by TM Logan
She was disabused of that notion as soon as she sat down in front of his desk.
‘The truth is, Sarah,’ Lovelock said after a brief preamble, ‘I’ve been increasingly concerned about your attitude.’
‘My attitude?’
‘And the quality of your work.’
‘I don’t understand.’ She frowned. ‘My students gave me a good rating in the teaching survey. I’ve run the new masters course this year, I’m getting journal publications . . . I feel like it’s been a good year.’
Lovelock raised his eyebrows as if none of this was remotely relevant.
‘Before I forget, I wanted to check something.’ He indicated her mobile phone, which she’d placed face up on the desk between them. ‘You’re not recording this conversation, are you?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Because recording a conversation like this would be a breach of HR guidelines, not to mention a significant breach of professional and ethical standards.’
Sarah felt the colour rising to her cheeks.
‘I know that.’ You bloody hypocrite, she thought.
He indicated her phone.
‘Do you mind?’
‘I’m not recording,’ she said again.
‘All the same, I’d be more comfortable if you put it away.’
‘Fine.’ She picked up the phone and tucked it into the side pocket of her handbag. Jocelyn must have seen me fiddling with it outside while I was waiting for the meeting.
He gave her his best TV smile.
‘Super.’
‘You were saying something about my attitude.’
‘Look, let’s not get too bogged down in details,’ he said. ‘As head of school I have to look at the bigger picture. It’s part of my role, unfortunately.’
He smiled again as if he expected sympathy.
‘As you know, we’re all operating in a challenging funding environment. What you may not know is that there are some tough decisions coming up for us, and I have to look at all the options.’
‘How do you mean, tough decisions?’
‘Can’t really go into too much detail at the moment, except to say that the Chief Financial Officer is asking all departments in the faculty to make savings. This is, of course, highly confidential and I would expect you to behave accordingly. Keep it just between us.’
‘Of course.’ With a creeping sense of dread, Sarah started to realise where the conversation might be going. ‘How much do we have to save?’
‘A significant sum. You don’t need to know specifics, but essentially there are various options. One of those options is to reshape the current staff profile. To look at our staffing structures and make sure that we’ve got an optimal balance across the school: the right numbers of staff at the right levels, meeting the highest standards of academic excellence.’
‘You mean people being made redundant?’
‘It’s likely that will happen to some people, Sarah.’ He stood up and came around the desk, bringing another chair over to her. He draped himself over the chair, one arm on its back, sitting sideways so he was facing her. She could smell his sweat, pungent and sharp. ‘But that doesn’t have to happen to you. Not necessarily.’
Sarah shifted away from him in her seat. Her mouth was dry and she had a powerful urge to be anywhere in the world other than this room.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘What I mean is: there will be casualties in the restructure. People who will be moved on, so to speak. But you don’t have to be one of them.’
‘Well, that’s good. I certainly don’t want to be one of them.’
‘I’ll discuss the changes that are needed with senior colleagues in the department, obviously, but at the end of those discussions, the dean will act on my recommendation – and mine alone. Despite your efforts to besmirch my reputation.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You told the dean the Atholl Sanders funding lead was your idea. You went behind my back.’
She felt the heat rising to her face again.
‘It was my idea.’
He smiled and shook his head.
‘Academia is a collaborative enterprise, my dear. The sooner you realise that, the better we’ll get along. And the more chance you have of staying in your job.’
‘OK.’ Sarah realised she was gripping her bag so tightly her knuckles were bone white.
‘My word will determine what changes are made in the department.’
‘Right. Yes.’
‘Who stays and who goes.’ His eyes were boring into her, as if he could see inside her head. ‘Clearly, temporary staff on fixed-term contracts – like yourself, Sarah – are the most vulnerable and will be near the top of the list. That’s just the way of the world, I’m afraid.’
‘What are the criteria?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘How are you selecting which staff will be in the firing line?’
‘There will be a range of standard measures used.’
‘Such as? I have one of the highest teaching ratings in the school. My research is coming on and I’ve got more years in post than both Charlie and Patrick, I also have more of an admin load than them and I’ve not had more than one day sick in the last year. I feel as if I should be in quite a good position.’
‘Lots of things will be taken into account, Sarah. Lots of things. As I said, there will be a range of measures, and I’ll use those to make a judgement.’ He crossed his legs, his trousers brushing her shin. ‘So I need to be sure that we have an understanding.’
Her mind was scrambling to catch up with the meaning of his words.
‘W-what kind of understanding?’
He leaned closer. His breath had a sharp unpleasant tang to it. Whisky. Not even five o’clock in the afternoon and he was already on the way to being drunk.
‘Think about it, Sarah. Think about what you want. And what I want.’
He put a heavy hand on her knee, slid it up towards her thigh. His skin was soft and clammy to the touch. She took his hand and pushed it away.
‘Cheeky,’ he said. Undeterred, he ran his index finger up and down her leg. Up and down.
