Asafa laughed and touched his own unadorned ear. ‘The earring doesn’t mean anything. He’ll get the Distinction. He did his undergraduate here, got First Class Honours. That gives him an advantage. He knows all the lecturers, he knows the system.’ So the idea occurred to her of asking Bryan for the notes of his graduate year. If she strengthened her background in stochastic processes and time series, she would be better able to cope with the new material they were bombarded with every day. She watched him to judge whether he was approachable. Next to the courteous Malaysian students, he was devoid of manners. He mumbled and slouched and did not speak with respect to the lecturers. He spoke to them as if they were his equals. And he did silly things. When he wanted to throw a piece of paper in the bin, he squashed it into a ball and, from where he was sitting, aimed it at the bin. If he missed, he muttered under his breath. She thought that he was immature. But he was the only one who was sailing through the course.

The glossy handbook for overseas students had explained about the ‘famous British reserve’ and hinted that they should be grateful, things were worse further south, less ‘hospitable’. In the cafeteria, drinking coffee with Asafa and the others, the picture of ‘hospitable Scotland’ was something different. Badr, the Malaysian, blinked and whispered, ‘Yesterday our windows got smashed; my wife today is afraid to go out.’

‘Thieves?’ asked Shadia, her eyes wider than anyone else’s. ‘Racists,’ said the Turkish girl, her lipstick chic, the word tripping out like silver, like ice.

Wisdom from Asafa, muted before the collective silence, ‘These people think they own the world …’ and around them the aura of the dead Nigerian student. They were ashamed of that brother they had never seen. He had weakened, caved in. In the cafeteria, Bryan never sat with them. They never sat with him. He sat alone, sometimes reading the local paper. When Shadia walked in front of him he didn’t smile. ‘These people are strange … One day they greet you, the next day they don’t …’

On Friday afternoon, as everyone was ready to leave the room after Linear Models, she gathered her courage and spoke to Bryan. He had spots on his chin and forehead, was taller than her, restless, as if he was in a hurry to go somewhere else. He put his calculator back in its case, his pen in his pocket. She asked him for his notes and behind his glasses, his blue eyes took on the blankest look she had ever seen in her life. What was all the surprise for? Did he think she was an insect? Was he surprised that she could speak?

A mumble for a reply, words strung together. So taken aback, he was. He pushed his chair back under the table with his foot.

‘Pardon?’