In the second week I assessed my future. Ignoring the numerous phone calls from my wife and the friends I have acquired during the past few days, I considered the plight of the suicidal Frenchman. It seemed to me, as before, that there were two options. One: take the chance, thank God for my miraculous deliverance and go forth in gratitude and joy. Two: defy God and step out into the unknown. Perhaps this is now the only freedom I can hope for. Perhaps this is my lucky number.
Mrs Parsons believes that a million pounds would change her life. If I thought they would, I’d give them to her. But Mrs Parsons has something that all my wealth will never give me. She has hope. She has direction. What do I have?
This is why, near the end of the second week, I decided to end my life. I would do it cleanly, I decided, but with dramatic impact, after having tied up all loose ends. As a result of my decision I experienced a time of desperate euphoria, as I imagine Monsieur Dumont might have felt on the morning of his long climb up the Tower. A dead man, you see, has nothing to lose; and a man with nothing to lose has passed beyond despair into a state almost approaching bliss.
A week, I told myself. One week in which to do everything. Everything I’d never dared. Every risk I’d never taken. I realized I was freer than I had ever thought possible; every moment was an unexpected holiday; every hour a new round of my game of ever-increasing stakes. In a week, without assessing a single risk, without taking account of a single figure, I:
Ordered five portions of sticky toffee pudding from the Fortnum & Mason teashop and ate them all in a single sitting.
Smoked several Cuban cigars.
Tried caviar (for the first time).
Took up the trampoline.
Made a very clear and legal Last Will and Testament, leaving all my money to my ex-wife – with the single provision that she puts on four stone in weight and never re-marries.
Had unprotected sex with two leather-clad blondes in a parked vehicle off Shaftesbury Avenue.
Got a tattoo of Monsieur Dumont, my spiritual partner, on my left buttock.
Drank pink Laurent-Perrier champagne in the bath whilst reading a novelette and listening to Mahler’s Fifth symphony very loudly on my new stereo.
Tried cocaine (supplied by one of the leather-clad blondes).
Booked a one-way trip to Paris by private jet.
Consumed one very rare steak, on the bone, with extra fries.
Bought a small handgun (from a gentleman friend, also leather-clad, of one of the blondes), a portable mini-trampoline, a bowler hat, an umbrella and some wax earplugs.
Crossed busy roads several times without looking in either direction.
Shot the Bloke From Work twice in the stomach, having concealed the small handgun in my new umbrella.
Note: the adrenaline rush is very strong in such cases, and I found it quite invigorating. I wore the bowler hat with one of my new suits and a very beautiful pink silk tie, which, I fancy, gives me a rather pleasing dandy look. The earplugs, too, were a sensible precaution (and to think my ex-wife always described him as a quiet man).
The flight to Paris, too, has been stimulating to a degree I would not have believed possible, though that might have been the cocaine. It seems rather a pity that it is to be my only aerial experience – unless we count my descent from the Tower, which I imagine will be quite exciting.
This is my first encounter with foreign travel. According to Mrs Parsons, Paris is at its most romantic in the spring, and I am glad to be able to confirm that it is indeed very attractive. Blue sky; light breeze; cherry trees in blossom lining the quiet Seine. The cherry blossom is a poignant symbol, I think; the wind lifts and flutters it like pink snow. Its hue matches exactly my new pink tie. Shall I lift and flutter, I wonder? It is certainly quite a gusty day. In a higher wind, the top levels of the Tower are closed to visitors. I am amused to discover (from a street vendor at the Trocadero, from whom I purchased a small facsimile of the Tower, in gilt) that the public levels of the Tower are heavily protected by wire mesh, thereby making any attempt to jump impossible. There is a net, too, strung across the void between the Tower’s four giant feet, but this is to prevent litter and other impedimenta from falling onto the heads of the people below. It is most unlikely to trouble me.
