Chapter One

I don’t know when it all started but it was well before the incident in Croatia. I was tired of pretending, even then. I had assumed that getting to the top of my field would make my life easier, that there would be an effortlessness in my actions. But each day was harder than the last. Everything was a slog. Nothing was easy.

“Alright guys, come on in and grab a seat”

Friday evening’s tutorial. Morality and Ethics in the Old Testament. Given the infinite monkey hypothesis I had hoped that at least one of my students would have sparked something within me. But as they ambled into my chambers; one eye on the weekend, the other on their phone, I knew I was wasting my time.

“Ok, let’s pick it up where we left it last week. Where did we leave it?”

I hoped to mine their collective consciousness for something original. The idea being that, unburdened by the literature, and not yet conditioned into thinking like academics, they might approach the concept in a unique way, a way I could then develop for my book.

I was anxious about the book. I oversold the initial premise when I was sitting with the commissioning editor from Simon and Schuster. I’m good at pretending. I had the bit between my teeth that morning and ended up selling him ‘A Brief History of Time’ for theology. I convinced him that I could link the seemingly transient moral values of successive Western societies to an unchanging original morality defined in the Old Testament. I would demonstrate how history, which superficially seemed to be a series of random events, had a pattern and this pattern was defined in the Good Book. A lot of people listened. Finding a new angle in the most studied document in history, an angle that made us feel good about ourselves in a tome famous for its fire and brimstone rhetoric. I got a large commission, and with it came huge expectations. Not only from the publishers, but from the university. I was 3 weeks away from my first deadline, a high-profile TV spot on The Panel, and I had nothing.

“We were discussing whether the Ten Commandments have a place in a modern society”, Beatrice answered.

Of course she did. The quintessential theology student; intellectual, pious and completely lacking the social charisma for anything else. I found her eagerness to please sickening. In an instant I saw her future; four years of being fucked by equally dysfunctional students, using her for practice, trying to improve their confidence and technique enough to get someone better. A dirty embarrassing secret. Ignored and overlooked, while her professional options get narrowed down to realistic goals. Qualifying with a first then getting a job in some office somewhere, the first flush of youth ripening into middle age. The slow acceptance that life isn’t always fair, that good things don’t necessarily happen for good people. She had no idea.

“The Old Testament is a bulwark against the insidious nature of relativism which reduces every idea, every concept down to something anodyne and meaningless, I began, ignoring her prompt. Why? Because fuck her, that’s why. -The Ten Commandments are anathema to a society that increasingly appears to embrace ideas that offend the least amount of people. But we, as aspiring academics, must look beyond the mores of our times and evaluate these ideas as objectively as we can.”

Nobody responded. A trickle of sweat ran down the inside of my arm. Looking foolish in public terrifies me.

“Samantha?”

With no real desire to engage, Samantha Jones prepared to speak. I tried not to stare.

“I think some of them make sense, even now, like don’t kill or steal, right? But, like, some of them are weird and don’t really make sense. And why aren’t things that are obviously wrong like rape or incest not there, you know?”

I had more patience for Sammy’s meandering answers than I had for Beatrice who was clearly more articulate. It was disheartening that this was the best Cambridge University had to offer but I enjoyed stealing glances at her tight-fitting tops and short skirts. I looked at her fleshy thigh and wondered if the reality matched the beauty of the promise. She looked at me like Jackie did when she was my student. It was gratifying but I needed to stay focused.

“Phil, do you agree? Do some of these proclamations make sense beside others that perhaps don’t?”

There was something I enjoyed about Phil. He took his time, commanded the space around him. It was compelling. He prepared to speak, I found myself leaning in with the others.

“I think we get bogged down on the phrasing, and miss the actual point behind the words”

A quick glance around the table confirmed my suspicions; that the others, even the Brian and Ian, the Jackals, were listening intently. Ruggedly handsome, confident. He expected and received the rapt attention of others. He probably fucks like a champion too. I wondered what it felt like to be him

“Take ‘Thou must not bear false evidence against thy neighbour’”, he continued. “It seems specific, even the word ‘Neighbour’ is parochial. But maybe”- seemingly oblivious to his hold over others, he gave himself a few seconds to formulate the thought in his head while we all waited, “Maybe what this refers to is the character of the individual. By lying we only devalue ourselves. I don’t know if the soul, as the Bible understands it, as something physical, tangible, is true or not but I believe the light we all have inside dissipates when we act against our own nature. So, lying, or ‘bearing false witness’, is not a commandment the way a law is, to protect the neighbour, but to protect the person from lying and extinguishing their own light.”

