s a funny one, an ice skater from Nottingham! But yeah, the Torvills were one of the oldest and richest families in the city. The name went with her unfortunately."
"Yeah what happened to her? Why is there a question mark?" Chris asked, not taking his eyes off her. "She was here, in Nottingham, after finishing a tour in 1912. The story goes that she lost it one night. "Descended into madness" they say, and then she disappeared." the guide replied, sighing and shaking his head. "She just went mad and disappeared??" Chris repeated. The guide nodded. "Who knows, she could still be out there. The chances of it are low, she’d be in her eighties now. But who knows?"
"Yeah. Who knows." Chris said.
The guide sidled away when Chris didn’t say anything else but kept staring at the painting. And he didn’t know why. She was beautiful, that was obvious but there was... something else too. And what it was exactly, he didn’t know.
They went to Wollaton Park afterwards for a stroll.
Chris couldn’t get her out of his head.
All day.