Starter For Ten (39 page)

'I know what he's asking, Lucy!' I snap.

'So, do you speak Italian?' asks Patrick.

'No! No, not as such . . .'

'And yet Lucy does, and Alice does, and / do, and yet it was you, Brian Jackson, you, the sole non-Italian speaker on the team, who felt qualified to attempt to answer a starter question on Italian musical terms . . .'

'No one else was buzzing, so I thought I'd have a stab . . .'

'And that's the problem with you, isn't it Brian? It's just stab, stab, stab with you, stabbing away in the dark, getting it wrong every time, but just stabbing away, over and over again, just getting everything wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, and losing the game, and dragging us all down with you.' His face is bright burgundy now, the same colour as his university sweatshirt, and inches away from mine ...

'Hey, come on guys, it was just a rehearsal,' says Lucy, trying to squeeze in between us while Alice stands a little further off, her hands over her face, peeking through her fingers.

'...I don't even know why I let you on this team in the first place! You turn up pissed and reeking of booze, you act like you know it all when in fact you know nothing. As far as this team is concerned you're a complete dead-weight. . .' his hands on my chest, fingers splayed and I can feel a fine spray of his saliva on my cheek ...'we'd probably be better off with some bloke off the street, even that stupid bloody mate of yours, Spencer, you're both as pig-ignorant as each other.

It's like they say, you can take the boy out of Essex, but you can't take . . .'

And I suppose he must carry on talking after that, because his mouth continues to move, but I don't really hear what he's saying because all I'm aware of is his hands tugging on the lapels of Dad's brown corduroy jacket, pulling me up on to my toes. That's when I make my decision, that's where something snaps - except it doesn't really snap, just stretches - and maybe it's the mention of Spencer, or the remnants of last night's booze, but that's the point at which I decide to head-butt Patrick Watts. I take a little leap up into the air, not a basketball player's leap by any means, just a little spring on the balls of my feet, and I bring my head down as hard as I possibly can into the very centre of his screaming burgundy face. And I'm ashamed to say that I have a fleeting but intense sense of pleasure and satisfaction and righteous vengeance before the pain finds its way to my brain and everything goes black.

QUESTION: In T.S. Eliot's Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock, the evening is 'spread out against the sky ...?'

ANSWER: '...Like a patient etherised upon a table.'

'As a Glaswegian, born and bred, I think it's safe to say that what we're looking at here is an absolutely classic misunderstanding of the basic principle of the head-butt,' says Rebecca Epstein. 'The whole point of a head-butt is to bring the hard part of your forehead down with as much force as possible on to the soft part of your opponent's nose. What you've done here, Brian, is bring the soft part of your nose down against the hard part of his forehead. Hence the blood and the loss of consciousness.'

I open my eyes and find myself lying on my back on two office desks pushed together. Lucy Chang is standing over me, brushing my fringe back out of my eyes, holding up three fingers and asking, 'How many fingers am I holding up?'

'If I get the answer wrong, do we lose five points?'

She smiles. 'Not this time, no.'

'Then the answer is three.'

'And the capital of Venezuela is ...?'

'Caracas?'

'Attaboy, Mr Jackson,' says Lucy. 'I think you're going to be just fine.'

We seem to be a couple of floors up; looking out over the back of the TV studios in the University Challenge production office; reference books scattered everywhere, photos of past winners on the walls. I turn my head to the side and see Rebecca, sat on the edge of a desk opposite me, looking pretty - not pretty, because the word 'pretty' is reactionary and gender-specific, but attractive - in a long, plain, clingy black dress under a black denim jacket, swinging her Doc Martens backwards and forwards.

'You came, then?'

'Oh, aye. Wouldn't have missed this for the world. There I was on the minibus with a bunch of pissed-up Young Conservatives all with their college scarves and their ironic teddy-bears, and paying three quid towards the petrol I might add, which is an absolute rip-off if you do the maths, and I thought, Christ, what am I doing here? This is hell And then we arrive and we're all getting a wee pre-show tour of the studio, and we turn a corner just in time to see you lying on the floor unconscious in a pool of your own blood, and I thought, well, there you go, if that's not worth three quid, then I don't know what is.'

