by Mel McGrath
A moment later he is on the road and making his way towards the Downs and the Avon campus. It is raining now, the wind coming in off the Atlantic and chucking it on the windscreen like some crazed artist working his paints. He slows for a red light ahead. It is then that he spots a woman walking up the street carrying an umbrella. His eyes flick to the windscreen. Time ticks on. The light seems to be taking an age to turn. Behind him, cars begin to back up. Mahler plays on the radio. It irritates him, this symphony. He’s about to change the station when his eye is drawn by a sudden movement in the rear-view mirror. He checks back. A gust of wind has inverted the spokes of the woman’s umbrella and in that split second he sees a face he hasn’t seen for a long, long time. He feels himself go limp, as if the bones in his body have been plucked out. From somewhere outside of himself he can hear a car horn blaring. He can’t tell whether he is hitting the car horn or whether there is a frustrated driver behind him. Blinking, he checks back in the mirror. The woman is battling with the umbrella now but there is no mistaking those features, the dip of the shoulders, the angular tilt of the head. He pulls in to the side of the road, blindsided now, his eyes on the woman as she walks along the road. He shakes his head and blinks and the woman has gone.
Something is happening, Cullen says to himself, the tension running from him like drain water. I’m seeing things. If I’m not careful I might lose my mind.
Chapter 38
Nevis
It is gone ten thirty by the time Nevis comes off her shift at the chippy and already a frost has begun to settle on the branches of the trees whose leaves are still not out yet. It feels sometimes that everything is in a coma. Back at the flat she takes a shower to rid herself of the smell of frying batter and stale oil but there remains a chill in her bones that can only be chased away by tea. She moves into the hallway and glances briefly at the door to Satnam’s room then turns and makes her way to the kitchen. Putting on the kettle, she suddenly finds herself overtaken by an overwhelming desire to break something.
Perhaps it’s me I want to break?
On an impulse she crosses the living room floor and goes back into the hallway and stands before the door to Satnam’s room and knocks.
‘How could you leave me? Now I have no one. No one. Everyone else always lied or only told part of the truth. I always thought you were different. Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you keep me in the dark? Wasn’t I good enough for your secrets? Didn’t you trust me?’
Silence.
The kettle begins to whistle.
She goes into the kitchen and, reaching for a mug, notices Satnam’s phone sitting on the counter where she has kept it on charge since the night on the bridge. What secrets might it hold? I suppose I should take this to the Dean. He asked me to, so that he could give it to Bikram and Narinder. As she picks it up, she is struck by a thought. What does it matter who has it since no one can open it?
She holds it to her ear, listens into the void, thinks of Satnam lying in her hospital bed and waits for a response, but, of course, there isn’t one. Feeling foolish, suddenly, she puts down the phone, makes her tea and goes over to where her laptop is sitting on the coffee table in the living room.
Opens it and stares at the equation:
dx/dx=rx(1-x)-x, where r-c/e
The average persistence of local populations. The secret to the origins of life. A week or so ago the formula would have struck her with its brilliance and precision. She would have sat down with it, as you might an old friend, and listened to what it had to tell her. But now she is distracted, overcome with the creeping sensation that something bad is about to happen. This must be how animals feel sensing the first intimations of an earthquake, she thinks. Tash comes to mind. The photo at the Valentine’s Day party. Tash and Jessica, vying for the same man. Didn’t Jessica say as much? What if that man had been Mark Ratner? But Satnam? Where is she in any of that? So much she has yet to know or understand.
Picking up her own phone, she sends a text to Satnam, Wake up! She watches Satnam’s phone light up briefly with the notification, then sends another to Tash.
You OK?
No response.
Silence is golden except when it isn’t.
She returns to the equation, doing her best to follow the elegance of it. The Dean comes to mind. That hand on hers, the warm living pulse of it. Oh to be solved! To have all your loose ends tied up. To be complete. What a thought. More wonderful than the secret to the origins of life. The secret to her life.
