Ethics

July 2023

I pulled up in front of my building shortly before eight o'clock and padlocked my bike to the only remaining free lamppost. In doing so I was fully aware that I would invoke the wrath of the Building Services Manager, and that would mean at least one, possibly two, not-so-pleasant reminders that I had broken their cardinal rule about fixing unauthorised items to Faculty property. Big deal. So what? Is the Universe about to end?

I had more important issues on my mind, frankly and my bike was the least of my concerns.

I'm an academic. I teach Philosophy and Ethics and, because it's July, we're in the middle of the Summer Recess. Hence, I don't really have to be here. Even in these post COVID times, when we're supposed to be heading back to the office, academics are encouraged to stay home so that the University doesn't have to heat the offices and, better still, can employ fewer ancillary staff.

Normally, I love the Summer Recess. The Summer Recess is a chance to unwind and an opportunity to recharge the intellectual batteries. It's a gap in the schedule set aside so that we might think lofty thoughts about grand ideals. I liken it to throwing open the windows of a large and imposing Victorian manor if only to blow the cobwebs away, maybe give the rooms a good clean.

Having cycled into work, I felt the need to change into something more professional that an Iron Maiden T-shirt and cycling shorts. I have a change of clothes stashed away in a cupboard at the back of my office and a small hand basin plus towels for the necessary ablutions. I stripped down to just my knickers, washed and then enjoyed a rather relaxing and somewhat naked few minutes staring out of my window just watching the world go by. It's a fun way to start the day. I'm not sure that my colleagues would approve but so it goes...

The daily ritual began, as it always does, with the essentials, namely coffee, which must be strong and black. Next, fresh croissants, bought moments before from Marks and Spencer and warmed to perfection. Then e-mail. Fridays are usually quiet and the day was already off to a good start with just two messages of any import in my In Box - a letter from my would-be publisher and, below that weighty tome, a reminder from my Dentist that I was overdue a check-up. Both messages were equally scary. Of course, there were messages a'plenty from various academic bodies scattered around the globe, none of which were quite as important as their author's might imagine.

And then came work. I love my work and I like working. Work is the soothing balm between sleeps. I usually don't know what form The Work will take on any particular day. I always decide in the moment. My muse is capricious. My muse is a tease. My muse is a prick. Maybe the day will be spent in quiet introspection, perhaps followed by a frantic burst of overly-colourful and rather florid prose. Maybe it will be a day of solid grind, where the ideas and concepts of the past few weeks and months are distilled, reduced and refined. Another paragraph? Another chapter? Doesn't matter as long as The Work edges towards completion. Yes, I'm writing another book. It's as dull as it sounds.

Or maybe I'll get nothing done and quietly give up. There's a dog-eared copy of Cosmopolitan in my bottom drawer for those days when my intellect has failed and I have lapsed into mediocrity. Cosmo is perfect for those occasions when I am more Sarah Jessica Parker than Dorothy Parker, more Jayne Mansfield than Katherine Mansfield.

Then...

There came a knock on my door. I didn't respond. I didn't need to respond. I knew the door would open whether I replied or not. And I knew who my visitor was as soon as I heard his tired footsteps in the corridor outside. His uneven gait, the impatient jingle-jangle of his ever-present keys and the self-conscious cough as he cleared his throat and prepared for action.

The door opened and Spartacus entered.

"Have you got a moment?" he asked.

"Always..." I replied although I instantly realised that this opening gambit had become a tired old lie. Surely he'd seen through the veil by now?

Spartacus is my Boss, my superior, and I should perhaps treat him with a bit more respect but I have always felt the need to keep him on his toes. The academic world is a competitive dog-eat-dog-eat-cat Bear Pit, where the survival of the fittest is not necessarily a guarantee of survival.

"Looks like Meghan is going for broke," said Spartacus, his usually pretty face twisted into a miserable grimace. He looks like one of the Gargoyles that sits atop the nearby Cathedral.

And thus we arrive rather artfully at the first reason for turning up to work when the rest of my colleagues are sunning themselves in the Mediterranean or losing it in the Louvre."

Meghan. It's always bloody Meghan.

Okay, time for some introductions. Spartacus first...

Why have I dubbed him Spartacus? Spartacus is sporting an impressive mane of shoulder length golden locks that wouldn't be out of place in a Gladiatorial Arena. He even looks like an extra from a Sword and Sandal epic. In addition, his principal area of interest is the Roman Philosophers - Pliny the Elder, Cicero and Marcus Aurelius - although dull-as-dishwater Themistius is his current obsession.

Spartacus isn't your normal academic. He's not much older than me, truth be told, which is to say he's in his mid to late thirties. He's reasonably buff, works out a lot and plays Squash with the Post-Grads. He'd be perfectly eligible boyfriend material if he wasn't already married. Similarly, he'd be perfect for an incidental dalliance, a quick naughty in the Book Cupboard, if, indeed, this esteemed institution had a Book Cupboard. That said, a quick fuck in the back of the Stationery Store is absolutely out of the question because Spartacus remains an unrepentant, unapologetic cheat. He's constantly banging someone. Everyone knows. The Office Cleaners know. Surely his wife must know? Even I know he's a cheat and I'm pretty clueless where the male of the species is concerned.

Next, Meghan or Meghan al Alexsi-Kahraman, which is her full name although I am apt to refer to her by various other names of an Anglo-Saxon origin whenever her name is mentioned.

Meghan al Alexsi-Kahraman is a former student and she's been a monumental pain in the ass for the last four years. She seemed bright, capable and diligent when she turned up for interview all those years ago and her predicted A Level results suggested that she'd be a good candidate for our degree course. And yet Spartacus, who interviewed her, remains absolutely convinced that the individual that he and his assistant professors interviewed at the time was not actually Meghan al Alexsi-Kahraman. They're certain that they interviewed a stand in, a substitute, a paid impersonator. Having been accepted, Ms. Alexsi-Kahraman promptly took a Gap Year. Upon her return, she simply arrived on our doorstep and signed up, her qualifications unquestioned. Nobody was any the wiser. Not at first, anyway. She was just another student embarking on a three year course.

Except she wasn't.

Meghan al Alexsi-Kahraman did anything but work. She never attended lectures or seminars. She missed every deadline we ever set and never passed a single assignment. Not one. She just made a lot of trouble for the University and a lot of stress for Spartacus as the Head of the School, and myself, who had the misfortune of being appointed her Personal Tutor.

Back to the main story...

I smiled. "What does she want now?"

"Like you even need to ask?"

"I don't," I replied as I lowered myself into my office chair.

"It's a fucking shit storm," said Spartacus. "She's taken the matter just about as high as it can go. She's even talking about taking her complaints to the High Court."

"We always knew she would," I replied. "She's determined to get her own way, even if she knows she can't possibly win..."

Spartacus nodded. "Her father rang me at home at the weekend. I'm not sure how he got my number but he called me up."

"What did he want?"

"He wants our jobs," said Spartacus. "Yours especially so. Reckons you've got it in for Meghan. Reckons you've had it in for her since her day one."

"That's because the person we interviewed was not Meghan," I said. "I'm convinced of it."

Spartacus shook his head. "Yes, I know," he said. "I just wish I'd kept better notes."

"Isaac (Palmer) was the MSc who took her to lunch. He's absolutely convinced that the person he interviewed wasn't Meghan. Same with Beth (Harcourt). She's certain it was someone else who she escorted on the Campus Tour."

