The train back from the committee meeting was running late, and kept getting later. Wedged into a narrow seat wildly inadequate for his bulk, the vice-chancellor of the University of Rural England fumed and muttered as he consumed his traditional festive sandwich and bottle of red wine.
He’d been set up, he knew that now. That multi-university committee, charged with working out how higher education was going to catalyse economic regeneration in the Rural England region, had been stacked with the gnarled old combatants he’d crossed swords with before, but this time it was different. When he saw the late changes to the paperwork and the new data he’d no hope of wading through, Peter had known they meant business. Then they’d wheeled out those sparky young consultants to counter every element of his arguments – leaving him looking crass and irrelevant in front of his peers. They’d accused him of being self-serving in seeking that last-ditch funding. And the important, hard-won concessions he had originally negotiated regarding the University of Rural England’s expected contribution to the Start-up Pump-priming and Incubation Venture (SPIV) now lay in ruins. As did his reputation.
His response had been, he thought, a robust defence of his position. But as the dark countryside fled past the train window, he began to realise that, in the heat of the moment, his language might have reverted to the litany of immoderate terms that repeated inclusivity training courses had failed to rob him of. He pondered darkly, over the last of the wine, which of the banned expletives he was guilty of using in his frustration. After careful consideration, he realised that he had probably scored a complete bingo card of forbidden terminology.
Word would get back to his board, of course. And they would come for him. Quiet, reasoned conversations had probably already taken place – and it was only a matter of time before the suggestion of stepping aside as “being best for everyone” was voiced to him.
Damn! He missed the last connection by minutes. The thought of yet another night in the local IdentiChain Hotel didn’t appeal, but neither did two hours in a taxi and a rejected claim for reimbursement. His phone pinged once, and he forced himself to focus on the screen. It was from Lady Mary, chair of the governing body – asking if he was free for lunch the following day. Damn!
Fury, topped by exhaustion and deep foreboding, snapped his remaining threads of control. Yelling an unrepeatable oath, he hurled his phone on to the station concourse floor and stamped at it with his heel. The screen cracked and darkened, so he turned to his bag – aiming a wild kick to loft it across the concourse. He missed, however, spinning and falling heavily, cracking the side of his head on the fake marble.
Skull throbbing, he scanned the emptying departures board for any destination that might offer refuge. An overnight train to a very distant town that he knew from his earlier years clicked into view, and a plan began to solidify. He would disappear: just clear off and let the buggers do whatever they wanted. Withdrawing the cash limit on each of his bank cards from an ATM, he bought a ticket into the past.
By 9am on Tuesday, the absence of the vice-chancellor had been noted by his staff. Calls from the registrar, his henchman and close friend, to the v-c’s mobile went straight to voicemail, and his flat appeared deserted. But while that was unusual, it was not without precedent given the vice-chancellor’s uneven relationship with alcohol, and the schedule for the week ahead showed nothing hugely strategic that needed attention. So, after an uncomfortable phone call with Lady Mary, the registrar picked up the additional routine meetings and awaited further developments.
But when Wednesday morning brought no news, the registrar called the director of HR, knowing of her friendship with Beth, the vice-chancellor’s American not-quite-fiancée. But as she reached for her phone, it rang – and a concerned-sounding Beth greeted her from night-time California.
“Sue? Hi, it’s Beth – have you got a minute? I’m a bit worried about Peter...He’s sent me a very strange email. Have you seen him? Is he OK?”
The director explained, as gently as possible, the disappearance of the vice-chancellor and Beth read out sections of the email.
“Did he say where he is?” asked Sue.
“No, and that worries me a bit,” Beth replied. “Do you think it’s too soon to call the police?”
“Maybe…I mean, the university won’t collapse overnight without him – whatever he likes to think. But we need to find him in case he’s got himself in real trouble. Could you forward me the email? I know someone who might be able to trace where it was sent from…”
“Sure – worth a try. It should be with you in a moment…Maybe I’m being ridiculous, but I’m just going to see if I can book a flight over there – I’ll keep in touch.”
Sue looked briefly at the email, dialled a phone number from memory and asked the university’s tech guru of last resort if he was free. Nearly an hour later, Spike, bearded and overweight in deference to his calling, ambled into her office clutching a battered laptop and was presented with the email and the question.
“Well, there’s an IP address in the header of course – but that could be spoofed, or dynamic, so might not give us much. I’ll do a reverse look-up on it and see what there is…Oh, that’s odd…That’s a really unusual email client – I haven’t seen it in years…It’s an old friend actually: I worked on the project that developed it and…”
Sue interrupted him with a sharp cough. Spike resumed his rapid keyboard tapping.
“Sorry, yes…Um…Well, the IP address is registered to a company in the south west. It looks like they mostly do networks for village shops, pubs that sort of thing. Could be a static address, which would take us straight there – but I’d have to ask them, and they’d say no…Hmm…I need to check on something, I’ll call you later…”
At the same moment, the vice-chancellor was polishing off a large – very large – full English breakfast in a small pub on the south coast of Devon. The previous morning, a taxi had delivered him to the tiny hamlet of Deersands after a long night of interrupted travel and little sleep. Familiar from his PhD fieldwork, so many years ago, the pub had an almost religious sense of sanctuary. Little had changed, and even the records in the ancient chrome jukebox seemed to have survived the passage of time.