Restless, she gets up and goes back to the kitchen, thinks of making another cup of tea and cradles the kettle with her hand until the heat makes her pull away. Another equation comes into her head:
Q10 =R2/R1
Temperature coefficient. The only equation, Satnam had once laughingly told Nevis, that she could ever remember. An equation with four integers. 1021. Nevis feels her heart begin to tick and the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. She reaches for Satnam’s phone.
Wake up!
The seconds it takes for the passcode screen to come into view feel endless. Then, all of a sudden, there it is. Enter passcode. Carefully, with a shaking hand, she taps in the numbers 1021. And waits. And blinks. And listens to the percussion of her pulse. An elastic fragment of a second that stretches almost to breaking point before the homescreen opens on an image of the stars dotted with icons. Her whole body is trembling now, her heartbeat rackety and wild, and she locates the message icon and taps. The white message screen appears. For a moment her eyes are too busy to see anything. Blinking away the blur, she scrolls down to messages. Tash, Jessica, Luke, ‘Home’, one or two other familiar names plus a couple she doesn’t recognise. She scrolls, flips back to the night of the Valentine’s Day party. Not to the night of. Not yet. That feels too big.
A text to Jessica and Tash, 8.28 p.m.: We’re all in this. It’s time to say something. Can we talk, maybe later, at the party?
Talk, yes. Didn’t Jessica say something about this? They fell out about Jessica’s ex. Or about leaving Avon? Nevis remembers two versions and the distinct feeling that neither was quite the truth. In any case Satnam said something at the party that Jessica found unhelpful, she said. An odd word, but then the whole conversation had been odd. She recalled Jessica’s hand on her mouth, genuinely surprised that Nevis didn’t know. But what was it that Nevis didn’t know? If only she’d asked. If only she had insisted on knowing. Tash knew but Tash wasn’t telling. I should be brave, now, she tells herself. It’s time to be resolute. To stick to the course. You know how this plays out. It is a question of resolving the equations, line by line, until there are no more equations and nothing more to solve.
The next line in the solution. She screws up her eyes. Behind them, in the deep red of the retina, is the span of the bridge leading into the void.
The phone lies in the palm of her hand.
Sunday, that terrible night, is the swipe of a finger away. She can literally reach out and touch it.
Touch it, Nevis. Connect.
A blue text box appears and in it a line of white text.
To Luke, 9.57 p.m.: Can I come round? Unanswered.
And then, to a number Nevis doesn’t know, 10.25 p.m.: Had enough. Can’t live with this. Unanswered.
A message sent to a stranger, though, evidently, not a stranger to Satnam. Nevis scrolls down, checking for a recurrence of the same number and does not find it. A single message, then, in a desperate hour.
Samaritans? Some other suicide prevention hotline?
She taps the number into Google. And waits. Nothing comes up. She checks the phone log for calls. No number, but something at least, a call from a withheld ID. Seven minutes and twenty-three seconds. It’s enough to say what needed to be said. Had enough. Can’t live with this.
But what? Her mouth is dry and scratchy. She needs to know and hardly dares to find out. The fingers hovering over the screen seem not to belong to her, but still they move, as if held up on puppet strings
. She goes back to the message screen and touches the number. Three icons appear: Audio, FaceTime, Info.
Picking up her own phone, she takes a deep breath, and taps in the number.
Chapter 39
Cullen
Cullen waits in the loveseat in the VC’s office while Madeleine finishes up her phone call. A power move, he thinks, Maddy getting back at him after he’d been stupid enough in his cups to insult her the other night. Time to make old Cullen eat some humble pie.
He takes out his phone and pretends to read the screen but his head is pounding and he wishes that he’d gone to the Deanery first and retrieved one of his miniatures from the desk drawer to put in his coffee. It’s too late for that now. Sometimes his whole life feels like a missed boat. If only his worries would subside or his head didn’t hurt so much. If only he felt better about Veronica and Amanda. If only he didn’t feel that he was slowly going mad.
