Free The Matrix by Jonathan Aycliffe Page B

everything after that, removing all traces of my other life for fear he should stumble on them. And yet, in a sense, it mattered little now. My thirst for the knowledge whose promise Mylne held out to me so alluringly was no longer a pretence to mask an academic’s enquiries, but wholly genuine, a self-engendered passion that would allow no hindrance. I feared not so much exposure as the loss of the opportunity to carry my new investigations to their proper conclusion.
    In the weeks that followed, my apprehensions were gradually laid to rest. Duncan proved no less attentive than before, there were no awkward questions, life continued much as ever. He never invited me to his home, never let our relationship become an ordinary friendship. I quickly learned that I was his apprentice, and that he possessed authority over me. He never stated this in words, never presumed upon it; but as time passed it became the core around which our comings and goings circled.
    Iain came to see me on a blustery day at the end of April. A cold wind had come in from the Firth, turning an otherwise pleasant spring day into something better suited to the tail end of autumn.
    ‘I have to speak with you, Andrew,’ he said as I opened the door. ‘Please don’t shut me out.’
    I let him in and said I would put on a pot of tea. I could guess what lay ahead: a tirade against Duncan Mylne, dire warnings about the company I was keeping, advice about my health.
    He was in the living room when I returned with the tea. His coat and scarf lay across the back of a chair, about the only free space available. He was in clerical dress. I gave him his mug, plain tea with milk and sugar. Duncan had introduced me to China teas, and I had prepared a pot of choice Formosa Oolong for myself. I passed Iain a plate of biscuits.
    ‘Chocolate Olivers?’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘You didn’t pick these off a shelf in Tesco.’
    ‘I was given them,’ I said. ‘Look, Iain . . .’
    He got there before me.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. I’m not here to preach. Harriet’s already spoken to me about her visit. I could have told her it would be a waste of time. I’m sorry we don’t see as much of you as we did, but you know we’re always there if you’d like to visit us. I can’t promise you Chocolate Olivers, but . . .’
    ‘I’ve been busy,’ I said, making a pointless apology.
    ‘There’s no need,’ said Iain. ‘I can see that. And I won’t pretend I’m not deeply worried about it all. But I haven’t called on my own behalf, or Harriet’s. James Fergusson asked me to drop by. He needs to see you, but he doesn’t think you’d take to his calling in out of the blue.’
    He paused and sipped his tea.
    ‘I haven’t seen Fergusson in a little while,’ I said. ‘He’s written to me a few times, but the truth is, I have no time for the man.’
    ‘That’s fair enough, I don’t like him either. But the fact is, he’s your boss, and he has a right to know what you’ve been up to. The university pays your salary, and it expects results. Look, Andrew, you may as well know – Fergusson is not going to recommend the renewal of your contract after July. And I don’t think he’s prepared to write a favourable report either. I don’t think you’re going to find it easy to get a new post, not unless you do something drastic between now and the summer.’
    ‘I’ve been working like a slave. I . . .’
    ‘You haven’t been doing the work you were contracted to do. What you did at first was excellent, and we all appreciated it. But you’ve allowed yourself to get side-tracked.’
    ‘It’s research all the same.’
    ‘No, Andrew, it’s not. Not any longer. You’ve buried yourself so deeply in this thing, you can’t see clearly any longer. But I promised not to preach to you, so I won’t. I’ll just pass on Fergusson’s message and leave you. It’s up to you what you do about it.’
    Perhaps I give the impression that I remained cool