Black Chalk

‘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

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

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.’