Clare turned the knob and opened the door so she could peer around it without actually stepping into the office. ‘Morning, Professor Maudsley, I wondered if you had a couple of minutes?’

  His pen was poised motionless in the air above the essay on his desk, and the sharp, mechanical, movement of his head as he looked up reminded Clare of an insect.

  'Er,' he glanced at the clock on the wall, but was unable to think of a plausible way to reject her request. 'OK - if it really will be a couple of minutes.'

  'It will, thanks,' replied Clare, entering the room. As she shut the door behind her, Eric quickly reached down and closed the leather satchel lying at his feet.

  In the phone box Rubble placed the card on the black metal shelf. Once again he looked over the words, 'Top Secret Government Project. Agents Required'. He licked his lips.

  Clare sat in the chair opposite the Professor. It seemed too abrupt to launch into the real reason she had disturbed him. Aware of the need not to waste his time she said, 'Have you seen my posters about the demo this Saturday? We're lobbying the chancellor over the six per cent increase in rent for university accommodation.'

  Until his meeting with the chancellor a few days before the Professor would have gladly participated in such a march. At the least it was a good opportunity for handing out Socialist Worker leaflets. But now the thought of a noisy protest on the chancellor's very doorstep made him choose his words more carefully. 'I did.'

  Clare looked a little surprised at his cool response. 'Will you be around for it? It always helps to have the weight of a senior lecturer on our side.'

  'When is it due to start?'

  'Midday outside the union building. We'll protest there for a while and get the petition going. Then, once we've swelled our ranks with as many members of the university community as possible, we'll march down Williams Street. I've informed the police of our plans - they've approved them as long as we've passed along it within fifteen minutes. Then we'll turn into the east entrance of the campus and march along Mandela Avenue to the chancellor's house itself.'

  Eric tapped a finger on the desk. 'I can certainly come for the first half of the march. But I have an appointment elsewhere at one, so I'll break off as you pass through the east entrance.'

  'That's great, thank you,' replied Clare enthusiastically. ‘It's outrageous what they're doing. Some of those flats aren't fit for, aren't fit for ...' She searched her mind for a social group more deserving of such a home. Homeless mothers? Asylum seekers? Ex-prisoners? It was impossible to name anyone without being discriminatory. A glance at the watching professor confirmed that she had strayed onto what could be politically incorrect ground. 'Aren't fit for keeping dogs in,' she concluded with relief. 'I'm in Melbourne Road - those flats by the main railway line to Sheffield? Although by the railway line is a generous description. More like on it. The tracks are so close; every time a train passes the windows nearly fall out of their frames. And they want to up the rent for next year's students by almost £1.50 a week? Unbelievable. '

  'I sympathise with your plight Clare. Now ... is there anything else?' he asked, suppressing the urge to glance down at his satchel.

  Rubble rechecked the telephone number on the card. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a palmful of twenty-pence pieces.

  'Um, yes. There was one other thing.'

  Eric raised his eyebrows to invite the question.

  'You know we spoke the other day about my note enquiring into research positions?'

  'Yes Clare.' Before she could reply he carried on impatiently, 'And I'm sure you're aware that funding for all universities is being squeezed by our Labour Government.' He placed heavy irony on the word labour. 'I'm really unsure about the possibility of any new research positions for the next academic year. I can only repeat to you what I said the other day: your enquiry has been noted and I'll contact you immediately if any positions become available.'

  Unable to resist the urge, he actually placed a hand on the satchel and pulled it against the legs of his chair.

  In the phone box Rubble, with the card held close to his face, began pressing the buttons on the telephone.

  'Yes, I appreciate that,' said Clare. 'I just wanted to check with you that my enquiry will be treated confidentially. That was all.'

  The room was silent as Eric digested the implications of her comment. Etiquette dictated that he couldn't ask why she wanted her application kept secret. 'Of course. That's standard practice for these matters.'

  Clare smiled a little awkwardly, 'Thank you Professor. I only asked because ...'

  A shrill succession of notes rang out and Clare automatically reached for the mobile in her canvas bag - before realising the ring tone wasn't hers. She looked questioningly at the professor; he'd stated emphatically on many occasions that he would never own such an intrusive and unsociable item. She'd always suspected the real reason was an inability to shake off in his mind their old connotations of Thatcherite yuppiness.

