I return the gesture, smiling, and my neighbour goes back to his crossword. I feel a new kind of strength flowing into my chest.
And then my mood changes. While sitting there it comes to me that last night I dreamed of the six of us. I don’t think I have dreamed of us together for many years now.
Dreams can be so crude and unforgiving, they blur the subtleties of why and wherefore, the complexities of cause and effect. In last night’s dream everything becomes entirely my fault. Blame points its finger squarely at me in the form of a single blunt metaphor. In the dream I have a gun, I am defending myself, I pull the trigger. Game over.
And I wake up, as I do every morning of every day, seeing their faces again.
Victim. Victim’s mother.
I feel her arms around me. I see the tears running down her face as she thanks me, as she tells me what a good friend I have been. And I accept her gratitude, I keep the truth to myself.
And the guilt overwhelms me. It tightens its grip. The guilt is a knot that will never come undone.
XXII(i) At the end of their discussion of the Game Soc proposal, Emilia wondered whether it would be better to wait a while before beginning to play. Chad disagreed but tried to keep from his voice any resentment, although he felt like a child on Christmas morning told he had to wait until lunchtime for the opening of gifts. He was only at Pitt for a year, he explained, so they should begin right away. But it was their first term in Oxford, Emilia countered, and she wanted a chance to enjoy everything university life had to offer. So they called for a show of hands. And although Jolyon sided with Chad, the two of them lost the group’s first ever vote.
XXII(ii) They met Tallest and Middle and Shortest in a small cafe where the breakfasts were cheap and greasy and came with good chips. Jolyon and Chad and Jack went along. Chad felt like a general parleying battle terms.
They ate as they negotiated, Jolyon and Tallest doing most of the talking.
Tallest began by apologising. Game Soc had one further condition, it was remiss of him not to have mentioned it earlier. They required control over one consequence, Game Soc would choose the penalty for losing on a single occasion. But they would announce it later on, at the appropriate moment. Tallest assured them this required nothing illegal of them and it was nothing beyond the rules or spirit of their game.
Jolyon turned to his partners. Jack shrugged and Chad nodded.
Otherwise, there was little that proved controversial. Tallest was happy with the examples of consequences they had presented him, most of the darker ones having been suggested by Jack. And he accepted that not all them could be drawn up in advance, only those who survived would devise the later tests. The fittest or luckiest, bravest or most skilful, were those who should make the Game tougher with each passing round.
Once Jolyon could see Game Soc were happy with their proposal he mentioned, almost in passing, that they would begin playing at the start of second term. There followed a moment’s silence and Middle looked as if he was about to say something but winced suddenly in pain, looking down at his leg on the side Shortest was sitting. Then Middle folded his arms tight and kept quiet. Tallest was smiling as if unaware of anything happening next to him. The timing was not ideal, he suggested, was there any possibility of beginning as soon as possible? But Jolyon stood firm, a vote had been taken, there was nothing more could be done. Democracy had spoken. Tallest raised his eyebrows but gestured for Jolyon to continue.
They would play every Sunday and expected to finish maybe by the end of second term. Or almost certainly by the end of third. Not that there would be any limit to the end of the Game. It was last man standing.
No one back then could have imagined how much longer it would take.
XXII(iii) While Game Soc had grudgingly accepted a delay to the beginning of the Game, they had however insisted that deposits be handed over a week to the day after the breakfast meeting.
A thousand pounds was only a little less than each of them, apart from Chad, received each term in student grants. And they had already paid battels to Pitt, which accounted for a large proportion of their available funds.
It was Jolyon who came up with the solution. He had noticed that the local banks were eager for Oxford students to open accounts with them. Some of them offered financial rewards and all of them offered overdraft facilities. So around the city each of them traipsed opening new accounts anywhere they could. And then around they went again, withdrawing the daily limit from various cashpoints in the city, an overdraft carousel.
