Typewritten Treason

Trigger Warning - references to sexual abuse.

I was an overeager reporter with a dodgy laptop and an unquenchable thirst for stories. My university had its own newspaper and I’d signed up to it as soon as I’d enrolled in my classes. I didn’t know what on Earth I’d end up writing about, but I knew when I got to hear that comforting clickety clack of an overworked keyboard, I was bound to be happy.

Whenever I walked into the paper room, it was strangely quiet. I’d expected the buzz of a typical newspaper, but maybe there was limited news to report. I had to sniff some out. I wanted to bring back life to the limp leaves of the abandoned paper. I’ve always thought of myself as a potential private detective, had I not adored writing so much. I loved to scout out stories and linger, low-key, waiting to find out the truth of a situation, so I could put some literary shape to it.

I knew I’d likely end up covering stories that bored me to a degree. There were facts and figures to be shared, people to feature that didn’t particularly interest me, upcoming events the university considered to be of primary importance, but that everyone else forgot about as soon as they ended. I never could have anticipated what was to come.

Finally, after hanging around for a while in the newsroom, I encountered the editor. She was aloof and busy, and she looked irritated at having to interrupt her process to talk to me. I knew she wouldn’t take me under her wing, but as it turned out, I didn’t need her to anyway. Her name was Ruth, and she was the most ordered, methodical worker I’d ever met. She didn’t have a nose for drama though. That was what the place needed: to find something worth writing about.

I started my hunt for a good story. It was subtle to anyone but me. I was secretive, and protective of my leads. I had always liked to work alone. University is a vast world with so many elements to it that you can’t imagine until you get embroiled in it. It seemed like such a strait-laced place. Everything was done by the books, literally. It was an educational institution that followed the traditions that were born with its establishment two centuries earlier. You couldn’t imagine anything ever being amiss. It was highly organised, and everything was carefully considered. The courses themselves were succinct and valuable. There was no unnecessary padding. That was why it was so shocking whenever I uncovered the story of the century.

In the history department, rumours had circulated that had since been squashed. The head lecturer was a man of unimaginable influence. He was like a dictator of his own kingdom, controlling everything, from paperwork, to entrants, to course material, and more. From the outside, at first glance, it all looked kosher, but I quickly unveiled the chaos behind the curtain.

There was a secret meeting place the History lecturers gathered in. How I found it was interesting: I was lingering near Dr Keene’s office, waiting for an opening and whenever he set out to his first lecture of the day, I slipped in. He hadn’t locked the door, for some inconceivable reason that can probably only be explained by it having slipped his mind. I shuffled through his papers at a rate, so fast skim-reading didn’t suffice. However, I knew if I found anything worth uncovering, I’d know it, upon first glance.

And there it was – his characteristic cursive scrawl on yellowed paper – a list of all the female students in the year with ticks next to some names, blank spaces beside others. It could have been a tuition list, but I knew better. A good reporter knows these things in their gut. I flipped through every errant piece of paper, looking for more. Then I found it: a book of grades for the term. Whenever I laid one list alongside the other, it turned out there was a correlation between A grades and box-ticks on the yellow page. It gave me a nauseous feeling, even though a less studious eye might have easily missed the meaning behind it.

In his desk, I found hundreds upon hundreds of USBs. Could they have been essay submissions? But why wouldn’t the students just have uploaded them? Or emailed them to him? I had to know what was on the sticks.

I put one into my USB drive and waited for it to load. Those meagre few seconds felt like an age. But then I saw what I will never be able to unsee, however much I want to: the sex scandal of the century. The lecturer in a dark place that resembled a dungeon, with all the other lecturers. They were familiar faces I’d seen day in, day out on my rounds of the university. They were faces that should have been reassuring to look at – the faces of mentors – the people that shaped our future. They were engaged in debauchery with students as young as eighteen. I can’t even bring myself to talk about the specifics of what was happening, but there was a ring of them. They were using their positions of authority to control the actions of their subjects. The girls looked happy in the videos, but vacant. Isn’t that often the case with these episodes of horror? What else were they meant to do? Cry and beg to go home? Vocalise their discomfort? I would do that for them, I decided, with one of the most powerful tools: the written word. I would unveil the scandal that would expose the malpractice behind the officious façade. You can’t suppress the written word; not anymore. Isn’t that what universities are built upon? Skilled writing and papers that expose the facts and feelings of those that experience them? I put the USB back in the drawer, shutting it and leaving it as it had been. I knew the memory stick’s exact, original position and I placed it there. I didn’t want to arouse any suspicion before publication. I wanted it to hit as hard as a blast in a library – one that blew up every book that had ever been written before it.