The pub still offered rooms, so he’d taken one until at least the end of the week – placing a cash deposit on the bar substantial enough to raise the eyebrows of the landlady. After he'd wheezed his way upstairs with his strangely negligible luggage, she had quietly made a phone call from the kitchen. “Jem? That bloke you asked me to keep an eye out for? That’s right, yes – the Guv’nor…Well, I think he’s just checked in…”
By the time he’d woken from the quick nap he’d decided to take, it was late afternoon. Heavy clouds were racing across the darkening sky and sleet blattered at the leaded window. Wandering down to the bar, he’d settled by the driftwood fire with the first of many pints of strong ale. He’d stared deeply into the flames, watched the firelight glinting on the Christmas tree and surveyed the achingly familiar scene with crippling nostalgia.
Ah, where had it gone so wrong for him? He thought of the enthusiastic doctoral student he’d been, the long days of hanging around the harbour, clipboard in hand, trying to grab a word or two with the arriving and departing fishermen about power relations in the inshore maritime economy. And those memorable days when one of the skippers had consented to take him out on his boat to witness power relations in the fishing industry playing out at first hand.
True, he had spent much of those trips staring intently at the sea beside the boat, watching the former contents of his stomach lurching up and down on the waves. But if those had been particularly bilious days in the literal sense, every day was now full of bile and recrimination in the figurative one. His jaw had set in a pained rictus as he thought again of the royal shafting he’d received the day before. Where had all that bitterness come from? Was it university life that had changed – or him? He knew what Beth would say...
Beth! Damn! Doubtless she would find out he was missing; Sue would call her for sure. She would go apeshit. Damn!
In the corner of the bar stood an ancient internet terminal operated by 50p coins. He’d examined it with distaste – it couldn't be much younger than the jukebox – then fed it a couple of quid. Finding an email program, he’d begun the awkward task of explaining to his confidante what had happened.
Eventually, almost satisfied, he’d hit “send”, then deleted all traces of his activity. Yet, returning to his beer, he’d felt even more sullenly desperate – if that were possible.
Two middle-aged men in the corner of the tinsel-covered bar exchanged glances as the vice-chancellor eventually lurched from his stool to take up a padded chair in the “lounge” for dinner.
“Is that him, Jem?”
“Has to be. He ticks all the boxes…No neck, no phone, pays cash, don’t drive, no ink…And did you see that bruise on his head? He’s got ‘hard man’ written through him like a stick of rock…Chances are he’s scouting us out to see how we handle the big shipment this weekend. If he doesn’t think we’re up to snuff, he’ll put his own crew in, I guarantee it. You’d better have a word with Big Reg and his boys. See if they’re around…I’ll talk to Taunton Jimmy. I know he’s a dodgy bastard, but if this kicks off we’ll need all the muscle we can find…”
Spike looked jubilant as he wandered into Sue’s office.
“I think I’ve found him!” he beamed. “Turns out that we left a back door in the email client when we finished the project – you know, just for urgent support, which I reckon this counts as…Anyway, that let me have a nose around the machine – a bit naughty, I know – and found it had a fax modem inside, with a landline number in the header info. It’s a pub in Deersands, Devon. Sorry I took so long; it took me till midnight to find the notebook with the password in…”
An assistant tapped on the door frame.
“Sorry to bother you, there’s an officer from London to see you…Shall I show him in?”
The newcomer, a determined-looking young man in a leather jacket, sidled past the assistant and flashed a warrant card at the HR director. After an exchange of what would usually count as pleasantries he came to the point.
“I require some information from you on a matter of serious criminal activity – a deeply sensitive issue. In the early hours of this morning, someone within your campus network connected to an internet address of particular interest to us – interest at a national level...” He slid a piece of paper across the desk. “I need to know who it was. I’ll wait while your people check their logs...”
Spike made a sound somewhere between a choke and a whimper, turned red and leaned back against a filing cabinet. Sue glanced at the paper and narrowed her eyes. “Please understand this,” she said with quiet determination. “While GDPR doesn’t prevent me from disclosing information to law enforcement, you need to demonstrate to me that you are a competent authority. Further, you must show me that I have a lawful basis under Article 6 for sharing personal data, plus the need to satisfy a suitable condition for processing under Article 9. Therefore, you must present me with your formal written request, taking these issues into account, for my consideration. Oh, and I don’t expect it to be signed by anyone below the rank of inspector…”
“This is an urgent operational matter, which trumps all of that.”
“No, I don’t believe it does.”
“Well then, perhaps I’ll just take a seat here until you change your mind.”
“I really wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”
He sneered and slumped into a chair – the one that the university’s beloved cat, Tibbles, was occupying. The cat, affronted by the rapidly approaching buttocks, unleashed a loud shriek of distaste and a barrage of claws. There was a pained tenor counterpoint as the officer leapt sharply back to his feet. Checking for damage, he decided to retreat – and, declaring that he would be back, limped from the room.
