Two Wrongs

by Mel McGrath

  She watches Nevis’s face for a reaction and gets none. Of all her daughter’s quirks this habit she has of pulling down the blinds is the most puzzling. What are her thoughts? What feelings are passing through that sweet head? Honor watches her turning her phone over and over in her hand. Eventually, Nevis frowns and says, ‘You’re not even dressed.’

  ‘I’ll pick up some clothes in a charity shop.’ Honor gets all her clothes this way.

  Nevis’s right hand reaches across her body and pings at the elastic worry band hanging from her left wrist. ‘I’m not going to kill myself if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  Honor’s chest tightens. For a moment she finds herself too shocked to speak. The thought has not occurred to her. Why would Nevis suppose that it had?

  ‘Why on earth would I be thinking that?’

  ‘Because you don’t trust me. You’ve never just trusted me.’

  And with that Nevis gets up, reaches around the chair for her peacoat and sweeps across the floor of the cafe. Honor watches her go, her heart telling her to follow, her head keeping her in her seat. She sits there for what seems like the longest time, fixed in place, immovable. Eventually Nevis reappears, embarrassed and with an odd, forced smile on her face.

  Planting a small, lukewarm kiss on her mother’s cheek, she says, ‘Sorry about that. Bit of a stressful night. Thanks for coming and everything, but I’m OK, really. I’ve got a shift at the chippy later. And a ton of coursework. If things take a downturn with Satnam…’

  ‘I hope they won’t.’

  ‘But if they do…’

  ‘I’ll be here – so long as you don’t mind me staying in Bristol for a bit?’

  Nevis considers this and gives a shrug. It’s a deal then.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off,’ Nevis says, pointing to the exit.

  ‘Let me at least give you a lift.’

  Honor notes her daughter’s hesitation, as if Nevis has something else to say and can’t find a way to say it. ‘Darling, if there’s something you’re not telling me, please, you know I won’t judge you whatever it is?’

  There is a brief split second when Nevis seems about to speak then thinking better of it, she rolls her eyes, puffs her cheeks, lets out a long, exasperated sigh and heads, once more, for the door.

  Chapter 8

  Cullen

  The news that a student in his department has attempted suicide reaches Cullen at a Monday morning community liaison breakfast at the university, whispered into his ear by the head of student welfare, Lea Keane. Cullen takes a breath and closes his eyes briefly to collect himself and pastes on a thin smile for the benefit of the others gathered around the table before rising from his chair and apologising. Urgent business. He doesn’t say what, obviously. There are outsiders present. He waves Keane through the door and they make the short walk to the Deanery without speaking.

  Going round to the business side of his desk, he waves Keane to a visitor’s chair but doesn’t offer her a coffee. He’s never liked Keane. Is it the moustache or the busybody air or the taste for garish clothes featuring big blooms which reminds Cullen uncomfortably of his mother? Probably a combination of all three. Plus, he doesn’t believe in counsellors or therapists; considers them archaeologists of human misery, forever disturbing feelings that are best left buried.

  ‘Were you notified by the parents?’ Cullen asks, lowering himself into his ergonomic office chair. He finds knowing the exact sequence of events soothing. It’s the mathematician in him. First this, then that, feeling the ground beneath him.

  ‘Not exactly, though I have spoken to the parents this morning. I found out in the wee hours. My daughter Jackie was one of the attending paramedics and she phoned me when she got off shift. I did call you but you must already have gone to bed.’

  Oh, he thinks, so that was the unanswered call. It had slipped his mind.

  ‘So,’ he says, leaning on his elbows and steepling his hands on the desk. The timing couldn’t be worse with the university about to go into admissions. ‘Who is this about?’

  ‘One of your second years. Mathematics and Biosciences. Satnam Mann?’

  Cullen’s brain stops turning over. A moment passes before a question floats out from under the white noise in his head. Can Keane really have said Satnam Mann? He notices his hands shaking and jams them under the desk before Keane spots them.

  ‘Is she conscious?’