I look down, and see that I'm wearing just trousers and a vest, the same vest I've been wearing for the last thirty-six hours, which is dappled in blood down the front, and has a tang of gin to it. In fact, it's more than just a tang. It's fumes. I'm giving off fumes.

'What happened to my clothes?'

'We ravished you, Lucy and me, while you were unconscious. Don't mind, do you?'

Lucy blushes. 'Alice is washing your shirt in the ladies' washroom, trying to get it dry under the hand dryer . . .'

'Is the jacket all right?'

'The jacket's fine . . .'

'...it's just it was my Dad's jacket . . .'

'It's fine, really . . .'

Gingerly I sit up sideways, on the edge of the desk, and imagine that I can feel my brain shifting too, buffeting against the sides of my skull. Lucy holds up the mirror from her make-up kit, and I take a deep breath and look. It could be worse I suppose; my nose seems no more lumpy and misshapen than usual, though there's a dark waxy rim of what looks like red crayon around each nostril.

'How's Patrick?' I ask Lucy.

'Not a scratch on him,' she says.

'Pity,' I say.

'Hey, that's enough now,' she says, but smiling conspiratorially. Then with a straight face, 'There is a problem, though.'

'What?'

'Well... I don't think they're going to let you do the show.'

'What* You're kidding!'

'I'm afraid not.'

'But why not?'

'Well, you did assault our team captain.'

The didn't assault him! I hit him oncel And he provoked me, you saw that, he was lifting me up by my jacket! And anyway, I'm the one who got hurt! How can I have assaulted him if I'm the one who got hurt? . . .'

'And that, m'lord, is the case for the defence,' says Rebecca.

'I know, Brian, but still, Patrick's not happy. He's got a friend, from the Economics Department, who's prepared to take your place at the last minute . . .'

'You're kidding . . .'

'You can't really blame him, Brian. You turn up stinking of booze, get a whole load of questions wrong, then try and break his nose . . .'

'But my mum's here and everything!'

'It's only a stupid quiz, Brian,' says Rebecca, still swinging her feet.

'But she's come all the way from Southend! . . .' and I can hear my voice crack slightly, which is pathetic in a man of nineteen, I know, but I wanted so much to be on the show. I have a sudden vision of me trying to explain to Mum why I'm not out there after all. It's going to feel like being sent home early from school, it's so embarrassing, so shaming that I can't bear to think about it.

'What does Julian say?'

'Julian says it's up to Patrick. He's with him at the moment, talking it through . . .'

'And what do you think?'

Lucy frowns for a moment, then says, 'I think that if you both promise to play nice, and stop behaving like children, and agree to work together as a team, and go a little easy on the buzzer, then I think that, yes, you should do the show . . .'

'Well, can you say that to him for me, Lucy? Please?'

And she sighs, checks her watch, looks at the door, and says, I'll see what I can do,' then she heads out, leaving me and Rebecca in the production office, sat on the edge of opposite desks, about fifteen feet apart from each other, both swinging our legs and trying to ignore what I think is called 'an atmosphere between us'. When the silence becomes too uncomfortable, Rebecca nods towards the door.

'She's nice.'

'Who?'

'Lucy.'

'Yes. Yes, she is. Really, really nice.'

'So why don't you go out with her then?' says Rebecca.

'...What?'

'...I just think she seems nice, that's all . . .'

'...because I don't want to! . . .'

'...but you just said she was nice . . .'

'...lots of people are nice . . .'

'...not beautiful enough for you, is that it? . . .'

'...I didn't say that, did I? . . .'

'...not sexy enough? . . .'

'...Rebecc . . .'

'...because, let me tell you, you're no oil-painting yourself, pal . . .'

'...no, I know . .

'...sat there in your blood-stained vest . . .'

'...all right . . .'

'...which is none too fresh I might add, even from here . . .'

'...thank you, Rebecca . . .'

'...so why not, then? . . .'

'...because she probably doesn't like me! . . .'

'...how d'you know? If you haven't asked? You didn't see the way she was looking at you while you were in your coma . . .'

'...rubbish . . .'

'...brushing your hair out your eyes and everything, it was a very touching scene . . .'