"We just can't prove that, can we?" said Spartacus shifting uneasily on his twisted knee. (A recent skiing accident!)

"So we have to get our ducks in a row," continued Spartacus. "We have to make sure that our story is absolutely water tight, and our evidence is beyond reproach."

"It already is," I said. "You've seen the reports from both the Court and the Council. They're in close agreement. She did no meaningful work. She failed to attend a single lecture in her final term. She openly lied, time and time again."

"She's still fighting us," said Spartacus. "And, unless we're absolutely coherent on this matter then it seems unlikely that we'll leave this battlefield without a couple of scars. The University's patience will only run so far if they think we've fucked up. And if we have then they'll throw us to the wolves."

"Do you really think the University will treat us so casually?" I asked. "After all, what's the worst she can do?"

Spartacus shook his head. "You know what she'll force us to do," he said. "Or at least try to. She'll try to force us to upgrade her degree, a degree she didn't work for, a degree she plainly does not deserve. Then she'll make us apologise, in public, for the manner in which her dispute was handled. And that smarts, frankly, because we gave her every opportunity to sort herself out, to attend lecturers and seminars, and we made every concession that was available to us, and her, and that she still abused our good will. I'm not for apologising but, obviously, I will if I have to, especially if I'm directed by Senate. Big picture thinking. We have to protect the reputation of the Department. And I need my salary."

"And we take our lumps with grace?" I replied. "That seems unfair, given what we did for her."

"Well, the good news is that the University is pulling in their best legal people," said Spartacus. "My impression is that they have absolutely no intention of yielding to her demands. Any of them."

"Even if we're painted into a corner?"

Spartacus stood and moved towards the door. "Then... What can we do? We're fucked."

"Tell me what I can do to make this problem go away," I said.

"Don't do anything," said Spartacus. "Leave it to the lawyers. They're good at this. That's what they do. Let them tear her a new one."

"Her father is a Barrister," I replied.

"Then... we're probably fucked, frankly," said Spartacus turning the door handle, his expression turning sour. "I, or we, will probably end up pushing fries or something in a Burger Bar. And I hate fried food. Gives me massive indigestion."

Spartacus turned to leave. "Tell me you have a Rabbit up your sleeve..." he said. "That'll make me smile..."

Alas, he was gone before his "Goodbye" had even echoed down the deserted corridor.

"What am I in for?" I wondered. "I don't think I've ever been in a MacDonald's."

ii.

Okay, with those necessarily unpleasant details out in the open, let's move on to the main course. Don't worry. We'll resolve the Meghan problem later on.

I operate a simple accessibility policy when I'm at work. If my door is open then I can be disturbed at any time. Indeed, I welcome such distractions. They're good for the soul. They're good for creativity. Mostly.

If my door is closed then only a fire alarm will take me away from The Work, and it's not uncommon to find me still grafting away well into the wee hours. I keep a couch in the corner of my office, a blanket and a change of clothes just in case I sleep over. The only people who are incapable of understanding this simple rule appear to be the Senior Administrator, who rules the department with an iron fist, and who randomly barges into my office because she thinks she runs the place, and the ancillary staff, who routinely walk into my room without knocking. As a trained counsellor, there have been occasions when I have been providing deeply confidential, very private advice to female candidates in a state of deep distress, and a Cleaner has barged into my room and immediately started up a conversation about Sam Fender. That's why there's an extra lock on my door. It's a concession from the University on my behalf. They know that students occasionally open up to me when they don't feel able or willing to talk to a professional.

I soon settled back into my routine, despite the obtrusive comings and goings of his Lordship, Sir Spartacus of Thrace, who seemed to be pacing the corridors in much the same way as Old Hamlet would wander the battlements in his beleaguered castle.

True to form, it was a day largely spent in quiet introspection, a day for scribbling bold ideas in bright red ink atop impossibly fat foolscap jotters. I made some progress on several of my key tasks, too. And yet, I still found concentration difficult. Why? You'll delighted to discover that there was a reason for my distracted state of mind and her name was Leda.

Leda isn't her real name but will suffice for the moment. Leda was my star pupil for all of her time at the University. She worked the hardest and thought the hardest, and put the hours in, of that I am certain. Indeed she put in far more effort than anyone else in her peer group although that isn't really saying much because her fellows were a monumentally idle bunch even by the standard of Humanities students.

I had coached, supported and nurtured Leda from her first faltering days at the University right the way through to her final year, and she thoroughly earned her First Class Honours degree. I was proud to have been her mentor, and I would genuinely miss her when she left.

My telephone buzzed once. It was a message from the Porter's desk. "Visitor for Dr. Winter," said Nobby, the Porter with the odd-shaped head. "It's Miss Veiss..."

"Okay, pinch yourself," I whispered. "You've been waiting for this for a very, very long time."

I went to my makeshift bathroom, pulled out a spritzer of rose water to freshen up my face, sprayed a little perfume around the room and dropped a well-used piece of breath-freshening gum into my wastebasket. Insanitary, I know, but doing so discourages Spartacus from going through my discarded papers. I also lit a couple of candles to smooth the ambience and soften the light.

The Lift was fast approaching and time was short. The gentle whir of the motors, the heavy thump-thump as the car ascended and then the eerie creak of the heavy, heavy fire doors at the end of the corridor.

"Here goes," I whispered.

Leda knocked on my door and waited, patiently, for my response.

"It's open," I shouted from behind my desk.

The door opened and... Leda.

Dear Lord, I had pinch myself. I really did. She looked gorgeous. Like a painting by an old Master made solid, real and tangible.

Picture this. Impossibly blonde hair cascading in dense ringlets down broad shoulders. A long, slender neck bedecked with bangles and necklaces, each one a tiny remembrance of people and events from her recent past. She wears her history like some wear Prada. Then, a semi-translucent embroidered cotton top, white and delicate, much like herself. And then a long, patterned skirt that spun and moved like a red-eyed Whirling Dervish. On her feet, sandals, open-toed, brown. Her feet were sporting a collection of Henna tattoos, each inscription a garland of intricate swirls and patterns that swarmed around her ankles, only to disappear beneath her petticoat.

"Shoes on or shoes off?" she said, smiling.

"Shoes off, if you don't mind," I replied. "I'm trying to keep the carpets clean. Or at least cleaner."

I stood, moved around from behind my desk and welcomed her with open arms. She greeted me likewise, and her embrace was both warm and heartfelt. Indeed, I thought I detected a slight sob in amongst the smiles.

"Are you on your own?" I asked.

"Don't worry," said Leda. "I managed to ditch my Mother somewhere on Northumberland Street. She's either lost in Primark or digging for buried treasure in Marks and Spencer. "

"We could send out a search party?"

"No! No! No!" said Leda. "Perish the thought. Let the poor woman enjoy herself! She's in her element!"

Truth be told, I was glad that Leda was unaccompanied. From what she's told me, her mother can be overpowering, to say the least. And she definitely wouldn't want to be in the same room given what I had in mind.

"Tea? Coffee? Wine?" I asked.

"Oh, wine, I think," said Leda. "Definitely wine."

I keep a mini-fridge concealed at the back of my office. Only the cleaning staff know it's there although I'm sure Spartacus has his suspicions. Therein is concealed a small collection of wines and spirits, kept in reserve for occasions just like this. Don't condemn me. I'm a Philosopher. Getting drunk on company time is part of the job.

Leda made herself comfortable whilst I found two glasses (already cleaned and polished to perfection) and pulled the cork from one of my few remaining 'proper' bottles of wine.