I was so focused on his delivery that I didn’t immediately register the words or if they made sense or not. The others around the table seemed impressed. The jackals nodded. I felt brave enough to engage them.

“Brian, do you think the Commandments could be better understood if they were simply worded differently? Do you agree with Phil, that we get lost in semantics and that the absolute truth lies buried in the wording?”

He cleared his throat and sat up slightly, not enough to actively join in, just enough to not look silly.

“The way I see it professor”, he began. I felt the tension in my chest. A large percentage of theology classes are taken up with this kind of student; those more focused on another subject, they decide to take what is perceived as an easy class in order to focus their efforts elsewhere. His presence and lack of respect was a direct challenge to my authority. I had yet to figure out a way to manage it. “There’s nothing wrong with some of these sins and it’s nothing to do with the society we live in.”

Sammy smiled. He sat up in his seat warming to the idea. Playing the role of contrarian when discussing the Old Testament, how fucking original Mr. Kearns. Let’s see how well that approach does at the end of term.

“Why is being jealous of your neighbour a bad thing, yeah? Say your neighbour has a nice house, a hot wife, fresh whip in the drive, that’ll just push the neighbour who doesn’t have those things to get them for himself. He’s been shown what’s possible and goes after it himself.”

The young elite that pass through this institution often toy with the mask of the working class, fancy themselves as having the kind of work ethic and spirit it takes to succeed without resources. But they quickly dismiss the idea towards graduation when it comes to taking that internship at daddy’s firm. Yet something about his hard edge stopped me pulling the thread. I needed to project an image of power and authority, someone like Brian Kearns with no horse in the race was free and even liable to undermine this given the opportunity. I moved on and vented my irritation elsewhere.

“Beatrice, you’ve been quite inhibited today, feel free to engage. Do you think it’s wrong to aspire to the greatness that other people around you achieve?”

There was an unmistakeable tone in my voice which I failed to control. My pleasure at her discomfort was offset by the feeling I was losing the table.

“We are all participating in our own way, professor”, Sammy responded. She must dress like that on purpose. She folded her leg, the slit showing the whole thigh all the way up to the top, her shoe dangled from her toes. I needed to focus. I only had a few minutes left and I wanted to go out strong. It’s important to never let them, or anyone, know what you’re thinking, never let them get a glimpse of who you really are. It’s important to project strength and control.

“Of course, your right, and Beatrice knows this too. Guys, sometimes greatness can only be unleashed through provocation. Group discussions like this are about getting you outside your comfort zones, of thinking in new ways, of challenging beliefs you hold dear in order to find out why exactly you hold them so dearly to begin with. You will all find your own path in your time here, and I have no doubt you will all be successful in your chosen field. But it is also true to say that you will become comfortable in your beliefs, mix with others who hold similar beliefs and eventually cease to be challenged by fresh perspectives.”

I looked to the jackals, but they missed the jab. “This is the time, so forgive me if I am a little rough, it’s for the greater good.”

I think I did enough to deflect the group’s contempt. One must be careful in the current academic and social climate where the recreational outrage of the social justice warriors and fragile egos run rampant on college campuses. I needed to wrap it up. I had heard nothing from this group I haven’t heard before and my mind was imagining what lay in wait under Sammy’s skirt.

“Let’s leave it there for now, good work guys. During the week off I want you to write an essay. 2000 words, nothing overly academic, draw from your own point of view. The title is ‘On the Social Significance of the Ten Commandments in 21st Century Britain’. “

The irritation was palpable as they scribbled the title down on their pads. I tried to contain a smile. These tutorials give the students a sense of entitlement; that we are peers, that their opinion is equivalent to mine. I had to let them know who was ultimately in control. And it didn’t really matter what they wrote, it wasn’t going to be of any use to me or my book.

***

Once they had left, I cleared my inbox and shut the laptop down and packed my briefcase. As I locked the office door, the image of Sammy’s skirt lingered in my mind. I could feel my semi erection still rubbing off my leg. I checked my watch and noted I had some time to spare.

In the toilets at the end of the hall, I entered a cubicle beside the urinals, sat down and pulled my trousers around my ankles. The cold toilet seat lid tingled against my thighs. I pulled my phone out of my pocket with my right hand and scrolled down to the Facebook app.

Over the period of two months at the start of the academic year, I created a social media profile and online presence for a fabricated student called Alison Donaldson. I procured a cache of pictures of a very attractive young woman from a dating app from another country and fleshed out her profile with nothing more than some likes, comments and emojis. With just this flimsy pretence, I have managed to secure the friendship and engagement of hundreds of Cambridge students, including my own.