  ‘The hospital won’t speak with me directly, but the parents told me she’s in a coma. They didn’t seem to know whether that was medically induced or not. It was hard getting anything out of them at all, to be honest. Jackie told me a passer-by came across Satnam trying to climb the suicide barrier at the bridge, but she collapsed before she could, well, you know.’

  ‘I see,’ Cullen says, with some relief.

  ‘The parents are saying it was an accidental overdose. In their version, Satnam took a couple of pills so she could stay up late to write an essay and had some sort of reaction to them. I got the impression that they couldn’t bear to bring themselves to accept that their daughter might have tried to kill herself.’

  ‘It could have happened like that, though, couldn’t it?’ Cullen says, hopefully. An accident could be made to go away. A confirmed suicide bid would have to be looked into. And that would bring all kinds of trouble.

  ‘I suppose so, but there was a lot of alcohol and Ritalin in her blood so I’d say the chances are pretty slight. I googled Ritalin overdose. It can be fatal, not immediately, but after a few days or even weeks. The heart goes into overdrive and the organs eventually fail. Once that starts, it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘I see,’ Cullen says, wondering now if it might actually be easier if the Mann girl did die. It might solve a few of his problems. ‘Does she have any record of mental ill health?’

  ‘Obviously, I can’t access her medical records but she’s never engaged with student welfare. No time off. No red flags at all. When Jackie quizzed her flatmate in the ambulance, she said they’d spent the early part of the evening together and Satnam was her usual self. I looked through her file. It seems she was struggling academically in the first year, but she must have knuckled down because her grades this year have been excellent. I suppose she might have been feeling under a lot of pressure.’

  ‘A couple of students did some remedial maths with me last summer. She was among them, but there was no sign that she wasn’t coping,’ says Cullen. ‘In fact, as you say, the opposite. She’s been doing extremely well. Have you informed the Vice Chancellor yet?’

  ‘No, I thought you would probably want to do that.’

  ‘Right,’ Cullen says, relieved that Keane has remembered the correct chain of command. Cullen and the VC, Madeleine Ince, go back years and he’d much prefer to have this conversation with her himself.

  ‘I could use a coffee. Can I get one for you?’ Cullen says, relenting on his previous decision, but only because his head is banging from lack of sleep.

  ‘I’ve already had too many this morning.’

  As Cullen goes over to the coffee machine in the corner of his office, an uncomfortable thought comes into his mind. ‘Is the flatmate one of ours too?’

  ‘Yes. Nevis Smith. Same year and subject area as Satnam. You know her too presumably.’

  As Keane carries on talking, Cullen stares at the coffee machine. The flatmate’s name rings a bell. Ah yes. The quirky, quiet one? Always wears the same uniform of striped tee and jeans. Aware, suddenly, of the silence in the room, he says, ‘Biosciences can be a very challenging degree.’

  ‘We can’t have undergrads trying to take their own lives.’ The shocked tone in Keane’s voice suggests rebuke.

  ‘No, no, obviously not,’ Cullen says, holding the cup precisely under the coffee spout. His hand is shaking, just a little. All it would take is a quick snifter to make it stop. He reaches around the back of the coffee machine where he keeps a sneaky quarter bottle of Famous Grouse, then decides against it. The risk of
Keane spotting him doing it or smelling the booze and telling the higher-ups is too great. Instead he drops a sugar cube into his cup and watches the tarry liquid seep into it, his mind automatically turning back to last night with Veronica, the whole business not that much different from inserting a capsule, pressing the on button and waiting for an espresso to be expelled. He takes a sip from his cup and is relieved by the sense of the scattered fragments of his mind gathering back in.

  ‘I’m not sure we’re getting the whole story at this point,’ Keane says.

  He feels his hand slip on the cup. ‘No?’

  ‘Well no, obviously, there’s a reason why Satnam decided to do what she did, we just don’t know what it is.’

  Taking the coffee to his desk and resuming his seat, Cullen clears his throat and does his best not to sound alarmed. He doesn’t like the way this sounds. ‘Has somebody checked her phone?’

  ‘It seems to have gone missing.’

