'OK, my child,' replied the voice. 'First I would like to know the year of your birth.'

  'Is it your picture in Karn Age?' Rubble suddenly blurted.

  'Sorry my precious?'

  'The advert in Karn Age. Is that a picture of you? Am I speaking to you?'

  The voice faltered. 'Describe to me the lady in the advert.'

  Rubble started awkwardly, 'You've got long dark curly hair. Um - and your finger nails are very long.' He dried up, unable to describe how beautiful he found her face.

  'And my eyes,' the voice whispered seductively, 'what colour are my eyes?'

  'Brown. Very big and brown,' he said in a small voice.

  'Yes, that is me.'

  'And your name is Sylvie?'

  ‘That is my name. Now my child, what year were you born?'

  Rubble frowned. He'd been asked this question on previous calls and couldn't answer it then. 'I know it was on the sixth of March.'

  'Gracias - and the year?'

  ‘Dunno.’

  'You do not know the year in which you came into this world?'

  'Nuh,' Rubble grunted quietly.

  'OK, let me see.’ The voice paused and he could hear vague sounds of paper being moved. 'It shouldn't be a problem - it will just take me a few moments longer to draw up your horoscope. Do you have grey hair?'

  'No.'

  'But you are not a youth?'

  'No - Mr Wicks told me I was over twenty-one, but that was a few summers ago.'

  'Stay with me. To see which stars were ascendant in that period, I must look at my charts. Please wait, they are up in my observatory.'

  Clare took off the headset, walked slowly to me supervisor's office and popped her head through the door, 'Keep my line open will you Brian? I've got a punter on - I'm just off to look up his charts.' She winked and headed across to the kitchen. Inside were a couple of women she'd chatted a bit with before. She dropped ten pence into the tin, and as she filled her cup from the kettle, said, 'Hey girls, I've got a right one on at the moment. First, he thinks I'm the actual woman from that advert.' She pointed at the poster on the wall. 'Second, he's ringing a horoscope line and he doesn't even know which year he was born in! I've told him I'm in my observatory looking up his charts.'

  'What - he's on your line at the moment?' one asked incredulously.

  'Yup - he's buying everything I tell him,' replied Clare.

  From the doorway an accusatory voice hissed, 'You're a disgrace to the astrologer's art.'

  They all turned round to look at the purple-haired woman who had silently entered the room. Her round form was sheathed in a long black smock, over the front of which hung an enormous pentagram on a silver chain.

  She held up a hand and pointed at Clare with a ring-covered finger. 'I hear you filling up those callers with rubbish. Speaking about things of which you have no knowledge. Take note: you are flirting with dark forces by doing it.'

  Embarrassed, Clare looked down at her mug of tea.

  One of the other women butted in. 'Well I am sorry, Gypsy bloody Lee, we can't all be members of the British Astrological Society.'

  The woman let out a snort then turned back to Clare. 'I've read your tarot cards, young girl. And you’re heading into mortal danger!’ She turned on her heel and marched back out of the door.

  Clare looked at the other two women. ‘Mortal danger? What did she mean?’

  'I wouldn't worry about any of her predictions. If she was any good, how come she didn't foresee that they were going to kick her off Mystic Meg's “Live Line” in The Sun?'

  The older women began cackling.

  'Is that where she used to work?' asked Clare.

  'Yeah, they caught her giving out her mobile number to callers. That's why she now works in a dump like this. Though she thinks she's above us, the snobby bitch.'

  Suddenly the other woman said, 'Jesus, you'll be clocking up big time on that caller. The most I've ever kept one on for was nine minutes fifty-five. Just missed the ten minute bonus.'

  'Nearly ten minutes? Most of mine have shot their bolt after about three!' said the other woman.

  'Bloody hell - has my Ian been ringing you again?'

  They all burst out laughing.

  'Right,' said Clare. 'I'd better get back before he gives up on me.'

  'Go for it girl!' said the older one as she left the kitchen once again.

