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nightmare of forms and jargon for the provident poor, had been thwarted by the lunatic theories of so-called educationalists of the sixties like Dr Mayfield, and the equally irrational spending policies of the seventies. Wilt had persisted in his protestations that Liberal Studies didn’t need video cameras and audio-visual aids galore, but could do with a clear statement from somebody about the purpose of Liberal Studies.
    It had been an unwise request. Dr Mayfield and the County Advisor had both produced memoranda nobody could understand, there had been a dozen committee meetings at which nothing had been decided, except that since all the video cameras were available they might as well be used, and that Communication Skills and Expressive Attainment were more suited to the spirit of the times than Liberal Studies. In the event the education cuts had stymied the audio-visual aids and the fact that useless lecturers in more academic departments couldn’t be sacked had meant that Wilt had beenlumbered with even more deadbeats. If Her Majesty’s Inspectors did descend, they might be able to clear the log jam and make some sense. Wilt would be only too pleased. Besides, he rather prided himself on his ability to hold his own in confrontations.
    His optimism was premature. Having spent fifty minutes listening to Electronic Engineers explaining the meaning of cable television to him, he returned to his office to find his secretary, Mrs Bristol, in a flap. ‘Oh, Mr Wilt,’ she said as he came down the corridor. ‘You’ve got to come quickly. She’s there again and it’s not the first time.’
    ‘What isn’t?’ asked Wilt from behind a pile of Shane he had never used.
    ‘That I’ve seen her there.’
    ‘Seen whom where?’
    ‘Her. In the loo.’
    ‘Her in the loo?’ said Wilt, hoping to hell Mrs Bristol wasn’t having another of her ‘turns’. She’d once gone all funny-peculiar when one of the girls in Cake Three had announced in all innocence, that she had five buns in the oven. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    Nor, it appeared, did Mrs Bristol. ‘She’s got this needle thing and …’ she petered out.
    ‘Needle thing?’
    ‘Syringe,’ said Mrs Bristol, ‘and it’s in her arm and full of blood and …’
    ‘Oh my God,’ said Wilt, and headed past her to the door. ‘Which loo?’
    ‘The Ladies’ staff one.’
    Wilt halted in his tracks. ‘Are you telling me one of the members of staff is shooting herself full of heroin in the Ladies’ staff lavatory?’
    Mrs Bristol had gone all funny now. ‘I’d have recognized her if she’d been staff. It was a girl. Oh, do something Mr Wilt. She may do herself an injury.’
    ‘You can say that again,’ said Wilt, and bolted down the corridor and the flight of stairs to the toilet on the landing and went in. He was confronted by six cubicles, a row of washbasins, a long mirror and a paper-towel dispenser. There was no sign of any girl. On the other hand, the door of the third cubicle was shut and someone was making unpleasant sounds inside. Wilt hesitated. In less desperate circumstances, he might have supposed Mr Rusker, whose wife was a fibre freak, was having one of his problem days again. But Mr Rusker didn’t use the Ladies’ lavatory. Perhaps if he knelt down he might get a glimpse. Wilt decided against it. ( A ) He didn’t want glimpses and ( B ) it had begun to dawn on him that he was, to put it mildly, in a delicate situation and bending down and peeping under doors in ladies’ lavatories was open to misinterpretation. Better to wait outside. The girl, if there was a girl and not some peculiar figment of Mrs Bristol’s imagination, would have to come out some time.
    With one last glance in the trash can for a hypodermic, Wilt tiptoed towards the door. He didn’t reach it. Behind him a cubicle door opened. ‘I thought so,’ a voiceshouted, ‘a filthy Peeping Tom!’ Wilt knew that voice. It belonged to Miss Hare, a