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139 pages

English

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Drugs, sex, and violence. Not the typical lifestyle of a Cambridge University student, but then again, Harry isn't a typical student. As a hyper-intelligent finalist, Harry thrives in an academic environment and bottles away his wild lifestyle for the good of his degree. But what happens when the pressures of Cambridge get too much for Harry, and he succumbs to temptations? Harry starts falling down a slippery slope into a life of debauchery, from which he can't escape. He lusts over a fresher, Elizabeth, who already has a boyfriend. Harry is determined to win her. But at what cost?

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Publié par	Distributed by eBookpartnership
Date de parution	24 janvier 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781839784309
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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The Lies Behind Cambridge Minds
James Hayes

The Lies Behind Cambridge Minds
Published by The Conrad Press Limited in the United Kingdom 2021
Tel: +44(0)1227 472 874 www.theconradpress.com info@theconradpress.com
ISBN 978-1-839784-30-9
Copyright © James Hayes, 2021
The moral right of James Hayes to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk
The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.

To Barbara and Tom for their unconditional support in all my endeavours

- 1 -
F orcefully pressing his index finger against his left nostril, and snorting callously with the other, the white powder propelled through the rolled-up note, deep down the tube of Harry’s nose, as he dragged it along the stained surface of the oak table. His heart stepped up a gear, like increasing the speed on a metronome.
‘I love this game!’ roared Harry to assert his dominance in the room.
Harry stood up. The intensity in the room was increasing with each passing second. He aggressively grabbed his lukewarm Heineken beer, which at this point was being carried around as a prop, and made his way through the crowded room. The room was filled with energy as the partygoers were dancing freely to Robin Thicke’s ‘Blurred Lines’. Blasting music; shouting; singing. Harry was oblivious to the noise as he bounced through the room; he only had one thought pounding in his mind.
A quick scan of the room enabled Harry to scout out the talent and see who he would be taking upstairs that evening. He strode with intent; everything about him oozed confidence despite the spilt beer on his pale blue Ralph Lauren shirt.
He ran his large hand through his thick long blonde hair and headed towards the kitchen where a group of three girls, all of a similar age to Harry, had congregated. Sniffing the final remnants of cocaine up his nose, he put on an approachable smile and locked eyes with one of the girls.
It was evident from Sarah’s seductive red dress that no church could ever tame her. She took an immediate liking to Harry, opening up the circle to invite him in. She fiddled with her long brunette hair, which she had clearly spent some time straightening, and held her strong gin and tonic in the other hand. This was not her first drink, and as the night had progressed, the alcohol content had steadily increased, as she free poured her Gordon’s gin into her American-styled red plastic cup. Like Harry, it was evident that she was here for a good time.
‘Hey there, I’m Harry, nice to meet you’.
The girl smiled with deliberate provocation and responded simply, ‘Sarah.’
There was an immediate connection between them and a flirty tension in the air. Harry wasted no time in steering the conversation towards capitalising on this mutual lust. The two spent what was only a matter of minutes engaged in small talk before Harry made the lunge, gripping Sarah’s waist and pulling her closer in.
Eyes closed; they were both in the moment. The packed house now felt empty, as if they were the only two souls in the building. Harry gripped her firm buttocks tighter and tighter, like a boa constrictor taking hold of its prey as he felt her tongue go deeper into his mouth. It seemed as though nothing would be able to break this new-found connection.
The sirens got louder, and Harry was convinced that he just heard noises in his head, so he continued kissing Sarah undeterred. That is until the front door flew wide open. It almost came off its hinges with the sheer force imposed on it by the red battering ram. The music fell silent, and the ebullience that filled the room was quickly displaced with panic.
‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’ barked the sergeant with beaconing authority.
There was a feeling of confusion and fear for the young adults at the party. This was Harry’s chance to escape.
He pushed Sarah away and scurried through the crowded kitchen, where he bolted through the back door. He didn’t look back as he knew this would only serve to delay him.
The sergeant instinctively set foot in pursuit, hunting the boy down like a bloodhound. This is what he lived for; he relished at the opportunity of clamping down on youthful delinquents. He shoved his way through the horde of individuals and left the other officers to take control of the scene at hand.
In Harry’s rushed state, he clattered into a chair outside, stumbling to the ground. He could see the bulky sergeant’s hi-vis jacket gleaming in the corner of his eye, so he quickly picked himself up and headed towards the back of the garden. The officer had the momentum and was gaining on Harry, trying to capitalise on his blunder. The torrential rain made the grass somewhat of a marsh, and both men were causing significant splashes with each stride. The conditions led to the officer’s flat peaked cap flying off of his head to reveal his shiny bald head, but this just served to increase his determination. He was within touching distance of Harry and contemplated taking a dive at him.
Harry felt no pain from his earlier collision. The adrenaline pulsing through his veins kept him running in a similar fashion to the cocaine stimulating his mind earlier. The garden was only short, but to Harry, it felt as though he was in a 100m sprint, where the punishment for losing the race would be more catastrophic than any other contest.
‘STOP!’ barked the sergeant, while panting for breath but continuing in the hunt.
Harry ignored the orders and with one big spring hopped straight over the back fence and came tumbling down, further adding to his injuries. Knowing that he had no time to think about what was happening, he continued sprinting down the dark alleyway, his tunnel vision focused on getting as far away as possible. His hair was soaked and started to whip him in the face as he ran, but his athleticism enabled him to travel down the passage at some speed.
The sergeant had given up the chase, defeated by the six-foot fence panel. He knew he had to help his colleagues diffuse the situation, so he stormed back down the garden, frustrated in his attempts. On his way back, he picked up his sodden cap from the muddy grass and slapped it back on his bald, wet head. He trudged back to the house; his failure would fuel his fury towards the partygoers in how he dealt with proceedings.