I decide to make my climb on foot, as did Monsieur Dumont. There are three hundred and forty-seven metal stairs (somewhat infrequently used) to the first (and in my case, last) level; and there is something intangibly pleasant, even religious, about the ascent, as if this were some pilgrimage and I a penitent. I realize as I climb that the relative freedom enjoyed by Monsieur Dumont and his brethren has been strictly curtailed; barbedwire guards prevent the climber from venturing beyond the stairway, and as I pass the first landing I see that even here, there are obstacles and protective barriers to prevent potential Monsieurs Dumont from exercising their democratic right to freefall. However, I have anticipated this. I pass the second landing. Now the stair is even more narrow and winding. Fifty more stairs. I am grateful for the healthy lifestyle which permits me to climb so many stairs with relatively little fatigue. Thirty more. Twenty.
Facts and figures on the Eiffel Tower:
1887 (date of construction).
18,038 (separate pieces).
9,700 (tonnes in weight).
31,000 (cubic metres of earth displaced).
2,500,500 (rivets).
312.27 (metres in height).
8,000,000 (price in gold francs).
57.63 (metres drop from first floor).
It doesn’t sound very high, does it? Height, of course, is relative. At six foot one I am considered rather tall, although less than three inches taller than the average. Already, the Champ de Mars unrolls beneath my feet like a marvellous grey-gold carpet. I am wearing one of my new suits, the pink tie, the bowler hat, and I am carrying my briefcase and my umbrella. I do not know what Monsieur Dumont wore for his great leap, but I hope he too felt the sense of occasion and dressed accordingly. Frenchmen do this well, I think; I like to think his sense of style, at least, was undiminished.
On reaching the first landing, I am pleased to note that visitors are few. Perhaps the wind; perhaps the early hour. Choosing a secluded area away from the gardien in his glass box, I rapidly take from my briefcase the portable mini-trampoline. It takes less than a minute to unfold and assemble (I have been practising). On its light aluminium frame it is about the size of a dustbin lid, and sits squarely on the riveted platform. A good jump should enable me to clear the wire barrier, and I have already planned and calculated the angle of my intended trajectory. Of course, there can be no accounting for the X-factor. Besides, that’s half the fun, isn’t it?
I stand for a second or two, watching the panorama. Not for long; the gardien has spotted me, and is watching me with a look of stunned incomprehension from his fishtank box. I would not give him odds on reaching me in time, however. A small preparatory bounce or two on the mini-trampoline (it is a most enjoyable sensation, and I wish I had taken it up earlier); then a larger bounce, with the Paris skyline tilting enticingly below me.
I am bouncing quite high now, and the gardien’s approaching cries tell me that it is time for me to get into position. I must aim for the space between two of the Tower’s metal struts, clearing the wire barrier and launching myself at an angle of about forty-five degrees into the air. Paris in a spring. I’m sure Mrs Parsons would approve.
Of course, the likelihood of my being able to replicate Monsieur Dumont’s epic leap is rather remote. The wind is quite fresh here, but perhaps not enough to displace a weight of twelve stone six falling at a velocity of (by my reckoning) about sixty miles an hour, and gaining every second. Fifteen million to one, I daresay, but I have to admit that this is a very rough estimate, and that the chances may in fact be much, much smaller. It’s a challenge, of course. And, keeping my eye on the target as I check my position, I have to say I do feel lucky. A leap of faith, as Mrs Parsons might have said. Faith. Hope. You ca
n almost believe—
a man
can
fly.
Waiting for Gandalf
Because sometimes, reality just doesn’t satisfy.
IT’S NOT ALWAYS fun being a monster. I mean, someone has to do it, and sometimes you can have a bit of a laugh beating up an elf or a wizard, but let’s face it, most of the time it’s all about lurking behind bushes or knee-deep in icy water, waiting for the adventurers to stumble upon you by accident, or, more likely, to pass you by altogether and move on to the next encounter, leaving you to freeze your butt off till someone remembers to tell you where they’ve gone.
Of course, they don’t tell you that at first. Monstering’s the best job, that’s what they say. No guilt, no stress, cool gear and the ability to come back to life on demand. What else could you need?
Well, maybe it does have its moments. I remember my first time: sixteen years old; bookish; skinny; desperate. There was a girl in it: a half-elf; twenty years old; red hair and little latex ears. Gorgeous. In fact I’d joined the group just to be near her, though she hardly ever noticed me except occasionally to shoot arrows at me or to hack at me with her sword. Still, she always killed me in an affectionate, friendly way, or so I told myself, and in return I always made a special effort when I was attacking her, until she complained that she was being harassed and her boyfriend (a pro warrior with quarterback shoulders and a bad case of testosterone) had to warn me off.