Sarah felt herself flinching away. Inside she was screaming, raging, half-blinded with anger and frustration and the sheer bloody injustice of it all. All of the work she had put in, all of the hours, all the nights she’d worked past midnight until she was nodding off over the laptop. All of the days punch-drunk with fatigue, pushing on and keeping going regardless. None of it seemed to matter. None of it would make a difference.
‘Please don’t do that,’ she said, trying desperately to keep her voice steady.
He uncrossed his legs, splaying them open, and put one hand on the bulge at the crotch of his trousers. He rubbed himself idly.
‘You can stop the pretence,’ he said, his voice thick. ‘I know you want it.’
‘No. I don’t. I really don’t.’ She pushed his hand away again.
‘It’s wet, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Your sex.’
For a second she was too stunned to respond, her mouth opened but no words would come out. She shook her head slowly.
‘What?’
‘Don’t lie, don’t tell me it isn’t. I can tell you’re wet. You’re dripping. It’s the fear reflex kicking in – fear is erotic. It drives the urge to copulate.’
‘No.’ She wanted to say something more substantial, but the shock was making all her words collide with each other inside her head. ‘You’re wrong.’
He leaned forward, sliding his hand up her thigh.
‘Just let your inhibitions go.’
‘No,’ she said again.
He reached up and stroked her cheek with his fingertips. She felt something snap inside her. A line was being crossed.
This had to end.
35
She stood up, backing away from him.
‘Get off me!’
He sat back
in his seat, legs spread wide.
‘You know, Sarah, once in a while you should let yourself go. Go with the flow.’
‘I’m going to report you.’
‘No. You’re not.’
‘I’m going over to HR right now, to make a formal complaint of bullying and harassment.’
He held up his hands.
‘What harassment? I just want a close working relationship with all my staff.’
‘That’s bullshit and you know it! This has gone far enough.’
‘I can’t stop you talking to Bob in HR, Sarah. Very best of luck with it.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I know. And good luck dealing with the counterclaim.’
‘What?’
‘Good luck dealing with my counterclaim, detailing every incident where you have thrown yourself at me, begged me to have sex with you, as part of your plan to sleep your way up the ladder. At the hotel in Edinburgh, for example – hanging around outside my hotel room pestering me to let you in. Or at my party the other week.’
‘That’s not true,’ Sarah said, her voice cracking with the strain of keeping it level. ‘That’s the opposite of the truth. It’s complete and utter fiction.’
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair.
‘Who can say what the truth is? It’s flexible. History is written by the victors, you know that. And I’ve already given Bob a few hints about what you’re like.’
‘You know the truth,’ she said. ‘So do I.’
‘The truth is that you said nothing was wrong. You denied that I’d ever made any such advances on you.’
‘I never said that!’
‘You did. Less than a fortnight ago.’
‘You’re a liar.’
‘On the patio at my party, do you remember? I heard you say it very clearly and so did a dozen witnesses.’
Sarah shook her head as the memory returned, feeling sick. The woman, Gillian Arnold, had asked her about Lovelock in front of all those people. Has he tried to get you into bed yet? Sarah had panicked, fallen back on the safe option: to lie. In front of witnesses, she had denied there was any problem at all.
She knew what he was doing. None of the other incidents had been witnessed. There was no direct, substantiated evidence on her side. She could make a claim to HR right now, set that process in motion, but he would throw the accusations right back at her. The university’s HR department was feeble enough at the best of times, but faced with two contradictory claims – one of them from the most eminent scholar in the entire university – they would seek the path of least resistance. At best, a crappy compromise that satisfied neither complainant. Worse still, months of protracted meetings and conciliation and discussions with HR, with Lovelock, ending with some kind of fudge that avoided any kind of decisive, constructive action.
And, undoubtedly, her career would be doubly screwed.
She wanted the earth to swallow her up.
‘This is bullshit,’ she said through clenched teeth.
‘Think about it, Sarah. I’m a reasonable man – I can be a nice chap, if you’re nice to me.’
‘What does that mean, exactly?’
‘I think you know.’ He put his legs together again and patted his lap. ‘You know very well what it means. And you know what else? I know you want it, I see it in your eyes.’
She stared at him, feeling the hatred rise in her throat. There were a thousand words she wanted to hurl at him. Sharp words, deadly like knives. Brutal words that would cut him open from neck to navel. But the only thing she could think to say was pathetic and she hated that she couldn’t do better than stating the blindingly obvious.
‘I’m married, Alan. So are you.’
‘Don’t allow yourself to be strangled by bourgeois conventions of monogamy. Your husband clearly doesn’t, from what I’ve heard. Why don’t you just give in to it?’
So there it was. A week ago she had been looking forward to getting her foot on the next rung of the career ladder. A permanent job. Security for her kids. Stability for them all. Now that was gone for another year. In fact, she might not even have a job at all.
Unless she gave Lovelock what he wanted.
