He hasn’t told her about his suspension. Why would he? She would just judge him, say something about his mother, make everything 10 per cent worse than it already is.
‘All right for some,’ she says, brushing past him to the sink where she takes an upturned tea cup from the draining board and examines the inside of it before rinsing it and switching on the kettle.
Tessie is his mother’s big sister. His mother is dead. She died when Owen was eighteen. Owen’s father lives in south Londonwith another wife and another son. Owen lived with them for a month after his mother died. It was the loneliest month of his life. He remembers Tessie, at his mother’s funeral, touching his arm and saying, ‘Remember, I will always have a room for you if you need it.’
Turns out she didn’t really mean it. But now she’s stuck with him, fifteen years later and counting. She was forty when Owen moved in. Now she is fifty-five, but she acts as though she is sixty-five. You wouldn’t catch her in Lycra leggings and a hoodie. Her hair is steel grey and frothy and she shops at odd boutiques in Hampstead that sell voluminous linen tunics and trousers with baggy crotches and floppy hats.
‘I bumped into Ernesto last night,’ she says.
Owen nods. Ernesto is a single man of a certain age who lives in the flat above theirs.
‘He said there was a visit from the police a couple of weeks back. Saw you talking to them on the front step. What was that all about?’
Owen breathes in hard. ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Some sort of attack in the area. They were doing door-to-doors.’
‘Attack,’ she says, narrowing her eyes. ‘What sort of attack?’
‘I don’t know.’ He throws his crusts in the bin. Thirty-three years old. He really should be able to eat crusts at his age. ‘An assault, something like that.’
‘Sexual?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Probably.’
There is a tiny but significant silence. Inside the silence he can hear the little intake of his aunt’s breath; sees a thought passingthrough her mind so fast that it makes her head roll back slightly. Her eyes narrow again and then it passes.
‘Well,’ she says. ‘I hope they caught whoever it was. I don’t know what’s happening to this area. It used to be so safe.’
After a tense five-minute wait in the reception area at the college, Owen is shown into the same office he was shown to last time. Jed Bryant is there, once again, with Holly and Clarice. And there is another woman, small and sharp, who is introduced to him as Penelope Ofili. She is an adjudicator.
‘Why do we need an adjudicator?’ he asks.
‘Just for transparency.’
Transparency. Owen blinks slowly and sucks in his cheeks.
‘Please,’ says Jed, ‘take a seat.’
‘How’ve you been?’ asks Holly. ‘Hope you’ve had a chance to relax.’
‘Not really,’ he says. ‘No.’
The smile freezes on Holly’s lips and she turns away abruptly and says, ‘So, thank you so much for coming in again, Owen. As you know, we’ve been working very hard to investigate the claims made by two of your students regarding your behaviour at the Christmas party last December.’
Owen wriggles slightly in his chair, uncrosses his legs, crosses them again. He’s been over the events of that night a hundred times since the allegations were made and he still cannot find the point at which his behaviour breached the line between jovial and abusive. Because that is the bottom line here: in order for all these people to be sitting in this room together, taking time out of theirown days, calling in the services of an independent adjudicator, there must be some fundamental belief that abuse has taken place.
He uncrosses his legs for a third time and is aware that this will look edgy and uncomfortable, which is understandable but might also make it seem that he is feeling guilty. He should have spoken to someone, he realises that now. Things have escalated rather than de-escalated since he last sat here.
‘We’ve spoken to several people who were there on the night,’ Holly continues. ‘I’m afraid, Owen, that they all corroborate the original accusation.’
He nods, his eyes cast downwards.
‘Several people saw you touch the girls in question. Several other people report being present when you splattered the girls with the sweat from your forehead. They all attest that it was a deliberate action and that you did it more than once when asked by the girls to stop.
‘Furthermore, we’ve had several reports backing up the claims of inappropriate teaching: favouring boys, belittling girls, ignoring them, marking them more harshly in some cases or not prioritising their work in others. Some usage of inappropriate language in the classroom.’
He glances up. ‘Like what?’
‘Well.’ Holly looks at her notes. ‘Using terms such as “man up”. Referring to certain pieces of code as “sexy”. Referring to female students as girls. Referring to other students as “insane” and “mental”.’
