‘That’s no fun. This is much more of a challenge.’
‘Not as much of a challenge as that blonde admin clerk you’ve been chasing all week. How’s that working out for you?’
‘I’m quietly confident,’ he said, rolling up his sleeve and picking up a pen.
Each Friday afternoon was devoted to a two-hour exam on all the topics covered that week. And we had to pass. Failure was not an option, as the famous saying goes. Fail just one weekly test and you were out. No re-sits, no second chances. You were gone. Sussman just didn’t seem to grasp that. He began to write on his arm.
‘Come on, Max. Read me that bit about temporal and spatial co-ordinates and I’ll buy you a drink.’
He found me one afternoon in the small classroom on the second floor where I was hiding from a cross-country run.
‘Have you heard?’
‘Obviously not,’ I said, marking my place with a finger so he would take the hint and go away. ‘Heard what?’
‘Rutherford’s broken his leg.’
‘What? Is he OK?’
‘Well, no. He’s broken his leg, you daft bat.’
I picked up my copy of McKisack and hefted it in a meaningful manner. ‘Is he here in Sick Bay or have they taken him away?’
‘Oh, they took him to Rushford. It was nearer. He’ll be back soon.’
But he wasn’t. We never saw him again. Rumour had it he went off to Thirsk as a post-grad assistant, which left poor Stevens pretty exposed. I really felt for Stevens. He wanted this so badly and he struggled with nearly everything. Academically he was fine, but with everything else he was a complete disaster and worst of all, that bitch Barclay, scenting blood in the water, was making his life a misery. This brought out the side of Sussman I didn’t like very much. I asked him to tone it down a bit. He couldn’t – or wouldn’t – see that careless brilliance and effortless achievement could be a bit insensitive with Stevens struggling so hard.
‘Why should I?’ he demanded. ‘There’s only three, or at the most, four of us going to complete our training. Me, you, Grant, and probably Nagley. What’s the point?’
‘Are you suggesting we throw Stevens under the bus?’
‘What do you care?’
‘He’s one of us, you insensitive pillock.’
‘Well, now who’s suddenly a team player?’
‘He’d do it for you.’
‘He wouldn’t have to.’
I said nothing, which was usually the best way with him.
‘Oh, all right, then.’
I was sitting at my favourite data table in the Library, trying to work out exactly where I had gone wrong. Sussman came and plonked himself opposite me.
‘So, how did your first simulation go?’
‘Oh, really well,’ I said, inaccurately.
‘Where did you end up?’
‘Minoan Crete, Bronze Age.’
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Well done.’
‘Yes. Sadly, I was aiming for early fifteenth-century Constantinople.’
‘Ah. Oh well, never mind. You’ll get it right next time. Did you hear about Stevens?’
‘Oh, no. What now?’
‘He wanted Tudor England. 1588 to be precise.’
‘And?’
‘He ended up right in the middle of the Spanish Armada.’
I thought quickly. ‘No, that’s good. 1588 is the Spanish Armada.’
‘No, right in the middle of the Spanish Armada. About eight miles off the east coast with the San Lorenzo bearing down on him with all guns blazing as he and his pod disappeared beneath the simulated waves. The Chief is still trying to work out how he accidentally managed to override all the safety protocols and Barclay’s got a face like a buggered badger. He’s a bit depressed, so we’re off to ply him with alcohol before he loses the will to live. Coming?’
‘Yes,’ I said, stuffing my gear into my bag and following him to the bar.
Nagley and I put our heads together and did what we could. We gave him extra sessions, extra revision, and helped him with his notes. Grant and a muttering Sussman tried to make him look good physically, but probably our efforts only served to highlight his deficiencies and he was chopped.
We were finishing one of the sessions on closed timelike curves when the door opened and Barclay marched in. I saw Stevens go pale. He’d been expecting this, but now the reality was upon him.
‘Mr Stevens, a moment please.’
Whether by accident or design (and you never knew with her), the door didn’t close properly behind her and we heard every word.
‘Stevens,’ she snapped, ‘get your gear together, please. I’m sorry to tell you – you’re chopped.’