  The phone sounded again.

  'You must leave,' said Eric, voice urgent to the point of panic.

  His long legs carried him to the door in an instant and he pulled it open. 'It's a very sensitive call, sorry to be so abrupt.'

  'No problem, thanks for your time,' replied Clare, having to lean back slightly to get past his overbearing frame. The door was shut firmly in her face and she walked slowly down the corridor, puzzling over his strange behaviour.

  Chapter 14

  Eric sat at his desk. He paused a second to run over his speech and then fished the phone out of his satchel. With the careful movements of a novice, he pressed the green button and held the mobile up to his ear.

  'Room 101,' he said curtly.

  The voice that came down the line was thick and awkward. 'I'm ringing about the advert for the project. The secret one.'

  'Before we proceed, I must inform you that the work requires you to sign the Official Secrets Act. Are you prepared to do that?'

  There was a second's silence and then Rubble said, 'You want me to sign the Official Secrets Act?'

  If you are selected to work on this project, yes.'

  'Yes!' he said with childish pleasure. 'I'll sign it. .. if you want me to.'

  'Good. Are you a British citizen?'

  'Yes.'

  'Are you able-bodied?'

  'Able what?'

  'Are you physically fit? Not handicapped in anyway?'

  'No.'

  'Have you been, or are you, a member of any subversive group as outlawed by the Government's Anti-terrorism Bill, 2002?'

  'I'm not a member of anything.'

  'OK. Now, for the selection process you will be interviewed in your home. This is in order to conduct a psychological test. What is your address?'

  'Well,' replied Rubble. 'I live in a caravan just outside Breystone.' He began speaking from memory, having studied the old road map in his caravan countless times. 'It's on the B5085, near Wilmslow.'

  'Yes - we've traced the phone box you're calling from already.'

  Rubble looked around him. 'You know I'm in the phone box on the village green?'

  'That's correct.'

  'Well,' he peered around. The only person he could see was an old woman feeding the ducks. 'I live in a caravan. It's ...' He'd never had to give directions to his home before, and now he struggled to begin. 'You go from the village green past the duck pond.'

  The voice interrupted him. 'This caravan. Is it the one on Embleton farm?'

  'Yes! That's where I work, how did you know ... ?'

  'We have satellite tracking. Is the caravan located on a lane? Behind a small copse of ... are they silver birches?'

  Rubble had crouched down in the phone box and was angling his head to look up at the sky. 'They're beech trees. You can see them at the moment?'

  ‘Of course. Now, I can send an agent to interview you the day after tomorrow. Nine P.M.?'

  Still looking up at the sky, Rubble replied, 'Yes, nine P.M. Thank you ... Sir.'

  'And the last thing. Do not - I repeat - do not, leave the advert with this number on in the phone box. Keep any adverts you have with you in your caravan until the agent arrives. You must not show them to anyone and you must not tell anyone about this conversation. Is that clear?'

  'Right, OK,' said Rubble, hurriedly stuffing it into the front pocket of his overalls. 'It's a secret.'

  'The day after tomorrow, at nine then.' Before Rubble could reply the line clicked and the ring tone returned to his ear.

  Tingling with excitement, he replaced the phone on its cradle and pushed the door open. Checking no one was watching he saluted quickly up at the sky and then set off proudly towards the farm.

  Eric returned the phone to his satchel and sat back in his chair. Nervously he tapped a finger on the desk, eyes darting uncertainly round the room. After a few minutes he decided that he would go to the farm and interview Rubble purely as a sociological experiment; just to see how much a mind, wholly ignorant of the outside world, could be moulded into believing what was acceptable and justified.

  Chapter 15

  'Gold Blend all right?' said Zoe, holding up the jar.

  'You're paying, darling,' replied Clare smiling. 'I'm just as happy with the own brand stuff.'

  The girl made a retching noise in the back of her throat and placed the jar in the shopping trolley. 'You bloody students, I'd rather drink soot.'

