‘You can’t call him black,’ says Tianna.
‘But he is black. Shakespeare calls him an old black ram who is tupping a white ewe.’
‘Yeah, but the way you said it was racist.’
‘I don’t care if he’s black, white or turquoise. He’s a pathetic loser.’
‘You should be careful,’ says Mr Joubert, who can sense other students growing restless.
Tianna points at me. ‘I think she should apologise for bringing race into this discussion.’
‘It’s a play about race,’ I say, growing exasperated. ‘Othello is a black bloke in a white society who marries a white chick who is into black guys, which pisses everyone off. Happened then. Happens now.’
‘He could have been any colour,’ says Tianna.
‘Yeah, but he wasn’t, he was black. And you can’t kill your wife and get a free pass because of your race.’
I look around the room expecting people to agree with me, but I’m preaching to the wrong audience, or maybe they’re not listening.
‘I think you should leave the classroom,’ says Mr Joubert.
‘Why?’
‘You’re upsetting people.’
‘They’re being snowflakes.’
‘Another racist remark,’ says Tianna.
‘Snowflake isn’t racist. It’s like me calling you a stupid cow. You could be a stupid brown cow, or a stupid white cow. You’re still a cow.’
‘Report to the deputy principal’s office,’ says Mr Joubert.
I’m already halfway to the door.
12
Cyrus
Although I’m not a tenured academic, I have rooms on the fourth floor of the School of Psychology at Nottingham University. The corner office has two large picture windows that overlook Highfields Park, which has a boating lake and an arts centre and dozens of Canada geese grazing on the grass.
I was given the rooms because I guest lecture at the university and supervise postgraduate students who are writing their doctoral theses. In return, the chancellor allows me to see private patients on two afternoons a week.
As I unlock my door, I hear the sing-song voice from along the corridor. One of my colleagues, Henri Moretti, clearly wants a word. Henri is the Professor of Health Psychology and dresses like a caricature of a professor in corduroy trousers, an open-neck shirt and a tweed jacket with leather patches sewn onto the elbows. I sometimes wonder if he buys his clothes at a costume shop, rather than off the rack.
‘You had a visitor. I told him to come back,’ he says, whispering conspiratorially.
‘I don’t have any appointments until three.’
Henri follows me inside, keen to chat. ‘Strange chap. Nervous.’
‘Did he give you a name?’
‘No.’
Henri’s accent is pure Yorkshire, but he clings to his Sicilian roots. His parents own the oldest and best Italian café in the city, one of those bustling, noisy places staffed by an inexhaustible supply of aunts, sisters, cousins and more distant relatives.
Henri’s father, Arturo, operates the espresso machine, a belching, farting contraption that he plays like a church organ. At the same time, he argues incessantly with his wife, Rosina, always in Italian, hurling mysterious insults at each other. The melodrama is unmissable, and customers visit Moretti’s not for the food or coffee but the floor show.
Another reason is because of Henri’s sister, Candelora, a rare beauty, with flashing green eyes and a wardrobe of tight clothes. Despite the male attention, Candelora has remained stubbornly single, which has prompted Henri to suggest I ask her out. The thought appealed to me until I woke one night in a cold sweat, imagining that I had married Henri’s mother.
‘He didn’t look like a druggie,’ says Henri.
‘Who?’
‘The chap who came to see you. I’m always worried you’ll invite someone round who will chew off your face.’
‘I don’t treat meth addicts,’ I say, which isn’t completely true.
A knock interrupts me. A man is standing in the doorway. I hope he didn’t hear what I just said.
‘That’s him,’ says Henri.
‘I have an appointment,’ says the stranger. ‘My parole officer contacted you.’
I glance at my phone and see a missed call.
‘Take a seat. I’m sorry, I didn’t get the message.’
I signal to Henri that he should leave. He reluctantly departs, whistling down the hallway.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask.
‘Mitch.’
He hands me an envelope. I take a moment to read the contents. Summarising. Mitchell Coates, aged thirty-six, convicted of sexual assault and actual bodily harm. Released from prison after six years of an eight-year sentence. Struggling to readjust to life on the outside.
Mitch is sitting up straight, clasping a woollen hat in his hands, pressing it into his lap. He ducks his head – a legacy of his time in prison, when making eye contact can be a revolutionary act, or a stupid one.
‘When were you released?’
‘Ten days ago.’
‘How has it been?’
He inhales and holds the breath for a few moments. ‘Terrible.’
‘Any particular problem?’
‘I’m innocent.’
‘By that you mean … ?’
‘I didn’t attack anyone. It wasn’t me.’
‘You were convicted. You served six years.’
‘I pleaded not guilty.’
‘Yes, but to be granted parole, you must have accepted your guilt and told the parole board that you were sorry—’
‘I told them what they wanted to hear. I couldn’t survive another day in there. If I was guilty, maybe, yes, but not when I’m innocent. Do you know what that’s like? It eats you up inside. It’s wrong …’
He wants to explain but can’t find the words. He begins again.
‘I thought I could pick up my life where I left off. That I could forget what happened, but I can’t. It’s like having a boulder on my chest. I struggle to breathe, to sleep, to talk to people. I want my old life back.’
‘That might not be possible.’
‘Maybe if I could prove my innocence?’
‘What do you expect me to do?’
‘Hypnotise me. Learn the truth.’
‘Hypnotism doesn’t work that way and the results aren’t admissible in court.’
‘What about a lie detector test?’
‘The same.’
His shoulders are shaking. I find him a box of tissues. He pulls out too many and clumsily tries to shove them back inside.
‘I’m happy to discuss what happened to you, Mitch; and to help you come up with some coping strategies, but your guilt is a matter of public record. You have served your time. Earned your freedom. Now you have to pick up the pieces.’
He doesn’t respond.
‘Where are you living?’
‘A boarding house. I have a month to find somewhere else.’
‘Are you looking for work?’
‘They gave me some numbers, but nobody is hiring.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I used to be a film editor. Now I’d take anything.’
My phone beeps. It’s a message from Evie.