The Lesson

by Lisa Bradley

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

A gripping campus-set psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping ending. Perfect for fans of Erin Kelly, C. J. Tudor and Shari Lapena.

SOMEONE'S GOT TO MAKE HIM PAY.

Evie has just started her second year at University. She is young, beautiful and popular. She should be having the time of her life, except she has something to hide - a one-night-stand with her English Professor, Simon.

Not wanting any of his other students to be used in the same way, Evie reports their relationship to University HR. But hours later, Village Vixen, the student gossip blogger, is baying for blood. She's found out about the accusation and is firmly on Simon's side.

But how could Village Vixen possibly have known? Evie can't help but feel like she's being watched. As paranoia and fear set in, the one thing Evie knows for sure is someone has to teach Simon a lesson...

(P) 2021 Quercus Editions Limited

Release date: July 8, 2021

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter One

Evie

The accusation

Evie felt like laughing. In that awful way when someone gives you terrible news, or you’re at a funeral surrounded by grief-stricken mourners coughing tearless sighs and, as the coffin comes down adorned with flowers, your mouth starts twitching. The woman in front of her was making notes, scrawly, spidery biro notes with escaped blobs of ink, pimply blackheads on the page. She could hear the squelch of the pen against the paper and it sounded like little suction poppers. It was all surreal. The woman paused and looked up. Her left eyebrow, Evie noticed, was coloured in slightly wonky. It reminded her of the time she had waxed Bronte’s and accidentally made her look like a stroke victim.

Laughter threatened to bubble up in her throat and hook the corner of her mouth, stretching it into a wide Joker smile.

Nothing about this was funny.

And yet the twitch still came, and Evie had to stare at the top of her brown boots and concentrate on a black smeary scuff to stop it all bursting out. Her heart raced and her nails were ragged.

The serious-looking woman in front of her was tapping the end of her pen on the desk in a pattern. She paused and then did it again. Evie pictured herself adding in a clap and bursting into ‘We Will Rock You’. Then she stared very hard at the scuff again.

She was here, she was actually going through with this. She was doing it.

‘OK Evie, what we need to do now, is take an official statement from you.’ The woman frowned at her pad of paper as if it were mocking her. Evie bet she had just caused her a mountain of paperwork.

‘Now, would you like someone with you? Perhaps from the Student Union?’ The woman looked up and Evie forced herself to make direct eye contact for the first time. Her mascara was cheap, she noticed. It had clumped the lashes together and there were bobbles on the end of the stumps.

‘No thanks. I don’t need someone with me. Do I really need to make another statement? I’ve told you everything already.’ Evie tucked her dark hair behind her ears and crossed and uncrossed her legs. ‘Am I in some kind of trouble or something?’

‘No, no, no.’ The woman – Louise, Evie vaguely remembered her introducing herself as – leant forward. Her jacket was too tight under the arms and the line of it puckered. ‘It’s nothing like that. But there is a process to go through with formal complaints. We need to make sure we follow the procedures. Make sure everything is done through the right channels.’

Evie nodded and felt something shift in her gut. ‘Will he know it’s me? I mean, are you going to talk to him, or something? What are you going to say?’

Louise smiled and her face completely changed. Her eyes softened and Evie smiled back nervously.

‘We can protect your anonymity at this stage. That may have to change later but, for now, let’s schedule a meeting to go through your statement. You can bring a friend, it doesn’t have to be anyone official. Or perhaps your personal tutor? But it might be good to have a little bit of moral support. I know it will be a very intimate conversation and I do apologise for that. But just before we proceed, can I please check that you are absolutely sure?’

‘Of course.’

‘You are claiming that you entered into a sexual relationship, with your lecturer Simon Davidson.’ Louise looked down at her pad and read directly from it. ‘You say this relationship began in semester one, and ended abruptly. You also say he advised you not to tell anyone about it, that he continued to mark your assessments and did not allow you to switch seminar groups, as you requested.’

Evie closed her eyes and thought of the cheap vodka crawling back up her throat, her hands splayed against the pub’s bathroom mirror. Her pale-yellow vomit in the sink.

‘Yes,’ she said.

Louise looked at her without blinking for so long it must have dried out her eyes, Evie thought. The pipes in the old, high-ceilinged room clanged.

‘And, for the record, you say this relationship was consensual.’

‘It was just one time. I wouldn’t, well, it was kind of a relationship, I mean, that’s what I thought it was leading to but . . .’ Evie trailed off.

The urge to laugh had gone now.

