And not only the guilt but the fear. Fear of Shortest. Fear of being caught.
LXV(v) So there you have it, my confession. And perhaps this is why I have been mnemonically upping my measures of whisky, my pills. Not because of Chad, not because of the Game, but because I knew that this moment would arrive. The time for confession.
And yes, I do confess to it. I killed him, Mark, it was me.
But it was never supposed to be that sort of game.
LXVI(i) There was a knock on Jolyon’s door. He opened hesitantly, wondering if it might be the police. But it was only Dee and she flung her arms frantically around him. ‘Oh God, Jolyon, Mark’s dead, he’s dead. Have you heard? He’s dead, Jolyon, Mark’s dead.’
‘Oh my God, Dee, no.’
‘He threw himself from the tower, Loser’s Leap, it’s so awful, it’s so . . .’
Jolyon pulled Dee closer to him, if he clung to her tight enough he might squeeze out a drop of his guilt. And while Dee sobbed hard on his shoulder, Jolyon cried as well. But nothing could diminish the guilt.
‘I phoned Chad,’ said Dee, ‘I told him what happened. He’s on his way now.’
‘OK, Dee, it’s OK,’ said Jolyon. And then the seed of Jolyon’s guilt began to grow. Seed sprouted shoots. Shoots scrambled through soil and surged up through the earth, out into the light. The feeling that he wanted to confess.
Dee was in his arms and he was safe here. But he had to tell her before Chad arrived. Dee would understand, Dee would tell him what to do. Hadn’t she loved him – even if only for a few days? And he had been lonely for so long and her tears were so warm on his shoulder.
He kissed Dee on the forehead and they broke away from each other’s embrace. Dee, still in tears, collapsed into the armchair and Jolyon knelt down before her. Yes, he would tell her, everything was going to be all right. But quick, before Chad arrived. He placed his hands lightly on her knees and blew out his breath. ‘Dee listen,’ he said, feeling his fingertips on her flesh, ‘Mark didn’t kill himself.’
But Dee didn’t flinch, she didn’t recoil from him. Instead Dee spoke quickly. ‘Don’t say it, Jolyon.’ She gave him a threatening look. ‘Don’t you daresay Mark didn’t kill himself because of the Game. We both know the Game is to blame for this, it was the Game that sent him off the rails.’
‘No, you don’t – ,’ said Jolyon.
‘Christ, that’s what Chad kept saying to me on the phone. “The Game didn’t kill him, Dee, that’s not why Mark did it.” But it’s not true. It’s not true and I won’t listen. I won’t hear it from you as well, Jolyon, don’t you daresay it, don’t you . . .’ Dee put her hands to her face and started to cry again.
Jolyon let his head fall close to her lap. Dee had to listen to him, she had to hear his confession before Chad arrived. ‘Dee, please listen to me.’ The words were sharp inside him, were trying to cut their way out through his skin.
But Dee pushed him away. ‘No, Jolyon, I won’t listen to either of you. We killed him. We all killed him and now it’s over. I’m out. I quit. I told Chad already, I don’t care what he says to me. It’s finished, you both have to see that. And if you don’t, then I don’t care about either of you.’ She looked at Jolyon for confirmation that he understood but Jolyon was looking down at the ground, his eyes darting back and forth as if following his thoughts while they fell in neat piles all around him. Dee was out, the worst was over. And maybe he didn’t need to confess, perhaps he had the strength to fight the words, to hold them in.
‘I hate you,’ Dee cried out, ‘I hate you both,’ she said. And then Dee threw herself against him, at first with her fists to his chest, but then her hands began to climb. Up to his neck, his chin. And then Dee held Jolyon’s face between her hands and kissed him desperately. He felt her teeth sharp against his lips, the taste of her tears. And finally Dee pushed him away. She sat back in the armchair, not looking at him, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Jolyon,’ said Dee, ‘I’m sorry.’
But Jolyon didn’t know whether Dee was sorry for all she had done to him or sorry for kissing him. And he never did get to ask her, it was the last time they would speak for nearly fourteen years. Because just then there was a knocking on the door. And before Jolyon could answer, Chad was coming into the room.
