Black Chalk (5 page)

For the first time since they had entered the Freshers’ Fair, Jack had been rendered speechless. He stared in shock at the pink-and-blue argyle and turned very slowly around.

Chad, whose attention had been focused elsewhere for some time, sensed the movement and his mind snapped back to his friends. He looked toward Jack, who was walking away gingerly, and became concerned. Perhaps something was wrong.

When he had tiptoed the length of a tennis court away from Sock Soc, Jack finally allowed himself to laugh, an explosive outburst, his body creasing and tears squeezing from his eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder why the fuck I came to this place,’ he said. ‘You know, there
are
normal universities in this country, places full of normal people. I could have gone to one of those.’

Chad wondered what he had missed. Sock Soc had seemed such an innocent proposition. But he soon lost the thread of his friends’ conversation.

Jolyon shook his head solemnly. ‘Learning is about more than just books, Jack. And I think we’ve all learned an important lesson today.’

Jack nodded. ‘The abortion procedure remains very much undervalued by the interbreeding classes.’

‘Thank God I met you, Jack. I could have ended up with friends who consider garment-based puns the highest form of wit.’ Jolyon clapped Jack on the shoulder and looked profoundly grateful. ‘Just what in the hell do you think is going on with those two?’ he said.

‘I think it’s pretty obvious,’ said Jack. ‘Tweedledee won’t admit to himself he’s gay. Not until he’s fifty-five, been married for thirty years and is the Member of Parliament for Sutton and Cheam. Meanwhile Tweedledum will be dead in ten years’ time after a tragic accident involving an adventurous bout of autoerotic asphyxiation. His latest beard will find him cock-out and lifeless in a cheap hotel room with a dog-eared copy of
Bodybuilders Monthly
and a sock stuffed with satsumas inserted most of the way into his mouth. Probably the pink-and-blue argyle.’

‘I don’t know if I can really laugh at people like that,’ said Jolyon.

‘I can,’ said Jack. ‘It gets me through the dark self-loathing hours. Well, that and alcohol. On the subject of which, anyone for a pint?’

*   *   *

VIII(iii)
   The reason Chad had not followed Jack’s encounter with Sock Soc was because he had become distracted. Instead of witnessing William and Warren’s duologue, Chad’s attention had been snagged by the next stall along. Its sign was much smaller than most. ‘Game Soc’, it read, the words handwritten on a piece of paper no larger than a golfer’s scorecard.

Game Soc’s stall was not manned by grinning sophomores. Instead, behind its counter there stood three older students, postgrads perhaps. And not a single one of them was wearing a name tag.

Earlier Chad had watched from a distance as two boys had approached Game Soc. The encounter hadn’t lasted long. Although Chad hadn’t heard the conversation, he had seen Game Soc’s reaction – the tallest of the three, his eyes distant and uninterested, shook his head three times and mouthed the words no no no.

Now two girls were approaching, the sort of girls whose appearance Chad imagined might soften the hearts of Game Soc’s stony representatives. He moved a little closer to hear.

‘Hello,’ said one of the girls. ‘We saw your stall, and we were wondering what sort of games you play at Game Soc.’

‘What sort of game did you have in mind?’ said the tallest. He said this with no trace of suggestion, not even a hint of innuendo in his voice.

‘Well, I like party games like Twister,’ said the second girl.

‘No,’ replied the tallest, looking away.

‘Any party games at all?’

‘No.’

‘Board games then?’

‘No.’

‘Well, what sort of games
do
you play?’

It was the second tallest member of Game Soc who spoke next. ‘I don’t think you’re quite Game Soc material,’ he said to the girls.

‘But you don’t know anything about us.’

Game Soc’s two shorter representatives exchanged glances. They seemed to communicate something wry, or perhaps something condemnatory, it was hard to tell.

Finally the shortest member of Game Soc spoke. ‘Let’s none of us waste any more time now,’ he said.

‘Well, I think you’re all tremendously rude,’ said the second girl. ‘There are all sorts of societies who showed a great deal of interest in us.’ She waved a stack of handouts to prove her point.

‘You don’t even have any leaflets,’ said the first girl. ‘No one’s going to join your stupid little soc anyway.’

Game Soc’s three representatives remained motionless, their expressions unchanging, and said nothing more.