"So, how long are you here?" I asked as I pulled a set of rather exotic pastries from the fridge.

"I'm here until Monday and then back to Germany on Tuesday. Dad and I just spent a week clearing my digs, and he's driving them back overnight."

"He's on his own? Will he be okay?"

"He'll be more than okay," said Leda. "He positively relishes in these long, long overnight drives."

I could hear the Cleaning staff moving around outside so I went to my Office Door, hung a "Do Not Disturb" sign on the handle and then turned the key in the main lock. I also pushed the dead bolt up to guarantee that we wouldn't be interrupted.

Leda and I chatted for around twenty minutes, mostly talking about our mutual research topics although we did, on occasion, slide into a little gossip. I was sure that Leda was more than a little tipsy when the conversation shifted rather abruptly. I turned to find Leda on her feet and smiling.

"I have always loved the view from these windows," she said. "So high up and you can see all the way to the Cheviots on a good day."

"You know the Cheviots?"

"I spent a summer there just after Lockdown," said Leda. "Odd jobs mostly. Waitressing and helping out in shops and stores. It was good experience."

"And the setting sun," she continued. "There was many a time when I would sit in these seminars, watch the Autumn sun sliding behind the hills, and I would wonder if life could get any better."

"And now?" I said. "What are your plans?"

"For now? Back to Germany where I start my new job in my Father's factory next month, after a short holiday in the Algarve. That was the deal. In exchange for paying my course fees and my living expenses, I would come back home and work for him. And I would bring some of my new found knowledge and experience to his company, maybe even take over when he eventually decides to retire, if he ever decides to retire, that is."

"I wish you weren't leaving. You'd have made a fine addition to the MA course. Certainly a good Doctoral Candidate."

"Maybe so," said Leda. "But... A deal is a deal. I gave my word."

"Still, if you reconsider, or if circumstances change. You'd have my complete support."

Silence.

We stood together, side by side, staring into the distance, and at the myriad of people moving back and forth below us. I glanced sideways and immediately sensed that Leda was agitated. She had something on her mind.

"Still, I whispered," glancing at my watch. "All good things, eh?"

Leda turned and smiled. "There are always beginnings and endings. Sad beginnings and happy endings. Such is life, eh? You taught us that."

"I did, didn't I?" I whispered, smiling.

And there it was. The flash. That one moment of complete and total understanding, an unwavering unity of thought and intent tightly coupled to a sudden commitment to move onwards, to the next step, and face whatever consequences might come our way.

Leda stood on the very tips of her toes and planted a very tiny kiss on my lips. "There," she said. "I've waited three years to do that."

"What? To kiss me?"

"Yes, to kiss you," she replied, softly.

"Why?"

I stepped back instinctively. Staff and students are not supposed to become involved in any capacity but then... Leda was no longer a student.

"Because," she whispered, half laughing. "You were my inspiration, my muse and my mentor. And, I would like to think, my friend, too."

"Of course we were friends! Are friends!" I said. "And I hope we remain friends for a long, long time."

Leda paused and smiled, and then laughed though the laugh was rather nervous, rather uncertain.

"There's a connection here," she said, pointing at her breastbone. "I know, have known, that this connection went deeper than just a silly thing between a teacher and her pupil. I felt then, as now, that there was more, and I sense that you do, too."

I sat down rather harder than I would have wished. Under normal circumstances, I'm usually the party who pushes the proceedings to the next logical step. Instead, Leda was being quite forward in her intentions. Normally, it's the reverse.

"Well, yes," I mumbled. "There was a connection. An unmistakeable connection. I'd be lying if I said there wasn't. But... what?"

"I think you already know," said Leda.

I nodded and smiled, picked up my glass and downed whatever was left in one gulp.

Leda moved towards the back of my office and in the direction of the couch. She turned to face me, undid the clasp on her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Beneath? Nothing. Nothing at all. She'd gone commando.

My heart was absolutely pounding. I could feel the beads of sweat gathering atop my upper lip and my blouse sticking to my back. And then came the unmistakeable burning in my belly. There was no point whatsoever in playing this safe, pretending to be all coy and professional and...

I went to my door and checked the key in the lock. I also double-checked the dead bolt. Nobody was getting through that door without a pickaxe. Next, I went to my desk and switched off my lamp. Anyone looking throughout the keyhole would likely see darkness and presume that I had either gone home or gone to sleep.

"I need some more wine," I whispered.

"Me too," said Leda as she removed her top.

I opened another bottle - chilled to perfection - and poured us both a large glass.

"Your mother isn't likely to intrude, is she?"

Leda examined her phone. "She's just texted. She's back to the hotel. Wants to get a few hours of sleep before we hit the town one last time."

"So we're alone?"

Leda nodded. She hauled her blouse over her head, tossed it to one side and then accepted the glass of wine before flopping lazily on my couch.

Pert boobs, quite big, quite firm, quite abrupt, meaning that they stuck out in front of her, perhaps a little too far. Slim waist, good-sized hips. Long, slender legs. And yes, those Henna tattoos really did go all the way up her calves. And her bush? Yeah, quite some bush, too. Big, luxurious and well trimmed.

I went to my cupboard and reached inside. I found my 'sex blanket' and set it down on the couch. It's heavy, warm and incredibly soft, the perfect accompaniment for an afternoon spent in a state of bliss.

"Well," said Leda. "Should we?"

I nodded.

"Because if you don't want to, if you feel we shouldn't then I'll happily get dressed and be on my way, albeit a little disappointed."

She looked sad.

"Friends?"

"Always," said Leda.

"And if we do?"

Leda smiled. "Still friends," she whispered. "Always."

I stood, unclipped my skirt and let it fall to the floor. Beneath, stockings and suspenders. Why? Shock and awe, my friend. Shock and awe. It works every time.

Indeed, Leda sat, her glass in hand, with an open mouth and her eyes wide. Shock and awe.

I unbuttoned my blouse and cast it to one side. A matching set - Marks and Spencer's finest burgundy lace combination, fitted to perfection.

I sat down next to Leda, picked up my glass and downed the contents in one. Seconds later, we were locked in a deep embrace, her mouth fastened against mine like tiny limpets clinging to a storm-battered rock. Suddenly, my bra was unclipped and pulled aside, and my breasts were left swinging freely. Okay, that was a surprise. This lady clearly had form. She'd done this before.

Leda sat back and stared. She seemed impressed. Good thing too. I work out. I run. I do weights. I keep myself in tiptop physical condition. My breasts are amazing, even if I do say so myself. You would too if you could see them. I know you would.

Leda lowered her head and kissed my neck and then my shoulders. She took her time before a full frontal assault on my breasts, by which time, I was positively shivering with anticipation. I wanted to reciprocate, to touch and feel her warmth, and to taste her body and all that it had to offer. Alas, my friend had other ideas.

Leda slipped gracefully towards the floor, supporting herself on one knee, and jammed her face between my thighs. She spread my legs as wide as they would comfortably go and landed a heavy kiss right in the middle of my pudenda. Not very subtle, I grant you but certainly welcome. More than welcome in fact. I've experienced something of a drought in recent months and was definitely in need of a lover's attention.

Now, I'd changed these knickers only an hour or so before but they were already dripping wet. Indeed, the top of my thighs were utterly sodden. Seconds later, Leda's tongue was hammering at the gusset of my pants. I reached down, drew the flimsy material to one side and let her go to work.