LXVI(ii) Dee glared at him as he stood by the door trying to find somewhere to place his hands. Hips, pockets, the back of his head. ‘This is terrible, just terrible,’ said Chad. And then he became angry. ‘But there are people out there who barely even knew him,’ he said, pointing distantly. ‘You should see them, the wailing and . . . they barely even knewhim.’ Jolyon was sitting on the floor by his bed, knees apart, head hung low. ‘I spoke to Shortest,’ said Chad, ‘and obviously we’re not going to go through with anything tomorrow.’
‘What?’ said Dee accusingly. ‘You did what? You’re already making plans? And why Shortest?’
Chad swallowed. ‘He’s just the one who answered the phone,’ he said. ‘They gave us a number a long time ago. You weren’t there, Dee.’
‘And was he upset? Or was he worried about getting caught up in something?’
‘No,’ said Chad, ‘I don’t think he was. Neither.’
Dee wiped her eyes, shook her head.
Jolyon looked at them looking at each other, his tormentors. Neither of them had seen his face, had noticed his fear and his horror, when Shortest’s name was mentioned.
Chad’s tongue hovered on his top lip. ‘So, we’re all going to meet next Sunday,’ he said. ‘Here at four, I guess. We have to . . . we have to wait a bit, let the dust settle.’
‘Let the dustsettle?’ said Dee. ‘Oh, that’s nice, Chad. You mean post-cremation?’
‘No, I . . .’ Chad scratched the back of his head.
And Jolyon was watching them, watching. If Shortest had told Chad, then wouldn’t he say something? Or look at him knowingly? But Chad wasn’t looking across at him at all, Chad was only noticing Dee.
‘I already told you, I’m out,’ said Dee, hugging her shoulders. ‘How dare you even talk about this right now?’
‘Look, Dee,’ said Chad, ‘I’m really sorry. What I said to you on the phone, I shouldn’t have . . . I mean, we’re all just crazy upset right now.’
Jolyon locked his hands behind his head. Had Shortest really said nothing to Chad? Then perhaps he had a little more time, there might be a way out. And if Shortest had said nothing, what did everything mean? What was Shortest doing at Pitt?
‘Oh really, Chad?’ said Dee. ‘You’re crazyupset? And why’s that exactly?’
‘Because of Mark,’ said Chad, as if there were only one possible answer. Dee said nothing, she only stared hard at Chad. ‘Of course because of Mark,’ he repeated, ‘why else would I be upset?’ And then, although it seemed to Jolyon that Chad might be about to cry, something else happened. Instead of tears, Chad let out a short laugh. It was a wet sort of snort as if Chad were a schoolboy who had just spotted a double entendre in a textbook. And Jolyon had seen men at funerals laughing nervously like this – into the crooks of their arms, behind shielding hands – a diversion of emotion, the only alternative to breaking down, breast-beating and wailing, the public unleashing of all of their pain.
But as Jolyon looked at Dee he could tell that she did not see any ambiguity in Chad’s laughter. Dee looked shocked and appalled. What sort of a human being was this? What sort of monster? She got up hurriedly from the armchair and ran toward the door.
‘Dee?’ said Chad, catching her arm as she passed.
And then Dee turned and with a wild swing of her hand she hit Chad hard across the face. The sharp sound of the slap rang through the room.
Chad, his eyes wide and shocked, instinctively raised his hand and it seemed for a moment as if he might strike back. Dee looked at him, dared him to, and then Chad lifted his hand to his bright stung cheek. And Dee was gone.
LXVI(iii) Chad stood motionless by the door. He looked like a
small boy who had been shamed by a teacher. Jolyon stared at him. He still felt guilty and yet he wanted to see Chad in all his humiliation. Chad glanced only momentarily back at Jolyon but this was long enough. He started to shuffle from the room.
Jolyon waited until Chad was halfway through the door. ‘You win,’ Jolyon called out after him. ‘I’ll quit next week, Chad. Congratulations, the best man won.’
Chad only paused, not turning around. His shoulders rose and then fell as he moved out into the hallway, as he disappeared gradually down the stairs.
LXVI(iv) Jolyon didn’t sleep. He lay in his bed picturing Mark’s eyes. The moment before, the moment after. Moment after moment after moment. And then, very early in the morning, Jolyon went down to the phone at the bottom of his staircase and dialled the number.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Jolyon.’
‘Aha.’
‘ . . .’
‘ . . .’
‘What were you doing at Pitt?’
‘What were you doing coming out of the chapel?’
‘ . . .’
