“ ‘You owe us money. We want it back. We are capitalist bastards holding you to ransom.’”
With a fluttering finger gesture, Sinclair suckers me into handing over the blasted letter. He scans its import, raising a disapproving eyebrow over at me as he reads.
“Dear me, Beth. Three thousand pounds in debt after…what?...five months at university. If you aren’t going to be up to your eyeballs by the time you graduate, we need to sort this out now.”
“I can’t,” I object. “I can’t conjure cash out of thin air. I have to live.”
“Yes, Beth, but I suspect your idea of what constitutes the necessities of life might not coincide with mine. Or the Bank Manager’s.”
“I’m nineteen!” I exclaim, flinging my arms wide. “I want to experience things, go out, have friends, grab life while I can!”
Sinclair is amused by my impassioned manner, but he is not diverted from his mission. “You can do all of those things without spending enormous sums of money,” he reckons. “How much do you have going into your account every month?”
“Four hundred,” I moan. “It’s pennies.”
“It’s quite a lot for doing nothing,” Sinclair points out waspishly. “When do you get the money?”
“First of every month.”
“Well, it’s only the beginning of March. Where has it all gone?”
“Swallowed up into the eternal vortex of usury.”
He laughs out loud. I love that! But then reverts to stern you-are-seconds-away-from-a-spanking mode. “This is what will happen, Beth. For the rest of the month, you will have to subsist on nothing. I won’t charge you rent and I’ll cover all food and other essentials for you. Your social life will have to be curtailed, I’m afraid, but I’m sure you can last till the end of the month.”
My mouth does that fish thing, opening and closing. He can’t do this to me.
“On the first of April you will withdraw one hundred pounds, then you will give me your bank card for safe keeping. That one hundred pounds must last you to the end of the month. The rest of the three hundred will be used to start repaying your debt. At that rate, you can be back in the black by January.”
I want to shout “nooooooooo, fuck off!” but he has a face that cannot be sworn at. Trust me, you would not want to try it. A hundred quid a month, though. For ten months minimum. Woe is me.
“Don’t pout,” he warns me. I kick my kitchen chair back, preparing to storm off to my room. “And don’t flounce.”
I raise my head high and stalk out of the kitchen with what I consider to be icy dignity. “Don’t forget I want that essay tomorrow,” he shoots after my departing figure.
Bastard.
*
Library, lecture, library, lecture, library, seminar, library. What a day.
All the time I’m scribbling away in my little cubicle, I have another strand of thought running in counterpoint to the officially approved version. ‘Unapologetic sadist’. Exactly how far does this paraphilia extend? Being tied up and spanked – yes. Sharp objects and knotted whips – no. Or perhaps Blakey just meant that he’s a bit of a git and has made her suffer emotionally? But somehow I think not. I think his secret cubbyhole is some kind of torture chamber. Pretty much my complete understanding of sado-masochism comes from the song Venus in Furs by the Velvet Underground, so I’m vague on the detail, but I imagine a dim lair full of medieval implements like Scold’s Bridles and Iron Maidens. Creepy. I shudder and consider throwing myself on Dearbhla’s mercies and taking up her offer of a bed on her floor. Perhaps he murders ditzy young things like me for sexual kicks. Perhaps that is his plan! Oh my God!
In a panic I leave a message on his answerphone to say I won’t be home for dinner. I have an Opsoc rehearsal anyway, so I scurry over to the Union, keen to share my fears with Emily, who is in the chorus.
“You think he’s a sadist?” Emily gasps, eyes popping in wonder as we share a Diet Coke before going through the Act One finale. “Why? Has he…done anything…to you?”
“No, no.” (Yes) “It’s just…what somebody said. At the flat last night.” I’m dying to namecheck Blakey, but am too afraid to be the progenitor of a rumour that might get back to him. “He didn’t deny it. He seemed to…confirm it, actually.” What did he mean by ‘role play’? Just a bit of fun or something more sinister?
“Do you think he wants to…hurt you?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid. He might be a killer or something.”
“Oh, come on. I think we’d know about it if he was.”
“I suppose. There haven’t been any mysterious disappearances of female
students, have there?”