Chad, meanwhile, had some money saved he could use. He had worked the whole summer long, a tedious data entry job for Susan Leonard’s alumni database. He thought that he would use his savings to travel around Europe during spring break and then perhaps in the summer before returning to the States. Although in the end, of course, he never made it as far as the summer at Pitt.
Tallest arrived at Jolyon’s room at the prearranged time. He had with him a brown leather briefcase. A small piece of blue tape was stuck above its brass buckle.
‘Minor repair required,’ he responded, when Jolyon questioned him about it.
‘Or maybe you don’t want us to know your initials,’ said Jolyon, to which Tallest replied with a respectful nod.
‘Since the topic has been raised,’ said Tallest, ‘please allow me to suggest that none of you try surreptitiously to find out anything about us, about Game Soc. We’ve already laid down the rules, so maybe it’s too late to insist, but perhaps you could consider this friendly advice. Let’s just say it’s a matter of etiquette. You’re all intelligent and inquisitive people. But curiosity and cats and so on.’ Tallest shrugged as if to say that none of this really needed saying. ‘Anyway, let’s move swiftly on to the important stuff, the real reason we’re here,’ he continued, patting his briefcase. ‘Money.’
‘But first we want some assurances,’ said Chad. ‘How do we know this isn’t some kind of scam? What if you disappear with our cash?’
‘I can give no such assurances,’ said Tallest. ‘It’s a matter of take it or leave it, I’m afraid. All I can offer you is this . . .’ He opened the briefcase, lifted it head high and then flipped it quickly upside down. Down onto the floorboards there fell ten bundles of money tied up with red ribbon. ‘I opted for five-pound notes,’ said Tallest. ‘I thought it might drive home the point rather better.’
No one said anything, they only stared at the money.
‘Your turn now,’ said Tallest, holding out his hand.
Jack started to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. ‘You hold him down, Chad, and I’ll do him in with the ashtray.’
‘Yes, but then you’d all have to share,’ said Tallest. ‘And that wouldn’t be half as much fun.’ He bent down and threw one of the bundles to each of them in turn. ‘Just so you can ascertain whether it’s real or not,’ he said.
They each held the money for a moment as if it were something fragile. Jack riffled his bundle and whistled. And then quickly, but Jolyon first of all, they dropped the money limply into their laps as if it held no particular interest to them.
Jolyon lit a cigarette, everyone seemed to be waiting for him. And then he tossed the money nonchalantly back, reached into his pocket and removed an envelope. Crossing the room, he handed it to Tallest who, without opening or inspecting it, dropped the envelope into his briefcase. ‘Good. One down, five to go,’ he said.
One by one they approached him, each returning Tallest’s money and then handing him their own thousand pounds. Jack had folded his money tightly into an empty cigarette pack. ‘Careful, this stuff will kill you,’ he said.
‘Most amusing,’ said Tallest. ‘You know, all of my favourite tragedies feature the character of a good fool.’ He removed the roll of twenties and sniffed at it disapprovingly before dropping it into his briefcase.
Dee’s stack of notes was tied with black ribbon. ‘Oh dear, we had the same idea,’ she said to Tallest, pretending to be mortified.
‘But your choice of colour was so much more apt, Cassandra,’ he replied.
When he had received everyone’s deposit and gathered up the money from the floor, Tallest snapped shut the briefcase and held it to his chest. He made the sign of the cross against the leather but paused as he finished. ‘Please do excuse my dark sense of humour,’ he said, his mouth squeezing out a sarcastic pout. ‘Tragedies, ominous ribbons, blessings? Really, I’m just trying to have some fun with you all, no need to look so serious. Don’t worry, I promise you, it’ll be fun.’ Tallest turned and started to leave, lightly swinging his briefcase as he went. ‘See you next term then,’ he said, pulling the door closed behind him.
And then Chad imagined Tallest lingering outside the door for a moment to listen in on what he had left behind. And had he done so, what he would have heard would have pleased Tallest very much. Nothing but silence. Ten seconds, twenty.
Chad pictured him turning and bounding down the stairs two at a time.
