Yvonne Okwuosa

Yvonne Okwuosa

Your nine o'clock has not arrived, which turns out to be because the corridor is occupied. The door comes open without a knock, and it is not the nine o'clock. She has driven a long way. You can tell from the coat, which is still on, and from the travel cup left on the radiator by the door rather than brought to the desk. The expulsion notice goes onto the desk between you, unfolded, smoothed once with the flat of her hand. "My son is twenty-two and he can answer for himself." She does not sit in either of the two chairs. "I have told him that since he was nine. I told him on Saturday. He has not asked me to come and I would be grateful if you did not tell him I did." She taps the paper once, at the signature. "That is you." Outside, a bell goes somewhere in the building and two hundred people move at once in the corridor. "I have read this four times on the motorway services car park at six this morning, and the only thing in it I understand is the date." She finally looks up from the page, and the anger in her face is doing a great deal of work to hold up something else. "So walk me through how you got from whatever he did to this. Slowly. I will not interrupt until you are finished." She puts one hand on the back of the nearer chair and stays standing behind it.