  Back in her cubicle she slipped her headset back on. 'Hello my child?'

  'Yeah?' replied Rubble.

  'I have studied my charts and the heavens look very promising for you over the next few weeks. As 3 a Piscean, the Zodiac's most energetic and forceful planet, Mars, is about to link with your star sign. This signals new horizons for you. The influence of idealistic Neptune is also growing, so if there are any ambitions inside you that you have long dreamed about, now is the perfect time to take action and go for them. What area do you work in my child?'

  'I work on a farm. Have done all my life.'

  Clare thought about the hard times faced by the farming industry. 'Well, perhaps...' she hesitated, 'perhaps changes will come from outside your present job.' Falling back on a fail-safe avenue, she said, 'How are your finances?'

  'Finances?'

  'Money. Could you do with more money?'

  'Not really - I don't spend much.' The pips sounded. 'Hang on,' said Rubble, pressing his last two twenty pence pieces into the slot.

  'You are on a pay phone?'

  'Yeah - that's my last coins.'

  'OK, then I must hurry. The future will smile on you. If not through your job, it will be another opportunity.'

  'Could it be the army?' Rubble interrupted.

  'Maybe.'

  'I've tried to get into the army before.'

  'Yes, maybe that is what I see ...' The pips sounded once more. 'If you would like to speak with me again, call my extension. Three zero four. I am here most nights each week, ask for Syl - '

  The line went dead and Clare looked at the read out on her console. Twelve minutes eighteen seconds. She punched the air and shouted a silent Yes! at the ceiling.

  In the call-box a moth crawled up the window, its wings a blur on its back. Rubble stood staring at the face of the girl in the faint light. 'Sylvie, three zero four,' he whispered. Then he pushed his way out of the booth and lumbered off into the darkness.

  Chapter 9

  Eric Maudsley sat in uneasy silence and tried to quell the feeling that he was a schoolboy, called before the headmaster. With hands folded in his lap he listened to the rapid tap-tap-tap of the secretary at her keyboard. Every couple of seconds she would strike the space bar with her thumb and the small thud it made gave her typing the semblance of some sort of erratic rhythm. Looking down at him from the surrounding wood panel walls were oil paintings of previous chancellors. Each one had their academic gown draped over their shoulders, the various coloured collars denoting which subject they had graduated in. He noted with interest how the style of portrait altered over the decades - chancellors from the pre-World War One period stared at him with an icy sobriety, the background of the painting a meticulous study of bookshelves. Later pictures were looser in style with sweeping brushstrokes, successive painters seeming determined to beat the preceding artist for some original touch; a hazy, impressionistic swirl of colour here, a blurred background of moving students there. One even faded away at the edges, leaving pencil markings exposed to view. He wondered how much of the university's money had been squandered on these self-indulgent shows of vanity.

  There was a knock at the outer door, it opened immediately and Patricia let herself into the thickly carpeted room. Even in her heels she couldn't have measured much more than five feet. But that didn't prevent her making an impression whenever she walked through a door. It was all in her body language: confidence blended with just a touch of urgency. A demeanour that instantly caused most people to treat her with deference. But not Eric. He had seen this manner many times before - company bosses or politicians in the news, men in red coats mounting horses or grey-suited types getting into the first class carriage of trains. He even observed it beginning to flourish amongst the student rugby teams as they gathered outside the union buildings. It stemmed merely from class: the imperceptible link between money, power and privilege. He despised it.

  She nodded to Eric. 'Are you early, or am I late?' she asked with a breathless smile. A maroon cashmere scarf was wrapped round her neck, the ends hanging over an expensive-looking coffee-coloured trouser suit.

  'You're right on time,' he replied.

  ‘Oh, thank God for that. It was nightmare parking. Six of the spaces are taken up by skips full of rubbish from some department.'

  Eric had chained his bike next to them ten minutes before. 'They're refurbishing the biology labs - that's what all the mess is about.'

