by Mel McGrath
It was hardly an unreasonable request. Natasha Tillotson had proved herself to be one of the worst students the department had ever had the misfortune to recruit. Three months after her arrival at Avon Cullen had more or less given up on her. Her work was always late and she seldom if ever completed the required reading. At the end of her first academic year she was put on notice. Then something strange happened. After Cullen had caught Natasha and Ratner in flagrante he’d checked the girl’s academic records, hoping to find an excuse to get rid of her, and spotted a disturbing pattern. So far as Cullen could see, she was still the same lazy, unmotivated student of only average intelligence she had always been but in the last few weeks, he noticed from checking the records, she was routinely coming top of the class. Which didn’t make any sense unless someone was giving her a leg up.
That someone was very likely to be Mark Ratner, who also happened to have begun an affair with Natasha in the last few weeks. Evidently, he had been doctoring Natasha’s grades hoping that no one would notice and no one would have done, if Cullen hadn’t caught the couple cavorting half naked in the biosciences lab and had taken upon himself to look up the girl’s records.
At the time Cullen had decided to let the infraction go, thinking it better not to draw attention to failings of oversight in the department that were ultimately his responsibility. There were other reasons for staying under the radar too. But Jessica Easton’s death makes it inevitable that all eyes will be on the department for a while and the conduct of staff must be seen to be 100 per cent above board. Time to sweep the department clean of corrupting influences. Which means Natasha Tillotson. The girl simply has to go.
Making his way to a dull meeting room with a suspended ceiling and a whiteboard, he offers a brief greeting to the occupants and with no apology for his intentional lateness, takes a seat at the head of the grey conference table.
He waits for Keane to stop nervously scrolling through a file of papers. Then opening his laptop and resting his elbows on the table he turns to Natasha and says, ‘Has Dr Keane explained why we asked to see you?’
Natasha Tillotson nods but does not look up. He cannot tell whether she is nervous or defiant but it makes no difference to him either way.
‘I’ve explained the Fit to Study assessment,’ Keane says, with her customary delight in jargon. Turning to Natasha, in a bright voice she adds, ‘We’re here today to help you succeed.’
Cullen thinks he detects an eyeroll from the girl.
Cullen drinks his coffee and tries to block out the sound of Keane enthusiastically relaying the support services available to Natasha. Cullen has already informed Keane that it’s almost certainly too late and the best solution all round is for Natasha to leave. Had Keane checked Natasha’s academic records, which she may well have done, she will have spotted a student in considerable academic peril and will most likely take the same view. Had this been the end of the academic year, it would have been too late to have corrected Ratner’s overestimation of his paramour’s academic prowess but Cullen has seen to it that Natasha’s myriad failures have been faithfully recorded. Indeed, he might even have tweaked the odd, marginal, grade downwards. A kindness in the long run. Girls like Natasha don’t belong in academe.
As Keane chatters on, he leans back and allows his mind to drift back to lunch at Luigi’s and most especially to the troubling remembrance of Nevis’s hand in his. The gesture had been a calculated attempt to keep her close in order to get her to tell him what he wanted to know, but her response to his touch and, more to the point, perhaps, his own response surprised him. Until that moment he’d never once thought of her in any sexual way at all. Yet there was some palpable electricity between them that he found shockingly exciting.
His reverie is interrupted by Keane saying, ‘So, over to you, Professor,’ catching him off guard. He glances at Natasha who appears shell-shocked. Perhaps she thought that her little tryst with Ratner would protect her. He is ready with an intervention should she attempt to use it as leverage. Or even to speak of it. This is between him and her and Ratner. Keane doesn’t need to know.
‘Thank you, Dr Keane,’ he says, buying himself a moment to collect his thoughts. He turns to the laptop and peers at the screen as though he’s been chewing over Natasha’s case. ‘I’ve looked at your grades.’
He watches Natasha’s face brighten. She thinks she’s in the clear. What a little fool. ‘Let’s see, the last two pieces of coursework… 28 per cent on the cell dynamics module, 18 per cent for biochemistry.’ He puts the emphasis on the word eighteen and raises his eyebrows to indicate a rueful awakening. In fact, the figures were as laughingly simple to downgrade as they had been for Ratner to inflate. A few keystrokes earlier this morning and it was done.
‘But…’ The girl’s eyes flick to Cullen’s face and flare, though whether she’s beseeching or trying to warn him he neither knows nor cares. If she has any sense, she’ll go quietly. If she doesn’t, then Cullen will have to use other methods of persuasion. The only reason she’s hung on this long is because Mark Ratner has an appetite for blow jobs from pretty girls.
To his surprise, Natasha’s eyes flare again and she sits bolt upright, her hands slamming on the table. ‘Why are we even doing this? Your students are throwing themselves off bridges and you’re sitting here harassing me. I know exactly why Jessica Easton killed herself,’ Natasha says with a steeliness that sends a spear into Cullen’s heart. She narrows her eyes and for a minute Cullen feels his mouth go dry. He stares at her with an intensity designed to scare. She does not give way immediately. For a few moments they are locked in a battle of wills, then, thinking better of crossing him, she blows air out of her cheeks and folds her arms over her chest.