I constantly marvel at the naiveté of a generation raised on technology and made aware of its dangers since childhood. It seems awareness is no match for teenage angst and the fear of social exclusion which is hardwired into our DNA. One student particularly vulnerable to these pitfalls is Sammy Jones. She’s my guilty pleasure. A victimless crime.

I used to engage her as Alison but Sammy’s beauty masks a wider lack of imagination so I no longer bother. I now use her profile primarily to sift through her photos when I’m bored. She loves attention. She spent the week of Corfu 2018 in little more than a G-string. Ayia Napa 2019 was the same. It seems her need for validation from others extends beyond the confines of stuffy theology tutorials.

As I sat on the toilet and began to find a rhythm, it was something else that caught the eye; a ‘Schools Out’ themed night at the Ministry of Sound. I had used these pictures previously, so Sammy had nothing new to offer, even with her school shirt and tie with the tartan mini skirt.

My attention was drawn to a face in the background. I never noticed it before. A young man, no older than 20, staring at Sammy with an intensity that was striking. The other revellers around him laughed and gurned for the camera, but he was completely fixated. I was captivated by his eyes. The burning intensity, the animal lust. It was primal. What thoughts ran through his mind as the picture was taken? What unsatisfied urges so fired up his synapsis that it surprised me, a year after the moment passed?

And she had no idea. That’s what turned me on. She was inches away thoughts that would probably shock her. I know, I had those thoughts too. It was thrilling to me. To witness a whole subplot of intrigue in a seemingly innocuous nightclub photo. I filled in the details with my own imagination.

I managed several powerful strokes before shuddering and finishing into a tissue I had ready. As I wiped myself up the bathroom door opened, and two men entered. I instinctively jumped up onto the seat so my legs weren’t visible. I sat in an awkward squatting position on the lid, my trousers still down around my ankles.

“We can pick a bottle up on the way”

“I’ll meet you up there, I want to have a quick shower first”

I recognised the voices; Brian and Phil from the tutorial. My knees began to strain under my weight in the squatting position. Both hands rested precariously against the plywood partitions, the tissue squashed in my fist. I had no reason to hide but now that I had, I was committed to it. They were urinating inches away from me.

“Fuck man, whatever crime I committed in a past life to have that tutorial last thing on a Friday must have been fuckin’ brutal”, Brian said. Phil laughed. It stung. I felt a flush of rage wash over me. “And what’s his fuckin deal with Sammy? I mean, Jesus, right!”

They zipped up in silence. I leaned forward to hear Phil’s response. I held my breath, the blood pounded in my temples. Every muscle in my body tensed up. The silence was interrupted by the deafening sound of the dryer. It surprised me so much that my hand slipped. It was now resting on the cubicle door, held shut with nothing but a small plastic notch. The dryer stopped before I had a chance to reposition myself. Sweat formed on my brow, I was about to spill out onto the floor in front of them both.

“…Was considering making a complaint, about the way he letches over her in class.”

All the energy drained from my body. The pit of my stomach went ice cold.

“Nah man, tell her to keep wearing those miniskirts til summer. Get that first he’s so desperate to give her.”

They chuckled as they left the bathroom. When they had left, my left hand slid across the partition, the plastic latch gave way and I fell out onto the ground in an undignified heap cracking my phone on the ground. I stood up, lifted my trousers up and buttoned up. As I composed myself I was distracted by the sight in the mirror.

In much the same way as a word will begin to lose its meaning if repeated several times, so too did my face cease to be something I recognised as I stared at it. Eyebrows arched pleadingly, the soft cheekbones, the weak chin that disappears into the neck. The face has aged badly but underneath the weariness of time I saw the 12-year-old me looking back. The one with no defences, looking for validation. No matter how far one goes in life, it seems one can never quite escape their true self. One minute you think your fully in control, the next you realise you’ve simply added thickening layers of identification to hide the child inside.

I didn’t see Dir. Ian Bell, Professor of Theology and Ethics at Cambridge University, noted academic and writer. I saw ‘Bell-end’, the little boy dismissed by his peers with a withering nickname that stuck throughout school, the kid who never fully understood why he was so despised by others. Ian Bell. A forgettable name for a forgettable person. Forgotten as quickly as it’s said. A name for a ghost. Someone passing through the corridors of life undetected. Or acknowledged with a shrug. Inconsequential.

It wasn’t the fact that they noticed me noticing Sammy’s thigh that stung, it was the fact that I was dismissed so easily. A butt of a joke. Perhaps they saw the little boy looking back from the mirror too.

And just for a moment, it was as if my mask slipped. And everything I tried to cover and hide was visible. My blood ran cold at the thought. I felt dizzy, like I was floating backwards. I held onto the counter to ground myself.. I splashed some water on my face and ran out of the bathroom.