Louise nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said more softly. ‘You said you’d been drinking.’

‘Yes, I had.’

‘And you’re sure you consented to the incident.’

Evie hung her head. ‘I did.’

Another heavy silence and then Louise drew her breath in with a whistle.

‘OK Evie. I’ll be in touch over the next couple of days and we will take it from there.’

‘Thanks.’ Evie stood up and wobbled slightly on her heeled boots. She was surprised to note her thighs were shaking.

‘It was very brave of you to come and tell us this.’ Louise pushed her chair back and walked her to the office door. ‘In the meantime, I will contact the head of English and make sure Dr Davidson isn’t marking any more of your assessments or directly involved in any of your teaching for the rest of the semester.’

Evie hooked her bag over her shoulder and followed her to the door.

‘Will the head of department know? I mean, will you have to tell him? What . . . we did.’

‘He will have to know the nature of the allegation, yes, but no details. Because you claim it was consensual, there’s no actual sexual offence, or sexual harassment issue here. But it’s an abuse of trust, and a breach of the university disclosure policy. He has marked your work with conscious bias. And I am concerned that he refused to move you out of his seminar group under the circumstances.’

‘He said he couldn’t, as people would ask questions. He said moving groups was against policy.’

‘So is sleeping with your students and not declaring an interest,’ Louise said shrewdly, then caught herself. ‘Sorry Evie, I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Will he be in a lot of trouble?’ Evie asked quietly as Louise opened the door.

‘If he is, it’s his own doing.’ Louise paused then drew the door back quietly. ‘Do you understand what it means to be coerced Evie?’

‘I think so,’ Evie replied.

‘Before your next statement please think very carefully about the events leading up to this indiscretion. You may have said yes, but did he make you, at any time feel like saying no to him wasn’t an option? Conversations? Emails? Just, please think about it.’

‘I will.’ Evie looked down, then forced her chin up and smiled. ‘Thank you so much. You’ve been great. I’ve been so worried about this meeting, and I was dreading it being a man.’

Louise nodded. ‘I’ll keep in touch Evie. You take care. I’ll ensure the department contacts you later today regarding a new timetable.’

Evie walked out into the muted spring sun. She hated spring. It was so delicate and fragile. There was nothing to it. No bite. Bronte was sat on the wall, scrolling up and down her phone. The weak sun caught her ginger hair and she looked as if she was wearing a crown of fire. She looked up and smiled as Evie approached.

‘Hey girl. How was it?’ She squinted into the sun as Evie’s shadow fell across her lap.

‘Yeah OK.’ Evie shrugged. ‘God. I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing.’

‘Babe.’ Bronte reached her arms up to offer a hug. ‘Of course you have.’

Evie leant in. Bronte’s body felt squashy and malleable.

‘Want to go and get smashed?’ Bronte asked, muffled, into Evie’s bony shoulder.

Closing her eyes, she rested her chin on the top of Bronte’s head. She smelt of cinder toffee and garden fires.

‘Can we not talk to any men?’

‘You read my mind.’

Evie pulled away and wiped her cheeks. She hadn’t even realised she was crying.

‘I’m sorry. God. You’ve been brilliant over all of this. And you’ve had such a shit few months too,’ Evie said. ‘I feel like I’ve made this semester all about me. I’m such a bad person.’

‘No. We’re not the bad guys here.’ Bronte linked her arm and the two began walking across the quad and towards the Student Union, its octagonal windows shimmering above the older buildings, as out of place as an alien intrusion. But that’s what the Duke of York University liked to pride itself on. A blend of tradition and modern thinking. Evie knew some students liked the gorgeous old sixteenth-century heritage, fused with sleek chrome and smooth lines, but she just felt somehow it couldn’t make its mind up about what it really was. And that unsettled her.

‘What do you think will happen to him?’ Evie said, pulling her long wool cardigan around her. A boy she recognised from her Victorian Literature seminar group gave her a second glance as he walked past. She gave him a quick smile, embarrassed about her puffy eyes, but he smiled back, even flashing his teeth, before putting his reddening face down and becoming swallowed in the crowds that were beginning to pour from the lecture halls like spilt milk.

‘I don’t know, hon.’ Bronte squeezed her arm. ‘A warning, I hope. I mean, he could get fired, I guess, but you can’t think like that. He’s the one responsible for his own actions.’

‘So am I though.’

‘Exactly. And you’ve done the right thing by coming clean. I mean, can you imagine if someone found out and then started chatting about that being the reason you got so many firsts? You don’t need that kind of shit. And you want to know you’re getting them on your own merit.’