XXII(iv) It was an epochal period for Chad, those first months at Pitt. One term, eight weeks, the very best days of his life. And his resentment toward Emilia for her delay of the Game quickly subsided because it was true there was much to see in and around the city. And although the Game was the next adventure Chad had in mind, Emilia’s adventures were not without their charms. For one or two days each week she became the group’s ringleader, insisting on trips to quaint Oxfordshire villages or arranging walks through the meadows, an afternoon in the Botanic Garden. The others sometimes made sour faces at the idea of watching rugby in the University Parks or enjoying an autumnal stroll through the woods. But Emilia knew how to sell her ideas to them. It wasn’t so much about the rugby as standing on the sidelines sharing hot toddies from a Thermos. The woods were next to a seventeenth-century riverside pub. And although Chad made his face sour as well, inside he was thrilled every time Emilia pulled them away from Pitt on another expedition.
They attended lectures in the mornings and convened as a group at some point every afternoon or evening. There were no formal arrangements for such gatherings. They would flock one by one at certain likely spots. Jolyon’s room, the college bar, dinner in the refectory. A patch of grass by the ancient tree in the gardens where Dee would sit and read until winter swept in hard toward the end of Michaelmas. At night they went everywhere together, a troupe of travelling actors enlivening every scene they slipped themselves into. The parties, the bars and concerts. The strange college discos that were referred to, in the university vernacular, as ‘bops’.
It was a term full of rapturous pleasures. And Chad believed he had stumbled by chance upon the very best people in the world. They all did. They were all so young.
XXII(v) ‘So what are you doing for Christmas, Chad?’ said Jolyon, clearing their plates away, pouring more tea. Jolyon made eggs for the two of them every Saturday morning. And then they would browse through the newspapers until lunchtime, reading out their favourite stories to one another.
‘I’m supposed to be going home,’ said Chad, picking up a newspaper, feigning an air of nonchalance as he opened it in his lap. ‘But with the deposit for the Game, I don’t think I can afford to. The other Americans are all flying back, so at least I’ll have the house to myself.’ He sipped the strong tea. It was becoming almost palatable. ‘Mom’ll be upset though. It’s bad enough I won’t be home for Thanksgiving this week.’
‘Why don’t you come home with me?’ said Jolyon. ‘If your house is empty we can hang out in the city a while. We only have to stay a week with my mother for Christmas, or longer if you want. I’ll show you how we do it over here.’
Chad loosened his grip on the newspaper, he could feel it almost beginning to tear. ‘I don’t want to impose, Jolyon,’ he said. ‘What would your mom think about this?’
‘I’ve asked her already,’ said Jolyon. ‘She can’t wait to meet you.’
XXII(vi) The eighth and final week of term became a time of celebration. The horse-chestnut leaves had fallen and Christmas was coming. They lived in a world of friendships and foggy mornings. Their days were cool and reeled along slowly. Nights buzzed by fast, warm with companionship and the air full of laughter.
Margaret Thatcher had resigned as prime minister midway through seventh week and Chad delighted his friends by pointing out that it was the day of Thanksgiving. He skipped the turkey meal with his housemates and they all partied in the bar, proclaiming a new age and toasting a thousand toasts. Most of Pitt had turned out for the occasion and there was even champagne, or something that sparkled at least. At the end of the night, Chad stood on a stool and shouted, ‘Happy Thanksgiving, happy Thanksgiving, everybody.’ Someone put Frank Sinatra’s ‘New York, New York’ on the jukebox and they hoisted Chad onto their shoulders. Everyone sang and everyone lifted their glasses to him as he was paraded around, kicking his legs to the beat.
Margaret Thatcher – whom Emilia would only ever refer to as Mrs Satan – would remain in office for nearly another week. And then on the Wednesday of the last week of term she officially departed and Jolyon threw a second party, this one in his room. Twenty people, maybe thirty, in a space no larger than a boxing ring. They drank tequila from the bottle and this soon became a contest until Chad, the last to fall, disgorged the contents of his stomach from Jolyon’s window, staining the ancient sandstone beneath. Dee brought to the party her record player and the soundtrack from The Wizard of Oz in an old corner-creased sleeve. The whole night long they played the same track over and over – ‘Ding Dong! The Witch Is Dead’ – and everyone sang along feverishly.