  Cullen’s heart skips. ‘Temporarily missing or permanently missing?’

  ‘According to the flatmate it got left in the ambulance, but the crew couldn’t find it so I’m guessing it must have fallen out when they opened up the ambulance.’

  Cullen is weak-kneed with relief. ‘Naturally I took a look at her social media timelines and so on. Nothing alarming or untoward. In fact, she hardly seems to have used social media this academic year. The most recent post was a picture of her at a Valentine’s Day party with three other girls and she looked perfectly fine. But then I don’t know her, so…’

  Cullen sits and blinks and wonders how best to make this all go away. Too many disordered thoughts swirling around. Probably shouldn’t have had that third coffee.

  ‘Perhaps it was just an accident. Students buy prescription drugs on the street all the time, drink too much, get wasted,’ he says, hoping to sound rational and steady, neither of which he really feels.

  Keane blinks, her face registering surprise. ‘I’m not sure anyone takes as many pills as Satnam evidently did by accident.’

  Irritation snakes up Cullen’s spine. It would be easier just to go with the parents’ version, wouldn’t it? Why is Keane so insistent on picking at the scab? The hairs on her moustache glisten in the light from his desk lamp and he is suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to be alone.

  ‘Do we know how many pills Satnam took?’

  ‘It says on the internet that you have to take a lot to overdose.’

  Cullen snorts. ‘Oh, well, if it says on the internet…’ He holds up a hand to discourage Keane’s response and stands to signal that the meeting is at an end. Surprised when Keane makes no move to leave, he pastes a weak smile on his face and says, ‘Is there something else?’

  ‘You’re not serious, are you? About it being an accident.’

  Cullen feels stumped. He takes a step away from his desk towards the door and hovers, desperate for Keane to leave.

  ‘I’ll let the Vice Chancellor and the department know. Sooo…’ He goes over to the door and holds it open now. Keane’s ample behind remains in the visitor’s chair. He wonders for a second if she’s wedged in. A vision comes to mind of having to wheel her out still stuck to her chair.

  ‘In my opinion, a team meeting would be a wise precaution,’ she begins, ‘the senior directorate: welfare and pastoral, academic and administration need to discuss how the university is intending to respond. We don’t want to do nothing and find we have a suicide contagion on our hands.’

  Cullen allows his smile to fade and openly checks his watch. The thought of a meeting makes his heart sink. He is drowning in meetings, most of them useless.

  ‘So here’s the thing, Lea. As you know, we’re about to go into admissions for next year. As you’ll also be aware, competition for the top students in STEM is the stiffest it’s ever been. Every university in the country is after them. The last thing we need is to stir up any adverse publicity. No one died…’

  ‘Not yet…’ Keane says pointedly.

  Cullen suddenly feels exhausted and it’s not yet 10 o’clock on a Monday morning. What will it take to get the harpy off his back and close this thing down?

  ‘You’ve been very clear, but as Dean…’ and your superior he thinks, but is wise enough not to say, ‘I’d say that we have no reason not to respect the parents’ view. That’s what I’ll be recommending to the VC. If anyone other than the parents gets in touch about this, I suggest we shut them down. We’re investigating an unfortunate incident, we’re not making any public statement right now, please respect the party’s rights to privacy, blahblahblah.’

  Keane compresses her lips as she gathers her things and pushes herself up from the chair. At the door she meets his eye with a concerned look on her face and says, ‘I just feel…’

  Cullen pulls the door open and swings it in Lea Keane’s direction. He watches her step back, a look of alarm on her face, and rearranging his features into what passes for a smile, says, ‘If only everything was about your feelings, Lea, what a marvellous world this would be. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

  Chapter 9

  Nevis

  Having no desire to go back to the flat, Nevis heads up towards the Downs and the university, where she intends to remain, telling herself that in the library she’ll find peace and calm and even a nook in which to nap, until it’s time to leave for her shift at the chippy, where the familiar routines of floor washing, loading potatoes into the peeler, and emptying and cleaning the batter mixer might help keep her mind off the incident on the bridge for a while.