But Evie wasn’t listening anymore. She could barely make out the words because there he was.

Evie’s breath began to quicken and her chest felt squeezed. She was too tall to shrink into the oceans of students that seemed to flow around him. He stood there in his own circle, no one hustling or jostling him, like Moses in the parting of the Red Sea. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the ice-cream-coloured clouds broke and a ray of sun fell upon him like a spotlight.

He was laughing at something a student was telling him. One with full tattoo sleeves and wearing a Stone Roses T-shirt that probably belonged to his dad. Simon gave him a friendly punch on his upper arm and the student grinned in gratitude. His magnetism was indiscriminate.

 

‘All the girls want to fuck him and all the boys want to be him.’

That’s what Bronte had told her on the walk down to their first lecture in September. Evie had been new on campus, having had a disastrous first year at Manchester, but had managed to scrape together enough credits to transfer straight into second year. Halls of residence were for first years only, and Evie hadn’t fancied another nine months of cramped bedsits and girls squealing down corridors.

She’d scrolled through the adverts on the Duke’s house-share website until she’d found exactly what she was looking for, and had pitched up with her cardboard boxes and Tesco kettle at a six-bed terrace in The Groves. Her room was one of two in the attic. The skylight didn’t open properly, there were silverfish in the carpet and fresh paint that looked like it had been slapped on to cover up mould in the corners. But it had a double bed, a desk and once she’d hung her pictures and made up her bed with its throws and cushions, it looked marginally less like a cesspit. Her dad had stood awkwardly while she’d hung up her clothes. He’d shoved a few notes into her hand and then left, waving a cheerful goodbye to the other inhabitants, Liam, Finn, Kelly and Bronte, who’d gathered in the kitchen to peer into the backyard and watch the arrival of the other attic inhabitant, Harvey.

She’d been relieved to have Bronte in the house, although not surprised. There was always someone on a campus within a two-metre radius studying English. But everyone had already made friends the previous year and established little packs to travel in. It was much harder infiltrating new groups. House-shares helped. A ready-made family. If you picked the right one, of course.

Bronte had dragged her to the middle section of the lecture theatre. It was in one of the new buildings, with soft blue chairs with a little drop-down rest for a laptop. Evie watched as the girl in front set hers up and immediately logged on to a Facebook page.

Simon was at the front already, powering up the main terminal and Evie watched as the giant projection sprang to life behind him.

‘All the girls want to fuck him and all the boys want to be him. Including you, I’m guessing by the looks of it,’ Bronte had laughed, pulling her laptop from her record bag.

‘No. I don’t think so. Not into necrophilia.’ Evie had wrinkled her nose.

‘I think the term is silver fox. Anyway, he’s not that old. 40-something?’

‘That’s old!’ Evie had swept her hair over one shoulder and pulled at the neck of her T-shirt. It had been an odd temperature. Not warm exactly. Just not comfortable.

‘There’s even a Facebook appreciation page.’ Bronte had motioned to the girl in front who’d been uploading a sneaky pic of him to the group.

‘Urrrghh. How gross. I take it he’s as arrogant as he thinks he is attractive?’

‘Humble arrogance. The worst.’ Bronte had grinned.

Evie looked back as the hall had begun to fill with the hums and groans of muted chatter, the occasional loud laugh. He was tall. Taller than her. She could always tell in an instant. A habit from her teenage years when she’d felt so awkward about being, in some cases, almost a foot taller than everyone else.

‘How tall are you?’ Girls would say with wide eyes, and boys would tease and joke about the weather up there.

‘Five-twelve.’ She’d lie. Never six foot.

She longed for a man, or a boy, who she could wear heels next to without them puffing their chest out, or having to be the one to bend down for the end of night kiss. She’d only found one in the end. The one, or so she’d thought.

Simon was definitely six three. Maybe even six four. His hair was short, salt and peppery at the temples, and not muscly as such. But solid. There was definition under his shirt sleeves, his shoulders were wide and inviting.

‘Welcome to Introduction to Victorian Literature.’ The voice from the front was like liquorice. Dark, sweet and demanded attention. Even Bronte had shifted in her seat and put her phone down. ‘I’m Dr Simon Davidson. And this is ENG203.’

She’d watched as he’d gone through the learning outcomes of the lecture, made wry, self-deprecating jokes, so artfully woven in that they didn’t seem rehearsed.

Gentle waves of laughter, almost melodic, a crescent and a fall.

