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reigned in squalor, according to the Bursar, like wild monkeys surrounding the main compound. But their Junior Combination Room was in the main building.
    Portia’s steps carried her past the open door of this JCR, a room not unlike the waiting rooms of airports in many a third-world country, generations of slothful, untidy students having rendered redecoration pointless.
    Three students, having apparently escaped the cell block, sat watching the start of a DVD, laughing as they tried unsuccessfully to fast forward through the government’s copyright violation warnings. One of them, a young man who she remembered gloried in the name Gideon Absalom, began reciting his own version of the warning, adding additional, personalized threats.
    “We’ll take your wife and your children !” he sang. He stood and began dancing in an exuberant style, part hoochie koo, part Michael Jackson. “We’ll confiscate all of your property!” Here he leapt, spinning, into the air, landing en pointe with all the precision of a ballet dancer. “You’ll spend your life in prison!” he cried. The rest joined in the chorus, throwing their arms wide: “So don’t fuck with us!”
    In spite of herself, Portia, trying to slip past unobtrusively, let out a loud splutter of laughter. Gideon, seeing her, took a bow, smiling as he doffed an imaginary hat.
    Ah, to be young again.
    She continued towards the central staircase in the main entrance hall, where she nearly collided with the Bursar, and where she had her usual Stepford Wives-caliber exchange with him. Quite voluble in some circumstances, Mr. Bowles seemed not particularly comfortable around the female sex, which added to the stiltedness of most of the conversations Portia had had with him. He was quite a formal man, most at home, she thought, in black tie. Even his dark, slicked-back hair and rounded belly added to the illusion that one was addressing a penguin of good breeding but limited vocabulary. His embonpoint seemed to be increasing with his status as a pillar of the college, she noted. He must dine out frequently as a guest at other colleges; it couldn’t be because he enjoyed the food on offer from St. Mike’s kitchen.
    “How are you, m’dear?” he asked her now. He was the kind of man who called women m’dear, especially when he couldn’t recall their names. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”
    “Oh, yes,” she agreed, falling into line. “Quite.”
    “Will you be at the dinner tomorrow?”
    “Oh, yes, of course. Quite looking forward to it. Just popping into the bar and then back to work on the thesis!” she said heartily.
    “Quite, quite! You may find one or two of our visitors there. Pay them no mind.”
    “Quite!”
    The college bar, like all such amenities, was the heart and soul of the college. It nestled in a room just off the main entrance hall, near the Great Hall, and with a view over the front grounds. Small and cozy, it was surrounded on three sides by leather-padded benches; the bar itself ran the length of the fourth wall. It was largely intended for use by the undergraduate and graduate students, and although college Fellows were in theory welcome to mingle, they (horrified by the very idea) preferred to do their drinking in the sanctuary of the exclusive SCR at the far side of the Great Hall.
    There was only one other person in the bar. Somehow she’d become aware of his presence in college without having actually met him. Big and tall, with a voice to match. It was Augie Cramb, returned from his visit to the Eagle and changed for dinner. He was playing about with what looked like a GPS gadget, poking and prodding at its screen.
    “Howdy,” he said, by way of greeting.
    She smiled and nodded, hoping to grab a Coke from that night’s bartender (the college kept the students on a rota) and make her escape.
    The man was beside her now, one large paw extended. His costume—there was no other word—was a grab-bag of influences, with a tuxedo shirt,