“Ben or Sam or, God save us, Denis?”
“Uhhh, the playwright.”
“They all wrote plays, Mr Jones.”
“They did? Uhm, well, it’s Ben. Yeah. And, well, the library doesn’t have the secondary sources... someone took them all and I don’t know what to do really. I tried to borrow them from the University of Ulster library but they’re out too. I’ve read all the primary stuff, but I want the secondary sources to do a good job.”
Donald felt a pinprick of guilt. Mr Jones seemed like a nice, sincere young man. One of the few good students. He was studying engineering but was taking English as an elective. Perhaps that explained his curious dedication. The BAs in English were all perverts and drug fiends. “All right, Mr Jones, come by my office at four today and I’ll lend you my own books, they should be sufficient for a half-decent presentation. You’ll be careful with them, won’t you?”
“Oh, God, yeah, thank you, thank you very much,” the student said.
Donald arrived at the gym feeling unnaturally buoyant - two quite pleasant incidents in one morning.
He showed his ID to Peter Finn, the ancient security guard at the reception desk.
“Afternoon, Dr Bryant,” Peter said in his rough country accent.
“Afternoon,” he replied curtly.
“Going to give the wee muckers another hiding, eh?”
“One tries, Peter, one tries.”
“You still at the top?” Peter asked, knowing full well the answer.
Donald swelled a little. “Still plugging away.”
“Sixteen straight months, Professor Millin says. Yon’s a record, ye know,” Peter said very seriously.
“Is it indeed?” Donald said, and this time it was his turn to pretend.
“Aye.”
“Well, all good things must come to an end sometime. This new crop of lecturers is giving me a run for my money,” Donald said magnanimously.
Peter winked at him as if he didn’t quite believe him.
Donald grinned, went to the basement, found locker 201 and changed quickly into his gear: a casual blue tee-shirt, white shorts, white socks and an old pair of Adidas squash sneakers. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was in the prime of life. His eyes were clear, his cheeks clean-shaved, his hair jet black with only a few strands of invading grey around the ears.
Fenton was late and Donald tried hard not to show his irritation. Fenton was a slightly younger man and he was nimble. He was number three on the squash ladder and by no means an unworthy opponent. Fenton playing above his game and Donald playing beneath his could pretty much even out the field. Fenton changed into his kit: pristine white shorts, Fred Perry top and a brand new racket.
They walked to the court, stretched, warmed up the ball.
Donald won the racquet spin.
He served a high looping ball that died in the corner. Fenton made an attempt to return it but he had no chance. Donald served five more like that before Fenton managed to get one back and by that time it was too late - his confidence was broken. Donald won the match three games to one, Fenton’s sole game coming from Donald’s largesse. When he was in control it was Donald’s policy always to let an opponent win at least one game so that no one would ever know the true picture of his ability.
They showered and had a quick gin and tonic in the bar before Donald went off to his lecture. It was nearly a full house, the students didn’t ask stupid questions and he was in good form when he set off for home at four o’clock. Halfway to the car he remembered about young Jones and went back to his office. Amazingly the undergraduate was on time and he gave him the books without further ado.
“Quite the day,” he said to himself as he walked to his Volvo Estate under a clearing sky. Susan noticed his good mood immediately as he picked her up outside the Ulster Bank on Botanic Avenue. “You’re in a good mood,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Let’s eat out at the new Italian.”
“What about your aubergine lasagne?”
“We’ll give it to the dog.”
“What dog?”
“Any dog.”
The drive to Carrickfergus was easy, the new Italian was acceptable, the sommelier complimented him on his choice of wine.
He parked the Volvo outside his neat, mock-Tudor detached house near the Marina. After another cheeky bottle of Tuscan red he and Susan had sex only slightly less exciting than that he’d been lecturing about this afternoon in The Miller’s Tale.
As days go, it wasn’t bad and when the university loomed out of the mist next morning, this time he didn’t sigh.
Susan, getting a lift to Belfast for the shopping, smiled at him.
“It’s growing on you,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he agreed.
“You’re playing Fenton today in your silly squash thing, aren’t you?”
“Oh, no, that was yesterday. And it’s not silly. He was the third seed. Psyched him out completely, poor chap. Went to pieces. Had to go easy on him.”
“So you’re still top of the ladder?”
Donald was a little surprised at the question. Of course he was still top. Did she seriously think he could take her out to the expensive new Italian restaurant, get the priciest plonk on the menu and be happy as a clam if he was off the top? My God, what kind of cipher did she think she’d married?
“Oh, yes, I think so,” he said casually.
She started talking about something or other but he was replaying the game in his mind, wondering if his backhand was still quite as strong as his lob. He left her outside the bank.
“So you’ll drive me to the soup kitchen on Saturday?” she asked, getting out of the car.
“I’ll drive you,” he said, and then after a pause added: “What soup kitchen, what are you talking about?”