It was he who requested the meeting, eager to get the VC’s ear before Ratner got the chance to turn the bruises left by Cullen’s fist to his advantage. An accusation of assault would look very bad. He, Cullen, has already been issued with a warning, after all. A disciplinary measure at best. At worst, dismissal and another black mark on his CV. What would he say to Veronica? The stakes have risen exponentially since the announcement of her pregnancy. Not that he particularly wants the baby, but he does want Veronica and, more importantly, he wants the idea of Veronica.
He checks himself. There are certain things he has had to put to one side for now. His debts, Veronica, the baby, the Dalek and, above all, the unnerving sighting of a remnant of his past walking along the pavement last night. This is the time for focus. The battlelines have been drawn. The only possible course of action is to strike first. Which is not without risk. He must make his move with skill and delicacy. There are various ways Ratner could retaliate. He, Cullen, has been up most of the night anticipating them. But now, this morning, his focus must be wholly on his professional survival. And that requires outmanoeuvring Mark Ratner.
For the moment, at least, he has time on his side. And knowledge. So far as he knows, Ratner is not yet aware of Cullen’s various difficulties. Still, he will need to put his case in such a way as to make it undeniable. So long as he plays his cards right, turns on the charm, promises to be a good boy, he thinks Maddy will come round and stay loyal.
She has made time for him in her busy schedule which is a good sign. And she’s making him eat shit by keeping him waiting and this, too, is, in its way, a cause for optimism. He turns his attentions back to his phone, but it’s no good, he can’t focus. Oh, for that drink and a long sleep! He sits and watches his leg jiggling nervously. For God’s sake calm down. Closes his eyes and lets Maddy’s voice wash over him as she speaks on the phone, until he is suddenly alerted by a name.
Maddy is talking about Nevis Smith. In an instant, he’s tuned in, his body poised and leaning towards the desk in order not to miss a word.
‘As I said, Mrs Smith, it sounds remarkably like you’re trying to threaten me and I don’t appreciate it. If there were a “contagion” as you call it, I can assure you I would be the first to know. But there is no such thing happening now or likely to happen in future and I must inform you that if you continue down this path, the university authorities will feel duty-bound to question whether Nevis is a suitable student for Avon, notwithstanding her grades. None of us wants that, do we?’
Maddy rolls her eyes and placing a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone mouths the words, I’m sorry.
Sorry not sorry.
Cullen waits, braced now for bad news, as Maddy continues, ‘I’ve no idea what prompted this archaeological escapade, but we do not deal in ancient history.’
There is a pause while Maddy listens to what her interlocutor has to say. A tinny buzz issues from the phone but from where Cullen is sitting no words are distinguishable. What he wouldn’t give to hear the other side of the conversation.
‘As I’m sure you know, since you seem to have spent considerable effort in digging up the past, I was in the Law Department before taking on this role and I happen to believe that people are innocent until they are proven guilty. You would hardly expect me to recall events from nearly two decades ago, but what I do remember very distinctly was that there was never any evidence that Professor Reynolds was in any way responsible. In fact, just the opposite. And yes, I am aware that times have changed. We have an extremely robust sexual harassment policy here at Avon, as you’d expect from a university whose Vice Chancellor is a woman. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m terribly busy.’
Maddy cuts the call and sits for a moment with her eyes closed, thumbs hooked under her cheekbones, fingers kneading her temples.
‘Shall I ask your assistant to fetch some coffee?’ Cullen says, trying to sound helpful.
Maddy looks out from between her hands and straightens herself upright, a look of mild surprise on her face, as if she had forgotten the presence of Cullen altogether.
‘No, no, it’s fine.’
‘I couldn’t help overhearing, I hope you don’t mind. Nevis Smith is one of mine.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Her mother is a terrible pest, one of those women who spends five minutes googling and thinks that makes her better equipped to do your job than you are. She’s been calling the student welfare department pleading for her daughter to get special treatment. She’s claiming we haven’t taken what happened to Satnam Mann and Jessica Easton seriously, which is nonsense, obviously. She really doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’
Cullen, who has been listening to this with mounting alarm, swallows hard and says, ‘What has this to do with Reynolds?’ The remnants of that scandal were still being whispered around Midland University when Cullen arrived, a few years after his own disgrace at St Olaf’s. He did not engage with it, afraid that to do so might contaminate his own, slowly healing, wounds.