He’d paused from time to time. He’d swigged water from a plastic bottle. Not the reusable metal canisters everyone was lugging around smugly. An actual shop-bought, one-time use only, plastic bottle.

It was as if he had smeared himself in peanut butter and laid himself in front of a pack of wild dogs.

This man had balls.

Evie had opened her notebook and started to scribble, drowning out the clitter-clatter of everyone else’s keyboards. She preferred it this way, the smooth arcs and loops of her pen across fresh paper, as if the points were flowing from her brain and through her fingers.

The lecture theatre was tiered, spot-lit and cruel. The lights would intermittently change brightness or tone every fifteen minutes. A trick, Bronte had informed her when she’d first looked up startled, to keep their attention.

It was then that she’d noticed him looking at her. She’d felt his gaze before she’d seen it. It had only been for a second. A smile. A dimple in his left cheek. Then his eyes had swept away. He hadn’t stopped his flow, not even for a moment. When the lecture had finished, the second hand hit twelve exactly, as if time too were not his master.

 

Evie halted and Bronte yelped as she wrenched her shoulder.

‘It’s Simon,’ Evie said, her voice low.

‘Oh shit.’ Bronte looked in the direction of Evie’s glare. ‘Babe. Just walk past. Don’t even look at him.’

Evie looked straight at him.

He fist-bumped the student and turned towards the main concourse. His pink shirt sleeves were rolled up, no jacket. Of course, he would wear pink. It wasn’t even warm enough for no jacket. But that didn’t stop him.

Look at me. Look at me.

He began walking towards them. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. Eyes down. Smiling.

No. NO.

Evie shoved Bronte to the left until they were directly in front of him.

‘Evie, no.’

‘He’s not going to ignore me,’ she spat. ‘He can’t just carry on, like nothing has happened.’

She stood in his path, her heart racing. He looked up and his eyes locked onto hers, just for a second. Then he smiled at both of them with a raise of his brows, as if to say ‘Hi girls’, and a roll of his eyes, motioning at his phone. Not a care in the world. He carried on walking purposefully into the thinning crowds. Both girls turned, but he didn’t look back.

‘Oh my God. He just . . . that was worse than being blanked. Did you see that smile?’ Evie’s jaw dropped.

‘Come on.’ Bronte pulled Evie by the elbow. ‘You need a drink.’

The Student Union was another of the modern buildings in the strange space-age dome. They settled in their favourite corner to the right of the bar under the complicated mosaic mural, some joint project between art and psychology. It had even won some kind of award, but was a bit trippy after a few vodkas.

Bronte tied her mass of hair up in a bun using a pair of knickers from the bottom of her bag, always her favourite party trick, and leant over her pint.

‘This is officially the worst year for men. It is the Chinese year of the rat?’

‘Or toad, or something?’

‘Snake?’

‘Well the closest I have had to sex in six months is when that youth in Go Ape strapped me into the harness.’

Evie laughed. ‘Oh God. You’re better off without it. It just causes stress and bloody turmoil. I’d rather have a cup of tea.’

‘Probably hotter,’ Bronte conceded. ‘Saying that, you . . .’ She looked at Evie and grimaced. ‘Actually, maybe not.’

‘It was hot.’ Evie shrugged. ‘Just . . . stupid. Here’s to a man-free few months.’

Bronte clinked her bitter against Evie’s gin and tonic. ‘For you maybe. I’m still on the prowl. Listen. Do you want to talk any more? Or are you OK? Want to just forget about it for a while? Give me a signal, because otherwise I’m going to start being all me, me, me.’

‘No. Although. Speaking of cups of tea. You know that consent campaign? The whole, even if she said she wanted a cup of tea, and then falls asleep, she doesn’t want a cup of tea anymore, so don’t make her drink it?’

‘That film always really makes me want a cup of tea.’

‘Well, it’s weird. The woman from HR asked me the same thing today. She like, really pushed to make sure I had consented. Even when I assured her that I did, she started using words like “coerced”.’ Evie took a sip. ‘It’s like, she automatically assumed something. As if the only reason I would have made that choice was under duress. Like . . . I shouldn’t have wanted it. It made me feel a bit like a victim.’

‘She’s just doing her job. Imagine the press if she didn’t,’ Bronte said. ‘It’s a good thing she checked.’ She paused. ‘So what did you tell her?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, I know you didn’t say no, but you didn’t say “Yes Dr Davidson I will have sex with you” either, did you?’

‘See! This is what I mean. Do you say yes every time you have sex? What was he meant to do? Get written permission or something?’

