Black Chalk

In time, Jolyon. Please give me just a little more time. There are things I need to come to terms with on my own. Let us restore our trust, our friendship.

And then we can meet again, soon, cross my heart.

XXXVIII

XXXVIII(i) When Jolyon arrived in the bar, hand in hand with Emilia, the others were at their favourite table in the corner. Dee and Jack and Mark had been explaining bitterly to Chad for the last hour why the Tories were worse than Republicans and Thatcher more evil than Reagan. They seemed to believe it their duty to educate him on such matters.

Jolyon looked fresh and unaffected. He undraped himself from Emilia and offered to buy the next round of drinks, asking each of them what they wanted, his finger settling on Mark last of all. ‘And how about you then,’ he said, ‘you lazy fucking cunt?’

There was an elongated silence. Mark peered up at Jolyon. And then Mark laughed hard and everybody laughed and everything was absolutely fine between everyone.

XXXVIII(ii) But Mark still owed the Game another consequence. At Emilia’s suggestion, they agreed the details could wait. There were five days until the next round of the Game. Mark could pick out his next consequence then, before resumption of play.

Five days later and they started at four, a grey rain descending beyond the windows of Jolyon’s room. There seemed recently to have been some shift within Game Soc. Tallest and Shortest divided the observance of most of the consequences between the two of them, Middle now came to most of the rounds.

It was Middle again that day. He entered without knocking. And then, keeping his head low and looking at no one, he wheeled the chair from the desk to the wall, far from the play.

‘The Picture of Dorian’s Rage’ having been performed, and only two pieces of paper now in the pot, they had to agree upon a replacement. Mark waited outside while they talked it through. The discussion lasted barely two minutes.

Dee was nearest the desk so she wrote down the agreed-upon words. Chad liked the way she held the pen, dainty and ladylike, her gestures elaborate as she looped her Gs and crossed her Ts. She was wearing green army surplus cargoes and a shirt in gunmetal grey. She also had on a woollen cream scarf, long enough to hang beneath her knees. It all seemed very restrained to Chad, except for the addition of bright blue pumps and an azure fedora with a tawny feather tucked into its band. He began to imagine her writing a poem, a poem for him, the unveiling of a hidden love. But no, secret poems were too passive for Dee. Dee was stronger than him, Dee would act. She would come knocking on your door late at night or she might tell you very matter-of-factly while sitting beside you at dinner in the Great Hall.

That morning Mitzy had found him eating breakfast in the kitchen and gabbled her way into making a tenuous link between Chad coming from New York State and there being a band playing at a pub called the Albany that night. And then, as if the thought had only just struck her, she invited him along, she was going with Jenna and Fredo. And what with Jenna and Fredo being like totally icky all the time together, he’d be doing her a favour. Chad had told her that, oh shoot, he really wished he could but he had already made plans with friends. ‘What, those English friends of yours?’ Mitzy had said, and then left the room with a snort when he nodded.

When Dee finished folding the consequence and dropped it into the pot, Jolyon called Mark into the room. He headed straight to the coffee table, not with any great speed but with something like a look of intent. He plunged his hand into the pot, swirled the three pieces of paper and plucked one up as if it were a prize.

The slip of paper required five or six unfoldings. Already Chad could see Dee’s handiwork, the flourishes in ink. Dee’s handwriting but his idea, the others having leapt at his suggestion. All except Emilia of course. Four votes to one.

Mark’s cheeks paled as he read. ‘That’s not fair,’ he said, ‘I’m not doing that.’ He slapped the consequence down on the coffee table.

‘Don’t worry, Mark,’ said Emilia. ‘Whichever one it is, I’m sure you can do it.’

‘Well, that happens to be irrelevant because I’m using my veto. We each get one veto, OK. So I veto this and we move on.’

Dee spoke his name, long and susurrant, ‘Mhhhhaaa-ark . . .’

Jolyon made his voice gentle as well. ‘Mark, there aren’t any vetoes. We never discussed vetoes. If you want to talk about a rule change then we can do that. But only for future rounds.’

‘Fuck off, Jolyon.’

Dee snatched up the slip of paper. ‘The picture of Dorian’s rage, part two,’ she said, displaying the consequence to the others.