  They sauntered along the aisle, bored by the whole affair. 'What else do we need?' asked Zoe, restlessly eyeing the shelves of tea bags.

  'You forgot the shopping list, you dozy cow,' Clare replied light-heartedly.

  'Yeah, yeah, I think we're all right for brews. Sugar?' she asked, pointing at the pallet of paper wrapped brickettes at the end of the aisle.

  'No, there's a spare one under the sink.'

  'Right, that's it then. Let's get out of here.'

  Further down, the thin figure of a man flashed across their aisle.

  'Shit! That was Maudsley.' Clare glanced into the shopping trolley. She grabbed the jar of coffee and handed it back to her friend. 'Swap that for something Fair Trade!'

  'You what?' asked Zoe with surprise.

  'I'm not risking Maudsley finding me buying Nestlé products. ‘No way.'

  Her friend started laughing. Then she held her hand over her head and started revolving her forefinger round and round. 'Whooo! Whooo! Attention, thought-police! Attention, thought-police!'

  'Oh Jesus,' said Clare. 'Look, just keep clear until we're out of here will you? I don't need you taking the piss.'

  Zoe replied in a mock-German accent, 'Ya, ya, I will be waiting for you at ze checkout.'

  She walked away chuckling and shaking her head.

  Round the corner Eric was standing with his back to her by the freezer section.

  'Oh, hi Professor. Getting in a few essentials?' said Clare brightly.

  The man turned around. 'Evening Clare. Yes, just a few bits and bobs.' He opened the lid of the freezer cabinet, picked out a couple of vegetarian pizzas and began examining the labels on the side of the box.

  From the next one Clare lifted out a sack of Quorn and placed it on the top of her shopping. 'See you around then,' she smiled, noting him glance at the items in her trolley.

  She caught up with her friend at the checkout. Conspiratorially Zoe showed her the top of Gold Blend jar in her shopping bag. 'It's OK, I bought it whilst you were flashing him your oh-so-innocent smile.'

  After they'd packed their food into bags Clare said, 'I'll let you do the honours then, while I carry this lot to your car.'

  Zoe handed her cash card to the woman behind the till; as she waited for it to be approved Clare set off for the exit.

  From the shop's depths Eric waited until he saw his student heading out through the doors. Then he made his way back to the freezer section, swapped his vegetarian pizzas for meat feasts and made his way to the tills himself.

  Like an automaton he began placing all his items on the motionless conveyor belt. The woman in front of him collected her receipt and the expanse of black rubber began moving forwards, carrying his purchases towards the cashier.

  'Oh hello Mr Maudsley.'

  He looked up at the middle-aged woman.

  When his face registered no recognition she said, 'It's Edith's daughter - Rosemary?'

  She tapped the name tag on her tunic, 'Rosemary Davis - you used to look after my mum. Before you started lecturing full-time. I'm sorry,' she checked herself, 'it's Professor Maudsley now, isn't it?'

  Finally the information connected in Eric's head. 'Oh don't worry about that. Sorry, I didn't recognise you straight away, it's just that I haven't seen you working here before.'

  'I only started a few days ago. My other supermarket closed down and they were looking for staff here.'

  'I see,' said Eric. 'And Edith - how is she nowadays?'

  He could instantly see that it was a struggle to maintain her smile. 'Not so bad, I suppose. She's still in that council flat. The same one you used to visit her in. Five Pilkington Court?'

  'Yes, I remember,' replied Eric.

  'I'm trying to get her a full-time place in a nursing home - but it's just so hard finding her a bed, even with her angina getting worse and worse. Her doctor had to increase her medication again only the other day. The health visitor calls in once or twice a week - often to put her on a nutrition drip. It's very difficult getting her to eat anything. And I see her whenever I can. But it's hard finding time, you know, with the kids to look after and working as well ...’

  ‘How is her mobility nowadays?' he asked, removing his reusable shopping bag from his pocket.

  She stopped passing bar codes across the red beam. 'Oh, she's been in a wheelchair for some time now. She can just about get out of it and into her bed. And the toilet - they've put special bars in so she can still go on her own. But after having a fall a few months ago and spending the night on the living room floor, she prefers to sleep in the chair with a blanket. Not that the health visitor approves.'

