Black Chalk

The pub stood at the far corner of the square. A residents’ key was required to access the private garden and beyond its black railings were trim lawns and gravel paths as yellow as a beach. Chad ran his finger along the tips of the railing spikes as he walked, as he promised himself that one day he would live somewhere like this. It was the sort of thought he could only allow himself to enjoy without Jolyon present.

He found them lounging in the pub, near to the fireplace. Jolyon, his arm around Emilia, had a chair and a beer ready for him.

Emilia saw him approaching first. ‘Oh good,’ she said. ‘How are you, Chad? I was so worried about you this morning.’

Instead of replying, Chad dropped heavily into his seat and let his head fall to the table.

‘See, I told you. He’s the silent type, Emilia,’ said Mark. ‘Or maybe that’s just his game-playing tactic. They say it’s the quiet ones you have to look out for.’

‘I know,’ said Emilia, ‘but I can’t work out which type of silent type Chad is.’

Chad peeped up at Emilia. Of all her sweet faces, perplexed was perhaps his favourite.

‘Is he the strong silent type or another type of silent?’ she said. ‘Are there any other names for any other silent types? There should be. There should definitely be the stupid silent type.’ And then Emilia looked alarmed. ‘Oh, I’m not saying that’s you, Chad. Sorry, just thinking out loud.’ She hmmed and bit her lip. ‘The shy silent type, the weak silent type. The psychopathic killer silent type. Come on, what type of silent type are you, Chad?’

Chad pushed himself up and back into his seat. He stared at Emilia, not blinking. He stared and stared.

‘I’m sorry, Chad,’ said Emilia, her fingers dancing at her neckline. ‘I really didn’t mean to offend you.’

Chad laughed. ‘No, I was answering your question,’ he said. ‘I’m the silent silent type.’ Emilia laughed too but it came out rather forced.

Jack stepped in – there could be no humour in Jack’s presence without Jack’s approval and involvement. ‘No, he’s the last one, psychopathic. Silent but violent. Like a fart,’ he said.

Dee looked disgusted.

‘What?’ Jack complained. ‘Surely you did that at school. I thought everyone did.’

‘Being at school with you must have felt like one long trip to the circus, Jackie-oh,’ said Dee.

‘You tell me, Dee. What was it, a hundred schools you went to? Two hundred? You must have passed through my hood at some point.’

‘Oh, it’s let’s make fun of the orphan time, hooray,’ said Dee. ‘I do so love our quality time, Jack. I only wish there’d been more tragedy in my life for you to mine with your cute little funnies.’

‘What? I’d have loved being an orphan. You think four parents are better than none? I’d have killed to have no parents.’

‘There’s still time for that,’ said Chad. ‘We could make matricide and/or patricide one of the later consequences.’

‘See, I told you,’ said Jack triumphantly. ‘Silent but violent.’ Jack shaped his hands as if around a crystal ball and gazed into the imaginary globe before him. ‘Chad, yes, I see you now. Leg chains and handcuffs and a prison boiler suit. But which one of us did he kill?’ Jack’s eyes widened and he let out a scream, oblivious to the silence it provoked in the crowded pub. ‘Let me put out my eyes.’ He mimed driving a pair of spikes into his face. ‘The horror, the horror.’

Dee applauded sarcastically. ‘Bozo the clown brings the house down again,’ she said. ‘You’re quite the prognosticator, aren’t you, Jack.’

‘If whatever you just said means psychic, then yes,’ said Jack. ‘I mean, come on, it’s not like any of our futures are that hard to predict.’

‘Oh really?’ said Emilia. ‘Why don’t you try us then, Jack?’ She now wore her serious face. Almost as sweet as perplexed.

Jack returned to his imaginary globe. ‘Emilia, the pretty one who pretends to have no hate,’ he said, affecting a soothsayer’s croak. ‘Emilia will marry first of everyone gathered here today, for she cannot bear to be alone. She will marry a country veterinarian named Giles. His family own a stud farm on great England’s southern coast.’

‘Crap,’ said Emilia. She folded her arms disagreeably. ‘I’d never marry a posh Tory type,’ she said. ‘My dad would never speak to me again.’