Spike swallowed hard. “Well, that was impressive…”
“Mostly bullshit, but Tibbles bought us some time," said Sue. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to make a phone call – Peter is evidently in more trouble than we thought.”
As the days passed, the vice-chancellor began to recover his composure. A trip to the local farmers’ co-op had provided a cheap change of clothes and a pair of boots, so he now blended perfectly with the other denizens of the pub – a development not lost on Jem. “Look at him operate,” he muttered to himself. “Just like bloody camouflage. He’s good, this one is…”
Over a contrived game of darts, Jem asked what the vice-chancellor did for a living. Peter thought for a long moment before answering, “Something in management…” and taking a pull at his pint.
Jem nodded respectfully. “I’m mostly a fisherman myself,” he offered. “With a bit of buying and selling – if you take my meaning. Fun, is it, management?”
Peter snorted. “Not much…I spend most of my time these days guarding my arse against every new blade who wants to take a kick at it,” he murmured, amply reinforcing Jem’s supposition that he was the godfather of a major drugs cartel.
Grabbing the moment, Jem followed up. “We’ll be doing a job just offshore tomorrow, if you’ll still be around. I’d be happy to take you out on the boat and show you how we do things round here…”
To his own surprise, Peter found himself nodding vigorously. “Yes…Yes, I’d like that…In fact, I’ll look forward to it. I haven't been out on the boats for years.”
Having picked up Beth from the airport, Sue hurtled off down the M5 deep into Devon, before easing into the deep-banked roads beyond Totnes with practised skill. Conversation consisted almost entirely of speculation as to whether they were doing the right thing – and what state they would find the vice-chancellor in when they arrived. Then it petered out as the range of possibilities grew increasingly bleak. Snow began to gather on the distant moors.
The most tortuous of single-track lanes brought them down the steep hill into Deersands, a tangle of cottages behind a pebble beach and a slightly run-down fish dock with a stone jetty. Looking around for the pub, they spotted a large, scruffy figure standing looking out to sea. Several colourful fishing boats and a large, black-hulled yacht bobbed gently just offshore. “Let’s ask him,” said Sue.
The man turned, as the car approached.
“Peter!” exclaimed Beth.
“Beth? Sue? What on earth are you two doing here?” said the vice-chancellor, half horrified, half enormously relieved.
“I could ask the same question!” called Beth as she rushed around the car to hug him. Peter held her in his arms for a long time, before Sue interrupted them.
“It’s good to see you, Peter, but we really need to get you out of here,” she said. “No, don’t ask, just get your stuff while I turn the car around. Unless you want to spend Christmas in jail?”
While Beth settled his substantial bar tab, Peter stuffed his belongings into his nearly kicked bag in a state of confused elation. He waved to a suddenly bemused Jem as he crossed the bar, which seemed much more full than usual, and the car spat gravel as Sue piloted them back up the hill.
Halfway to the top, a black SUV blocked their path. Sue edged her car into a gateway to let it pass, and as the two vehicles paused alongside each other, Peter saw a large, thick-set figure seated in the rear. Power recognised power as their eyes connected and the Guv’nor – for it was he – gave a small nod, which Peter returned.
Almost back at the main road, they were stopped again – this time by a line of police cars and a riot van heading at speed towards Deersands. “I wonder”, thought Peter absently, “what that’s all about…?”
While they were still stationary, Sue’s phone rang. Fishing it from her pocket, she answered. “Yes, yes – of course…He’s right here…”
Sue turned and handed her phone to the vice-chancellor.
“Lady Mary for you, she’d like to have a word…”
If the update on power relations in the modern inshore maritime economy had rather passed the vice-chancellor by, he was much more attuned to power relations in the academic economy, and his briefly lifted heart sank again. His face set in a mask of grim, impassive inevitability, he raised the device to his ear, awaiting his fate.
“Peter, you old hound. Whatever are you up to? I’ve been stood up before, but never by you when a free lunch at my club was on offer.”
Ignoring a mumbled apology from the vice-chancellor, Lady Mary continued.
“I just wanted to thank you for sticking to your guns with that committee – they went too far and they knew it.”
So dumbfounded was he by that remark that Peter scarcely registered the rest: “I had that posh sleaze that chairs it on the phone Monday night saying I ought to give you the boot. Well, I told him a few home truths, I can tell you – including what he could do with his opinion, and indeed the horse he rode in on… I’ve asked around and it is very obvious to me what they were up to – trying to set up a poor country lad like you, to blame you – blame us – when that SPIV nonsense fails, as it surely will.”
“Quite so,” murmured the vice-chancellor, squeezing Beth’s hand and frowning his enduring disbelief with a shake of his head.
“Now, when do you want to do lunch? The Big Fish is doing a three-course Christmas special that I think will interest you. On me, of course…”
For the first time in many days, the vice-chancellor allowed himself a slow smile.
John Gilbey teaches in the department of computer science at Aberystwyth University and tweets as @John_Gilbey.
