Page 140 of Proof By Contradiction
I nod. Don’t speak. Manchester is doing its thing overhead, and my brother, probably, my brother, has?—
‘I’m with you,’ Femi says again. Like once wasn’t enough.
Two o’clock. Laurence goes into the Head of Department’s office. I’m sitting in the corridor pretending to read a paper on stochastic processes.
The door closes—just me, the flickering strip light, a mental health poster, and forty minutes.
Forty minutes, the door opens.
Laurence comes out, focusing on the floor. Then he looks up. White. Drained. I can see the tremor in his grip from twelve feet away because I know that touch. He sees me, registers, files, walks past, and brushes against me, and I feel it everywhere.
Later, I learned what it cost him. Recusal from my module, effective immediately. Offer of academic leave for the rest of the term, which Laurence declined instead of accepting because the Review Panel wants him reachable. The paper trail now carries his own signature at the top, which was always the point: better to sign your own name than have someone else write it for you.
Wednesday. An email at 11:23. Subject line:Mathematics Review Panel - Initial Assessment.The file opens at 14:51. I know because Femi’s mate knows someone in admin. Twoo’clock on a Wednesday afternoon: someone’s opened our folder.
By four, they’ve requested transcripts. Course marks, module assessments, and supervision logs. Everything with his name adjacent to mine, pulled into a file with a reference number that turns two people into a case.
Thursday. A different office. A different man behind the desk. Professor Whitmore, Mathematics Review Panel. His authority is a cardigan: rumpled, comfortable, non-negotiable. Wire glasses. There is a tea stain on his tie. Behind him, a woman I don’t recognise with a laptop and the resigned posture of an involuntary minute-taker.
‘Mr Carrick.’ Whitmore gestures at the chair. Mr hits wrong. Too formal, distance weaponised as procedure. ‘Thank you for coming in.’
I didn’t come in. I was summoned. There’s a difference, but correcting a review panel on semantics seems like a suboptimal strategy, so I sit and press down because the alternative is letting them shake, and I won’t give this room that.
‘We’re conducting a review of your assessed work for the academic year.’ He opens a folder. My folder. My work, my exams, my solutions. They’re spread across his desk like evidence. Which is what they are. ‘Given the circumstances, the university needs to assure itself that your results reflect your own ability without any external influence.’
External influence.
Laurence’s hands on a whiteboard. Laurence’s voice sayingyou have a rare mind. Elegant. Laurence, who never once toldme an answer, never hinted at a question, never did anything except see me and believe what he saw.
‘My results are my own.’ My voice comes out flat at first, but I hear it tightening. ‘I know exactly how this looks. I also know I can sit any exam you put in front of me and get the same results.’
Whitmore watches me over his glasses.
‘We’ve reviewed your A-level results, your admissions data, and your coursework from modules taught by other lecturers.’ He turns a page. ‘Your earlier performance was inconsistent.’
‘Because I wasn’t trying.’ The words come out sharper than I intend. ‘Dr Haldrey is the first person who actually expected something from me.’
Silence.
‘He didn’t give me marks. He made me work for them.’ I lean forward now. ‘Give my papers to anyone in this department. Give me another exam. An oral. A closed-book paper. Anything you want. I can do the maths.’
‘The review is procedural, not punitive.’ Soft voice, firm sentence. ‘Your work will be independently assessed.’
Whitmore closes the folder. The sound lands like a verdict.
‘We’ll be in touch.’
I stand—the chair scrapes. I walk out.
The corridor, strip light, still flickering. The mental health poster has gained a blue moustache since Monday.
Outside. Rain. The asterisk is already forming.
The steps, wet concrete, rain on my face. Hands open at my sides. Not closing.
Saturday. Two days after Whitmore. The phone on my chest buzzes, and I look because the phone is better than the ceiling.
Femi.Samosas incoming. Don’t argue.
