Black Chalk

by Yates, Christopher J.

  I have a number of points I would like to make regarding the narration of this story. And also some questions and thoughts. But first of all let me make one thing clear – when I leave at noon today, I plan to buy for myself a pair of powerful binoculars.

  So on to point one. It seems I now have two audiences. The first, my reader. The second, my visitor.

  Point two (for my visitor). You should know right away that I have no interest in trapping you in my apartment, I will allow you some time here. I will not return until two o’clock, you have until then. But in exchange for this kindness I expect some answers.

  Point three (also for my visitor). Furthermore you may by now have deduced why I intend to buy for myself a pair of binoculars. You may as well come to the rear window right now. Look for a rooftop with a white picket fence. You might also wave to me. Let’s start out on polite terms.

  Point four. Breaking into a gentleman’s home is generally considered rather impolite.

  Thought one. These walks of mine, I’m sure they were my idea. They must have been, yes? But when I read my words again I wonder if I have really been so insistent about them. Because the following (point five) has occurred to me – while I have been out walking, my visitor has been in here with her eyes on my story, her fingers on my keyboard. (Thought two. But I remember wanting to build the walks into my routine. I do remember that, don’t I?)

  Thought three. I’m not saying dishonesty worms its way through this tale. Even if the words are not all my own, I have read and reread this story and everything rings true. But I am left with some questions.

  Have I filled in the gaps myself for the sake of the story, or has someone else done this for me?

  Who are you and what do you want?

  And finally, what have you done to my story?

  XXIX(ii) I am out of breath. My purchase swings in its plastic bag – I have been casting off its packaging as I run to my neighbouring block. Earlier I took note of the height and colour of the building and I find it soon after passing the tattoo parlour whose sign reads Cappuccino & Tattoo. I don’t even pause to take a deep breath, I slide my hand glissando down the intercom’s buttons. An impatient voice answers, ‘Whaddya want?’ Before I even offer an excuse, someone else has buzzed me in. I run up the stairs, fingers crossed, and pause in silent prayer before pushing the door at the top. And it opens.

  The sun is fierce and no one is up here. I run across to the white picket fence and impatiently pull the binoculars out of the bag. I lift them to my eyes and start fumbling with the focus.

  My breakfasting neighbour didn’t appear on his fire escape today. I wanted to shout across the street, My visitor, does she have blonde hair or dark hair?

  And now, the image sharp enough, I try to peer into every corner of my apartment. I can see no one. I am thinking about my dream, the one I had the night before my writer’s block began. A woman somewhere crowded, Emilia or Dee?

  Sweat drips from my brow, stings my eyes. I lower the binoculars, dry my face with my shirt. Blonde hair or dark?

  And then, when I look up again, the door to my apartment, distant and made ghostly by the dark reflections in the window, opens slowly.

  XXX Jack cast off his shroud of doom with a great flourish and the others sat back in their seats. They cradled their drinks and began to laugh about other things.

  Chad was quiet, only half listening to the words spinning around him. His hangover had deadened any will to speak but his mind was wandering, at first drifting in one direction and then taking a sharp turn in another.

  Dee was saying something about Jack keeping his filthy hands off her soul.

  And then Jack was laughing about the cartoon that had recently appeared in the Pitt Pendulum. Jack said you could tell from the way they had drawn the hair that it had to be Mark. It was called ‘Home on Derange’. He’d heard there were more in the pipeline.

  Chad closed his eyes. His thoughts were strange distortions as if he were seeing them through Jack’s crystal ball, the light bending and everything stretching then shrinking away.

  When he opened his eyes he saw a television parading silent pictures above the bar. The stern faces of generals, a lurching camera chasing flashes in the dark of a distant night. Weapons from the skies in the Persian Gulf, Baghdad being bombed by the Coalition.

  And that’s when, very suddenly, Chad’s mind lit up with an idea. Yes, it was time for a change. It was time for the Game to become less random, for the consequences to become more personal. If you could take careful aim at another player’s weaknesses, his or her innermost fears, then this would bring a whole new dimension to the Game.