36
Sarah sat motionless in her car in the dark, slanting shadows of the car park. Her head was ringing with anger, her throat raw and fists clenched tight on the steering wheel. Her eyes stung but she was so angry she couldn’t even cry anymore. That bastard. Every time you thought he’d hit rock bottom, he always found a way of stooping even lower. He had spent the best part of two years harassing her, groping her and pressuring her to sleep with him. Unsubtle flirting had deteriorated into unwanted advances and physical contact. But now he seemed to have decided that if she wouldn’t give in, if she wouldn’t just lie down and let him take what he wanted, then he would simply get rid of her. Have her declared surplus to departmental requirements.
Since the age of sixteen she had worked harder than everyone else, hard enough so she could make her own luck, to ensure she had options. She’d always worked longer hours than colleagues, sacrificing hobbies and free time along the way, to give herself the best chance of following her dream. Falling pregnant at twenty-four had been an accidental exception to that particular rule, but it had only made her more determined to be in charge of her own destiny.
And now this.
All your work – all the hours and months and years – counts for nothing. Literally nothing. All your studying, all the exams, the PhD, the interviews, the sleepless nights and short-term contracts, the struggles, the sacrifice, the traumas and little triumphs along the way. They amount to nothing. Zero. Nada. Because he holds all the cards.
She was in an impossible situation, and there was no way out. No good solution.
Or maybe there was.
She remembered that she’d not stopped the Voice Recorder app on her mobile phone, when she tucked it into the side pocket of her handbag. She took it out, unlocked it, and sure enough there was a digital time counter on the home screen – forty-one minutes and rising – showing that it was still going. Just as Laura had suggested.
I’ve got him, she thought. My God, I’ve got him. No way they can argue with this.
She sat up in the driver’s seat, a flush of adrenaline quickening her pulse, and stopped the recording. It appeared in the menu as Rec002. Whatever you do, don’t delete it by accident. Upload it to the laptop as soon as you get home. Maybe write out a transcript too, get it all down in black and white. She hit the play icon and heard a series of rustling sounds, picturing herself as she’d switched it on in Lovelock’s outer office just before the meeting. Sitting there while he’d kept her waiting, the distant tap-tap-tap of his PA Jocelyn Steer typing in the background. Sarah put her ear closer to the microphone. A hiss of static and a brief exchange with Jocelyn as she’d gone through to the inner office, phone in hand; a knock on his door, more clicking and rustling sounds. Lovelock’s voice starting the meeting, the usual preamble before he got to the real reason why he’d asked her in.
‘The truth is, Sarah, I’ve been increasingly concerned about your attitude.’
The recorder had picked up every word. It was faint, but it was clearly him.
Sarah’s heart began to beat a rapid rhythm against her ribcage, and all she could think was: I’ve got him. Finally, she had some evidence. She needed to think, to work out the best way to play this, but first she would listen to the whole encounter again. She put the speaker a little closer to her ear as the audio file continued to play, Lovelock’s voice with an edge to it now.
‘. . . because recording a conversation like this would be a breach of HR guidelines, not to mention a significant breach of professional and ethical standards.’
‘I know that.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘I’m not recording.’
‘All the same, I’d be more comfortable if you put it away.’
‘Fine.’
There was more rustling
, so loud that Sarah recoiled from the sudden noise in her ear, and then –
And then nothing.
She checked the display on the screen to make sure the timer was still going. The clock ticked onwards as the audio played. A hiss of white noise. She turned the volume up to maximum and put her ear right to the speaker. More white noise. There was still something, but way off in the background, very vague and distant. Nothing recognisable as him and her. Barely recognisable as human voices at all. She let it run for another few minutes, hoping that it might become clearer. Knowing that it wouldn’t.
It was no good. She must have muffled the microphone when she tucked the phone into her handbag. She hurled the mobile onto the passenger seat, slamming her palms on the steering wheel with a shout of pure frustration.
‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’
The recording was no good after all. It would just be her word against his again, with no evidence to back up her version of events. The sense of powerlessness was overwhelming. A plunging black hole that pulled her deeper and deeper. One she knew she could never escape.
As she sat in the cold darkness of her car, staring through her half-misted windscreen at a blank brick wall, her white-knuckled hands on the steering wheel, she thought back to another conversation. A conversation with a powerful stranger. It was in this very car park, three days ago, that three men had lain in wait for her. Blank-eyed men who had most likely done things she could only guess at.
In her head, she heard him again. She could almost smell the smoke from his cigar.
Here is my offer. You give me one name. One person. And I will make them disappear.
It was madness. Plain and simple. An unbelievable offer from a stranger.
I will make them disappear.
What would her life be like, if he was no longer in it? Would she still have that feeling of creeping dread, deep in her stomach, when she was driving to work in the morning? Of course not. Would she have a fair chance to move onwards and upwards, to have some security in her life, to provide a stable future for her children? Yes. Would the world be a better place, without Lovelock in it? Plenty of people who knew him, who really knew him, knew the answer to that question.
