Non Placet
This is the first chapter of a dystopian novel set partially in the Cambridge of now/the recent past (with current academic political issues) and partially about twenty years hence in a Cambridge that I sincerely hope we never see. In between there may be a period set in France or Cosica, but I haven't got around to writing that bit yet. Currently standing at about 35000 words, this novel will be returned to when the characters in it – particularly Amanda – decide to start talking to me again!
Central Thamesbridge, November 8, 2005
It was somewhere between the lecture theatre following yet another (badly-delivered) lecture and her office for yet another (cancelled) tutorial, that Dr Amanda Seaton caught sight of a headline that initially impinged only slightly on her consciousness. When the words "OPPOSITION ACADEMIC SHOT BY REJECTED STUDENT" actually made their way to the processing centres of her brain, however, it was a different matter. Forgotten was the concentration required to keep her upright on her bicycle, her balance always being somewhat precarious; and she ended sprawled in an undignified heap amongst the rotting leaves and conkers strewn along the side of Brunswick Avenue.
Somewhat embarrassingly, students – none of whom, thankfully, she recognised – came to her aid. Having moved the bicycle out of the way of the passing taxis (Thamesbridge taxi-drivers taking a particular delight in crushing bicycles and their owners alike) they carefully picked her up and attempted to dust her off. Aware both that she did, indeed, look a complete mess, and yet still fired with the urgency to know exactly what had happened, she attempted to brush them off with an acerbic retort. Then, seeing their abashed expressions, she realised that she was acting like an ungrateful old bluestocking, and embarrassed herself further with the fulsomeness of her apologies.
Torn between the twin needs to appear to be an approachable, friendly person (but not over-friendly – oh the delicate line that an academic was these days required to tread!) and to find out exactly what had happened, what that portentous headline had meant, she invited her rescuers to join her in a cup of coffee at that well-loved Thamesbridge café, the Toasted Tea-cake. That this place was in close proximity to a news-agent's played only a small part in her choice, she struggled to convince herself. As it was, she left a twenty pound note with the students, requiring only that they order her a plain black coffee ("espresso topped up with hot water, not filter!"), and vanished in undignified haste to get hold of a copy of the Thamesbridge Evening Crier.
Returning to the café, she was surprised (half-pleased, half-chagrined, as in many ways she would have preferred to be alone, but was pleased to discover that there were still honest young people in the world) to discover that the students had not taken her money and scarpered. She sat down, took a large gulp of the coffee that they had bought her (she was irrationally pleased to note that they'd managed to get the order right, and realised that she was perhaps becoming increasingly over-cynical and jaundiced with regard to students, even if they hadn't managed to intuit that a large slug of whisky or brandy would definitely have improved it further) and finally dared to look at the newspaper. Somehow, the remnants of a superstitious hind-brain (the existence of which being something which she, as a respectable and respected scientist, strongly disapproved) had somehow managed to convince her that if she didn't look at the story until she was back in the café, everything would be all right.
That was her talisman, her pet phrase. She'd adopted it ten years earlier, watching La Haine for the first time, and realising how much the repeated "jusqu'ici tout va bien" resonated with her. That the film had ended in tragedy nevertheless did not escape her; and reading the breathless journalistic details of the story now in front of her, she resolved to reject even these minor crumbs of comfort in the future. The world was random, the world was cruel, and superstitious hope was merely the secular equivalent of praying to a God. Amanda had early realised she was an atheist, and considered most forms of religion, in particular fundamentalist Christianity in its more pernicious forms, a form of collective mental illness, mass hysteria and, in her darker moments, a potent force of evil permeating the world.
She turned again to the newspaper, the students regarding her anxiously. Perhaps, she thought, they think I suffered concussion in that fall. How I wish I had, and that this was an unreality. But, no, she knew that this was true. Quickly she scanned the article again, her mind, ever the academic it told her sardonically, attempting to provide an acceptable précis, along with a suitably abridged context, for the anxious young people sitting opposite her. She took a deep breath and began.
"You will no doubt think my behaviour somewhat strange, and I think that I rather owe you an explanation."
The students demurred, but Amanda persisted.
"No, no, this is not a time for politeness, acceptance, or any of that particular form of collective introversion that the British seem to find comes so easily and naturally to them. This is a time for expressing feelings, because something truly dreadful has happened. I think – no, I know – that this University, widely reputed to be one of the greatest universities in the world, is rotten to the core."
She slammed her coffee cup back down into its saucer, causing some of the contents to leap out of the cup. The students looked at each other uneasily. Unhinged academics were a general hazard of life in Thamesbridge, but this one didn't seem to be unhinged in the usual fashion. Amanda sensed some of their discomfort and continued in a more muted fashion.
"I don't know how much you know of the politics underlying the way this place is run?"
The blank looks on their faces told her all she needed to know. It was no surprise to her; there'd been a big discussion amongst all the dissident academics about how to encourage more awareness of the issues, not only amongst the student population, but also amongst the staff.
"I suppose that you have, at least, heard about Professor Karen White and her tireless campaign, over many years, to call the administration of this University to account?"
There were warm nods from the students; Karen White was well-known and much-liked amongst the student population for her robust and continued defences of students' rights when administrators had tried either subtly to erode them or, indeed, in some cases to ride completely roughshod over them.
"Well, I count myself amongst her band of followers, of those who make an effort to examine proposals that come out from the official channels of the University, and who speak out when we think we see things that are going amiss, and that aren't really appropriate."
She inhaled sharply, then released the air as if blowing out the smoke from the cigarettes she had given up five years earlier. What wouldn't she have given both for the hit from the nicotine and for the fiddle object, the something to do with her hands in moments of anxiety, now?
"Earlier today, a student from my own department – a department which you may or may not know Professor White has often criticised quite sharply– attempted to kill Professor White, and then shot himself. It's not clear from this article how bad her injuries are; she was rushed to the infirmary and is reported as being in a ;critical condition' – whatever that might mean."
The students looked at her, incomprehension turning slowly to horror as they considered the fact that she might be serious, rather than clinically insane. With a resigned flap of the hand, she passed the newspaper over to them so that they could read the article for themselves. When they'd finished reading it, their faces were as ashen as her own. She hesitated before making her move, very aware that in this time she couldn't really be sure of anyone, but also aware that if things were as bad as she was now sure that they were, it would be necessary to have all her ducks in a row before things went really badly wrong.
"You seem to me to be decent, honest, concerned, citizens. And you care about, for, Professor White. She thinks that things in and around this University aren't right; and she's hampered her career dreadfully by daring to say these things. If the unthinkable happens, and what's happened today ends up in her dying, would you consider joining a movement to take University education back to where it ought to be? No, no, you don't have to say anything right now. We don't want people to join us as a knee-jerk reaction; we need people who've really thought through the issues. But if you should, after having thought about it, want to help – well, we'd be delighted to have you. Here's my card."
And with that, Amanda gathered up all the mud-spattered dignity she could muster and stalked out of the café, determinedly ignoring the bruises fast forming all over her body.