‘It’s that kind of language…’ Cullen says.
‘Very unhelpful,’ Keane agrees, crossing her legs over one another.
‘It’s our responsibility to set up each student to succeed,’ Cullen goes on, trotting out his pre-prepared speech. Natasha has just unwittingly made all this so much easier. ‘We were undecided as to what to do but I’m now of the strong view that you’d be better transferring to another, less demanding, university. I would be happy to recommend a few places and see to it that you got a good reference.’
Natasha stares at Cullen. He meets her eye impassively. Suddenly she looks away, biting her lip, but says nothing. The penny has dropped. He, Cullen, is cutting the girl a deal. She has understood that the price is her silence.
‘We’ll give you a week or so to think about it,’ Cullen says.
Keane pulls out a printed form, ticks a few boxes and makes a few notes, and it’s over. Cullen watches her tidy her papers and put them in her bag, and then she stands to leave, brushing down her floral dress with her pudgy, sweaty paws.
Cullen turns his head to Natasha and raises a finger. ‘Why don’t you stay behind for a few minutes and we can have a think about a more suitable place for you?’ The Tillotson girl says nothing but makes no attempt to get up. Turning back to Keane. ‘Lea, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Absolutely.’ Holding out a hand to Natasha, Keane says, ‘Well, goodbye Natasha. I wish you well in your new academic home.’ Natasha blinks and without taking the hand looks away.
‘Take out your phone,’ Cullen says, once Lea Keane has left the room.
Natasha reaches into her pocket and places her phone on the table. Cullen picks it up and checks the off switch.
‘I know what this is,’ Natasha says, petulantly. ‘A fucking ambush.’
‘This is the best deal you’ll get. Do you hear?’
The girl says nothing.
‘You transfer to another university. We’ll send you on your way with a glowing reference. If you work hard, you’ll still be able to graduate.’ She opens her mouth to speak but he silences her with a glare. ‘Otherwise you will find your grades steadily decline and by the end of the year you will be forced out. No references.’
Natasha’s mouth is set in a
thin line of defiance but her eyes are blurry. ‘You knew what you were getting into,’ he says. ‘You knew it wouldn’t last.’
A sob bubbles up from somewhere deep in the girl’s chest.
Cullen leans towards her and reaches for her chin, cupping it momentarily in his hand. ‘Use your head.’ The words bring an inner smile. Christ, as if that isn’t what she’s already been doing. ‘What I mean is,’ he says, correcting himself, ‘use your brain.’
‘You are a pig, you know that Professor Cullen? You’re nothing, an oink, a pig.’
He smiles, amused. ‘Have you, I wonder, read Animal Farm? At school perhaps?’
She creases her brow, a puzzled expression on her face.
‘Oh you should, it’s a marvellous book. There’s a pig in the story by the name of Napoleon. Clever fellow. Has a way of getting what he wants.’
Chapter 33
Honor
Honor, who has been sanding the bulkhead, feels the weight distribution of the boat change as someone climbs on deck of the Halcyon Days.
‘Hey! Can I come down?’ Alex’s voice.
‘Of course.’ She had been hoping it might be Nevis. Removing her work gloves, she moves into the saloon and sees a pair of legs in jeans before Alex appears carrying a file in one hand and in the other a tray of plant cuttings.
She says, ‘You’re just in time for tea.’
‘Excellent.’ He puts the cuttings down on the table and slides onto the bench. ‘I brought you some geraniums. I always do some for the homeless encampment. People seem to appreciate them. Last year, we made some raised beds at the back, behind the bivvies, and grew courgettes and tomatoes. Council turned a blind eye. Anyway, I thought if you were going to be here for a couple of months, you might like a few. If you keep them inside, they’ll be flowering in a month.’
‘How kind of you,’ she says, reaching for the geraniums and fingering the velvety leaves between her fingers. Alex is kind, she’s noticed that. It’s rarer than it should be, kindness, compassion.
‘How are you getting on with the work?’
The kettle begins to growl. She reaches for a couple of teabags, drops them in some none too clean cups, hopes Alex won’t notice. ‘I had a quick look at the consumer unit earlier. It would be a good idea to get a marine electrician in to look at the RCD. Something about it doesn’t look right. Bit of a fire risk. I’d do the basic electrical stuff myself but I’m reluctant to mess with the consumer unit on a boat I don’t know.’
‘OK. I’ll call my guy. He’s usually booked up so it might have to wait a week or so.’
‘No hurry,’ she says, washing her hands in the kitchen sink and putting on the kettle.
‘I can give you a hand with the sanding and painting if you like.’
‘Thank you but don’t feel you have to…’
‘I’d enjoy the company.’
She brings the tea over and sits. ‘No biscuits, sorry.’
‘You’ve had other things on your mind. Me too, actually. I told you I used to be a local reporter, didn’t I? When you mentioned the response at Avon I was reminded of this investigation into a series of copycat student suicides at Midland University, oh, must have been a decade ago. Four or five deaths, all boys, all studying law and all within a few months of one another.’
Alarmed, Honor holds up a staying hand. ‘I don’t think we’re there yet.’