  Eric could picture it only too clearly. The loss of motivation. Personal hygiene slipping. Small accidents in the night and a faint smell permeating the flat.

  Suddenly, the woman's shoulders sagged and the breath left her with a sad sigh. He kept his eyes on the woman as she glanced behind him to check no other customer was in earshot. Obviously needing to confide in someone, she said, 'To tell you the truth, it's really getting to me. Last week she announced that she'd had enough, said that ... you know ... that ...' she glanced around once more and whispered, ' ... that she wanted to die.' Her eyes filled with tears. 'I mean, if she were a pet dog no vet would agree to keep her going. I sometimes think that, if she was up to it, I'd fly her over to that place in Switzerland, the one where you can just drink that barbiturate stuff and go to sleep ... forever.'

  With a jerky movement she wiped the tears from her eyes, 'I'm sorry. I should never have unburdened myself on you like that. It's just that I haven't got anyone to talk to.' She shrugged her shoulders and looked up at him in embarrassment.

  ‘Not at all,' said Eric. 'Are there no other family members who could help? Don't you have a brother?'

  'Andrew? He immigrated to New Zealand a few years ago. Edith's never really been able to take it in. She still points to his photos and asks when he'll visit. She was so proud when he graduated. I haven't the heart to tell her he lives on the other side of the world.'

  ‘I can see why,' murmured Eric. 'Have you tried Saint Cuthbert's? They always seem very accommodating, especially if she is having trouble moving about.'

  ‘Haven't you heard? The council are closing it down. Can't afford to run it.'

  Eric hadn't heard, but it hardly surprised him.

  'Anyway, don't let me keep you,' she continued. 'I'm sure you're busy enough as it is.' She pressed a button on the till, 'Thirty pounds, eleven please.'

  Eric handed her the cash and, as he placed the last item in his bag, said, 'Well, I hope she finds somewhere soon. And pass on my regards when you see her.'

  'Thanks, I will. In fact I'm popping round in a couple of hours once I'm finished here,' she replied, waiting for the till to finish spitting out his receipt. She handed the bit of paper over and he said goodbye, heading for the basement car park.

  But instead of going home, Eric drove to a more run-down part of the city. He parked on the main road outside a row of fast-food takeaway places, got out and locked the vehicle. Shoes silently connecting with the pavement, he then glided down a side street choked with parked cars. The front doors of the terraced houses opened directly on to the pavement, no room for a front garden or even railings. As he strode quietly along he concentrated on the sounds seeping through the houses' front windows. A football match was obviously on; he could follow the muffled commentary from one front room to the next. In the windows with thinner curtains the flickering glow shone through clearly.

  The end of the road opened on to a T-junction, terraces stretching away on both sides. A section of houses had been bulldozed opposite and the gap filled with a small complex of little bungalows. Now, after years of neglect, the properties had grown shabby - paint peeled from wooden window frames, the mortar between bricks crumbled. The sign on the grass verge read, 'Pilkington Court'.

  The professor strode straight across the grass, and followed the right hand path between the first few buildings. Quickly he homed in on the corner house, slowing down as he neared it. Seeing no one approaching, he veered off sharply down the narrow alley at its side. Despite the high wooden fencing separating the alley from the street, he kept his head low. At the corner he paused, glancing at the overgrown patch of back garden lit faintly by the yellowish light coming from the kitchen windows. Various sized pots were arranged around the patio. He remembered when each one was home to a thriving variety of herb: now some sort of creeping weed had throttled them all. Carefully he stepped into the garden. Once beyond the patch of light spilling across the grass, he turned around and looked through the rear windows. The kitchen was empty. He directed his gaze to the next room, and there he saw the old woman, slumped in her wheelchair, mouth slightly open, hands resting high on her chest, a necklace of thick wooden beads about her neck. She was sitting at a right angle to him, facing the opposite wall. He could see the television wasn't on and he strained to hear the sound of a radio or other music. Then one of her hands slipped a fraction and he realised she must be fast asleep. Silently he moved closer, noticing the bed in the corner of the room with the metal frame for her drip looming next to it.

 

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