When the party was almost over and the wicked witch had died for the final time, Chad hung his chin from the window. There were only six of them left in the room now, the six who mattered most to each other. The sound of deep voices rose up from the narrow street beneath, heads and shoulders making snaky paths along the pavement. Chad’s mouth felt as though it were wadded with something like muslin.
But in contrast to his stomach, his sense of well-being was immense. His Michaelmas Epoch. There would be no turning back. At last Chad was beginning to kick free of that half of himself from which he had always longed to escape. For better or worse
XXIII(i) When I read over the last few chapters, I discover a note I must have left for myself. And when I come across this note, I look for and find my sneakers. On the white toe of one shoe in Magic Marker I write the word WALK. On the other toe I write NOON. As physical mnemonics go, this one should prove simple enough to decode. I place the sneakers beneath my lunchtime plate and think about my progress.
Everything is going so well. This morning while eating my breakfast I waved to my neighbour across the way. I even initiated the greeting. You see the strides I am making? My walks, my waves, this story gushing out from me freely.
And now my morning routine is complete, another chapter finished and I have drunk two of today’s four glasses of water.
XXIII(ii) Note to self: Must drink more whisky. Water is fine but a life-affirming slug of whisky always soothes the soul.
XXIV(i) They entered the room in order, Tallest first, then Middle, then Shortest.
Usually they would attend the Game only one at a time. But on that first day, the first Sunday of Hilary term, all three of them made themselves present as if dignitaries at the opening ceremony of some international spectacular.
Tallest took the desk chair with wheels. Middle and Shortest stood stiffly against the wall like two scratches. Middle, from time to time, took a few notes but never seemingly at moments of great significance.
Dee had insisted on making a mixtape for the event – all the songs were humorously appropriate, she promised. The first track was ‘Every Day Is Like Sunday’, although Chad couldn’t see what it had to do with their game but for the fact they had decided to play on Sundays.
And so while Morrissey crooned away softly in the background about Armageddon, Jolyon opened the proceedings with something like a speech, a brief greeting and
a hope for much enjoyment to follow. He made a small joke about their mysterious benefactors but thanked them as well. And then the Game began.
XXIV(ii) After the best weeks of Chad’s life, he and Jolyon had returned to the city soon after New Year’s Eve. Jolyon’s friends in Sussex all adored Jolyon. And as he was a close friend of Jolyon they all seemed to adore Chad as well. Everyone was interested in his opinions – as if, to have been chosen by Jolyon as a friend, you clearly had some of the most fascinating thoughts on earth. They ate most nights with Jolyon’s mother at a dinner table that never dimmed in its chatter, they went often to Brighton to buy second-hand books and see the Christmas lights on its pier, they drank whisky with Jolyon’s father, listened to carollers, read their books by the hearths of ancient inns, popped champagne at the end of the year . . .
The others had come back to Pitt a week before the start of term and they had all met every day in Jolyon’s room to agree upon the mechanics. It had to be a game never before played so that no one could gain an unfair advantage, they would have to learn and develop tactics on the fly. They could change the rules if they encountered problems, or if they simply wished to change them, but only if the majority voted through the changes.
They chose cards to represent skill and dice to represent luck. It was a hotchpotch of many of the games they had played growing up. Some rummy, some bridge, a little poker. Mark admitted sheepishly that in his earlier youth he had dabbled with Dungeons & Dragons and they based some of the dice-play on the rules from that game. Risk further influenced their thinking on dice, particularly the number of dice to be rolled, sometimes several. The Game also bore undertones of Monopoly and shades of Diplomacy and perhaps more games besides. It was the game of all games – this was how Jack had described the Game, largely sarcastically, but Jolyon had agreed enthusiastically.
Black Chalk Page 9