“Haven’t you been listening? Our reading group. That book really affected us and we’re volunteering at the soup kitchen on Saturday. Christmas is coming, you know.”
He tried to think what the book could be. Something by Orwell perhaps, or Dickens, or some ghastly novel set among the poor of India.
“Of course I’ll drive you. In fact, I think I’ll even go. Help out.”
“You?” she said incredulously.
“Me, yes. Why so shocked? I’m a Labour man through and through. Help the common people, each according to his needs and from, uh, you know...that’s my motto,” he said with only semi-sarcasm, for she had hurt him a little with her surprise.
The week went by like every other week and on Saturday he did help out in the soup kitchen and it was by no means completely unpleasant. Some of the indigent were witty and grateful fellows fallen on hard times and he felt, if not happy, at least content.
The following Monday morning Mr Jones gave his presentation and it wasn’t bad and that afternoon he played squash with Professor Millin in the gym. Millin was number six on the ladder, not a serious opponent. An older man, a physics lecturer, well into his forties, although last week he had taken a game off Dunleavy who was currently in second place and Dunleavy was the sort who never let anyone have a game, ever.
“Heard you gave old Fred Dunleavy a run for his money,” Donald said conversationally as they walked down to the court.
“The big Scots ganch, I showed him! He’s slipping, he’s really slipping, getting a paunch. I tell you, you’ll cream him next time you play him, cream him,” Millin said.
Donald was happy to hear this. Dunleavy was a young Physical Education lecturer and for some time it had been his fear that Dunleavy would one day pull a superb game out of the bag and beat him.
“He’s been avoiding me for weeks, I suppose that’s why,” Donald said with satisfaction.
They paused outside the court to stretch. Donald looked at the squash ladder and was surprised to see a new name way down at the bottom, at number sixteen: V. M. Sinya.
“Who’s that?” he said, pointing at the name. Mil
lin was the Ladder Secretary for this term, so he should know.
“Oh, yes, new fella, foreigner, bloody Pak...er, I mean, uh, an Indian gent, I think. Initials stand for Victor Mohammed so I suppose he’s a Muslim. He’s from Computer Science. A lot of those boys do computers nowadays.”
“Is he any good?” Donald asked with a hint of nervousness in his voice. Anyone new could be trouble and several world champions had come from Pakistan.
“How the hell should I know?” Millin replied with great indifference.
“All right, let’s go in,” Donald said putting all ominous thoughts of the newcomer out of his mind.
He let Millin have a few points early before cruising to an easy victory in four games. He showered, picked up Susan and drove home.
On Thursday the Dean told him that his student evaluations were up since last term and, after buttering him up, asked if he’d ever considered standing for the University Council. He had no such intention but the thought that the Dean was interested in him pleased him immensely.
On Friday he had a game with McCann who was number twelve on the ladder. McCann had been quite a useful little player until the drink had become the dominant force in his life. Now all he was left with was a powerful serve and a few trick shots. He had no stamina and he couldn’t get about the court. Donald never usually bothered to play anyone this low down but McCann was a friend. When he got to the court he was pleased to see that Mr V. M. Sinya was still at number sixteen. He hadn’t even been able to beat old Franklin at fifteen, clearly the man wasn’t much of a threat. He found that he was tremendously relieved by this. Was the ladder so important to him that the thought of a mysterious stranger had given him the jitters? He laughed at himself. What a dunderhead you are, he said to himself, and to prove his good humour he let McCann take a couple of games.
On Saturday he was still feeling sufficiently good to help out at the soup kitchen. Also at the weekend he received a letter to say that one of his papers on Chaucer was going to be anthologized in the new collection by Dalrimple. Things, in fact, were going so well that he began to be suspicious that something terrible was about to happen. Perhaps he would be informed that he had some dreadful illness or maybe he would crash the car.
Just in case, he took the train to work on Monday, sitting in a back carriage near the emergency exit and steeling himself for a sudden derailment.
Nothing happened except for fifty gum-chewing, messy, obnoxious children getting on at Greenisland who tormented him all the way to Central Station with their music and pointless celebrity gossip.
His fears of impending disaster were somewhat realized when he showed up at the court to play Dunleavy and he saw that the mysterious Mr Sinya was at number ten on the squash ladder. The man had demolished five opponents in a week! This meant, of course, he had displaced McCann, so at least he could interrogate his friend at lunch.
In an unusually brutal and hurried match he thrashed Dunleavy, showered quickly and found McCann in the office, eating toast and drinking tea mixed with whisky.
“What’s Sinya like?” he blurted out before even saying hello.
“Sinya, I’ve no idea, mate.”
“You played him.”
“I gave him a bye, he wanted to play me on Friday lunchtime and I just couldn’t be bothered.”
“You gave him a bye?”
“Yes.”