  'They've finished lectures already? We're teaching the wrong subject Eric,' said Patricia. She had crossed the room and was about to sit down beside him when the chancellor opened the door of his office. Patricia's attention instantly turned to the man and she swept past the seated Eric.

  'Chancellor Atkins, how are you?' she strode up to him, one hand outstretched.

  'Patricia, good to see you.' As they shook hands he looked round Patricia's shoulder.

  'Eric? Please, come through the both of you.' He spoke with the gentle, sonorous air of someone who has spent a lifetime wrapped safely in higher study. A lecturer, a priest, perhaps a hospital consultant.

  Eric lifted himself from the low leather armchair, both knees cracking loudly as he did so. He passed through the trail of perfume left by Patricia and shook hands with the other man.

  As they all entered the inner office the chancellor casually said to his secretary, 'Could we possibly have a tray of coffee please Lesley?'

  It wasn't a question. Once inside, the chancellor directed them towards four armchairs in one corner of the room.

  'Now this is strictly an informal meeting, but one necessitated by that infamous university grapevine.

  They each took a seat, the chancellor on one side of the coffee table, his visitors side-by-side on the other. On his cue everyone crossed their legs and with an exaggerated sigh the chancellor began. 'There's nothing quite so chaotic as the last weeks of the summer term, don't you think? I find it quite amazing to consider that, in just a short while, the students will have evaporated and we can all have time to hear ourselves think once again.' He smiled, holding one finger up. 'And continue our research uninterrupted. I for one am looking forward to a couple of weeks excavating a Beaker village just discovered on Dartmoor.'

  His two visitors nodded as the door opened and Lesley came in with a tray of coffee. Once she had poured everyone a cup, she retreated from the room.

  'Now,' continued the chancellor, methodically stirring. He lifted out the spoon, touched it against the rim of his cup so a single drip was transferred to the china, and then placed it on his saucer with a quiet clink. 'As you know, the way the Social Studies Department has evolved is highly unusual. Eric, you established it long before my time. In fact, counting the early years when you lectured part-time whilst still employed as a social worker, I think you must be one of the university's longest serving members of staff. All your hard work has led to a strong department that, over the years, has produced dozens of well-qualified graduates. Those who have gone on to a career in social work have done so with a thorough knowledge of the pertinent issues in caring for the elderly.

  'Patricia, you joined the university just five years ago to establish and head up a Women's Policy Unit. In that time you have made a dramatic impact on both the Social Studies Department and the university as a whole. Thanks to your research, awareness of women's issues has risen immeasurably. I gather that four police forces now follow your recommended procedures in handling cases involving domestic violence?'

  She nodded.

  'What we have though is, in effect, two separate departments within one. As you'll be aware, our government grant has been cut again, and so I'm forced to examine ways in which we can streamline our resources. Now you're by no means the only departmental heads I'll be seeing over the next few days, but I have to start somewhere. Unfortunately I have been somewhat pre-empted in this by certain rumours: that's largely the reason why I've called you both in today.

  'Within the Social Studies Department there is a certain duplication of roles - amongst the support staff, researchers and lecturers themselves. This is, as I'm sure you're aware in the current funding climate, not economically viable. To avoid rambling on, I'm afraid to say it's unlikely we can afford to continue running the department in its present form. What I'm being forced to do is merge your departments into one. This, unfortunately, necessitates a reduction in staff levels.'

  Now he stared down at his coffee cup.

  'The next cycle of voluntary redundancies comes about in a year's time, and I sincerely hope we can make all the necessary rationalisations as part of it.' The weight of his skull seemed to have magnified because, with what seemed quite an effort, he looked up and stared at a point just above Eric and Patricia. 'And now we come to the dilemma facing me. I have two excellent heads of department, but room for only one.'

  An awful, stifling silence.

  With an almost plaintive note in his voice the chancellor carried on. 'Would either of you consider taking voluntary redundancy in the next cycle?'

  Eric and Patricia made no reply.