- 2 -
T he sun was beaming brightly on what was a glorious autumnal Saturday afternoon as Harry made his way down the Fulham Road, sporting a rugged dark green Barbour jacket and a slate grey flat cap. His style gave off a crossover between a Peaky Blinder and a wannabe Made in Chelsea star. Perhaps, with his newly acquired limp and bruises from last night’s antics, he would fit in nicely as a Tommy Shelby’s right hand man, but Harry certainly was not from Small Heath. He’s London, born and bred, and proud of it too! His electric blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight as he approached two of his closest pals, Michael and John, outside of the Redback pub.
‘Afternoon chaps!’ Smirked Harry with a tone of smugness and superiority in his voice.
‘What sort of time do you call this? We were supposed to have a couple in the boozer before the game,’ said Michael, who sounded disappointed but deep down knew Harry would be late. He always seemed to be late, thinking his time is more valuable than the rest of the world.
‘Apologies gents,’ responded Harry, ‘shall we get walking? I quite fancy a swift one in the ground if I’m honest.’
‘Yeah, alright,’ grunted John, who was a much quieter individual than the other two, more a follower than a leader. Lethargically, John set off, dragging his feet as he walked. The pavement’s width only enabled two people to walk side-by-side; John was quickly overtaken and left to trail behind.
‘Where did you shoot off to last night then?’ Michael asked while staring at Harry, eagerly awaiting his response.
‘I’ll tell you when we get a pint,’ said Harry.
It was not a long walk to the stadium, about five minutes or so given the length of the men’s strides. Although if Michael had it his way, the journey would likely have taken twice as long. This stroll to the ground was a familiar one that the boys had been doing ever since the turn of the millennium when they were just little nippers. On the way over, Harry dug deep into his Levi pockets, rummaging around to see what change he had and handed over a two-pound coin and two fifty pence pieces to pick up today’s programme. Buying the matchday programme was somewhat of a superstitious ritual for Harry, who never seemed to do any more than flick through the pages before getting live updates from Chelsea’s Twitter page. A fairly procedural game, if there is such a thing in the Premier League, lay ahead for Lampard’s men against Brighton.
The boys bustled their way through the ever-growing crowds like a pinball whizzing around a machine, colliding into whatever was in their path to get to their destination. They approach the turnstiles in the Shed End, which operated like traffic lights with the green light signalling that the supporter could enter the ground. As his season ticket was in his grandad’s name, it meant that an orange light would instead be displayed whenever Harry passed through the gates, indicative of a concessions ticket. As a student, he protested against forking out the full price for a ticket, and the stewards either did not care or were not being paid enough to stop this fraudulent behaviour, probably the latter.
The three boys headed straight to the bar, ‘Three pints of Singha please love,’ said Harry, ironically spending almost seventeen pounds on these drinks yet refusing to pay the full amount for his season ticket. It is incre