“So maybe that’s why he’s jumped up the ladder? People have been giving him byes.”
“Aye, could be,” McCann said, not at all interested.
Relief sank over Donald like chloroform and again he chastised himself for the importance he attached to something so silly as the squash ladder.
The relief lasted until Wednesday when he bumped into Millin coming out of the university bookshop. Millin informed him that Sinya had demolished him and that he, Sinya, was now number five on the ladder.
“What’s he like?” Donald asked, trying not to sound frantic or panicked.
“Oh, he’s good. Going to give you a pretty tough game.”
“What’s he like?” Donald insisted.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. He’s Pakistani. I suppose forty, perhaps older, it’s hard to tell with them. He’s fast, and my God...that serve, those returns! It’s a nightmare. You give him any opportunity and he destroys you. Our match was over in half an hour.”
Donald went home that night in a state of distress. He barely talked to Susan and he couldn’t concentrate on his proofs for the Dalrimple book.
From his upstairs study he stared at the boats in Carrickfergus marina and the grey castle beyond. The halyards were muzzled by the wind, the granite castle walls kept their own counsel.
Could it be that the squash ladder was perhaps the one thing that gave him any satisfaction, any sense of accomplishment, in what was really a rather pathetic, little, nondescript life?
Not the teaching, not the writing, not even Susan.
And now, inevitably, he was going to face his Nemesis. It was a melodramatic thought but he couldn’t shake it.
A few days later the phone rang in his office. With a sense of dread he picked up the receiver. Naturally it was Sinya. He had beaten Fenton and Dunleavy and he would like to play Donald whenever it was convenient.
His voice was pleasant enough, foreign but not very foreign, and gentle. Aye, that’s how they get you, Donald thought. Softly softly. Lull you and then go for the jugular. Bastards. Well, he wouldn’t let them. He wouldn’t take this lying down. This was his league, his campus. Who did this guy think he was, for Christ’s sake? He’d been going easy on these chumps, he could take them all with one hand behind his back. This guy was no different. Try to spook me? See about that. He realized that during this prolonged internal soliloquy Sinya had been waiting for a reply on the other end of the phone.
“This afternoon’s fine with me. One p.m.” he said quickly, hung up and attempted to bury himself in work until just before the match.
He arrived early but Sinya was already there, changed, waiting for him. They shook hands. Sinya was tall, bearded, good-looking. He had a very charming way about him. He smiled easily and was polite. He asked Donald how he was and enquired about Donald’s new (bought yesterday) super-light, super-strong, carbon-fibre, state-of-the-art Khan Slazenger Pro racket.
Sinya won the spin, served, and launched a tremendous dying serve that Donald barely returned, but of course Sinya was already at the front wall waiting to volley Donald’s weak backhand. Donald, anticipating a crushing return, ran to the back right of the court, but Sinya placed a perfect drop shot in the left front corner, flat-footing Donald and winning the point. Sinya won the next four points and then missed one. On Donald’s serve, Sinya volleyed the ball back so fast Donald didn’t even see it until it was too late.
The whole match went that way, Donald’s play grew worse and forty-five minutes later it was all over. He had managed to take a game but Sinya had easily beaten him: 9-5, 9-4, 7-9, 9-1. Shellshocked, he let his opponent prattle on about this and that and then watched with horror as Sinya stopped at the noticeboard outside the court and had the cheek to take out Donald’s name from the top of the ladder and substitute his own. Couldn’t the bastard even have the decency to wait until he was showering?
He drove home and after four hours of silence Susan got it out of him, and of course he agreed that it was only a stupid game and it meant nothing. The next day he went to the court with his new racket and practised serves and drop shots for an hour and called Sinya and asked him for a rematch.
The rematch was on a Friday and this time Sinya took him in straight sets. He realized with horror that Sinya had given him the game he’d won last time as a courtesy, just as he had condescendingly done with the lesser players in his bouts.
They walked back to car park and Sinya stopped at the repulsive Volkswagen Microbus Donald had seen egged by the rag week students.
“Do you want a lift?”
he asked. “You’re in Carrick, aren’t you? I drive all the way to Larne so it would be easy to drop you.”
The fact that Sinya lived in Larne, one of the grimmest towns in Ulster, gave Donald no comfort on the silent ride home.
Sinya’s reign at the top began and seemed unbreakable. He was miles ahead of all the players. In fact, if he’d been younger he could well have been an international. Weeks went by and Donald played him on and off with little effect. On a weekend game with Fenton, Donald unexpectedly lost, and after another fortnight he was only at number four on the ladder.
Despite the repeated assurances of his wife, his friends and even, on one humiliating occasion, the university’s psychological counsellor, that it was only a senseless cardboard list of names, he felt that his work, his health, his libido and his mental outlook were all suffering terribly as he slipped down the ladder.
The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10 Page 59