Then she was inside me. Did I object? Did I hell. I was in heaven. One finger. Then two. Then three. Yeah, she'd done this before. With her fingers buried deep inside me, Leda again planted her mouth atop my clitoris and tongued me as hard as she dared.

An orgasm began building stage left, like an impatient understudy awaiting their curtain call, their chance to step out into the limelight.

And yeah, I came. Very quickly in fact. An orgasm came crashing down like storm winds against a harbour wall, and my world suddenly turned into a multicoloured kaleidoscope of flashing lights and sun drenched flares. I was aware that I made some noise - a few deep gasps and a deafening moan that hung in the air like smoke in an empty room.

I took a minute or so to come to my senses and, truth be told, I wasn't fully myself for the next few hours. I'd been without a lover for far too long. How long? Too long. When did I last have sex? Proper sex? Meaningful sex? More than a year. Nearly two, in fact.

I didn't want this to be over quickly so I tapped her on her shoulder and pointed to the other end of the couch. It was my turn to get busy. Leda quickly hauled her gorgeous backside over my prone frame and knelt, chest down against the couch, her pussy pointing towards the ceiling. It's as delicious a scene as you could imagine and, of course, being something of a gourmet when it comes to dining on fresh pussy, I took my time approaching the delicacy before tasting my first bite.

And she did not disappoint. Her pussy had been washed, cleansed and seasoned to perfection. I made a point of fingering her butt hole very gently. Just enough to stimulate the nerve endings hidden therein but not so hard as to enter her though that remained an option should she push back, which she did. Okay, that was my cue. I tongued her butt until her legs began to quiver and shake.

I went back to work on her pussy, which was wet to the point of dripping and had already left a trail of dark and rapidly expanding spots on the fading grey weave. I pressed my hand hard against her belly whilst reaching forwards to squeeze her breasts. As soon as I made contact with her tits, she upended herself and landed, legs spread wide, across my hips. She pushed her breasts together and encouraged me to bite down hard on her nipples, which were large and erect.

"That..." she whispered. "Do it again. Please. Do it again."

I did not hesitate. Not for a moment. And they were nice breasts. Big breasts. Responsive, eager breasts. I so wanted to explore her lower regions but this wasn't just about me and what I wanted. This was about us, and what we wanted, and if she wanted me to manhandle her breasts then that's what I would happily do. And, strangely, she began to moan and writhe and gasp as soon as I went to work on her boobs. I've never witnessed this response in the flesh, so to speak, and so I felt honoured.

Leda soon pushed my hand away. "Too much! Too sensitive!" she whispered. "Wait a while. Please..."

Still wearing my stockings and suspenders, I stood, removed the last of those impossible barriers and then lay down next to the now prone and ever so slightly drunk Leda. Lying on one side, I pushed her legs apart, slapped my lips against hers and then pushed my hand between her thighs. She neither could nor would complain because, withins seconds, she began to moan. Yeah, I'd read the room and correctly judged the moment. She was right on the edge of boiling over. Seconds later, the moan became a grunt, and then a series of grunts rocking in sympathy with the motion of my hand.

I buried two fingers deep inside her and began to finger-fuck her in time with the pulsing veins in her neck.

She came and she was very, very loud indeed. She cried out not once but twice before I had a chance to stifle her with my spare hand, which I clasped hard across her mouth. The Little Death came to her just as the bells in the nearby Civic Centre chimed four o'clock. Her eyes wide, she clawed at my back, her nails cutting deep into my bare flesh. Shit! That hurt! I soon sensed blood trickling down my shoulder blades. Not good.

Still smiling like an idiot, I wondered if Spartacus had heard our explosive exchanges. His office and mine are some distance apart, deliberately so, but I have often heard strange noises in the wee hours. Being a generous soul, I have simply registered said noises as just Spartacus entertaining certain members of our associated faculties with an evening of Scrabble in his office long after the Cleaners have gone.

Leda and I were soon asleep. That said, I did not sleep as soundly as I usually do after a long overdue session between the sheets. I was on edge because I knew for a fact that the Cleaners were somewhere in the building, maybe on the floor below. And, of course, that hatchet-faced bitch from the Admin team, she with her Holier than Thou condescending attitude, would be lurking somewhere. It's in her nature to want to intrude, to spoil and to debase.

The Carillon atop the Civic Centre down the road from my office chimed four thirty just as Leda woke. She stretched, yawned and then sat up.

"I need to pee," she said. "I'll just be a minute."

"Watch out for the Spartacus. He's still about."

I opened the door as gently as I could, poked my head out into the corridor and looked left then right. "All clear," I said. "Just run for it."

And she did, and I was treated to the sight of a tiny naked Visigoth running bare-assed down the main corridor, her rotund Teutonic bottom jiggling back and forth with every step. Impossibly enchanting.

Back in my office, I pulled the blinds shut and poured the last of the wine into our glasses, which sat, side by side, on the floor by the couch.

Leda appeared moments later and immediately dead-bolted the door. "Too much to drink at dinner time," she said as she locked the door behind her. Still naked, still somewhat the worse for drink, she swayed in the direction of the couch and lay down, her arms behind her head.

My phone chimed gently. Sixteen thirty hours - a signal that the Porters would be shutting up the building in just thirty minutes. Time to think about heading home.

"I have dreamed of this," said Leda in a whisper. "For three years..."

"Three years?"

"Perhaps four," she added. "I knew there was something about you, about this place. There was a special connection when I came here for my first interview, way back when. It was that connection, that feeling, that made me choose this place over all the others."

"And here we are," I said, smiling. "It was a good choice, was it not?"

"You know, my roommates? They know how I feel. They said I should just lock myself in your room, take off all my clothes and then see what might happen. They said that years ago."

"They did, did they?"

Leda smiled. "They did," she replied. "'It will do you good,' they said. 'It will get her out from under your skin', they said. Me? I am glad I waited until today."

Whilst I was more than a little flattered by Leda's admission, I still found myself slightly worried and for a whole bunch of reasons. Do I give off a vibe? Do I come off as a Predator? Do I come off as an easy lay?

"I am glad you waited, too," I replied sliding back over to the couch. "Otherwise, this could have ended badly. We, the staff, have to watch our behaviour at every step, especially with some of the more sensitive individuals."

I pushed a glass into Leda's hand and smiled. Leda's expression shifted in an instant. "Speaking of more sensitive individuals, I want to talk to you about your problems with Meghan?"

Okay, that took me by surprise. "Meghan? Really?"

Leda nodded. "The whole University has heard of Meghan. As you know, she was in my group, or would have been if she'd ever turned up."

"And?"

"She's making trouble," she continued. "Making trouble for everyone. Myself included."

"I can't possibly comment. She's made a formal complaint and I'm only allowed to discuss the matter with my Superiors."

Leda paused and not just for dramatic effect. "I hate her," said Leda. "Hate is not the right word. What I feel for Meghan goes beyond hate."

A pause and then...

"I have some information that you might find of interest," she whispered. "I, we, don't like what she's doing to you, to her friends, to Spartacus and to the Department. It debases all of us. Her accusations undermine what we have achieved."

"What sort of information?" I asked as I kicked my clothes into a more organised pile.

Leda smiled and then laughed very gently. "Information that would make Meghan's claim vanish into thin air..."

Another pause.

"There are one or two people," said Leda. "They know Meghan a little better than you and certainly a little better than she might prefer, and they have a motive for... Let's say, they would very much like to see her disappear."

"I'm intrigued," I whispered. "Tell me more..."