‘Well. No. But, he should have at least made sure. I mean, how stupid can you get?’

‘What in the throes of passion? Wouldn’t that be, what did you call it last week? Knicker-drying?’

‘Actually. NO. He shouldn’t have done it AT ALL. Because he’s a lecturer and you’re a student and it’s gross.’

‘It’s not like I’m at school, Bronte. We’re both adults. And it wasn’t gross. It was . . . Bronte it was great. I have never had sex like that before. With someone, who, well, knew exactly what he was doing.’

‘Yeah I bet he did,’ Bronte said. ‘He probably had his eye on how many Jaeger bombs you’d ordered. Why are you defending him?’

‘I’m not,’ Evie said. ‘But you can’t call him a rapist either.’

‘I didn’t use that word.’ Bronte’s voice went higher.

‘OK. But I was complicit. So if he is gross, then so am I.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ Bronte took a massive gulp of her drink.

‘What a fucking mess.’ Evie bent towards the table, rested her forehead on her fist. ‘God. I hope I’ve done the right thing.’

‘You have.’ Bronte rubbed the top of her arm. ‘Remember why you wanted to do this in the first place. It’s an abuse of power. You can’t let him do this to other girls.’

Evie nodded and wiped her eyes again.

The click of the toilet door. His cheek against hers. The cigarette smell on his breath. Did he remember it like she did? Those details. That moment. Would it all come flooding back?

‘Hey guys.’ Evie looked up at the sound of a chair being dragged over and Liam sat down back to front, jigging his legs. He always reminded Evie of a Labrador with his shock of toffee hair and massive brown eyes.

‘Have you seen my post on The Common Room?’

‘Which one?’ Bronte leant over the table and pinched a crisp from his packet.

‘The one about Josh’s memorial. It’s going to print tomorrow but thought I should get it out there ASAP.’

Evie dropped her eyes and Bronte paused, the crisp half-way to her mouth.

‘Good idea. Is it all sorted now?’

‘Yeah. It’s going to be on May 2, the anniversary. We’ll hold a candle-light tribute in the quad at dusk, and we’re getting some speakers. Jenny’s doing a speech to raise awareness and the SU is thinking about widening it out to anyone who wants to come and light a candle in memory of someone they’ve lost to suicide.’

‘That’s a really wonderful idea.’ Evie gulped. ‘I’m sorry I never knew him, Liam. It’s just . . . there’s no words.’

Liam gave her a thin-lipped smile. ‘I hope you come. The more support we get the better. I’m hoping we can get the local TV down.’

‘Of course. And, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. Posters, you know, whatever.’

‘Yeah thanks. That would be great. I still can’t believe you didn’t know him.’

‘Me neither. I feel like I did.’ Evie smiled.

The ghost of Josh was always there. In the house, in their pictures they’d pinned all over the walls. In her room. The room that was meant to be his.

His bright blue eyes followed her everywhere.

‘Anyway, see you at home. Tuesday is buy-one-get-one-free at Pizza Republica?’ Liam stood up.

‘Sounds good.’ Bronte smiled. ‘I can’t be bothered to cook tonight.’ She waved as he trotted off through the double swing doors.

‘You OK?’ It was Evie’s turn to reach over the table and squeeze her hand.

‘I just can’t believe it’s been a year.’ Bronte shook her head. ‘A whole year. It’s like, it’s like he was just here yesterday. Signing for the house. I keep thinking about that day. Was he thinking about it then? It was such a great day and the sun was out and he seemed so happy. I just . . .’ Bronte pulled the knickers out of her hair and let the red waves cascade round her face.

‘I’m so sorry, Bronte.’

‘Let’s just get drunk and make bad choices.’ Bronte downed the rest of her pint.

‘I thought that’s how I ended up in this mess,’ Evie said dryly, and then went back to the bar.

 

www.thecommonroomDoY.co.uk

Hundreds are expected to gather in the quad to mark the first anniversary of the death of Josh Peterson.

The Student Union and the Duke of York University Student Support Services have joined forces in the hope of uniting the campus to raise awareness for student mental health.

Josh, an English Literature student, 19, died on May 2 last year after falling from the roof of the arts tower.

Following a fundraising campaign by the English department and Josh’s family, the university will be erecting a steel memorial sculpture in the centre of the quad, to be known as the Joshua Tree.

Josh’s personal tutor, Jenny Summers, who led the fundraising efforts for the sculpture and who has campaigned about the huge rise of mental health issues in universities and the lack of support for students, will also be speaking.

Josh had been on a. . .