His breathing slows, his arm heavy. The flat stills like it does when the world outside has given up pretending it matters.
I press my face into his chest—the red marks on my wrists cooling in the air.
The marks will fade by morning. The trust won’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Monday. Before Deakin’s assembly. The phone vibrates on the desk at ten past eight. A vibration at ten past eight on a Monday is statistically either Mum or nonsense, so the screen stays dark.
An email. Manchester purple banner at the top.From:Dr H. Salgari.Subject: Semester One results: a quick chat.
One paragraph.Dear Mr Carrick, I’ve been looking through the first-semester marks for Mathematics for Economists, and I’d like to have a brief chat with you about your trajectory in the programme. Please drop by my office sometime this week at your convenience.
Kind regards, Helen.
Helen. Dr Salgari, the colleague. The woman whose heels once receded down Laurence’s corridor at nine in the morning while I was still in his office pretending not to exist. The woman who’s been in the foyer and the back of the lecture theatre and the corner of every departmental space since October.
I read it twice, three times.
Brief chat. At your convenience. Kind regards.Three layers of politeness. Every syllable is weighted.
Could be nothing. It could be that she wants to suggest I switch to maths proper because a ninety-six on the analysis paper is a suspicious score for an economist who does not apparently study.
It could be the other thing.
The trouble with being the student who turns in ninety-six on a proofs paper is that somebody has to mark it. The trouble with his marking is that the department notices. Helen Salgari, especially.
I draft a reply, delete it, draft another. Delete that one. The cursor blinks at me with the patience of a cursor that has watched a lot of boys in Fallowfield draft a lot of replies to a lot of emails they did not want to receive.
I close the laptop.
Deal with it later.
Professor Deakin has the delivery of a man reading court minutes. Hands clasped. Spectacles on the end of his nose. The departmental assembly is sixty students and twelve academics crammed into a room designed for forty, and the heating’s been broken since October, which means we’re all wearing coats indoors. The building has given up. We’re respecting that.
I’m half-asleep in the back row. Femi is beside me, notebook out. Paying attention. The agenda is projected on a screen that cuts off the last three letters of every line, turning ‘semester examination schedule’ into ‘semester examination sched’ and ‘departmental social event’ into ‘departmental social even.’
‘And finally.’ Deakin adjusts his glasses. ‘The International Congress on Applied Mathematics will take place in Vienna fromthe fourteenth to the eighteenth of March. The department is sending a delegation.’
Vienna.
My spine straightens. Didn’t tell it to.
‘Places are limited, and will be allocated on a first-come, first-served basis. Students wishing to attend should email my office by Friday.’
I stop listening.
Vienna sits in my mouth. Four days, another country. Another city where nobody knows my name or his or what happens when they’re said in the same room.
My eyes find Laurence, front row, end seat. Professional. Neutral. Composure that wouldn’t crack in an earthquake.
But I notice.
The stillness of his hand on his knee. Too still. Eyes forward. I know he wants to turn. I know because something shutters across his face. Fractional. The control I’ve felt him exert a thousand times.
‘Will I be eligible?’ Femi whispers.
‘What?’