The girls left, nodding to each other as they went, outwardly very much in agreement. Game Soc was for losers. But Chad also saw in their movements a sense of defeat. Two sails limp at sea and the air short of breath.

For a brief moment Chad admired the cruelty of Game Soc, even felt some small and vicarious enjoyment. If only he could be so … But then he performed a quick mental check and shifted his sympathy wholly to the girls.

Jack and Jolyon were moving away down the hall. He followed them, several steps behind, only half listening as they talked. Something about abortion, puns, satsumas. Chad couldn’t stop thinking about what he had witnessed at the Game Soc stall.

‘Well, the college bar’s closed so how about the Churchill Arms?’ said Jack.

‘Let’s go,’ said Jolyon.

‘No, wait,’ said Chad. ‘I just want to visit one last stall.’

*   *   *

IX(i)
   I am still abuzz from my time spent outside. (I will try to forget the ugliness of its ending.) I now feel so fresh in my mind that I barely require mnemonics to perform my afternoon routine. I use these precious hours not only for writing but also in preparation for less lucid days.

I go to the cake tin in the kitchen and dole out three weeks’ worth of pills. (I have only a limited supply of ice-cube trays in which to keep daily doses.) I delight in unlocking child-safe lids and tearing open new boxes. I ease pills from their foil-covered trays with my thumbs, a diversion as pleasurable as playing pop with a fresh sheet of bubble wrap.

I have accumulated an impressive pharmaceutical collection. Diazepam, lorazepam, Codipar, diclofenac, Vicodin, dihydrocodeine, OxyContin, Percocet …

I adore the strange names of these drugs. I think the exoticism forms part of the appeal, like the philatelist’s enjoyment of stamps issued in strange and distant lands.

Of the many collectors’ stratagems I have devised over the last fourteen years, simple blackmail has often proved the most effective. A naive doctor, an older gentleman, usually. Doctor Proctor is nearing the end of his career rainbow, his retirement gold awaits. You lead him gently into overprescription and soon you have him where you want him. Your requests increase, new varieties, everything in greater bulk. He says this is not possible, you start throwing names at him. Medical councils, local politicians, newspapers. Being a journalist, you tell him, you can always claim you were carrying out a sting. He is already in over his head, the risk is all his.

Your collection grows.

*   *   *

IX(ii)
   I stop typing to take in a lungful of world, to breathe in its scents as I stand by my window. And that’s when I see something wonderful. Small and fading in the southern evening sky, I catch the returning airplane’s loops and swoops just a moment before they start to melt away. HELLO NEW YORK, reads the sky. And then a few seconds later, when its first-written letters have faded, O NEW YORK.

I clap my hands and the air in my soul turns bright.

And while I have been describing to you this propitious sight, its cryptic significance has dawned on me. Yes, I must stop taking my pills. I am in serious training, the outside world is my medicine now. I must wean myself off them.

And I promise. I won’t forget. Starting tomorrow.

*   *   *

X
   They were arranged in height order with the tallest at the left. He wore a single-breasted jacket, woollen and greeny-grey, and beneath this a crisp white shirt with only the topmost button unfastened. The shirt was tucked into jeans with a snowy fade to them, half a decade or more out of date. Tallest’s haircut was short and neat, the hair parted to one side. He wore spectacles with large teardrop lenses like those of an aviator’s sunglasses. He had about him the air of a young London accountant dressed for a weekend in the Cotswolds. Twenty-five but going on fifty.

The other two were similarly dressed with jeans and tucked-in shirts but without jackets or glasses. Middle had black hair both on top of his head and sprouting from his nose like frayed electric cables. Shortest was a fading blond. They looked like science postgrads, serious types when they weren’t quoting from Douglas Adams or Monty Python.

Chad was normally so nervous but now he was leading from the front, first up to the stall and planting his palms with intent. Jack had seemed ready to say something but Chad snatched away the opportunity. ‘I have a proposition for you,’ he said, ‘for an entirely original and inventive game.’ No one from Game Soc flinched. ‘But I can turn straight around right now, if you don’t think original and inventive ideas are your thing.’ He lifted his hands and made to leave.

‘Continue,’ said Tallest.