  The chancellor looked back down. 'No, I thought not. Well, as unpleasant a duty as it is, I'm going to have to ask you both to submit proposals outlining plans for your half of the department over the next three years. Anticipated research grants coming in, student numbers expected per course and the like. Full details will be given to you in writing, I just wanted to speak to you both in person first.'

  He wasn't used to the oppressive atmosphere now filling his office. Finding that it was beginning to unnerve him, he lifted his voice and said, 'For instance, Patricia, I understand you've put in a proposal for a major research project from the Economic and Social Policy Research Council?'

  Patricia leaned forward and placed her cup and saucer on the table. Then, in a brisk, business-like tone, stated, 'Yes, by strange coincidence it's a three year project looking at the Europe-wide disparities in sentences handed out to women who kill their husbands after suffering sustained domestic violence. Funding has been agreed at £125,000 per annum, including assistance from the EU Commission into Social Affairs - the Dutch, Swedish and Italian Governments have expressed an interest in the eventual findings. We’re actually due to hear if we've been awarded the project in the next few days. I've been meaning to see you about it, but with the end of term we're all so busy...'

  'Go on,' nodded the chancellor encouragingly.

  'Well, if we do win the project I'll actually need to take on a couple of researchers who will be required to assist in some lecturing duties too. One of my tutees has already expressed an interest in any position. She's in line for a first, takes an active role in student affairs and is, I believe, an ideal candidate. Salaries for a basic grade researcher-stroke-Iecturer could be comfortably covered by funds from the ESPRC grant, quite apart from what we could also apply for from the Higher Education Funding Council for England.'

  'Excellent,' beamed the chancellor. 'Well all that will need to go into your proposal. And Eric, you mentioned to me the other day that you're looking at some issues not related to care of the elderly. Was it something about the ethics of modern-day food production? It sounded most interesting.'

  Eric coughed uncomfortably, glanced at the chancellor then, looking down at his coffee cup, hesitantly began to speak. 'Um, it was a consideration, yes. But early investigations have been problematic. You see, the last thing these places want is any publicity.' Making up an example to illustrate his point, he added, 'I wrote to a meat processing plant just the other day enquiring about taking groups of students around - it supplies most of the major fast-food outlets in the region with their burgers. My request was flatly refused. What goes on in these places does so very much behind closed doors.'

  'That's a shame. So have you anything else in the pipeline?'

  Eric desperately searched his mind for something to say. 'Yes there's some debate in palliative care circles about government-funding for hospices. It could be an interesting research project.'

  'Is this in response to a project on which the ESPRC is currently calling for proposals?' asked the chancellor.

  'No,' replied Eric. 'I would apply for a single research grant. Perhaps myself and another colleague.'

  'But no firm financial figures yet?'

  'No, but obviously my early career as a social worker is a big bonus and palliative care was as much an issue then as it is today. In fact nowadays it's even more relevant, with the ever-increasing size of the elderly population.'

  The suggestion was greeted with a strained silence and the chancellor struggled for something to say, 'As an archaeologist you'll have to forgive my ignorance, but palliative care is..?'

  'Care of the dying,' Eric replied matter of factly. 'Terminal illnesses - cancer and so forth.'

  'Good,' said the chancellor. 'Good.' As if repeating the word would make his utterance of it any more convincing.

  'Well, Lesley will be sending you both the proposal forms in the next few days. So if you could find some time in the coming weeks to complete and return them.'

  As he put his coffee cup on the tray he noticed the copy of the New Statesman on the table. 'Oh, Patricia,' he said, picking it up. 'I loved your piece on the undermining of senior female officers within the police. "Witch Hunt", a very provocative title. And always good to see the university receiving mention in such high-profile publications.'

  As they all got up, Patricia replied, 'Thank you, Chancellor. An edited form of the article will be appearing in The Observer next Sunday too.'

  'Very good,' he said, then turned his attention to Eric who was standing silently to one side like a butler. 'Thank you both very much for coming in, and sorry to have to finish your summer terms on such a note.'

 

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