Leda smiled. "If you are interested then..."

"Yes?"

"I need to make one or two phone calls and, if they prove favourable, then we should talk some more."

"When?"

"Why not come to dinner tonight?" said Leda. "With my mother and I? She would very much like to meet you anyway."

I paused before answering.

"Does she know about this? About us?"

"She does," said Leda. "She does not exactly approve but then she can do nothing to stop me. I'm am adult. I can make my own mind up. So why stop me? That's her ethos."

"Practical, I suppose..."

"Come to dinner with us, meet my mother," said Leda. "And, for dessert, I'll happily give you all the names and dates you need, plus some rather choice photographs that definitely won't be admissible in Court. But then Meghan definitely won't want this coming out in a Courtroom."

Leda's phone pinged once. She reached across and read. "It's my Mother. She's awake and hungry. Time I got dressed."

We parted at the entrance to the main building just after five o'clock. I went left. Leda went right. We'd agreed to meet up at her hotel at seven thirty for a late dinner. Rather than go home to shower and change clothes, I performed a U-turn and went directly to the Samsung Shop on Northumberland Street. Thankfully, it was still open. I bought three blank SIM cards for my phone and then skipped over the road to PC World where I bought a couple of memory sticks. After that, I found a quiet place in Fenwicks and worked out how to use my phone's Voice Recorder application. iii.

September 2019

I sensed Meghan was bad news the very second I laid eyes on her. A kind of sixth sense kicked in, unbidden, as soon as she walked through the main doors and into the Faculty's reception room. A tiny voice in my head instantly screamed "This one is trouble". It couldn't have been more obvious if she's walked in wearing a flashing red traffic light on her head and a sash across her chest that read 'I am an arse hole and I will make your life Hell'.

And she did.

From the very first day of the very first term in her very first year at the University, Meghan caused us problems. She missed the Induction Day, insisting that her train up from Manchester had departed early. When she arrived, she quickly discovered that she had nowhere to stay. She'd assumed that the University would sort that out for her and she was very vocal in her protests when she discovered that her personal tutor was not her personal assistant.

More so, thanks to an apparent mix up in our admissions department, nobody could find her paperwork. She wasn't on their system and her fees had not been paid. Huh? That couldn't possibly have been Meghan's fault, could it? No, it was the fault of the Bursar's Office, so she said. Her father, she maintained, had paid her fees out of his own pocket and he had the receipts to prove it although he was never able to provide them.

By the end of the first month in that first term, a very clear pattern had emerged. Meghan was not committed in any shape, manner or form to a life within this University. She never attended lectures or seminars. She neglected to meet up with her Year Tutor for the first month. He didn't even recognise her when she turned up at his office demanding that he rectify the fault with the attendance system because, somehow, it had utterly failed to record any of those lectures that she had attended. Except that nobody could remember seeing her, myself included.

And then the rumours began to circulate. She would turn up drunk and sit in the Refectory nursing a hangover for the greater part of the day. She missed deadlines and coursework as if it was a fashion statement.

Then came the seedy stuff, the signs and indications that not all was as it should be in Camp Meghan. There were reports that she'd been fished out of a local lake by the Police and later arrested for lewd conduct. There were rumours of compromising images circulating the Campus and how Meghan was 'a sure thing', an easy lay. The students in my seminars were not afraid to share those images between themselves although understandably, they seemed reluctant to share them with the Academic Staff.

And yet, Meghan somehow managed to claw her way onto the second year of her course even though she'd failed all but one of her modules. I suspect that her father had made certain legal threats and the University would be more than keen to avoid any adverse publicity. Even though she made it to the second year, the problems persisted. She never turned up before noon, was surly and disruptive in classes and never submitted any of the required coursework, even the mandatory assignments that students must hand in if they're to complete their degree.

The Third Year was no different except that Meghan had become openly contemptuous of the academic staff. We complained. She ignored us. The rumours of her misconduct began to escalate. She was allegedly found passed out and naked in the office of a distinguished Professor after a Christmas function. She claimed he'd taken her there for sex although that claim was rejected because poor old Wallace had a damaged spine and couldn't bend down to pick up a paperclip without screaming.

Meghan was caught swimming in the pond adjacent to the Civic Centre one Friday afternoon, apparently following a forty eight hour drinking spree. Tales of Meghan performing various sex acts upon men and women in and around the City Centre were numerous. Shortly after Christmas 2022, Meghan was admitted to the Accident and Emergency Room at the Royal Victory Infirmary following a sexual encounter with a gentleman who somehow managed to slip a disc whilst making love, and because neither party had been able to move, Meghan had been pinned beneath her partner for several hours before someone heard their screams for help. The identity of her counterpart was never fully disclosed but the rumours suggested that he had been an Academic from an institution not a million miles away from my own.

In short, Meghan made our lives miserable and we were eternally grateful when the summer term came to a conclusion. Meghan graduated, albeit with just a humble Third Class Honours degree and that, frankly, was overly generous. I'd have kicked her out without any further discussion.

Of course, she objected. Meghan insisted that she'd been a model student throughout her time at University and that she'd submitted all of her coursework on time. These were barefaced lies and she knew it. Nevertheless, she persisted to the point that even the University began to doubt our version of events.

Which brings us up to the present day and the on-going dispute.

So, I've set the scene and laid out all of the facts for you, dear Reader, to examine at your leisure.

iv.

Dinner was served at precisely eight o'clock. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say, the food was bland and functional at best. There was also an atmosphere around the table. Petra, Leda's mother, plainly did not approve of our dalliance, that much was obvious right from the start. She said little except to confirm her name and that was it. Petra departed as soon as coffee was served, leaving Leda and I to talk.

"She does not approve, does she?" I asked.

"Not in the slightest," said Leda. "I have a boyfriend at home, Micha. I've known Micha since we were at school and we are engaged. She regards any liaisons I might have as a betrayal of that betrothal, which it is, of course."

"Does Micha know?"

"Micha? He has a girlfriend, possibly two," said Leda. "I care not. He can do as he wishes. We are engaged only as a formality. Nothing more. I doubt we will ever marry. We are different people these days. I have seen something of the world. He still lives in his friend's garage."

"Anyway," continued Leda. "I mentioned Meghan. And I know of the problems she is causing you. She has caused many, many problems for my friends and I, and..."

Leda paused.

"And?" I said, interrupting.

"There is someone I would like you to meet," she continued. "You already know him a little. He likes Meghan even less than you do and he has a lot of information that might help you, Spartacus and, of course, the University."

"You have my full attention," I said. "Obviously, any light you can shed on this unfortunate state of affairs could be immensely valuable. You could, quite literally, save my job."

Another pause.

"What we have," continued Leda in a hushed tone. "What we have is not admissible in a Court of Law because it was obtained illegally but it will certainly have all you need to completely undermine Meghan's version of what happened."

"What are you talking about?"

"I have seen things - images, movies, texts - that even I can scarcely believe."

My mind racing, my heart began to pound in sympathy. "What do I, or we, have to do to access these images?"

"It's very simple," said Leda. "My friend, you already know his name, was sent down for a number of failings, which he has openly admitted to. He now seeks redemption of sorts."

"You mean Jonathan Earle, don't you?"

Leda nodded.

"I remember him well," I replied. "Possession of a controlled substance, Plagiarism, theft, vandalising University property, skipping classes. His exclusion was well deserved."

"I know that," said Leda. "You know that. He knows that and he wishes to make amends. He wants to reapply to the University, to redeem himself, and he can only do that with academic support."

