Black Chalk

Dorian quickly progressed to potential winnings of ten pounds, and although any mistake would nullify what he had already gained, he played on without a moment’s hesitation.

Up to fifteen pounds. And then –

WINNER OF THE 1932 NOBEL PRIZE IN PHYSICS, WHAT WAS THE FIRST NAME OF GERMAN SCIENTIST HEISENBERG?

A. KARL B. MAX C. NIELS D. WERNER

‘Shit,’ said Dorian. ‘This hasn’t come up before. Anyone?’

‘It’s Niels,’ said Mark.

‘One hundred per cent?’ said Dorian.

‘I’m studying physics.’

Dorian gave button C a tentative prod with his forefinger.

INCORRECT – YOU LOSE.

‘Fuck, Mark.’ Dorian, irritated, bounced up and down and the coins jingled in his pocket. ‘I still had a fucking pass available.’ Jingle jingle jingle. ‘We said only answer if you’re one hundred per cent certain.’

‘I was,’ said Mark. ‘But now I come to think of it, the machine tricked me. Werner Heisenberg worked with Niels Bohr. I guess I got their first names muddled up in my head. Sorry, Dorian, really.’

‘It’s all right, it’s fine, it’s fine.’ Dorian took a deep breath. ‘The trail should still be short next time. She thinks we just got lucky. She thinks we play fast and loose. Don’t worry, she’ll sell herself cheap for a little while yet.’

Jack clapped Dorian on the back. ‘She?’ he said. ‘Dorian, you spend nearly every waking hour with this machine and you call it she?’ Jack paused. ‘By the way, how’s your sex life these days?’

Dorian didn’t turn to answer, he stared into the flashing lights. ‘She’s always hungry for me,’ he said, dropping another pound into the slot, ‘and the more time we spend together the less often she tells me I’m wrong. Good luck finding an improvement on this model, Jack.’

In the next game the question that stumped Dorian arrived early on. The winner of the 1971 Epsom Derby.

‘It’s Nijinsky,’ said Mark.

‘Are you sure this time? It’s not Mill Reef?’

‘My dad’s a horse-racing freak.’

‘Mark’s truly amazing on sport,’ said Jolyon.

Dorian, with no great enthusiasm, pressed Nijinsky.

INCORRECT – YOU LOSE.

XXXVI(ii) Mark lost three further games for Dorian, each time with escalating promises regarding his certainty. After Mark had sworn on both his mother’s and sister’s eyes and again been proved wrong, Dorian ceased to listen to him entirely.

Mark then began to increase the frequency with which he offered his opinion, while providing more and more patently absurd answers to the simplest of questions. Mars was the closest planet to the sun. General Franco had been an operatic tenor. The winners of the 1970 football World Cup had been Scotland.

Dorian asked him to leave and Mark promised not to say another word. In the sixth game Mark kept to his promise. But when Dorian hesitated as he summoned up his recall of the distance in miles between New York City and Toronto, Mark leaned forward and without uttering a word pressed the button for the answer 2,698, the three other options having been 243, 343 and 443.

Dorian swung quickly around, his arm tensed and his hand bunched as if to throw a punch. ‘You fucking arsehole, Mark. You fucking fucking arse.’

‘Chill out, Door, it’s only a game,’ said Mark.

‘You owe me six fucking pounds.’

‘Look, Door, you have free will. We don’t live in a fascist dic-tatorship. Nobody made you listen to me.’

‘You hit the fucking button.’ Dorian was incredulous.

‘Once,’ said Mark. ‘Fine, so I owe you one pound.’

‘OK then, where is it?’

‘I’ll give it to you later,’ said Mark. He shrugged as if Dorian were being inexplicably rude.

Dorian poked him in the shoulder and held the finger there, pushing into him as Mark spread his arms and grinned.

‘You’re a cunt, Mark,’ said Dorian. ‘Don’t you ever ever come near me again.’ Dorian stroked the machine goodbye and rushed out from the pub, shaking his head.

Shortest had been watching and listening from the table nearest the quiz machine. He looked like a movie director, imperious and leaning back in his own special chair. One of his legs was crossed high over the other. Shortest scribbled into his notebook, then looked up and nodded at Jolyon.

Jolyon handed to Mark a small card, printed with the words ‘The Picture of Dorian’s Rage’. Mark tore it in four and pushed the pieces into his pocket. ‘That’s enough now,’ he said. ‘Come on, Jolyon, one consequence a week is more than enough. Surely I don’t have to do another one as well.’

‘Of course you do, Mark.’ Jolyon’s eyelids slid slowly down as he shook his head. ‘It’s the rules. Of course you do.’

Mark shouted, ‘I’ve fucking had it with this.’

‘Then quit,’ said Jolyon calmly. ‘You perform your next consequence and you’re all square with the Game. You do that, then you quit before the next round begins, and you get your deposit back.’

‘Just give me the money back now. I’ll quit now if that’s what you want.’

‘I don’t want any one thing more than another,’ said Jolyon, ‘apart from the observance of the rules. We have to be fair to everyone. You know we can’t give you back the money until you’re all square with the Game, Mark. Don’t ask the impossible.’