Black Chalk

V(i) Something someone once said all those years ago has stuck in my mind. Although I can’t actually remember who said it.

Someone else had come out with that old line about winning not being everything. Probably Emilia, that’s exactly the sort of thing she liked to believe. And then one of us replied . . . perhaps even me, I’m not sure . . . one of us said, Of course winning is everything. Why else do you think we call ourselves the human race?

V(ii) But tell me, what did we do that was so wrong?

We played a game. That’s all. A game. Isn’t this how we teach children the ways of the world? Are we not all supposed to learn early in life how to cope with defeat?

But then there were the consequences, the price paid for losing.

Ah, the consequences.

Yes. We went too far.

Well of course we went too far. Why else would I be living in this dark hole, hands shaking as I dare to let in the sunlight for the first time in three years? Obviously we went too far. But no one was supposed to get hurt.

When a boxer dies in the ring, whatever our views on the sport, don’t we accept that the boxer knew the risks? We don’t blame his opponent. In law there exists a doctrine that covers this. Volenti non fit injuria. To the consenting person, no injury is done.

Yes, volenti non fit injuria. That should serve as my defence. But, instead, I stare at the blood on my hands every day and allow the guilt to suffocate me once more.

We went too far.

I went too far.

But it was never supposed to be that sort of game.

VI

VI(i) The bar was underground and stone and ancient. From his seat at the middle of the crowded table Chad gazed around him and savoured once more the mustiness that gave the place a taste of the religious. Interconnecting rooms dimly lit. Wooden tables and benches like pews.

Throughout Chad’s time in Oxford, they would frequently find something to raise their glasses to at Pitt. It was 3 October 1990, and Germany had been officially reunified since midnight. So that night they drank to the end of the Cold War, which had not been announced by the world’s powers but inferred by Jolyon. And Jolyon had insisted on buying drinks for the whole table to celebrate. They toasted each other ‘Prost’ and ‘Zum Wohl

’ and Jolyon taught them a drinking song he had learned in Munich. A boy named Nick teased Chad about his German pronunciation and Jolyon wagged his finger at Nick over the table. ‘You do know that Chad’s fluent in Spanish, right? So how’s your Español, Meestah Neeck?’

‘No, fair point, Jolyon. It was all Latin, Kraut and French at school. Sorry, Chad. Fluent, huh? That’s actually pretty amazing.’

Chad wasn’t fluent in Spanish. And Jolyon knew this, they had already compared tales of their schooldays on different continents. Chad had only studied Spanish at high school for a few years. ‘Salud!’ he said, raising his glass to Nick.

While Nick returned the glass-raise with a respectful nod, Jolyon tugged at Chad’s elbow. ‘Come on, Chad, let’s go, I can’t breathe down here any more.’

Jolyon believed the world was becoming impossibly overcrowded. But Chad already had a deep understanding of his new friend and it was clear to him that Jolyon believed the world was becoming overcrowded because he was so frequently at the centre of a crowd. Jolyon was like a fireplace in wintertime, people liked to warm their souls around him.

‘Cocktails? Your room?’ said Chad.

‘Absolutely,’ said Jolyon. ‘And just the two of us tonight. I need some space.’

Chad’s adventure was only eleven days old and already a success. And the número dos bravest thing Chad had ever done was the número uno reason why. Because even after knowing him for only a few days, Chad’s friendship with Jolyon made him feel immensely privileged. Everyone who had met Jolyon in those first few days at Pitt already seemed to crave time with him. And yet Jolyon chose to spend most of his waking hours with him, Theodore Chadwick Mason. Such an embarrassingly lavish name for a poor small-town boy. Theodore felt too grand but Ted and Teddy had always felt too gentle. Chad was the lesser of several evils. And better still for the fact that Chad was his father’s least favourite of the available options.

Chad finished his beer, hiding his grimace inside the mouth of the pint mug. His American taste buds had been trained on Bud and Coors, great lawnmower beers said his dad, although the farm didn’t have anything resembling a lawn. It would take Chad several months to wholly acquire an appetite for English beer. Yeasty sweet yet at the same time bitter like burnt nuts.

A good-looking boy named Jamie called after them. ‘Jolyon, Chad, don’t leave us this way.’

‘Back in a minute,’ said Jolyon.

Jamie winked, made a gun shape with his fingers, a clicking sound with his tongue.