  It is a bad business having to lie to Honor, or not lie exactly, but to avoid telling the truth. There was plenty she wasn’t telling, obviously, but that’s because Honor is the wrong person to tell. After all, Honor has kept so much from her.

  The walk takes her through St Michael’s, named after the huge grey church in its midst, and up steep hills into the eastern parts of Clifton, though she is too busy in thought to really notice how the church looms like an eye over her, how the hills snatch at her breath. You overthink, Satnam would say, but there is so much to think about. As soon as she can she turns off the main road into the smaller side streets to avoid the blare of traffic and people.

  ‘Bristol’s too busy? What are you talking about? You’re from London!’ Satnam said, when they were freshers, newly arrived in the city, and Nevis made her views known. What she wanted to say was, no, I was born in the Welsh Marches, which was true, but not relevant somehow. Satnam couldn’t know that until a few years ago, when the Olympics arrived nearby, Hackney Wick, where Nevis had spent most of her life, was a real backwater, otherworldly and remote, a dead zone of abandoned factories and offices squatted by artists and eco-warriors. There was a particular peacefulness to be had on the water, away from the shops and the press of people. The marshes, from where you could walk along the banks of the Lea almost as far as Epping, lay only ten minutes away. There was no reason for anyone other than the occasional dog walker to come to Hackney Wick and the anarchists and artists, the boaters and the hippies, were left to their own devices. By contrast Bristol seemed unmanageably loud and busy but a person can grow used to just about anything and by the end of the first year, she had come to love the grand, melancholy buildings, the fine rain and blustery winds, the graffiti, the waterside cafes selling artisan coffee and delectable cakes and the bridges spanning the canals and the navigations and the brown waters of the River Avon.

  Now, reaching the security gates onto the campus, she swipes the ID card she keeps in the pocket of her peacoat and wanders along the path that runs alongside the car park towards the bank of lifts to the library on the second floor. The University of Avon hadn’t been her first choice. She’d been hoping to find somewhere in London that she could commute to from the boat. It was Honor who’d persuaded her to look further afield and made it possible by putting aside some of the money that Zoe had left her. They’d done some Googling and found the course in Mathematics with Biosciences at Avon. No other uni
versity was offering anything similar and the student feedback was phenomenal.

  ‘This place is perfect for you,’ Honor said. They were standing in the foyer of the biosciences building. An almond-eyed girl stood beside them, flicking through the course prospectus. Honor asked if she was applying for the same course, the girl confirmed as much, and that would have been the end of the conversation were it not for the fact that Honor went on, remarking, ‘You look like someone I used to know,’ and Nevis knew she was thinking about Zoe because the girl did bear a striking resemblance to Nevis’s birth mother.

  ‘Is that a good thing?’ the girl asked.

  Honor told her that it was and the girl said, ‘Maybe it’s a sign then,’ and turning to Nevis and holding out her hand, added, ‘I’m Satnam. I hope we both get in so we can be friends.’ Which was the best thing any stranger had ever said to Nevis before or since.

  At the second floor, Nevis switches her phone to silent. Swiping in to the library, she makes her way directly to her usual seat – K14 – and accessing her coursework, a mathematical model of the movement of seawater in deep ocean vents, due at the end of the week, on her phone, begins to check the equations. She won’t make the deadline. Her tutor on that project is Dr Ratner who has seemed cool about other students’ late submissions, though she supposes she’ll have to run it by him.

  For the next hour or so she does her best to focus. Before long, her mind is toggling between Satnam and Honor. Eventually even those worlds blur and her eyelids give in to the gravitational pull.

  She wakes, some time later, disorientated and anxious. Inside her a bird still flutters its blue metallic wings, the remnant of a recurring dream, then fades. The bird is Alcedo atthis, one of the world’s 114 species of kingfisher, and her favourite of all the water birds. In the Bible kingfishers are the first animals to leave the Ark after the flood. In Greek myth they are Alcyone and Ceyx, a pair of star-crossed lovers who are punished by the gods before winning their pity. For as long as she can recall the birds have appeared in the watery realm of her dreams.