After my late lunch, I grab a cup of tea and escape to my room, explaining to Julia and Marie-Claire that I’m planning to spend the afternoon in my room, writing. I don’t think I could face a group critique session, no matter how friendly.
Taking out my laptop, I decide to see if I can find out anything about that boy in the picture, Alistair. If Desra was having a sexual relationship with him as well, then maybe he could corroborate … I don’t allow myself to think any further. There have been too many disappointments already.
I go first to the photograph on my phone I took of the photograph of Alistair and Desra. Very meta, Mum, Michael would have said. I stare at the image, of an innocent smiling young man with everything in the world to hope for. My eyes shift to the woman standing next to him, her hand possessively gripping his shoulder. I have never truly felt hatred for another human being, but now I am bloated with it; overcome. I tiptoe to the common room, grab a half-bottle of wine, the remnants of our drinking session from a few nights before, then head back to my room and lock the door.
I start with the Swimming Canada website and the results for the junior championships in Montreal in 2018.
Even after years of following Michael’s competition results, I still find the website confusing. There are fifteen heat sheets for both men and women, which include ‘prelims’ and ‘finals’, including races in age groups ranging from eleven to twenty, and in categories including breaststroke, backstroke, butterfly and freestyle. The lettering is small, the sections poorly formatted, and clearly a scan, as someone has scrawled PB in large letters throughout. After a half hour of searching my eyes are sore and my head aches. Maybe the wine wasn’t such a good idea after all. I decide to shift my search wider than just the men’s competitions.
That’s when I find it.
Event 33: Mixed 400 Meter Medley Relay.
In amongst a catalogue of surnames and initials, I come across one that stands out. Team LCSWIM. March, A. I lean back, place my head in my hands and breathe. Could this be him? Then I realise this is a mixed relay; boys and girls. A March could be Alison, not Alistair. I look for the psych sheet: a list of swimmers, their best times, and where they are seeded in the competition. Coaches and athletes use psych sheets all the time to check out their competitors. Under Event 33, and in the middle with a very decent time, is LCSWIM, and under that, just what I’ve been looking for: March, Alistair (15).
‘I’ve found you.’
I scribble the words Alistair March, Lakeview College swimming team in my notebook, and begin searching through the social media sites with renewed vigour.
It’s nearly five when I leave my room. Initially downhearted, I finally uncovered a significant lead as to Alistair’s current whereabouts. According to the Lakeview College alumni page he was granted the McKenzie Corbett Memorial Scholarship and is currently studying International Relations at St Andrews University, less than fifty miles away. This can’t just be a coincidence. This was meant to be. All I need now is a bit of help to bring this all to life.
I find Julia and Marie-Claire sitting on a picnic bench in the courtyard. I hold up a bottle of wine and some plastic cups. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘You must be a mind reader,’ says Julia, pouring her cup of herbal tea onto the grass. ‘Where have you been all afternoon?’
‘No Sally?’ I ask, trying to change the subject.
‘She’s been working on her piece for Friday,’ replies Marie-Claire, and, with a wink, adds, ‘We thought you two might have gone off together.’
‘She’s taking it all very seriously,’ I mutter.
‘And you?’ Marie-Claire scrutinises me closely. ‘Have you been taking this all very seriously too?’ At first, I think she is being critical, but the kind, questioning look on her face tells me something different. ‘It’s just the way you challenged Desra about Caleb’s piece – it made me think—’
‘That Dr Desra McKinley is a complete, bloody idiot!’ says Julia. She takes the glasses from me, opens the wine, and pours us all a drink.
‘I didn’t quite mean—’
‘Oh, come on,’ says Julia taking a furious gulp. ‘That ridiculous PowerPoint presentation on the first day? The rudimentary exercises that wouldn’t even challenge a secondary school student?’
‘I must confess – that poem about the wolf,’ says Marie-Claire, trying her best not to sound unkind, ‘well, it was pretty—’
‘Horrendous. Shit! And she didn’t even know who Martha Sprackland is!’ Julia seems genuinely affronted. ‘How could someone who supposedly did their PhD on contemporary British poets not know who Martha Sprackland is?’
I wait a moment before speaking. ‘What do you mean by supposedly?’
Julia glances at Marie-Claire. I pour us all another glass of wine.
‘I tried to ask her during the coffee break this morning where she did her PhD.’ Julia shakes her head and makes a little tutting sound. ‘She refused to answer. Changed the subject as quickly as possible and then ran off to make a phone call. Something about her just doesn’t ring true.’
‘Do you really think she’s faked her PhD?’ I ask. Julia shrugs, as if unwilling to be pinned down. ‘What difference would it make if she did?’ The two women look at me, perplexed. ‘I mean whether or not she’s got a PhD. It’s not actually a requirement to teach this course is it?’
‘The course, no,’ says Marie-Claire through a mouthful of wine, ‘but for this school, and using the title. Lying on her application. Academic misconduct.’ Her eyes widen dramatically. ‘It would be very detrimental to her career as a teacher, and I suspect as a poet, if someone were to learn she lied about her credentials.’
Speaking of hungry wolves, I think. Both women are watching me intently. There