  He was about to excitedly reveal the idea, it felt very important, but Jolyon had shushed everyone and was pointing to the silent television. There was a headline displayed at the bottom of the screen. The United States had issued a twenty-four-hour ultimatum for Iraq to begin withdrawals from Kuwait. In the absence of any such withdrawal, war would begin on the ground.

  Jolyon’s chair screeched as he pushed himself back from the table. ‘When was it the Berlin Wall fell?’ he said, squinting as he performed a calculation in his head. ‘Well, we had something close to peace for just over a year,’ he said, and then he took a long drink from his glass.

  And now it felt wrong for Chad to say anything about the Game. Anyway, perhaps it would be better to keep the idea to himself for now, he thought. And better still, perhaps he should speak to Jolyon first. Jolyon would know how to talk everyone around.

  And then, next time they played, they could call for a vote. An exciting change. An interesting new chapter.

  XXXI(i) Her head moves slowly into my hermit’s hole. After a moment her body follows. She pauses again, her back to the window.

  I lift the binoculars to my eyes. The lenses find the top frame of my window and carefully I tilt the binoculars down. And there she is, blonde. Hair light and straight and cut in a short bob that lips in toward her neck. My eyes slide down. She wears a non-descript top, a white patternless garment with short sleeves. And she has on tan shorts that reach down to the crease at the back of her knees. The window frame cuts her off at the calves.

  My hands shake, I find it hard to keep the image of her steady. I lower the binoculars and let them hang by the thong at my chest. Turn this way, I whisper, as if my visitor might hear me.

  She does not obey.

  She bends and when she straightens a pair of sandals are in her hand. She holds them by their thin straps. And then, barefoot, she begins to creep forward through my kitchen.

  I have deliberately placed my laptop on the bedside table so I can see it from here. She takes the computer and moves on to the living room where she turns left and is lost to my eyes.

  XXXI(ii) I presume from what comes next that my visitor reads the message I left her. She comes to the window fifteen minutes after she entered.

  She stands for a moment in the doorway between my living room and bedroom. And then she moves forward like a model, as if along a thin painted line, her hips feline as she sways. She wears sunglasses of a style I have observed to be very much in vogue since my return to the world, panes as large as children’s palms, they make her nose seem small against her face. Black lenses and red lipstick. The lips are clenched – uncertain or sullen, I can’t decide which.

  When she reaches the kitchen window she puts her left hand on her left hip and stands there, weight mostly to her right. She holds the pose and lifts her chin toward me.

  And then she waves.

  I wave back. My visitor reaches for the string that hangs at the side of my window. And she lowers the blind.

  XXXII(i) ‘If we’re supposed to act like they’re not here,’ said Jack, ‘then I feel I should say that of the three, I think this one is quite the least arseholey.’

  They had sent Middle and he sat impassively against the wall.

  ‘I agree with Jack,’ said Dee. ‘And the best-looking as well.’

  Chad shuffled t
he cards. ‘Have you noticed,’ he said, ‘they do everything in height order?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Dee. ‘Tallest, Middle and Shortest. That’s what I call them.’

  ‘When?’ said Jack. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve written a poem.’

  ‘Now, now, don’t go getting all jealous, Jackie-oh. You know that you’re the only living object adored in my odes. It’s just how I’ve been thinking of them.’

  ‘Tallest is clearly the leader,’ said Jolyon. ‘Shortest is the Goebbels. But I’m not sure which role this one plays.’

  ‘I think he looks lost and scared,’ said Emilia. ‘A poor little lamb trapped in the gorse.’

  Middle folded his arms. His hair there was dense and dark as if plastered on, fished from the drains of several showers. ‘I know precisely what you’re trying to do,’ he said. ‘And I can assure you that your silly little mind games won’t work with me.’

  ‘The Einstein of the operation as well,’ said Mark.

  Middle rubbed his face. ‘Can we begin now?’ he said sharply. ‘Because then you can get back to screwing each other up. None of you seem to have realised that’s where this thing is headed but I can assure you it is. And, off the record, when you discover I’m right, it just so happens it will give me absolutely no pleasure at all.’

