Owen feels a hard lump of fury pass through his consciousness. He wants to claw it out of his head and hurl it at the disciplinary panel, particularly at Clarice who is staring at him with an antagonistic blend of pity and embarrassment.

‘There was no “behaviour” at the Christmas party. I don’t do behaviour. I am utterly professional at all times and in every situation. In the classroom and out of it.’

‘Well, Owen, I’m terribly sorry, but we will be launching an investigation and to that end, I’m afraid, we will have to suspend you from work while that is ongoing.’

‘What!’

‘We cannot run a fair investigation while you’re still in the classroom with your accusers. It’s policy. I’m really, really sorry.’

This came from Jed, who, to his credit, did at least look really, really sorry. Mainly, Owen suspected, because now he was going to have to rework all his timetables to ensure that his classes were covered, which, given that Ellie Brewer, Owen’s counterpart, was about to go off on maternity leave, would prove very problematic.

‘So, what … I mean, how long?’

‘We’ll start with two weeks and then be in touch. But I doubt it will be longer than a month. Assuming, of course, that the outcome is in your favour.’

‘And so, do I just …?’

‘Yes, take what you need from your office and Holly will be waiting for you in the foyer to say goodbye.’

Owen closes his eyes, then slowly opens them. He is to be escorted from the premises. Yet he has done nothing wrong. He wants to pick up the chair on which he’s sitting and chuck it through the window behind Jed’s head, watch it smash a hole through the plate glass, see the shards sparkling in the fallen snow in the car park below. He wants to walk into classroom 6D where he knows that Monique and Maisy are currently halfway through a lecture in micro services and stand before them mustering as much of his five feet nine and a half inches as possible and shout into their stupid faces. Instead he gets slowly to his feet, all his rage held tight inside his stomach, and he leaves the room.

It’s stopped snowing when he leaves the Tube station at Finchley Road an hour later. His rucksack weighs a ton on his back; it now contains the contents of his desk, including his lava rock lamp. He should have left it behind; he’ll be back in a couple of weeks, but something had made him pick it up, a little voice saying, What if they’re right?

There’s a small and very steep hill leading from the Finchley Road to his street. At the top of this hill there are two private schools. He realises as he starts his ascent that it is three thirty, that it’s the end of the school day. The hill, consequently, is swarming with small, meandering children, mothers strolling behind clutching tiny rucksacks and brightly coloured water bottles. While the snow on the ground has turned to slush it still lies in thick coats on car bonnets and the children scoop off handfuls and hurl them at each other. They weave about and wander blindly into his path. He nearly loses his footing and has to grab hold of a wall to stay upright. The mothers are oblivious; Owen hates these mothers, these school mums with their weird leggings and blown-out hair, their fat winter coats with rabbit-fur hoods, their fading winter-holiday sun tans, box-fresh trainers. What do women like this think about, he wonders, when it’s just them and the kids are in bed, and they’ve got one of those gigantic fishbowls of wine in their hands? What are they when they’re not at the gym or collecting their children from school? Where do they exist on the scale of humanity? He cannot imagine. But then all women are an eternal mystery to him, even the ordinary ones.

Owen lives in a cavernous first-floor flat carved out of a grand mansion on one of the finest streets in Hampstead. In front of the house is a driveway, unkempt and unused, except as a storage area for bins and things the other residents of the house don’t want in their homes. There has been an armchair sitting on the lawn in front of the house for almost a year now. No one complains because no one really cares; it’s a building full of old people and recluses.

The flat is owned by his aunt, Tessie, and is the largest apartment in the building, boasting the highest ceilings, the tallest windows, the solid four-panel doors with fanlight windows above that the other floors of the house don’t have. Owen’s bedroom is at the back-left corner of the flat, with a window overlooking the scruffy communal garden that no one takes responsibility for and a wasteland beyond a dividing wall where a grand mansion once stood. The house is an aberration on this street of glossy new apartment blocks and shiny mansions with security gates. The freeholder is a mysterious Scotsman known only as Mr G, who appears to have washed his hands of his responsibility for the upkeep of this once beautiful building. Tessie has tried writing to him but has received no response.

Tessie is currently away; she has a house in Tuscany, equally as rundown as her London apartment, and is there for substantial periods of time. When she’s away she locks each door of her flat apart from the bathroom and kitchen. She says it’s to keep her things safe from burglary but Owen knows it’s because she thinks he’s going to go through her things. Even when she’s here she locks doors behind her and Owen has never, not even on special occasions, gone beyond the door of her elegant, high-ceilinged sitting room.

Now Owen lets himself into the apartment and breathes in the familiar, faintly toilety scent of the economy fabric conditioner Tessie uses on all her washing, the stale aroma of old cushions and dusty curtains, the sweet smoke of the dead ashes in her grate.

It’s already starting to get dark at this, the bleakest time of the year, and Owen turns on lights, flicking the yellowed Bakelite switches that fizz alarmingly beneath his fingertip. Dirty lightbulbs give off a sad, jaundiced light and it’s freezing cold. Owen’s room contains an electric storage heater, but Tessie doesn’t run the heating when she’s not here, and rarely even when she is, so he also has a plug-in blow heater hidden behind his wardrobe that Tessie would make him get rid of if she discovered it, convinced as she is that it would send her electric bill through the roof.

He drops his rucksack on to his bed and flops heavily into a small floral armchair. He reaches down to the blow heater and switches it on. Because of the height of his ceilings it takes a while for the room to heat up, but once it does, he kicks off his new shoes, so that they disappear beneath his bed. He does not want to see the shoes again, let alone wear them. For some inexplicable reason he feels that the shoes are to blame for the events of the afternoon. They have made him someone that he is not: a man capable of inappropriate sexual comments to his students, a man in need of being walked off premises.

He pulls off his sweater and then runs his hands down his static-filled hair; Owen has fine hair. He tries to wear it in a side parting but it always flops into a middle parting and he ends up looking as though he’s deliberately chosen to wear his hair that way, like that tall bloke in The Office. Not that Owen looks like the bloke from The Office. Owen is much better-looking than him. No one’s ever told him he’s good-looking. But then no one’s ever told him he’s ugly, either.

Through the window Owen can see another flurry of snow fill the tar-brown sky outside, each flake briefly lit on one side by light from the street. He starts to worry about it settling again, about struggling down the hill to the Tube station the next morning, holding on to cars and walls to stop himself from falling. And then he remembers. There was an ‘incident’. He is suspended. The contents of his office are currently in a bag on his bed. He has nowhere to go tomorrow. There is food in the fridge – enough for two days. The snow can fall and settle; he has no reason to care.

13

Later that evening Owen opens up his laptop and types in ‘false accusations of sexual misconduct’. He’s looking for some online advice, but instead finds himself reading a human-interest article in the Guardian about the impact on various men of being falsely accused of rape. The accusations levelled against him pale in comparison to what these men were told they’d done. The stories shock him at first, but then the shock recedes into a kind of numb acceptance, a sense that he’d always known this about women. Of course. Women lie. Women hate men and want to hurt them. And what easier way is there to hurt a man than to accuse him of rape?