‘As you might remember, Reynolds was my mentor and, incidentally, one of the most brilliant legal minds in academe. Whatever Professor Reynolds might or might not have done, his achievements in advancing legal thought deserve to be protected.’ She looks up and catches Cullen’s eye, giving a sorrowful sigh. ‘A great mind exists beyond trivial notions of morality. It’s our last defence against Planet Stupid.’
High-mindedness is all very well, Cullen thinks, but it doesn’t make a dent in the mortgage. He waits for Maddy to stop talking and leaves a respectful pause before saying, ‘Should we be worried?’
Shaking her head and waving the question away, Maddy says, ‘Just keep an eye on Nevis Smith for a while, to reassure her mother.’ Brightening, she goes on, ‘Now, that’s not what you came to see me about.’
‘No,’ he says, nervously. ‘Though it’s not good news I’m afraid.’ He has been thinking about this conversation half the night. It won’t be easy, but it has to be had now. Any later and he runs the risk of Ratner cooking up his own version. ‘Since you brought up our robust policy on sexual harassment… Not that this is harassment, necessarily, but…’
He sees Ince look up, a small bead of alarm in her eyes.
‘I discovered very recently that Mark Ratner has been carrying on with one of our undergrads, Natasha Tillotson. Of course I immediately insisted that Mark put a stop to it, but it appears that he did not.’
Maddy’s brow is furrowed and her lips are pressed together so hard that the skin above them blooms creamy white. This is harder to brush aside than the petty concerns of Nevis Smith’s mother. ‘I assumed all that nonsense had stopped after Mark got married. Is the girl a problem? Might she bring a complaint? That’s all we need right now.’
‘It’s more of an academic matter.’ He opens his laptop.
‘If you’re about to show me something, you’d better come closer,’ Maddy says. Cullen moves over to sit in the visitor’s chair at the desk.
‘You look rather tired, Christopher,’ Maddy says calmly as he nears, but with a hint of reproach. ‘I’l
l ask Alison to fetch that coffee after all.’
‘I was scratching my head over this most of last night,’ Cullen says.
‘That must be how you came by that abrasion on your face,’ she adds, pointing to a spot on his cheek. ‘I couldn’t see it when you were sitting on the sofa.’
Cullen raises his finger to his face and feels a roughened patch. Did Ratner get him? If he did, he has no memory. All he can recall is the moment his fist made contact with Ratner’s cheek. Gathering himself and, forcing a smile, he says, ‘Lazy razor work.’
Ince returns the smile and, gesturing to his right hand, says, ‘Been shaving your knuckles too?’
‘Oh, that,’ he says, as casually as he can, ‘Loose paving in the driveway. Lucky not to break anything.’
She lets this pass and, with a raised eyebrow, says, ‘You were saying…’
‘It appears that Mark has been doctoring Natasha Tillotson’s grades.’
Maddy’s face darkens. In a strained voice, she says, ‘You have any evidence of that?’
‘Take a look for yourself.’ He swivels the laptop and waits while Maddy peers. ‘Natasha was barely scraping along the bottom, and suddenly she’s getting good two-ones, firsts. Besides which, I confronted Mark last night and he admitted as much.’
Maddy is staring at his right hand now. ‘I see,’ she says quietly. ‘And you’ve only just noticed this?’
‘Obviously, otherwise I would have come directly to you.’ He resents the rebuke from a woman, particularly from a former lover, however distant their affair. And this is the second in as many weeks. It makes him think that Maddy isn’t as reliable a champion as he’d assumed. It’s everyone for himself when it comes down to it.
‘No one on the outside would be able to prove any of this, presumably?’ she says now.
‘I doubt it.’
‘Well that’s something.’ He watches Ince drumming her fingers across her mouth, which is something she does when thinking through a problem. Otherwise, her expression is, as always, a calm, matt surface.