By then, though, I was hooked. I’d been bashed, battered, hacked, decapitated, blessed, shot, levitated, zombified, vaporized, stabbed, turned and reduced to slime. And still every Saturday night I came back, come rain, come snow, to spend the midnight hours in combat against the forces of light.
Such is the demonic lure of the live-action role-playing game. You start with Tolkien – maybe your school even encourages you – then, slowly drawn in via Steve Jackson or Games Workshop, your habit becomes secretive: sinister. Your parents complain that you never go out, of strange smells coming from your room. Your friends avoid you; you find yourself hanging around Oxfam shops; you begin to appreciate what your little sister sees in Xena, Warrior Princess; and finally you erupt triumphantly onto the scene clad in a woolly jumper (sprayed silver to approximate chain mail) and with your bedroom curtain pinned proudly around your shoulders, bearing a rubber sword coated in silver masking tape and calling yourself Scrud the Magnificent.
Predictably, this outing is greeted with fear and loathing by your loved ones. But already the seed is sown; you enter the world of hardcore role-play, and within three weeks you’ve exchanged your taped sword for one moulded from latex, you’re making your own chain mail from thousands of split washers and you find yourself debating the relative merits of cap or raglan sleeves with a dwarf called Snorri.
From then on, there’s no turning back. Every Saturday night, the role-playing cell – a party of adventurers, one of monsters and a monster referee – convenes at the edge of the woods. Throughout the night these warring factions pursue one another through the undergrowth, armed to the fangs and bent on murder. It’s an addiction, you see; the dark, the thrill of the hunt, the primitive weapons, the primal fear. And for some – for the weaklings like myself, for the desperate, for the rejects and the misfits and the loners and the freaks – it provides much-needed relief; a chance, for a night, to be something other than themselves.
Two weeks out of three I was a monster. The third week I was a warrior priest by the name of Lazar, until I was shot by a group of orcs; then I was a ranger called Wayland, who managed to reach third level before falling into an ambush set by an evil cleric; then a wizard called Doomcaster, unexpectedly hit by a magic missile; and finally a barbarian called Snod who had to be abandoned on grounds of ill-health (it was January, knee-deep in snow, and barbarians don’t wear vests).
For some time I put it down to bad luck that my characters so seldom survived the night. Other regulars advanced, gained levels and skills, became in fact almost invulnerable. Thirty years later, most of the regulars are still with us: there’s Titania, the elf-maid, still red-haired and gorgeous; Litso the thief; Beltane the warrior, who tells everyone he’s in the Territorial Army at weekends; Philbert Silvermane the old paladin, over forty when we started and still going strong – though he tends to go for less combat nowadays, and more elixir from his potion flask. Snorri the axe-man is still with us, and Jupitus the wizard, and Veldarron the swordsman, and Morag the healer, who only comes along because she’s Veldarron’s girlfriend and he’s always getting hurt. In fact he can hardly pick up a sword without hitting himself in the face with it, but thanks to Morag’s healing skills, he’s managed to achieve both virtual immortality and a long-standing reputation as a master of weaponry.
I’m not sure about Morag’s commitment, though. Frankly, it’s rather dull being a healer. I’ve seen her face when she thinks the others aren’t looking, and she has this habit of saying ‘Yeah, whatever’ when someone corrects her incantations. Still, Veldarron’s always had a bit of a thing for Titania (doesn’t everyone?), and I suppose Morag thinks she’s keeping an eye on the competition. And finally, there’s Spider. I have to say I’m a little worried about him; I mean, there’s fantasy, and there’s real life, but I’m not sure Spider knows the difference. For a start, I’ve never seen him out of character. The others have daytime identities: Titania runs a New Age bookshop; Veldarron’s an accountant; Litso works for the Inland Revenue. But not Spider. As far as anyone can tell, he’s Spider all the time. No one knows his real name; no one has ever seen him out of costume. The others come along in combats or jeans, exchange pleasantries, maybe drop in at a nearby pub for a couple of beers before they get kitted up and into the part. But not Spider. He doesn’t do small talk. Ask him if he watched the film on TV last night and he’ll just give you one of his long stares, as if you’re something he’s just found under a stone. No one knows where he lives. You can’t imagine him living in a regular house, with a sofa or a toaster or even a bed. He’ll meet you in the pub – he’ll even have a drink if someone else is paying – but he’ll always arrive in full kit: swords, crossbow, cloak, ring mail, backpack, tunic, potions flask, utility belt, holy symbol. And it’s good gear – professional gear. Everyone else has mostly homemade stuff. Most of the players have one good and fairly authentic item – usually a weapon. But all Spider’s stuff looks authentic.