‘You see, I heard that’s the way Mark got up there. Through a chapel window, that’s what they say, Jolyon, up via the roof of Great Hall. How about you?’
‘ . . .’
‘So shall I tell the police what I saw?’
‘No.’
‘Good. But will they find any evidence? Might anyone else have seen you?’
‘No.’
‘Very good. Then I suggest we both hold on to our information like playing cards. Very close to our chests.’
‘Why would you do that, Shortest?’
‘Let’s just call it a sense of fair play.’
‘How do I know you won’t say something later?’
‘Respect the Game, Jolyon, and the Game will respect you.’
‘Is that what you were doing skulking round Pitt late at night, Shortest? Respecting the Game?’
‘Do we really have to spell it out, Jolyon? Oh dear, I was hoping we might be a little more English about the whole thing. Your erstwhile transatlantic friend has had an adverse affect on you.’
‘ . . .’
‘Fine then, Jolyon. You have something over me and I have something over you. Should we continue to circle or are we done now?’
‘It was an accident, Shortest.’
‘I don’t doubt it for the merest second, Jolyon.’
‘ . . .’
‘Was that all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent. See you next Sunday then.’
LXVII(i) No one ever asked me. No one ever said to me, Jolyon, did you kill Mark? Something extraordinary happened instead. In the small world of Pitt, I was pardoned.
In the eyes of almost everyone at college, Mark and I had been close friends. And not just close but inseparable. Wherever I went, Mark went. Mark had swapped rooms just to live next door to me. The Pitt Pendulumhad even run a cartoon. Me as groom, Mark as demented bride, a congregation of jealous faces.
Yes, that’s how it looked to Pitt. Six friends, a falling-out, my twinship with Chad left in tatters. But until his death, Mark and I had remained close. And perhaps Mark’s depression – surely it must have been depression – was in some way related to my behaviour. I must have been under a great deal of strain being close friends with someone depressive enough to take his own life, someone who found the world such a strain he preferred sleep over consciousness. And perhaps, now that everyone thought it through with the benefit of hindsight, my public enjoyment of Asian Babeswas not so indicative of racism after all. And really those diary entries only revealed the sort of dark, unkind thoughts we all have from time to time. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. And no one thought to link the non-appearance of any further diary entries with the death of Mark. It was clear that whoever had been taping them to the walls had decided to stop out of respect for my grief. I think most people assumed my torturer to have been Jack.
For the next several days, girls stopped me and hugged me as I made my way around Pitt. Boys slapped my back, rubbed my shoulders. People who barely even knew me would tell me how sorry they were to hear about my friend.
One time I spied Jack and Emilia in a large group of people across back quad. They were walking toward me. Jack saw me and then cast his eyes quickly down. A moment later he appeared to have a sudden idea. Everyone nodded and shrugged and changed direction. I watched them all disappear through the Hallowgood gate.
Meanwhile I had spoken to the police who assured me that, while the circumstances of Mark’s death were in no way suspicious, with any such death they had a duty to make inquiries, they hoped I understood. I nodded solemnly. Perhaps they were testing me as we spoke, feeling for leads. If so then I passed. It wasn’t hard to act the grief-stricken friend, I was already broken. The police were very sensitive and understanding. It makes me sick to think of the lies I told.
LXVII(ii) But now the present must briefly interrupt my confession. Because there is still a life going on in this railroad flat. Only the barest scratch of a life but a life nonetheless.
Sometimes while writing I pause to wonder if Dee will come, if Dee will knock on my door and forgive me. But of course she won’t forgive me, how could she forgive such a thing? And then it occurs to me that perhaps losing her book was no accident. Maybe some terrible part of me has chosen to lose her poems, a secret piece of my mind that refuses to let her know about Mark. I have lost Dee’s book so she would flee from me, so she would never find out, never hate me for what I have done.
And it has worked. I sit all alone with my story. Only the past, the distant past.
LXVIII Emilia looked spectacular in black, a perfect Hitchcock widow among the candles and stained glass. Jolyon’s eyes fell first on her and Jack sitting together when he entered the church. Jack looked uncomfortable among the pews, there could be no jokes in this place. Jolyon thought he saw them holding hands during one portion of the ceremony but perhaps he only imagined it. Seated on her own, a few rows behind Emilia and Jack, was Dee. Black sat very naturally on Dee. And Chad also was sitting apart from his friends, across the aisle in a borrowed suit two sizes too big for him. But Chad looked otherwise composed, a monochrome study of stoicism.