"And you and Jonathan want me to provide that support?"

Leda nodded. "Come and meet him," she said. "Come see him, see who he's turned into. He's not the same person. He's... different. He also completely clean these days. He's drug free and completely sober."

"How then? How do we meet him?"

Leda paused. "He works as a Cellar man at a bar on the Quayside. It's his day off. I talked to him earlier. I will text him and then we can visit his flat."

So, that's what we did. Leda texted Earle and, together, we walked the short distance to Jonathan's flat, which was high up on the third floor in a smart residential block right in the middle of Newcastle.

I recognised Jonathan in a moment. He was still impossibly tall and whilst he'd lost the beard and the piercings, he still had the same eyes and the same smile.

"Hey, Leda," he said, warmly. "Come on in. The kettle is still hot."

Leda entered. "Jonathan, this is..."

"Dr. Winter," he interrupted. "It's a pleasure to see you again, and certainly under more favourable circumstances."

"Good evening, Jonathan," I replied, still somewhat apprehensive.

"Come in, come in," said Jonathan. "Make yourselves at home. If you want to take off your coats then please do. There's a bathroom to the left if you need to freshen up."

The flat was large but sparsely furnished with high white walls, an armchair, a couch and a ridiculously large television set built into the longest wall. Outside, I could see the heaving hustle and bustle of the usual night life walking back and forth with all the purpose and urgency of a group of teens hunting for a suitable mate.

"Tea? Coffee?" said Jonathan.

"Tea for me," I said.

"Nothing for me," said Leda. "Unless you have some of that Peach Schnapps that mother so disapproves of."

"I have two crates of it in the basement," said Jonathan. "Can't get rid of it. You're the only person who drinks it and you're leaving the country. Take some with you, please."

"I like your place," I said.

"It's not actually mine," said Jonathan as he disappeared into the kitchen. "It's my mother's. Her bolt hole when my father is being utterly impossible, which happens whenever there's a full Moon. She lets me stay here rent free on the condition that I keep the place clean and tidy, and don't slide back into my former habits."

"A Full Moon? Is he a Werewolf?" I asked, puzzled.

"No, not at all," said Jonathan. "He's just a drunk. He gets a skin-full every time there's a full Moon so that he can walk home on his own whenever he wants to, and occasionally, that just happens to be via his mistress's house."

Jonathan entered carrying a tray of drinks - tea for me, coffee for himself, a tiny glass of Peach Schnapps for Leda.

"So," said Jonathan as he slid onto the couch. "You want to know all about our friend, Meghan?"

I nodded. "I do,"

"I've heard, via the grapevine, that she's pretty much got you over a barrel. She wants her degree upgraded from a third to a first, her course fees reimbursed, and a personal apology from the Head of the School."

"Your grapevine is very much correct in all but one detail," I replied. "She wants a personal apology from me and me alone. Not the Head of the School. Me, because she sees me as the main antagonist in this Passion Play."

"Applying the same analogy," said Jonathan. "She very much wants to see you nailed to a cross."

"And wearing a crown of thorns, if I were to continue your analogy," I replied.

"What if I told you," said Jonathan. "That I have all the evidence that would let you change places with her, where she gets nailed to a cross and not you?"

"I'd certainly be interested. Make that very interested."

Jonathan smiled. "And doubtless Leda has told you about some of my conditions?"

Earle turned to face Leda and smiled.

"She has, and whilst I am not in a position to overturn your expulsion, if your information is reliable then I would absolutely support any application you might wish to make, on the condition that you have turned your life around."

Jonathan smiled. "Those days are long gone. Water under my bridge as far as I'm concerned but, alas, not the University's. They have a long memory and, frankly, I don't blame them. I wouldn't let me back in."

"But," continued Mr. Earle. "There are other Universities and they might look the other way."

"My predicament," I whispered. "If she succeeds then I'll loose my job and my standing. I'll never win it back and I definitely won't be able to write a reference. So, it seems we need each other."

"It would seem so," said Jonathan. "To that end, I'd be more than willing to share what I have in exchange for a simple character reference, a good one that is, simply to help me get a better job. Certainly better than this. It's hard being a recovering alcoholic when you're surrounded by beer suds all day long."

"Deal," I said. "I'll do that."

Earle smiled. "Right then," he said. "Then here's what I have."

He stood, reached into the pocket of his jeans and withdrew a small USB drive.

"You can't use this in a Court," he said. "Because it's the proverbial fruit of the poisoned tree. I stole Meghan's phone to get it. She still thinks she left it in a Night Club in Glasgow but she didn't. I took it from her handbag when she was pissed and passed out in the back of the Edinburgh train two years ago. Talk about serendipity..."

Earle reached under the sofa and withdrew a small MacBook Air. "Okay, this isn't for the fainthearted," he said. "You'll need a broad mind to deal with this."

"Go for it," I said.

Earle opened up the MacBook, eased the USB drive into a spare socket and waited for the icon to appear on his desktop. "What I have here is the contents of Meghan's phone," he said. "All of the items I captured are time stamped. All of the relevant texts are highlighted and backed up by transcripts in Word format. But I reckon they alone won't change her mind. No, it's the movies that will stop her in her tracks."

Earle opened the file and went directly to a folder marked Texts. Within were three sub folders labelled WhatsApp, Messenger and SMS.

"These," he said, clicking on the WhatsApp folder. "Are the incriminating messages. This is where she talks dirty. A lot of the entries in here are pretty uncouth. She had a number of male friends, and some female friends too, and their various discussions about what they'd like to do to each other... They're not for the faint hearted. She was into some pretty off the wall stuff."

I read through a small number of messages and, as Jonathan had indicated, were rather graphic and painted Meghan in a completely different light.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked.

"Patience," said Jonathan. "We'll come to that. All will become clear, presently."

"So, here we have a couple of text messages between Meghan and her mother," continued Jonathan. "Your smoking gun."

Meghan : "Can you call the University? Tell them I'm too ill to travel in today. Say I have a stomach upset or my period."

Mom: "Your period was last week."

Meghan: "Stomach upset w/ cramps?"

Mom: "Where are you?"

Meghan: "Manchester."

This is more or less what I expected. Meghan had spent the weekend partying and had either missed her opportunity to travel back to Newcastle, or she'd just decided to stay over in Manchester for another bite of the cherry.

"Now," said Earle. "I know she was in Manchester because I was there too. And I remember her sending that text because I was in bed next to her."

"In bed?" I mumbled.

"See? I said everything would become clear," said Jonathan. "Meghan... We were on-off-on-off for a year. Until she gave me the Clap that is."

"Huh? The Clap?"

"Actually, Crabs and the Clap. I spent a week shaving my pubes and covering my balls with a lotion that had a sting like a pissed off Scorpion. Plus there was the antibiotics and us druggies need to watch our antibiotic intake. Anaphylactic shock and all that. Plus she was screwing at least two other men besides me and, when I found out, that kinda hurt, frankly."

"There are a couple of photos of us together in Manchester," continued Earle. "Me and a bunch of her friends. You can see by the date on the images..."

"Is there more?"

A broad grin spread across Jonathan's face. "More? There's much more."

"Do you recall?" he continued. "Do you remember when Meghan said she was too ill to deliver the report for her final second year module."

"Not individually," I said. "Because she missed so many deadlines. In fact, she missed all of them to varying degrees."

