Orange! Pair. Trousers!
Orange! Pair! Orange… Trousers!
Orange! Pair… Trousers.
Orange! Trousers.
It was coming from one of the teaching rooms, so there was no point in complaining; although it wasn’t the kind of thing one would expect from a PGCE class, they had every right to yelp three words over and over and over again at the top of their voices, with accompanying background babble. She’d have expected it from the art department, but here? Maybe it was a drama class. So inconsiderate of them. The cacophony came straight through the closed door of her office, where she had been trying for several minutes to read past the first page of the Derrida text which had been set for Thursday. This would probably be funny at some point, but right now, it was just… well, it would have been even more inconvenient if she would have been able to concentrate in its absence, but she knew that would still be impossible.
In the middle of every paragraph she saw the image of the white tent, the police cordons and officers standing guard. There was a woman shivering in the drizzle, naturally unable to wear a coat under her disposable forensic coveralls. She was rubbing her hands together, talking to a policeman in the passageway behind the houses; behind them, the covered alley leading to the road was strung with more police tape, and the tent beyond that. She had looked across at the pair and caught the woman’s eye. Another day at the office?
She wondered what the protocol was; could you offer them a cup of tea? Like when the plumber or electrician comes around? Would they take it or would they be suspicious? Were all the neighbours suspects? Did that guy over there do it? He looks like he could have – that one doesn’t – that guy definitely does…. She hadn’t wanted to come out, but she needed to buy milk, and there was no way she was leaving the flat after dark, not that day. It was strange coming to terms with the fact that a few hours after she got off the night bus that Sunday morning, someone – she heard it was a woman – was murdered at the end of her road. And a few hours after that, she was walking past it to the Tesco Express.
Even the next day Derrida wasn’t going to cut it. Why wasn’t it in the news? Does this happen that often here? Forget reading. Tuesday morning’s reading group would be strange if she didn’t at least read some of the texts for both lectures, but she couldn’t even stand to finish the Babha essay. Strange because she’d always managed to be very vocal – probably too vocal, she thought – in the discussions, even if only to say why she didn’t like something. Well, you wanted to be a bit more quiet… this might be the week when you have nothing at all to say. Maybe just stay at home. Actually, staying at home for good seemed to be the best idea all around. Peckham… well. She had learned to take it seriously now.
Eventually – she hoped – there might turn up something she was actually interested in reading. So far there was hardly any art in Contemporary Art Theory, and that was how it looked likely to stay. Philosophies and fatalities, frick.
