‘It’s these,’ Edgar says, handing her a sheaf of printouts. ‘I need to get these summarised as soon as possible, so that I can see if I should address them in the paper.’
Lucy takes them from him, starts to leaf through them.
‘It’s more general than my usual area,’ he says. ‘More of the criminology aspect, less of the specific prison considerations. Of course, I keep up with all of this, but it’s good to know what peers are proposing.’
Lucy nods enthusiastically, like a bloody dog. Nothing useful to say for herself. Now she’s alone with him, the idea of bringing up anything unsolicited feels almost impossible. He sits down behind his desk and turns on his computer, the light catching his cheekbones, emphasising the clean lines of his profile. Objectively speaking, despite his age – perhaps even because of it – he is ridiculously handsome. It’s not just his reputation; in some ways she knows she’s responding to that, too, in her blushing and her fluttering and the way that she keeps touching her hair, flicking the strands across her eyes.
He catches her gaze and looks away, his expression resigned. It must happen all the time, students flinging themselves at him. Lucy is filled with a sudden urge to blurt out that she’s not like them, she’s different.
‘You said something about your mother,’ Edgar says, breaking the silence.
Oh God. Not here. Not yet. She’s not ready to talk about it. Her mouth can’t form the words.
‘She died?’ he prompts.
‘I . . .’ She can’t say it. He turns his face away, but not before she’s seen something pass across it, a shadow, so fast she’s not even sure now that it was there.
‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘No need to discuss anything you’re not comfortable with. Tell me about your first degree. Manchester, wasn’t it?’
Now she’s on more comfortable territory, the words start to flow. She tells him about her studies, her first, the fact that she had visited Strangeways every week as a volunteer in a literacy charity throughout her degree.
‘That’s fantastic,’ he says. ‘My wife’s interested in literacy in prisons, women after their release, that kind of thing. Maybe you could volunteer with her organisation?’
Her nails dig into her hand. She’d known he must be married, but it’s difficult to hear. ‘I’d love to,’ she says after a moment. ‘It’s great that you both work in the same field.’
‘To a point,’ Edgar says. ‘She volunteers from time to time, that’s all. Though at least she has views about prison welfare. It would be tricky if she were completely uninterested. I mean, it’s . . .’ He doesn’t finish his sentence.
He looks at Lucy with such intensity that she almost quivers, his gaze searing through to her core, as if he can see the very heart of her. His charisma level is almost through the roof. She’d thought she would have the upper hand as a young woman; she was wrong.
‘I’m glad you’re able to help me with this,’ he says, and for a moment he stands close to her, his blue eyes locked to hers, and it’s hanging in the air between them, the questionwill they won’t they, and even though Lucy knows how much there is to say, and how much this is not what this is about, all she actually wants is for him to lean forward and—
‘Do you think you’ll be able to get the work done in time?’ He turns away from her and the moment is broken.
‘Yes, it’s no problem. I’ll have it done by Friday morning.’
‘No boyfriend or anything to distract you?’
‘No.’ She blushes again, glad that he’s got his back to her now.
‘Good. Sensible. Devote yourself to your studies.’
She shuffles the papers together and puts them into her bag. He’s sitting at his computer, absorbed by something on the screen. She raises a hand in farewell and he tilts his head towards her without looking.
She’s dismissed.
But she knows when she returns that the door will be open for her, and that he will be waiting. Next time, she’s going to be ready.
CCTV
A Scottish loch, the water clear and unbroken by waves, mountains reflected in the surface.
A small motorboat comes into view at the end of a wooden jetty, one man aboard. He climbs up the ladder, a cardboard box in his hands. It’s full of groceries. A head of celery sticks up from one corner, two bottles from the other side.
The man puts the box down further up the jetty before returning to the boat and starting the engine. The boat leaves the picture. Some hours pass where only a few birds come into the screen and fly away again – a heron and two ducks.
At last, Scylla appears. She seems out of breath. She pulls one of the bottles out of the box. Now we see that it’s whisky. She unscrews the lid and starts to tip the contents into the loch. Moments later, Charybdis comes into view, her teeth bared in a silent scream. She pushes at Scylla, trying to get hold of the bottle, but then stops, catching sight of the full bottle that’s still in the box.
She snatches this and runs away up the jetty and out of shot. Scylla watches after her before putting the bottle in her hands up to her lips and draining the rest of the contents. Then she, too, moves out of shot.