'...rubbish! . . .'

'...lovingly sticking toilet-roll up your nostril, it was actually quite erotic . . .'

'...Rebecca! . . .'

'...it's true! If I hadn't been here she'd've probably had your kecks off too, and you none the wiser . . .'

'...rubbish! . . .'

'...so why are you blushing then? . . .'

'...I'm not! . . .'

'...so why don't you ask her? . . .'

'...ask her what? . . .'

'...ask her out . . .'

'...because I don't . . .'

'...what? . . .'

'...I'm not . . .'

'...go on . . .'

'...in ...love with her . . .'

'...same as you're not with me?'

'...what?

'...you heard . . .'

'...Rebecca, can we? . . .'

'...what?'

'...talk about this later?'

'...why not now?'

'Because!' and I take a deep breath, the first for some time. 'Because I've got other things on my mind. Okay?'

'Okay,' she says. 'Okay, point taken,' and she slips down off the high desk, tugging her long dress, as if she's not quite got the hang of it, crosses the office and sits next to me on the edge of the table.

'Is that a frock you're wearing?' I say.

'Fuck-off it's a frock. It's a dress. How's your head?'

'Oh, you know. A bit sore.'

She reaches into the inside pocket of her coat and pulls out a quarter-bottle of whisky.

'Care for some medicine?'

'Better not.'

'Go on, hair of the dog?'

'It was a different dog. Gin.'

'Och, that's just plain nasty. You do know gin's a depressant, don't you?'

'I think that's why I was drinking it.'

'Hmmmmmmm, self-pity and self-loathing - a winning combination. No wonder women find you irresistible. You're quite the Travis Bickle.' And she takes a swig from the bottle, offers it to me again. 'Trust me, scotch is definitely the way to go.'

'They'll smell it on my breath,' I say, but she reaches deep into her other pocket, and pulls out a packet of extra-strong mints. 'Go on, then,' I say. She passes me the bottle and I take a long swig, then pop a mint in my mouth, letting the tastes combine, and we look at each other and smile, and sit there, like school kids, feet dangling off the edge of the desk.

'Of course, you know Alice has been seeing someone else?' I say.

'Uh-huh.'

That guy Neil, the one who played Richard 111 last term, always hobbling around in the student bar . . .'

'The cunt on crutches . . .'

That's the one. I suppose you knew.'

'Well, I saw him scuttling out of her room a couple of times so let's just say I had an inkling . . .'

'Or a bunchr She looks at me quizzically, 'You know, like a hump, like Richard III ...? So why didn't you tell me then?'

'Not really any of my business, is it? Your love life.'

'No. Maybe not,' and I have to confess that, even with all that's happened, and Alice and the knock on the head and everything, that I think about kissing her, tucking the mint to a back corner of my mouth with my tongue, and leaning over and kissing her right now, just to see what would happen.

But the moment passes and instead I look at my watch.

They're taking their time.'

'Who?'

The jury.'

'Want me to go and check?'

'Yeah, that would be great,' and she pushes herself off the edge of the desk, and heads for the door. 'Put a good word in for me,' I say.

Till see if I can think of one,' she says, adjusts her dress, and goes, and I'm left alone.

I always get a bit fidgety by myself with nothing to read, especially sat in a vest, but thankfully this office is crammed with books - mostly reference books, but still books - so I pick up the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, which they'd been using as a pillow, and that's when I see it.

On the desk.

A blue clipboard.

On the clipboard are some photocopied A4 sheets. It has Julian the researcher's name handwritten at the top, so I assume it's just his production notes. He must have brought it with him when they carried me up here, and just left it on the desk. The A4 sheets aren't particularly interesting - just the names of the team members, a seating plan, list of crew names, all that kind of stuff. But in front of this is an envelope, a thick manila envelope that feels as if it contains two packs of playing cards. I unclip the envelope the clipboard.

The envelope isn't sealed. Or it is, but barely, just a half-inch of glue holding it closed. All I'd need to do is slide my thumb along the ...

I throw the envelope down on the desk, as if it had just become blisteringly hot.

Then I nudge it, pushing it away across the desk with the tip of a fingernail.