Ring mail, for instance, costs a fortune; but fitted, customized ring mail costs more. You can pay up to three hundred pounds for a really good latex weapon, but Spider has a whole armoury of them: long swords, bastard swords, short swords, shields, daggers, crossbows with special bolts; plus the real weapons he carries just for show (obviously he can’t use them in combat). Great for role-play, but it does tend to cause a bit of a stir down the local on a Saturday night.
Not that he cares. He’s immune to mockery or funny looks. And since that incident with the football crowd last summer, most people give him a wide berth, and avoid those tempting Lord of the Rings jokes. Because unlike Veldarron, Spider can fight; as a perpetual monster, I can vouch for that. He practises, you see. In thirty years, I’ve seen him injured less than a dozen times. And when it does happen he takes it so seriously, with vials of fake blood and stage-make-up scars. What’s more, I suspect he has them tattooed on afterwards – I know for a fact that he still has the scar I gave him five years ago, from a magic missile, when I was an evil cleric. Latex sword or not, he looked ready to kill me for hitting him in the back, but Titania – whose turn it was to be the ref that night – decided it was a fair shot and First Morag (one of our present Morag’s predecessors) had to heal him quick. Since then I’ve been a little bit nervous of Spider.
Then, of course, we’ve got the monsters. Tonight there are ten of us; mostly occasional players, not regulars like Titania, Spider and me. The university’s a good place to look for sword-fodder; most students have plenty of time on their hands, and they’re cheerful, energetic and, for t
he most part, easy to manage. Still, it’s important to have an experienced person in charge; that’s why I’m here. New monsters can sometimes get carried away: they don’t declare hits; they get over-excited. I’m here to keep them under control. To make sure they follow the rules. To make sure no one really gets killed. Because in those woods anything can happen; it’s dark, you’re edgy, and sometimes on a good night you can genuinely believe it’s all for real; that there really are orcs out there, or werewolves, or walking dead. Out there you can almost believe you’re miles from civilization; your only light is the moon; every shadow might be an enemy. One false move, and you’re dead; the knowledge leaves every nerve-end sizzling, every sense aware.
On a bad night, it’s raining; you’ve sprained your ankle; there’s dogshit on your adventuring boots and you can hear faint karaoke from a nearby pub; then a police car draws up to investigate a report of a disturbance and as the most experienced member of the group, you’re left trying to explain to the duty constable precisely why you’re traipsing round the woods at one in the morning dressed as a goblin and covered in mud. Like I said, it’s not always fun being a monster.
Tonight’s a little mixed. OK, it’s raining a little. But there are raggy clouds overhead, and a quarter moon, and it’s not too cold. Atmospheric. Right now I’m sitting under a tree with my cagoule on, going over the encounter sheets. It’s my turn to monster ref. I’m quite looking forward to that.
The monsters are here already. You have to brief them first, when the regular players aren’t around, so that they know more or less what’s going to happen and what costumes they have to wear. There are roles to allocate, rules to lay down. Often there’s a newbie, some spotty student in Army gear who fancies his chances. Tonight there are three, all a bit giggly and hyperactive. I don’t know their names – sometimes there’s no point in learning them, as turnover can be quite rapid. The others are sixth-form pupils of mine, aged seventeen or eighteen at the most: Matt, Pete, Stuart, Scott, Jase and Andy. And me, of course. Smithy. The perpetual monster.
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