"Here, March 2021," said Earle. "We were barely out of Lockdown. Classes had just resumed. She'd spent Lockdown drinking and worse. And then she had to deliver but couldn't. Here's why."

Jonathan opened another folder marked 'movies' clicked on an anonymous-looking icon.

It was a scene inside a a Disabled Toilet and from the signage, it looked European.

"This was in Prague," said Jonathan.

Centre screen, two girls, both naked. A third girl filmed the encounter. She's heard but not seen. A blonde girl sits on the edge of the toilet, her legs spread wide. Between her thighs is another girl, dark hair, big shoulders, plainly drunk. She's performing cunnilingus on the blonde girl. Vigorously.

"This was filmed the night before she had her mother dial in to say she was too ill to travel up to Newcastle," said Jonathan. "I know who filmed the scene. So do you as a matter of fact. She graduated last year. Her role in this charade is unimportant."

The dark haired girl on the floor paused and looks up. She stares directly into the camera and laughs. "Gimme a drink," she said. "Gimme some of that...."

It's Meghan.

Earle clicked on the image and selected the Inspector from the menu. "The creation date matches exactly," he said. "Look at the Location..."

Prague, Czech Republic.

Angry, I continued watching the movie file. Eventually Meghan stood up and faced the camera. Large breasts, larger hips, completely bare pubis. Yeah, that was her. I even recognised the navel piercing as hers. It was always on show on those few occasions when she attended a class.

"Here's another," said Jonathan clicking on a second movie file.

The scene had been filmed Gonzo-style by the lucky recipient. Around two dozen or so men and women were gathered around two women and, centre-screen was a very, very large and very erect penis, uncut. The owner was apparently naked, certainly from the waist down. Meghan entered the scene from stage right, dropped to her knees and began to suck said cock. Thereafter, she blew the lucky gentleman until he very nearly ejaculated. Meghan let go just in time to watch a plume of jizz ascending skywards.

"Check the date and time," said Jonathan.

"10th January 2022," I said.

"And where was she supposed to be?"

"Back at Uni," I replied. "If memory serves, her course resumed on the 6th."

"Check the location," said Earle. "Look at the EXIF details. You'll find she was still in Greece."

"And her mother called in," I replied. "I remember that episode because we were already suspicious. If memory serves, she said she was too ill to travel up from Manchester."

"There's more," said Jonathan.

A scene of around a dozen or so girls running, naked, into the sea at sunset. They spend ten minutes in the water and Meghan is front and centre for the duration. At one point, Meghan lies in the surf with her legs spread as another girl gets down on her knees and plants her mouth of Meghan's pussy. Another scene and Meghan is drunk and unconscious on a park bench. Another scene. It's Meghan at a party in the wee hours. In the background, you can see the London Wheel through an open window.

"On every one of those occasions," said Earle. "Check your records. Check your dates. You'll find that she'd called in sick, or said she was stuck at home, perhaps caring for her disabled Mother, a mother who was so disabled and so hopelessly bed-ridden that she completed the London Marathon last weekend, and with a new personal best, too."

"And, by the way, check the texts for the London Marathon," said Earle. "You'll find Meghan had somebody else run for her, wearing her number, just so she could grab a certificate. She's done that at least twice that I know of."

And so on.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked at length.

"Simple revenge," said Jonathan. "Nothing more. Nothing less."

"Do you want to elaborate?"

"I was expelled from the University for many reasons," said Earle. "And, as I've said, my expulsion was well deserved and thoroughly justified. I make no excuse for my behaviour, which was just plain wrong."

"And?"

"However, one of the charges levelled at me was one of plagiarism," continued Jonathan. "I was never guilty of plagiarism. Never. You can take that to the bank. I have many faults but I'm not a liar."

"So who copied your work?" I asked, sipping at what remained of my tea.

"Guess?"

"Meghan?"

"Correct," said Jonathan. "She stole my work, put her own name on it and, when I was called out, when I found myself in the worse possible position, Meghan stayed silent. I knew she'd stolen that essay. She had the means, the motive and the opportunity. She knew you were on to her. She knew you were waiting for her to fail so she stole my essay and pretended it was her own. To the University, the charge of plagiarism was the last straw, the final nail in my coffin. To deny it only made my position all the more untenable. Who's going to believe a drugged up fool? If Meghan had spoken up, admitted her failings then maybe I'd have escaped with a warning. After all, others did. But no. Meghan threw me to the wolves, and here we are."

I paused to think through the situation ahead of me. "This is all well and good," I said. "We have the evidence. We have the smoking gun. We have proof of collusion. We have everything we need to bring her down and yet we can't hand this to anyone because it was stolen. How do we fix this?"

"But there's more," added Leda.

"There is," said Jonathan. "Three days after I'd been expelled from the University, I was busted leaving a Night Club. That shit hole on Stowell Street. The Cops were running spot checks and, when they searched me, they found two baggies."

"Cocaine?" I asked.

Earle smiled. "Nose Candy. Pearl. Sniff. White Rock. Whatever you want to call it."

"Dear Lord," I whispered.

"Thing is you see," said Jonathan. "They weren't mine. I didn't have any. I didn't have the funds to buy it. My folks had cut me off and my bank balance was a joke. I had to get someone to pay me into that shitty club and then find someone else to buy me a drink, or two."

"Then who?" I asked.

"You need to ask?" interrupted Leda.

"They were Meghan's," said Jonathan. "She must have been tipped off about the search, dumped them in a box of cigarettes and then left the club ahead of me. She probably planned on retrieving them later, if I managed to get past the Cops."

I just stared at the floor and shook my head. "What happened? Did you get gaol time?"

"I got off lightly," said Earle. "Seven months in a rehabilitation unit. All because of Meghan."

"And you're telling the truth?" I asked. "Because..."

"The absolute truth," said Jonathan.

"I'll vouch for him," said Leda. "He's straight now. Got himself clean."

"Then what do I do?" I asked, still in a state of shock.

"Simple," said Jonathan. "You send her a couple of screen grabs, caps of the incriminating texts, images of her and her girlfriends, ideally fairly explicit so she knows you're not messing about..."

"But how," said Leda. "Everything at the University is traceable."

"Easy done," said Jonathan. "I have a handful of stolen and lost IDs behind the bar. Kids drop them. We pick them up. The druggies use them to gain access to the various digs so they can distribute under the noses of the University Security bots. All we do is hand an encrypted ZIP file to a student, slip him fifty quid and get them to send it anonymously through the campus net."

"But they'll get caught on CCTV," said Leda.

"Easier still," said Earle. "We use one of the Chinese students. He logs in, sends the file and logs out. He's got a stolen ID card. Even if they do get a good capture of him, they still couldn't pick him out of a line up."

"That's a bit racist," I said.

"It is, but it just happens to be true," said Jonathan. "We've done it before. We'll do it again."

"Then, an hour or so later," continued Jonathan. "We put a note in her pigeonhole containing the password, and then sit back and wait. When is the hearing?"

"Tuesday," I said in a whisper.

"That gives us plenty of time," said Jonathan. "I can organise everything if you'll write me a letter of recommendation."

"I'll certainly do that, " I said. "But you'll need some assignments, essays and the like, a body of work on a chosen subject, to help me make a convincing argument."

Jonathan leaned back in his chair and smiled. "And I have your word on that?"

"Leda here will witness what I'm about to say," I replied. "I will support you with a written recommendation and/or help you gain admission to any academic body you choose. Agreed?"

"Agreed..."

"Shake on it?" said Earle. He extended a firm grip, which I accepted.

