LITMIR.BIZ

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face twisted in a sneer. He strode to the desk and leaned over her, his sweating palms flat on the polished surface. He hissed in her ear. ‘You may look like a million dollars, but you get your kicks out of saying no, don’t you, you frigid bitch! Humiliation is what you get off on. You need to see a fucking therapist! You’ve got real problems!’

      She felt a quiver in her spine, as if the insult were a dart that had struck her between the shoulder blades. For a moment, she was tempted to round on him, screaming at him, ‘Yes I have! And there’s no therapy on earth to cure them!’

      Into the silence came a soft rap at the door, as welcome at this tense point in the drama as the knocking at the gate in Macbeth.

      ‘Come in!’ she called out loudly. The panel swung open a fraction to reveal not the drunken porter of the play, but an entirely satisfactory substitute, the large red face of Alan Urquhart. The Scotsman took in the presence of the other man, and his proximity to Catriona. ‘Och, I’m sorry, Catriona! I didna realise you were engaged. I’ll come back later.’

      ‘No, it’s all right! Come in, Alan!’

      ‘It’s none but this wee bit essay to hand in. I have it right here.’

      The Scotsman, his grubby cream trenchcoat draped over his arm, began to fumble in his scuffed leather briefcase with one hand, while grasping it insecurely in the other. Inevitably, the case slipped to the floor, spilling its contents. Urquhart lowered himself to his knees and proceeded to gather his scattered books and papers, cursing under his breath as he did so.

      Harwood, who had moved swiftly away from the desk at the Scotsman’s irruption, watched this display of clumsiness with unconcealed distaste and impatience.

      At length, the big man had scooped his study materials together in an untidy heap, from which he extracted a thin folder. He stood up, dusting down his crumpled trousers, and held out the file to Catriona.

      ‘I’m sorry it’s late.’

      ‘I’d expect nothing less from you, Alan,’ she replied gravely.

      Harwood said, ‘Look, Mr … Professor Turville and I were in the middle of a meeting.’

      ‘Urquhart’s the name. I’m just on my way.’

      Catriona said, abruptly, ‘Actually, Michael, we had dealt with the matter, hadn’t we?’ Her slate-blue eyes stared coldly at him as she spoke. ‘Hadn’t we?’

      Harwood shrugged. ‘You can always change your mind,’ he said as he left, slamming the door behind him.

      Urquhart raised his bushy eyebrows, but said nothing, though he did not fail to notice that Catriona’s normally pale features had gone deathly white.

      ‘I’m sorry I butted in like that. If I’d known …’

      ‘Frankly, I’m very glad you did.’ She paused, then, before she could prevent them, the words were slipping from her mouth as beads from a broken necklace. ‘You asked me to come for a drink with you the other evening and I refused. Why don’t you try again?’

      He held open the door of the pub for her. It was busy but not crowded. Although, to her relief, she could see no one she knew from Warbeck, who might have gleefully reported to all and sundry that she had a secret lover, she was already regretting her uncharacteristic impulsiveness and somewhat puzzled as to its source.

      When the barman produced their order, she got out her purse to pay for her Perrier.

      He started to object. ‘Don’t be daft. A bit water …’

      ‘No, I insist.’

      He checked the expression on her face, then shrugged.

      He carried the drinks over to a table by the window. He waited whilst she seated herself on the upholstered bench seat, then lowered himself gingerly on to a small Windsor chair, which his bulk overlapped all around.

      ‘Good health!’ Urquhart drank deeply from his pint, while she sipped at the cold mineral water.

      There was an uneasy silence. She noticed that Urquhart was squirming uncomfortably on the chair, causing it to creak under his weight. She felt at a loss for the right words. What indeed were the right words in this altogether unusual situation? Invariably, when she had one-to-one meetings with students – or with colleagues, for that matter – there was a topic for discussion, or an agenda. What was the agenda of this meeting she had so rashly set up? So, to hide what felt like, but could not possibly be, nervousness, she resorted to safe banality.

      ‘Are you enjoying the term?’

      ‘Aye, I am that. It’s been a struggle to keep up with the reading, but it’s worth it.’

      ‘I’ve always admired Warbeck students for their dedication to study.’

      ‘Dedicated! You make me sound like a monk! But it’s true I’m not beating my brains out for any motive of worldly gain. I gave up on that years ago. Literature has always been a passion, but I’d never had the opportunity to pursue it. It was my unrequited love affair until I came to Warbeck. As a young man I even tried to write poetry.’

      ‘Do you still?’

      ‘Och, no! And what about yourself?’

      ‘No, I never even dreamt I could create. I’m a scholar, a harmless drudge, searching for the gold of a text’s true reading in the muddle of manuscripts and previous editions.’

      He swallowed more beer and she sipped the ice-cold water, the bubbles burning her tongue like acid. Sooner or later, the conversation would move from these polite tributes to more personal acknowledgements. He might allude to her appearance, his feelings of attraction towards her, and that was when, in the time-honoured jargon, she would make her excuses and leave. But she was wrong. When he spoke again, it was with a whimsical air.

      ‘I’m thinking from your name there’s some Scots in you,’ he said, raising his bushy eyebrows, still dark brown in contrast to the grey of his unruly hair.

      Startled by this, she managed laughingly to repeat the formula she had rehearsed ready for such enquiries. ‘That was a romantic fancy of my very English parents. Robert Louis Stevenson was a favourite of theirs. I was born here in London, as a matter of fact.’

      ‘RLS! Isn’t that strange now! I had the fancy as a wee boy that my parents had Kidnapped in mind when they picked my name. Even though I knew full well that they regarded the reading of anything other than the Guid Book as sinfu’ indulgence. Aye, I passed my childhood pretending I was the incarnation of the dashing Alan Breck Stewart, wi’ his silver buttons and his bonny sword-play. But nobody kenned that. And now I’m overweight and drink and smoke too much, it sounds ridiculous I could ever think it!’ He paused and his already pink complexion turned a darker shade. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldna rattle on so.’

      As he spoke, he had been worrying the edge of a beer mat with his thick fingers. His sprawling body trembled with nervous energy.

      ‘Why don’t you go ahead and have a cigarette, Alan? You’re surely not holding back on my account?’

      ‘My mother dinned into me I was never to smoke in the presence of a lady. But since you’ve so kindly given me permission …’ He rummaged in his pocket and produced a squashed pack of Marlboro and a Zippo lighter. ‘I’ve tried to give up so many times.’ He inhaled deeply, coughed, then turned away to blow out the smoke behind him. ‘But booze and fags are a traditional occupational hazard in my line.’

      ‘Really? So what is your line?’

      ‘Don’t you know? My entire CV’s on a college file.’

      ‘Those files are confidential.’

      ‘Ha! They must be the only files in history that are. And I should know. I’m a professional snooper. A member of the fourth estate. A journalist.’

      ‘And what do you write about?’

      ‘You’re

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