Chapter 4 Chapter four
DEV
My alarm went off at 5:47 AM, thirteen minutes before I actually needed to be awake, because my phone was across the room and those thirteen minutes of rage-fueled consciousness were the only thing that got me out of bed anymore.
I slammed my hand on the phone, silencing the blare, and sat on the edge of my sofa bed in the dark. Through the thin walls of the flat, I could hear the Patels upstairs already moving around, pipes groaning as someone ran water. Outside, the pre-dawn Brixton streets were just starting to wake; a car alarm, distant sirens, the rumble of an early bus on Coldharbour Lane.
My "room" was barely that, the sofa pulled out each night, folded back each morning so Mum could use the sitting room. My desk was shoved against one wall, piled with research papers and King's College library books. A single wardrobe held everything I owned. A framed photo of my father sat on the windowsill, forever thirty-eight, forever smiling, forever gone.
Twenty-five years old with a PhD almost finished and still sleeping on a sofa bed. My supervisor kept telling me this was temporary, that once I defended my dissertation, opportunities would open up. I tried to believe him.
I pulled on running clothes; cheaper than a gym membership, and I needed to stay awake somehow, and slipped out of the flat quietly. Mum would be up in an hour to start her morning shift at the hospital. Marco's alarm would go off at seven for sixth form. Giulia was probably already awake at her shared house in Clapham, studying for nursing exams before her hospital shift.
The pre-dawn air was cool, almost cold, carrying the scent of the city waking, diesel from the buses, someone's fry-up cooking, the damp smell before rain. I ran my usual route—down Brixton Road, past the Tube station that would be packed in two hours, the Caribbean grocers that would open at eight, the corner shop where Mr. Singh would be arranging newspapers in another hour. I knew every cracked pavement, every bit of street art, every sound.
This was my neighborhood. Not the one I'd been born in, that was in Naples, in memories so faded they felt like photographs rather than lived experience. But this was the one that had shaped me, the place my father had worked himself to death to give us, the place my mother still called home even as it slowly gentrified around us, rents creeping up with each passing year, artisanal coffee shops replacing the places we'd known.
By the time I got back, showered in our cramped bathroom, and dressed, it was nearly seven. I made tea the way my mother liked it—strong, with milk and sugar, and left a cup on the counter for her before grabbing my rucksack.
The Tube was already crowded with commuters. I squeezed into a Victoria Line carriage, pulled out my dissertation draft, and tried to focus on the section I was supposed to revise. My research focused on air pollution in low-income London boroughs—specifically, how industrial sites and major roadways clustered in areas where residents had the least political power to fight back. It was important work. Work that mattered. Work that kept me up at night because the data was so damning and the solutions so elusive.
My phone buzzed. Text from Giulia: Did you remember rent is due Friday?
I had. The number sat in my mind like a stone: £1,800 for the two-bedroom council flat my mother refused to leave, even though cheaper places existed further out. "This is Marco's school catchment," she'd said. "He stays here until he finishes his A-levels."
So I worked. And worked. And worked.
Another text, this time from my dissertation supervisor, Professor Williams: Can you come by office hours today? Need to discuss timeline.
Timeline. That meant: When are you defending? When are you graduating? When are you going to become someone else's problem?
I typed back: TA session until 2, can do 2:15?
The response was immediate: Fine. Don't be late.
The Tube pulled into King's Cross, and I joined the stream of students flooding onto the King's College campus. The Strand Campus sprawled along the Thames like an academic fortress, Georgian buildings, the constant rumble of London traffic, students with coffee cups and laptops rushing to morning lectures. I'd done my undergrad here on a full scholarship, working thirty hours a week at the campus library to cover everything else. My PhD was funded, but "funded" in graduate school meant just enough to survive if you didn't have anyone depending on you.
I had three people depending on me.
I grabbed coffee from the cart near my building, not the fancy place on the Strand, just the cart with the bitter brew and the bloke who knew my order—and headed to the Geography building. My TA office was barely larger than a cupboard, shared with two other postgrads who thankfully taught on different days.
The morning passed in a blur of undergraduates who hadn't done the reading, broken equipment in the environmental lab, and emails from Professor Williams with increasingly pointed subject lines. By the time my own research meeting rolled around at 2:15, I was already knackered.
"Marchetti," Professor Williams said without preamble when I knocked on his office door. "Sit. We need to talk."
I sat.
Professor Williams was in his sixties, renowned in environmental policy circles, and had a habit of treating his doctoral students like underperforming investments. He shuffled papers on his desk—my latest chapter draft, marked up in red pen.
"Your research is solid," Williams began. "The data analysis is excellent. Your argument about environmental racism and regulatory failure is compelling."
"Thank you—"
"But you're scattered. This chapter was due three weeks ago. You've missed our last supervision meeting. Your conference paper for the spring symposium hasn't materialized. And frankly, Marchetti, you look like shit."
I resisted the urge to defend myself. Williams wasn't wrong.
"I know you're juggling a lot," Williams continued, his tone softening slightly. "But if you want to finish this degree, if you want to have a career in academia—or anywhere—you need to prioritize. How many jobs are you working right now?"
"Three. TA here, private tutoring, and... various shifts. Whatever pays."
Williams's eyebrows rose. "Various shifts?"
"Last night I worked a catering event. Buckingham Palace gala. Good money, flexible hours."
"Christ, Marchetti." Williams rubbed his temple. "Look, I was poor in graduate school too. I get it. But you're drowning. You need to make a choice. Either commit to this dissertation, or....."
"I'm committed," I said quickly. "I just need a few more months. Once Giulia finishes nursing school, once Marco finishes his A-levels...."
"And then what? There will always be something else. Someone else who needs you." Williams leaned back in his chair. "I'm not saying don't help your family. I'm saying figure out how to help them without destroying yourself in the process."
I speechless for a while.
"I have a contact at the London School of Economics," Williams said finally. "They're looking for postdoc researchers in environmental policy. It's competitive, but your work is strong enough. If you can defend by spring, I'
ll recommend you. The salary is decent, better than cobbling together three jobs. Real research position."