All These Perfect Strangers (11 page)

‘Aren't you gonna eat that?' he asks, pointing to my untouched bowl. His leg brushes up against mine under the table.

‘I've had enough.' I swing my legs out of his reach and, as I start standing up, he grabs my arm.

His smile is wide and wet with a meaty tongue and sharp yellowed teeth. ‘Think you're so much better than the rest of us with your lawyer and your shrink. Writing about us in that blue book of yours, full of all your secrets. Maybe I should read it one day.' He makes a panting kind of laugh.

I can't tell if this is supposed to be a threat or a come-on. Keeping my voice even, I say, ‘Let go of me.' His hand slowly tightens as he tries to drag me towards him. I force myself to look straight into his eyes, dark and unreadable, and say, ‘The last person who tried something like this is dead.'

He loosens his grip and I pull my hand away. Pretending I am fine, I stand up, grab my bowl and scrape it out into the bin then place it in the sink. The sound fills the kitchen as he sits there, saying nothing. My scalp prickles from his eyes watching me. As I leave the kitchen, Mum comes bustling back in, smelling suspiciously of mint, and says it's my turn for the washing up.

‘Look at all these hypocrites,' said Rachel. ‘If Salman Rushdie popped through those doors for a chat, this lot would head for the hills.'

It was the first Academic Night of the year and our dining hall had been turned into an auditorium with serious people in glasses trying to say smart things while waiting for the talk about Rushdie's fatwa to begin. Kesh, Rachel and I, dressed in white shirts and black skirts, had been commandeered to serve at the food and drinks table.

Kesh was wearing a tight-fitting blouse that she had borrowed from Annabel. The material gaped as the buttons strained to keep it together.

‘You don't think this is too revealing?' she asked, doing up the third button which had popped again.

‘Kesh, your boobs are the most appetising items on display,' Rachel said, hitching her black skirt higher. She had a point. In front of us was a trestle table with sweaty cubes of anonymous cheese sitting next to toothpicks of cocktail onions and processed meat. Rows of thimble-sized glasses were filled with what the Sub-Dean had described to us as ‘perfectly adequate sherry'.

‘This stuff should come with a health warning,' I said. ‘It looks worse than our dinners.'

‘They should have put Stoner in charge of refreshments,' replied Rachel. ‘That would get the party started.'

‘Or the Marchmain Club,' said Kesh, trying to keep up with the conversation.

Rachel frowned. ‘I don't know. I hear they might be disbanding, Nico's gone to pieces with the attack on Alice.' She was interrupted by the Sub-Dean bounding towards us.

‘More trays are coming up from the kitchen now, but remember, no serving of food or drinks until after the talk.' He began moving the plates of cheese to one side. ‘And girls,' he smeared a smile across his face, ‘for the duration of the evening, as we are being convivial, you may refer to me as Bryan.' He hurried away again to direct Rogan, who was coming out of the kitchen area, balancing two trays of vol-au-vents, towards us.

Rachel scoffed, Kesh giggled and whispered ‘Bryan' to herself, but I just watched Rogan.

‘All yours,' he said, handing me one tray and then the other.

I put them down next to the sherries. ‘What are they?'

Rachel bent over to take a closer look. ‘Road kill, I expect,' she said.

Rogan turned to me. ‘I heard you went and visited that girl in hospital last week. The one that got attacked.'

I nodded. ‘Kesh has been twice.'

‘How's she going?'

‘She's supposed to get discharged in a couple of days,' Kesh said, distracted by the button popping again. ‘She's got to have another operation but that won't happen for a while. Her parents are taking her home to recover over Easter but I don't know if she'll be back after term break.'

‘Did she see who attacked her?' asked Rogan. He was looking tired and pale and I wondered if he had caught the cold that had been travelling around college.

Kesh shook her head but Rachel butted in. ‘She told us she didn't, but I reckon she knew more than she was saying.' There was a mischievous look on her face.

‘Nico definitely knew more about it,' I said, thinking about his rant.

Kesh leant forward, putting increased pressure on the buttons, and spoke in a low voice. ‘I shouldn't say this, but I wouldn't be surprised if he was violent. He's really scary. The way he thought we knew the Screwdriver Man and screamed at us. I think it's good Alice is leaving to get away from him.'