Jolyon looked up at the ceiling of the church. It reminded him of the bar at Pitt, as if he were staring up at the undersides of enormous stone parasols. He could almost hear the chatter and bubbling laughter.
He had taken the train to London on his own and remained alone in the church, sitting as far back as he could. As far as he could from the coffin, the grief.
But it was impossible for Jolyon to remain alone at Mark’s mother’s house where everyone gathered after the funeral, the house crammed with so many bodies. And being there reminded Jolyon guiltily of how, with delicate flutes of champagne, they had toasted Mark’s nineteenth birthday only three months earlier in that house. Now he made small talk with people he only half knew. They ate sandwiches and said all the appropriate things. Shocking, tragic, so young.
The ceiling seemed to descend slowly around and around like the lid of a screw-top jar as a palpable grief began to evaporate from the dense welter of bodies. Grief gathered on the insides of the windows, trickled down the panes, collected in droplets on the window frames. And Jolyon stood there trying not to see the pain in everyone’s eyes but felt their hurt seeping into him, wordlessly drenching his heart.
And when Mark’s mother came to him, Jolyon thought he might shatter into a million black stars. Only her arms, which Mark’s mother wrapped around him as she might once have done her son, held Jolyon together. And then she said to him, ‘Mark told me all about you, Jolyon.’ She held him by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. ‘And I could tell that he loved you the most. So that’s why I’m asking you. Please, Jolyon, if you know anything, anything at all. Why did he do it? Why did my beautiful son . . . what made him . . . ?’
Jolyon’s throat was coarse and sore. He looked at
Mark’s mother, her trembling lips, her sleepless eyes. If he were to say to her ‘I really don’t know, Mrs Cutler’ then it would all be over, they would hold each other again and he would say how sorry he was for her loss. But how could he do that? He had already taken her son. How could he leave Mark’s mother alone with the torment of wondering whyevery haunted second of every night and day?
Their game had been such a pale imitation of life, such a blunt and childish thing. Because only life had real consequences, only life could cause real pain. There was nothing Chad and Dee could ever have dreamt, no consequence imaginable, that Jolyon could less have endured than what he had to do now. He led Mark’s mother to the side of the room and they sat together at the very edge of a sofa, as if to sit any further back would be an insult to the memory of Mark.
A young man of great promise had died and no one deserved any comfort. No one deserved to rest or even to sleep or breathe. And Jolyon least of all.
LXIX(i) Sitting here now in New York, fourteen years after that funeral, I can still hear every word I said to her, each and every lie I drizzled over Mark’s mother.
She looks at me with such a heartbreaking mixture of pain and gratitude, wiping her eyes tenderly as I tell her that her son was the cleverest person I ever met, the brightest at Pitt without any doubt. She squeezes my hand when I tell her that Mark wanted to be the very best. And he was the best, I say to her. But he couldn’t see it, he was hard on himself, so hard. When we started, we all found ourselves suddenly surrounded by so many intelligent people, the brightest in the land. And Mark was a perfectionist. Yes, yes he was, she nods. If he couldn’t do something perfectly he’d rather not do it at all. His work began to suffer. And there’s such pressure at a place like Pitt to perform, I have friends at other universities who barely have to work at all but at Pitt they start to hound you if you begin to slip. Her grip tightens on the handkerchief balled in an unsteady hand. Mark became paralysed by the pressure from without as well as the pressure he put on himself to succeed. He was working on his own theory, something to do with dark energy, the invisible forces of the universe. I didn’t understand the physics behind the theory and it was so frustrating to Mark that he couldn’t share his glimpse of such beauty. He wouldn’t take it to any of his tutors until the theory was complete and that might have taken years, decades even. She laughs with a small huff at the memory of her son, obstinate and proud. But I had no idea, I tell her, how heavily the burden of his work was weighing on him. Yes, I could see he was down. Sometimes he wouldn’t get out of bed until late in the evening. She swallows hard, remembering the same thing. In the last week of his life, Mark said he’d arrived at a solution. He was wild-looking, excitable, and I thought he meant his theory on dark energy. But now, I say to her, I think maybe he was talking about something else. I am so sorry and I don’t know if any of this makes any sense.
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