‘No, but hear me out. Midland University initially said they couldn’t have done anything to intervene because they didn’t know how the students had died but it later turned out they’d sent a representative to the coroner’s hearings after the deaths and knew perfectly well. They ignored the fact that they had a suicide contagion on their hands and then they covered up the fact that they’d ignored it.’
‘Why?’
‘One, it looks bad. Two, it puts off kids from applying. The uni doesn’t get its pick of students, they struggle to keep up in the results tables, so they fall some more in the ratings, so their funding gets cut. And on and on in a Darwinian struggle for survival. The students are just collateral damage.’
‘I know how that goes,’ she says, thinking that this is all beginning to feel like history repeating itself.
‘You were there?’
‘No, no, somewhere else.’
A pregnant pause follows, which Honor feels no obligation to fill. It’s Alex who breaks the silence. ‘You know, it’s odd, how we tell our kids that university is the best days of their lives, as though there’s nothing more in adult life to look forward to, and then we wonder why the kids who struggle feel hopeless. They’re looking at their lives and thinking, if this is as good as it’s ever going to get, I won’t bother, thanks all the same.
‘What happened at Midland didn’t just impact those kids and their families. The ripple effect was enormous: neighbours, friends, a whole generation of students most of whom didn’t even know their dead compatriots, staff at the university. It rocked the whole city.’
Honor’s not sure where this is going. Taking a deep breath, Alex goes on. ‘When I was a reporter, it was all about access and authority, who had access to people in power and the authority to ask them difficult questions. If you didn’t have those, you couldn’t write the piece.
‘You’re the parent of a student at the university. That gives you authority. The high-ups can’t just brush you off in the way they might a student. And Nevis has access. She knows the right people to talk to. If there’s something fishy going on…’
‘Did I say that?’
‘Not in so many words.’ He looks up and, reading the uncertainty in her face, flashes her a soft smile. ‘Look, maybe I’m just a cynical old hack. I’m just saying, there’s form for this kind of stuff, a cover-up if you like, and if you two did want to look at it, you’d be a great investigative team. Mother-daughter private eyes. Make a good TV show don’t you think?’ His tone is light and conciliatory now.
She leans back and takes a sip of tea, enjoying the conceit for a moment, letting it bed in, before adding, ‘That presumes we’re on the same side. Which, at the moment…’ She tails off, not wanting to delve into her sadder feelings.
‘And at least one of you would need to be a drunk with a penchant for over-complicated sex,’ he says, lips cracking into a broad grin.
It feels good to laugh. She lingers on its tail end and waits for Alex to break the atmosphere. Eventually, when the last laugh has been had, he says, ‘Granted, I can be a paranoid bugger, but something’s amiss.’
‘I think I can pretty confidently say that Satnam didn’t take a massive overdose of Ritalin and drink most of a bottle of vodka by accident.’
‘Hmm.’ Drawing a piece of yellowed paper from his file Alex places it on the table. ‘I found the original press cutting about the Midland Uni thing. It appeared in the Midlands Observer, written by my ex, and the mother of my son actually, Anne Devlin, who also happened to be my colleague at the time. Like I said, it became a big scandal locally though it didn’t make much play in the national media. God knows why. How many dead kids does it take?’
She picks up the clip and scans it. ‘Says that Ritalin was “involved” in at least one of the cases.’
‘Wasn’t there a scandal about Ritalin back in the noughties? Kids being diagnosed with ADHD and massively overprescribed as I recall.’
Just then a draught flusters the geranium cuttings. She pulls the tray over to the other side of the table where the air is warmer and still and is aware of Alex’s eyes on her. ‘I remember that. They say it’s easy to get it on the street now. Students take it to stay awake for essay deadlines.’
‘Ah yes. In my day it was speed. I guess there’s always something.’
‘But you have to take a lot for it to be seriously damaging. It’s not a drug you’re likely to accidentally OD on.’
Another pause follows while the two of them take this in. Then Alex says, ‘I looked through my notes of editorial meetings. Anne did some digging and discove
red that all the students were taught by the same academic, a professor on the verge of retirement called Arthur Reynolds. I googled him. A while after the suicides some allegations of sexual assault emerged. The university allowed him to retire. There was a court case but Reynolds died before coming to trial. There was some suggestion on the web that he’d killed himself, but I couldn’t confirm that.’
‘I sense you’re going somewhere with this…’
Alex holds up his hand. ‘Guilty as charged.’ Leaning his weight back and rocking gently on the back legs of his chair, he goes on, ‘Listen to this. Professor Reynolds had a young female academic working under him at Midland who’d been his PhD student. After he took retirement, she became head of department. Anne interviewed her and she was mentioned at our editorial conference but none of that interview made it into the final piece, not least because she was absolutely adamant that Reynolds was innocent of any wrongdoing and didn’t appear to be terribly upset about the deaths of the boys, which I remember thinking was odd at the time, particularly since they were students in her own department. There was no suggestion that she was involved in any of the sexual assaults, but if you think about it, she had to have known about them. Reynolds was a prolific predator and she worked very closely with him for a number of years and did very well from her association with him.