‘Four students huddled together. Must be a conspiracy.' Marcus appeared, dressed in a high-collared lightweight black linen suit. It was the second week of April but the nights were already winter cold and college heating had been turned up so high that inside was a tropical hothouse.

Rachel explained.

‘Aah, that poor girl,' said Marcus. ‘A bad business, all that. Most unfortunate.' He frowned, shook his head but then brightened. ‘Now, you must tell me your views on Rushdie's predicament. An excellent topic for our first Academic Night. You know, I've met Salman,' he continued in an off-hand sort of way. ‘London, a few years ago. He was most urbane. Though I have to admit his appearance . . .' He waved his hand across his own face. ‘The droopy eyelids, pointed beard and eyebrows. It was all a little satanic really.'

I wondered if he had deliberately chosen tonight's topic merely to name-drop.

‘As though I was supping with the Devil,' Marcus went on. ‘Though one must say,' he looked at the food in front of us, ‘Lucifer would provide better catering than this.'

‘Have you read it?' I asked, pointing to the copy of
The Satanic Verses
he had tucked under his arm.

Marcus murmured something about perhaps over the break before saying, ‘Aah, the Guest of Honour,' and moving towards a short, round man wearing a three-piece suit that bulged like upholstery. He was nearly beaten by the Sub-Dean, who almost ran across the room, pushing the less important guests out of the way. The atmosphere immediately changed as huddled groups launched themselves into the Chancellor's gravitational pull. Marcus, taking the man's sausage-shaped arm, began to navigate the room, introducing him to people, while effectively edging out the Sub-Dean, who followed in their wake.

‘Is that the Chancellor?' asked Kesh. ‘He's so old.'

‘Otherwise known as the Octopus, so you better watch out wearing that top,' said Rachel. ‘He's the type who pretends he's a hugger, and then gropes you. At Chifley's Ball last year he put his hand up a girl's skirt.'

‘Did she make a complaint?' I asked.

‘Better than that, she got revenge. Slipped a mickey into that fat fuck's drink, and he ended up passed out in the toilets with his fly undone. They took pictures.'

Kesh was horrified. ‘They could have got into a lot of trouble over that.'

‘He deserved it,' said Rachel, unrepentant. ‘Besides, you ain't anyone unless you've been mickeyed.'

Rogan, who had been scanning the crowd, turned back to us. ‘One ancient mollusc heading your way. I'll make myself scarce.' He reached out and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘Sit with me for the talk, Pen. I'll try and keep my hands to myself.'

I thought how disappointing that would be if he was serious, and watched him disappear into the crowd.

The Chancellor made steady progress over to where we stood, the Sub-Dean hovering behind him. Marcus had been caught up in conversation with a man wearing leather patches on his cardigan's elbows.

Red-faced from the heating, the Chancellor demanded a drink of Kesh's breasts.

‘I'm sorry,' began Kesh, ‘but we aren't meant to serve any drinks until after . . .'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' snapped the Sub-Dean. ‘Get some sherry for the Chancellor at once.'

At this, some parched academics came up looking hopeful, but were shooed away by the Sub-Dean, who grabbed a glass of sherry from the table and presented it with something of a half bow. The Chancellor looked coldly at the Sub-Dean and icily at the glass.

‘Didn't realise we were on rations,' he said. ‘Marcus . . . Marcus,' he called. Marcus, who had been loudly recounting his Salman Rushdie anecdote, came over.

‘Bryan, being overzealous again? Don't worry, Leonard, I have some very good whisky in my office. Let's get this talk started and I'll revive you with it at the end.'

He gestured to Rachel, handed over a set of keys, and gave her whispered instructions. She immediately left the room.

I found Rogan and sat down next to him. We hadn't really spoken much since the Film Group night, but when he discovered I had been one of the people to find Alice, he had been really concerned. I took that as a hopeful sign. He asked more questions about my hospital visit to Alice, and, grateful for a topic of conversation that interested us both, I told him more about Nico, whom Rogan knew from a tutorial last year. We talked until Marcus stepped up to the microphone and introduced the lecturer, a visiting American academic.