"Agreed," I said. "Leda?"

"See, I said she wouldn't let you down, Jon," whispered Leda.

v.

Leda and I eventually left Jonathan at around one in the morning. It was too late to catch the bus home and neither was it safe for me to contemplate walking or even waiting for a taxi so I agreed to stay in Leda's hotel room overnight, and whilst we both showered before bed, we didn't make love. I had too much on my mind.

I woke early the following morning. Even though I had a bit of a buzzy head, I was elated. Simply joyous. The weight of the Meghan episode had been hanging around my neck like Hangman's noose for months and that weight, that hideous mass, had been taken away, albeit with the help of a remorseful ex-Drug addict.

I hit the shower and promptly burst into tears. Leda joined me and we spent the next thirty minutes under a stream of very hot water. I was intensely grateful. I remember sliding down to my knees, wrapping my arms around Leda's slender frame and sobbing like a baby. Of course, once I'd recovered a degree of composure, I took advantage of Leda. I had her raise her left leg on to the corner of the bath and then tongued her pussy until she fair collapsed. I'm absolutely certain that Petra heard us. Speaking of which...

I joined Petra for breakfast though her mood hadn't changed at all. I'd bedded her daughter - twice - and she wasn't impressed. I could care less.

I said my Goodbyes and left early, heading for home. Two hours later, I was back in my office and on the phone to my elder brother, Gavin, a journalist who knows a thing or two about the legality of gathered evidence. What he doesn't know about PACE - Police and Criminal Evidence - isn't worth printing. Gavin called me back twenty minutes later. He knew exactly what to do to stay within the law and protect those giving evidence.

I also spent around twenty minutes or so cleaning the floor and tidying the room because there were several rather unmistakable signs of my recent coupling with Leda scattered around the office, including a pair of her panties that had somehow found their way behind the corner couch. I also scoffed the last of the pastries and tipped the remaining wine down the toilet although the smell of stale alcohol lingered long after I'd returned to my office.

Then, the Work. I began again, this time with a renewed vigour. The Sword of Damocles that had been hanging over my head for the last eight months had suddenly been taken away and the sense of relief I felt bordered on a kind of euphoric ecstasy.

I followed Gavin's advice to the letter. Don't send anything even remotely sexual. Don't send anything that might be taken as a threat. Ideally, stick to texts. Send neutral images where the embedded data contradicts Meghan's narrative. If she says she was in Manchester in one post then attach an image that proves she was in Prague. If she says she was at the hospital with her sick mother all day then send a photograph that proves she was drunk on a park bench in Edinburgh. The London Marathon was the dead-giveaway. She claimed she'd crossed the finish line, whilst at the same time, she'd texted her father from Glasgow. There was a clear pattern of lying and deceit at the very core of her activities. Everything she did was a deliberate lie.

Six hours later, I had a fine collection of raw data, data with providence, data with sources cross-checked against known movements, data that Gavin knew would stand up in Court. Gavin did the rest. I didn't ask for details - plausible deniability - but whatever he did, I could be certain that the electronic parcel would arrive on her father's phone within an hour.

I heard Spartacus coming and going, and then coming and going a bit more but he didn't stop by. Normal behaviour for him so I didn't think much of it.

Whatever remained of Saturday was nothing more than a dull blur. I couldn't work. Not at all. Sleep proved uneasy, too. Sunday was much the same although I did spend the greater part of the day walking in Durham with a few colleagues from the History department. One or two noted that I seemed happier.

I turned up for work on Monday morning although there was no sign of Spartacus, not until the early evening, when he knocked politely on my door and told me that he'd been for a Job Interview.

"Where?" I asked. "And do they have any other vacancies?"

"London," he said. "And, yes, they do as a matter of fact..."

Spartacus and I retired to a nearby pub, The Hotspur, where we discussed our career options, which looked pretty bleak, frankly. Thereafter, we retired to a good restaurant on Grey Street (All Bar One) for more of the same, and then back to our respective homes. Even though we've been professional adversaries for nearly a decade, I felt that Spartacus and I were finally becoming friends. A shame then, that he'd be leaving us so soon. He'd been good for the department and good for the school.

vi.

And here we are. Tuesday, and the day of the hearing.

I arrived early and went directly to Spartacus's office. I found him waiting within, nervously hugging a portfolio of papers to his chest like it was some kind of ersatz Teddy Bear.

"Are you ready for this shit show?" he said. "Have you worked out what you're going to say?"

"I've scribbled a few notes down, some key points, although I'll probably improvise. It'll feel less formal, less contrived if I just wing it."

Together, like convicts marching to the gallows, we made our way towards the Executive and Administration Offices, our slow, measured pace alluding to our forthcoming humiliation.

"I've only been here once before," said Spartacus. "Under happier circumstances, I should add. I'm still not sure where to go."

"I'll ask a Porter..."

I returned seconds later. "Second floor, Parsons Suite. The lift is broken. Take the stairs."

Spartacus knocked politely and, together, we entered the suite. The room was empty.

An Administrative assistant appeared at our flank. "We just tried to call you," she said. "The Hearing has been cancelled."

"It has?" said Spartacus, plainly shocked. "Why?"

"The complaint has been withdrawn," said the Assistant.

Another Administrator appeared behind her. "Indeed," he said. "She withdrew her petition this morning. No reason given."

"Then we're free to go?" asked Spartacus.

"You always were," said the Administrator. "What made you think otherwise?"

"I dunno," mumbled Spartacus, his head bowed.

I was just relieved although I tried to look as surprised as my esteemed colleague though I'm not sure I succeeded.

Spartacus and I returned to our building though not directly. We paused not far from the Student's Union so that I could enjoy a quiet meltdown. I wasn't acting. I wasn't faking it. I simply crumbled. I lived with the threat of losing my job, my reputation and my friends for two or more years, and the relief was palpable.

vii.

Once I'd recovered, once I'd wiped away the tears and stopped shaking, the walk back to our offices was joyous.

"I have to admit," said Spartacus. "Even if we'd won the day then I really did think we'd leave with some kind of imposition, a warning perhaps. Some kind of metaphorical slap on the wrist but I have to admit, this was completely unexpected. I really thought I'd end up getting censured."

"Why?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Lots of reasons," said Spartacus. "Some you know about. Some you don't. Not everything on trial today was about Meghan. I'd been warned something nasty might happen. I just have to change my ways and learn from my past mistakes. We all do, don't we?"

viii.

Three days passed. I received Jonathan Earle's petition to rejoin the University. As protocol insists, I passed the document over to Spartacus for his inspection and, rather happily, Spartacus agreed to consider the application.

Life carried on as if nothing had changed. Spartacus took a holiday. Greece, if case you were wondering. I booked a flight to Prague because, from the images I'd so recently seen, it looked like a fun place to visit.

Meghan? I never heard from her again although I understand that she contacted Spartacus last Autumn. She was applying for jobs and asked him for a Reference. He declined.

Would you like one last laugh? Okay, here goes. I found Meghan on LinkedIn as I was reviewing this piece and, surprise, surprise, she's working as an assistant to an assistant for a Member of Parliament. Yeah, I did a double take. And then another double take. I texted a screen grab to Spartacus, who turned up at my office ten minutes later, laughing like an idiot.

"How on earth did she manage that?" he asked. "I mean... Parliament? She's hopelessly lazy. She's completely untrustworthy. She's a liar and a fake."

"She'll do marvellously," I said. "She's in her element.