  Jack started to laugh and then, seeing Emilia giving him a hard look, said, ‘What? It’s funny because it’s true.’

  ‘Let’s just get started, shall we?’ said Emilia.

  ‘Just a second,’ said Chad, ‘Jolyon has an announcement to make, don’t you, Jolyon?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jolyon. ‘Listen up.’

  XXXII(ii) Emilia spoke first, she was absolutely against the idea, and Mark quickly agreed with her.

  ‘Well, of course you’re against it, Mark,’ said Jolyon, ‘you lose more than anyone else, don’t you?’

  ‘Fuck you, Jolyon,’ said Mark. ‘It’s just a game of dumb luck.’

  ‘Look, Mark,’ said Jolyon, ‘no one can be good at everything. Maybe you just don’t have it when it comes to this particular game.’

  ‘Now really fuck you,’ said Mark. He glared at Jolyon and Dee spoke up to come between them.

  ‘I’m in favour,’ she said. ‘It’s been a lot of fun but we need some movement here.’

  ‘Dee’s right,’ said Chad. ‘Look, I’m only here for a year. We’ve got a term and a half remaining and we need to narrow the field at some point.’

  ‘That’s three votes to two then,’ said Jolyon, looking away from Mark. ‘Which means it’s all down to you, Jack. You say no, it’s a draw, status quo. You say yes, we change.’

  Jack looked unusually serious. ‘Here’s my concern,’ he said. ‘What’s to stop you all from ganging up on me? I mean anyone,’ he added quickly. ‘You could all agree a list of consequences I’d rather gnaw my own foot off than perform. And maybe you all do a little deal to go easy on each other. At least when it’s random anyone could get any consequence.’

  ‘Worried we’d gang up on you specifically, Jack?’ said Chad.

  ‘No,’ said Jack. ‘It’s not me I’m worried about, you’ve got nothing on me. But look, Jolyon and Emilia are fucking each other.’ He was too far across the table for Emilia to kick but instinctively he shrank back anyway. ‘I’m sorry, I mean Jolyon and Emilia are making sweet beautiful love every night. So there’s one potential little vote bloc.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Emilia. ‘So just vote no, Jack. And stop being such an arsehole.’

  ‘What do you say, Jack?’ said Chad. ‘Are you going to try not being an asshole like Emilia says?’ Emilia gave Chad a look. A look as if he and not Jolyon were her lover, Chad thought. As if he were her lover and had just admitted to sharing their bed with another. How dare she give him such a look, how dare she. ‘And as you say, Jack,’ he added, ‘we’ve got nothing at all on you.’

  Jack bit his nails. And then after thinking it through for a few more seconds, he said, ‘OK, OK. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s go ahead and make this game a whole lot more interesting.’

  XXXII(iii) They agreed on the following system. Three pots for each player – easy, medium and hard – with three bespoke consequences in each. To decide upon each player’s set of personal challenges, the other five would gather in the bar to negotiate and agree a list. They would take it in turns to sit out the discussion, wondering what the others were brewing up for them.

  Emilia queried how any of them could be sure that, while absent from the discussion, the others were playing fair with them. And Jolyon gave a heartfelt speech about friendship and the honour system, and how even regardless of their innate sense of fair play, it wouldn’t be in anyone’s interest to propose ganging up on another. Were any player to suggest such a thing, no doubt the others would turn on him or her. Cheats never prosper. What goes around comes around.

  A generous observer of Jolyon’s speech might have suggested only that he hadn’t thought everything through to its logical conclusion.

  XXXIII(i) When I get back to my apartment, shortly after two o’clock, I find a message from my visitor. She left me a note at the foot of my story.

  XXXIII(ii) Oh, Jolyon, I feel terribly upset by the hurtful allegation of trespass. I realise you were gruesomely drunk when you handed me your spare key, but have you really forgotten everything? Have you forgotten what you said to me? Did it matter so very little to you?

  You call me ‘my visitor’. MY VISITOR? You don’t even remember who I am? Oh, that hurts me so deeply, Jolyon. Because, foolish me, I believed you. I believed every last word you whispered that night.

