asked.
Evi thought for a moment and seemed to slump in her chair. ‘I hardly know,’ she said. ‘But things are bothering me. The first is that, of twenty suicides in the last five years, women outnumber the men by something like five to one.’
‘Statistically, it should be the other way round,’ I said.
‘Exactly. The second thing that worries me is the …’ She stopped and frowned, thought for a moment. ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘the sheer originality and variety of the methods involved. We’ve got jumping off high buildings, self-immolation, self-stabbing, self-decapitation. It’s as if they’re competing to see who can come up with the most bizarre exit strategy. I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s a website somewhere giving them marks out of ten.’
So now she was joking to relieve the tension. She was as nervous about this as I.
‘And the methods just aren’t typical,’ Evi went on. ‘When women die by suicide, they choose the least violent methods. Overdose is the most common. Not the most reliable, of course, which is why women have a history of failed suicide attempts, but still women shy away from extreme violence. Cutting wrists in a hot bath is another one, but still …’
Her eyes fell to my wrist, the ugly scar still covered by a plaster. I waited for the question that didn’t come.
‘Self-immolation,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s almost unheard of in our culture. And that poor girl on Sunday morning. Who on earth would come up with such an idea?’
A pretty disturbed mind, I thought. And I’d met a few in my time.
‘You mentioned a website,’ I said. ‘I was told you think there might be a subculture that’s encouraging destructive behaviour.’
‘These suicide websites vary from the well meaning but misguided to the downright ghoulish,’ said Evi. ‘I’m afraid something like that is going on here. I just can’t find any evidence of it.’
‘You’ve looked?’
‘Repeatedly. There are internet sites and intranet sites and blogs, and chat rooms and tweets ad infinitum, all relating to life at Cambridge. There’s practically a virtual town and university floating above the real one. All the ones I can find, though, are pretty harmless. My IT skills aren’t great but I can’t help thinking there’s something going on that I haven’t been able to access. I was told your IT knowledge is pretty good.’
‘Not bad,’ I said.
Evi glanced at her watch and then at the computer screen. ‘I have a patient waiting,’ she said, before turning back to me. ‘OK, you’re a mature student of twenty-three who started an undergraduate degree two years ago but had to leave halfway through because of health problems,’ she said, recapping my cover story. ‘You’ve suffered from depression and anxieties in the past and been on medication for eighteen months. It’s all on my system on your personal file. I’ve agreed to let you join my psychology programme because I’ve seen great promise in your previous coursework. I’m also employing you, informally, on a part-time basis to help me with some research. That way, no one will question our spending time together. You have my various numbers if you need to contact me at any time?’
I thanked her and agreed that I had.
She frowned at me. ‘Laura Farrow,’ she said. ‘That’s not your real name, is it?’
I shook my head.
‘Are you allowed to tell me what is?’ she asked.
I couldn’t help but smile. I never told anyone that. Lacey Flint was no more my real name than Laura Farrow was. ‘Better not,’ I said, as I’d been told to. ‘It helps prevent mistakes.’
As I stood, she nodded, vaguely, and I had the feeling she didn’t really care one way or the other. For her, I was a means to an end. Then she surprised me.
‘Dana tells me you’re exceptional,’ she said.
I waited, halfway between her desk and the door, not really sure what to say to that. I’d never been called exceptional
Evi thought for a moment and seemed to slump in her chair. ‘I hardly know,’ she said. ‘But things are bothering me. The first is that, of twenty suicides in the last five years, women outnumber the men by something like five to one.’
‘Statistically, it should be the other way round,’ I said.
‘Exactly. The second thing that worries me is the …’ She stopped and frowned, thought for a moment. ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘the sheer originality and variety of the methods involved. We’ve got jumping off high buildings, self-immolation, self-stabbing, self-decapitation. It’s as if they’re competing to see who can come up with the most bizarre exit strategy. I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s a website somewhere giving them marks out of ten.’
So now she was joking to relieve the tension. She was as nervous about this as I.
‘And the methods just aren’t typical,’ Evi went on. ‘When women die by suicide, they choose the least violent methods. Overdose is the most common. Not the most reliable, of course, which is why women have a history of failed suicide attempts, but still women shy away from extreme violence. Cutting wrists in a hot bath is another one, but still …’
Her eyes fell to my wrist, the ugly scar still covered by a plaster. I waited for the question that didn’t come.
‘Self-immolation,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s almost unheard of in our culture. And that poor girl on Sunday morning. Who on earth would come up with such an idea?’
A pretty disturbed mind, I thought. And I’d met a few in my time.
‘You mentioned a website,’ I said. ‘I was told you think there might be a subculture that’s encouraging destructive behaviour.’
‘These suicide websites vary from the well meaning but misguided to the downright ghoulish,’ said Evi. ‘I’m afraid something like that is going on here. I just can’t find any evidence of it.’
‘You’ve looked?’
‘Repeatedly. There are internet sites and intranet sites and blogs, and chat rooms and tweets ad infinitum, all relating to life at Cambridge. There’s practically a virtual town and university floating above the real one. All the ones I can find, though, are pretty harmless. My IT skills aren’t great but I can’t help thinking there’s something going on that I haven’t been able to access. I was told your IT knowledge is pretty good.’
‘Not bad,’ I said.
Evi glanced at her watch and then at the computer screen. ‘I have a patient waiting,’ she said, before turning back to me. ‘OK, you’re a mature student of twenty-three who started an undergraduate degree two years ago but had to leave halfway through because of health problems,’ she said, recapping my cover story. ‘You’ve suffered from depression and anxieties in the past and been on medication for eighteen months. It’s all on my system on your personal file. I’ve agreed to let you join my psychology programme because I’ve seen great promise in your previous coursework. I’m also employing you, informally, on a part-time basis to help me with some research. That way, no one will question our spending time together. You have my various numbers if you need to contact me at any time?’
I thanked her and agreed that I had.
She frowned at me. ‘Laura Farrow,’ she said. ‘That’s not your real name, is it?’
I shook my head.
‘Are you allowed to tell me what is?’ she asked.
I couldn’t help but smile. I never told anyone that. Lacey Flint was no more my real name than Laura Farrow was. ‘Better not,’ I said, as I’d been told to. ‘It helps prevent mistakes.’
As I stood, she nodded, vaguely, and I had the feeling she didn’t really care one way or the other. For her, I was a means to an end. Then she surprised me.
‘Dana tells me you’re exceptional,’ she said.
I waited, halfway between her desk and the door, not really sure what to say to that. I’d never been called exceptional
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