‘Six people, a number of rounds, each one separated by a week. A game of consequences, consequences which must be performed to prevent elimination. These consequences take the form of psychological dares, challenges designed to test how much embarrassment and humiliation the players can stand. Throughout the rounds players who fail to perform their consequences are eliminated until only one is left standing.’

Jolyon moved forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with his friend. ‘The game takes place in utter secrecy,’ he said, joining in and feeling it was important to mention secrecy early on in the sell.

‘Yes, complete secrecy is vital,’ said Chad.

‘Success within such a game would rely upon a mixture of luck and skill,’ said Jolyon, ‘just like in the real world.’ And then he reflected upon the analogy, this being the first time he had thought of it. Yes, he liked it, a game of life.

‘Each player will be asked for a security deposit,’ said Chad.

‘Yes,’ said Jolyon, ‘failure to perform a consequence results in loss of deposit, which has to be a not inconsiderable sum. And any lost deposits get added to the grand prize.’

‘Stop,’ said Tallest, raising his index finger. And then he said, ‘Name please,’ while looking at Chad.

‘Chad Mason.’

Middle took a small pad from his jeans, then a pen from his shirt pocket and wrote something down.

‘Name please,’ repeated Tallest, looking at Jolyon this time.

Jolyon said his name and again Middle made note of it.

‘Continue please,’ said Tallest.

‘And I’m Jack,’ said Jack, ‘Jack Andrew Thomson, no P in Thomson.’

Middle made no movement of pen toward paper.

‘Continue please,’ said Tallest again. ‘And tell me in more detail about these consequences.’

Jolyon looked to his friend. They had not discussed the Game all the way down to its dots and crosses.

‘They start out as humorous dares,’ said Chad hesitantly.

‘Yes, humorous dares,’ said Jolyon, playing for time as he tried to snatch some ideas from his mind. ‘And it would fall to all the players as a group to finalise the details, but in the early stages consequences would prove merely entertaining, only a little embarrassing. For example, you would agree to advertise to the entire college – using posters, a note in the weekly newsletter and so on – that you would perform a solo singing concert at a certain time, in a certain place.’ Tallest’s expression did not alter. ‘Or a magic show,’ said Jolyon. ‘Magic’s so passé, don’t you agree?’ Tallest continued to look unaffected. ‘It wouldn’t stand a chance of going down well at Pitt,’ said Jolyon.

‘Or something as simple as turning up to one of your tutorials bare-chested or maybe wearing a bikini top if the consequence were drawn by a girl.’ said Chad. Briefly he pictured a particular girl in a blue bikini top. He imagined the lines of her shoulder blades nuzzling the leather armchair in a tutor’s room, an essay resting lightly on her lap like a starched white napkin.

‘Or the opposite,’ said Jolyon, slightly desperately now. ‘You have to wear a suit and tie for a month.’ Jolyon looked at Tallest and felt a sense of the sand in an hourglass falling too quickly away. ‘And not only would you lose your deposit for the non-performance of a consequence but you would also lose your money if you revealed to a single person outside of the game why you were behaving in such an eccentric fashion. As we mentioned, secrecy is vital.’

‘And then round by round the consequences would become tougher,’ said Chad. But then he paused because to continue speaking, his imagination would have to venture into territory they hadn’t yet explored.

‘We don’t intend to put anyone in danger and we wouldn’t ask anyone to do anything excessively illegal. It’s not that sort of game. But like Chad said, the consequences would become tougher and more embarrassing. But for me, that’s one of the most interesting elements of the Game. Embarrassment is in the eye of the beholder, don’t you agree? Personally the idea of singing in public would terrify me so much I might throw in the towel and forfeit my security deposit on the spot. Other people might have no problem with singing, the person who drew such a dare might even be a great singer. It’s all definitely very psychological rather than physical. And that’s one example of the element of luck involved.’ Jolyon was playing for more time, hoping some appropriate escalation would simply appear wholly formed in his mind. ‘You might, for example … you might ask someone to run naked three times round front quad.’ Jolyon flinched inside. Like drunken rugby players, he thought, how painfully unoriginal.

‘Or put on an art exhibition,’ said Chad, regretting the words as soon as he spoke them.

Tallest leaned back a little. The interest that had thrust forward his shoulders had begun to wane. He looked away from Jolyon and Chad as he readied himself to speak.