  And I have done only what you asked of me. Nothing more. You wanted me to read your story and I am reading your story. All I asked in return was a little peace and quiet. You think this is easy for me to do? To read about the worst year of my life? Snooping and accusations, you think this is fair?

  And there was I thinking perhaps we might . . . but never mind. And now this.

  Now. This.

  I don’t know if I can continue now, Jolyon. I’m sorry, I’m so deeply and sorely upset.

  Goodbye, Jolyon. Goodbye and good luck.

  XXXIII(iii) I delay the whisky and pills portion of the afternoon routine, hoping a clear head will help me. And when this fails to work I take my whisky. She said I was drunk when we met, so I fill the glass high above the black line and then I fill it again. Quickly I overindulge as I hope to recreate conditions, to stir the memory into action. And when this doesn’t work I swallow down my pills and still fail to remember. So I double the dose, pour more whisky . . .

  Eventually I puke so hard I strain my back.

  And now I am flat out on my sore back with aching head and voided stomach. I am here all alone and pondering the following question.

  Is my visitor playing games with me?

  I don’t know, I just don’t know.

  But I think it is clear I must proceed with some caution.

  XXXIV Jack played two cards, both queens. On top of Jolyon’s pair of threes it was a strong move. He picked up the blue cup, covered its mouth with his hand and shook. He felt the dice jumping against his palm and then rolled them out on the table. Six and four, high enough. Probably. Jack clenched his fists and breathed out hard. ‘Jack attack,’ he said.

  Mark leaned back and swore. He played a run of cards from his hand, three four five, and then shrugged. He picked up the cup and rolled the dice after barely a shake, a one and a two, the margin of loss to Jack large enough to earn him a second consequence. No one else had earned even one. He let his head fall back and dangled his arms limp as ropes. Then he swore loudly again and shouted, ‘Christ, that’s unlucky. Twice! Both fucking times.’

  Emilia reached across the small table and stroked his arm. ‘But at least they’re only from the second-worst pot,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, Mark. Things have a habit of levelling out in the long run.’

  Jack relaxed back into his chair. ‘Has anyone spoken
to Camp David in the last few days?’ he said.

  ‘Stop calling him that,’ said Emilia.

  ‘What?’ I’m not judging him, Emilia. It’s just undeniable that the man happens to be very camp. And with his Christian name being what it is, what else should I call him?’

  ‘How about . . . David?’

  Dee started to sing, ‘David and Jackie-oh sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G!’

  Jack’s voice lifted an octave. ‘Camp David does not have a crush on me,’ he squealed.

  ‘No,’ said Mark bitterly, ‘and a north pole doesn’t have a crush on electrons.’

  ‘What?’ said Jack. He shrank back and eyed Mark up as if he had suddenly produced something shocking from beneath the table.

  Mark looked hurt. ‘Because electrons are attracted to . . .’ Jack began to blink rapidly as if he were about to have a fit. ‘What?’ said Mark.

  Emilia reached over and rubbed his arm again. ‘Please don’t ever let anyone try to make you any less strange, Mark. You just wouldn’t be you any more.’

  Mark looked confused but before he could say anything more, Jack returned to his story. ‘Anyway,’ he said, half a wary eye still on Mark, ‘David’s becoming suspicious of our gatherings. He wants to know what goes on when we all disappear into this room. He asked me who the tall stranger is. And there was a definite glint in his eye.’ Jack turned to Middle and continued, ‘So if your leader is into wannabe Oscar Wildes with enormous beards but without the slightest hint of humour . . .’

  Jolyon started to rub at his forehead, his knitted brow. The ominous sense of his anger mingled with the smoke in the air. ‘Who the fuck has been talking again?’ he shouted. ‘We already had this conversation about how vital – Jack, did you fucking say something?’

  Jack recoiled. ‘Why would I tell you the story in the first place if I’d been blabbing to people?’ he said. ‘Don’t make out I’m some kind of idiot here.’

  ‘Mark?’ said Jolyon. His eyes were emptying of their light as if he could focus only on the rage building inside.