Dr McKillen had a soft Southern accent that gently blurred the end of sentences, belying her rousing message of a call to arms. While she sounded nothing like Rachel, she seemed to share her view that most of those who said they supported Rushdie and his freedom of speech were not doing enough. People's commitment to the cause was tested when she started to read some of the controversial passages from the book. You could feel a ripple of anxiety move through the audience as if militants would storm the building, and I could see the Sub-Dean glancing at his watch so often that it seemed like a nervous tic. When she finally finished her speech, exhorting us to stand up for what was right, Marcus quickly confiscated the microphone and said that instead of going into the advertised question time, perhaps people should debate the issue amongst themselves while sampling from the ‘selection of delights cooked up by the Scullin kitchens'. This was embraced enthusiastically by the audience who hadn't yet seen what was on offer.

Rogan stretched his legs out.

‘What did you think of that?' I asked.

‘Easy to say in theory. I feel bad for the innocent people getting threatened. You know, the booksellers or publishing employees. Rushdie is being guarded twenty-four hours a day. Who's looking after them? Sometimes, other people pay the price for you trying to do the right thing.'

I nodded, not sure of what to say.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anyway, how's your term going? You enjoying Law?'

‘It's OK,' I answered. ‘Duller than I expected. Lectures especially. Weird sitting in a class with more people than in my year-level at school. Tutorials are OK.' Outside of Dale, I hadn't really bothered to meet many people in my course and tended to stay close to college rather than hang around Law School.

‘Did they do the whole “look to the left, look to the right, only one of you three will make it through this course” thing?'

‘That's a joke, right?' I asked.

‘Must just be an Accounting first-year tradition. Anyway, I've got to help Toby stock the beer fridge. He's expecting a rush to the college bar when people see what Bryan has in store for them.'

Kesh was already behind the food table when I got there.

‘Rachel hasn't come back with the whisky,' she said, looking anxious. ‘You don't think she's off drinking it somewhere? And here's the Chancellor now.'

The Chancellor had set a determined course back to our table, ignoring Bryan, who was trying to introduce him to Dr McKillen. Marcus was walking with him, nodding to people as they went past.

‘I think we can declare our first Academic Night a success,' Marcus announced.

The Chancellor snorted. It wasn't clear if he was agreeing or deriding.

As they reached us, Rachel slipped into the room holding a bottle and a couple of glasses.

‘Perhaps you could have a pastry while we pour you a whisky, Chancellor,' I said, offering them the tray. Marcus, out of loyalty, picked one and took a large bite.

‘What are they? Fish?' asked the Chancellor.

Marcus was making hard work out of swallowing it. ‘Fowl would be a more accurate description,' and he directed a wink in our direction. ‘Stick to the whisky, Leonard.' He waved a hand at Rachel.

‘Yes, you wouldn't want a man to die of thirst,' said the Chancellor, who on close inspection looked like he'd been hitting the bottle hard before he arrived. ‘Might cut down on the conversation.'

By this stage, the Sub-Dean, abandoning Dr McKillen to well-wishers, had weaselled his way next to the Chancellor, pressing more food onto him as a way to get his attention. But the Chancellor was too busy leering at Rachel's short skirt to notice.

‘A ministering angel, Marcus. I am beginning to see the attraction of being more hands-on with the students.' He laughed loudly at his own joke. ‘Now, young lady, where do you come from?'

Rachel didn't answer, concentrating instead on pouring the drinks, so Kesh piped up.

‘Rachel's mum is an ambassador so Rach has lived everywhere.'

Rachel shot Kesh a dirty look, but the Chancellor was captivated, and as Rachel passed him his whisky said, ‘Is that so? Where is her current posting?'

Again, Rachel seemed reluctant to answer but was saved by Leiza, who pushed into the group, carrying a ream of paper.

‘Excuse me, Chancellor, in light of the recent attacks on campus, I want to present a petition to you demanding better security . . .' The rest of her message was swamped by the Sub-Dean who seemed to think she presented a threat to the Chancellor and jumped in front of him, waving his arms. This achieved nothing other than knocking the whisky bottle out of Rachel's hands. It smashed onto the floor. A nearby academic, already a little unnerved by the talk or perhaps the catering, screamed.