Black Chalk

After Mark’s exit the day before, they had played on, Jolyon had insisted. No one wanted to provoke Jolyon and so everyone seemed to go easy on him. Perhaps this was why Chad, sitting to Jolyon’s left, had lost badly.

But so far he had played the Game well. This was his first serious consequence and that was down to misfortune, a bad situation, an unlikely roll. But the Game was still in its early stages and he doubted it would come down to cards and dice now the consequences were becoming stiffer. Survival would come down to mettle and spirit and perhaps down to nature as well, some part of themselves they didn’t yet know. He wondered how many of them realised this.

He passed Bethlehem College and then St Christopher’s where a famous English poet had kept a bear in his room after the college had banned the keeping of dogs. Chad had taken the open-top bus tour in his first week in the city, a fact he had not told his friends, who would have despised such behaviour.

He took the scenic route home along the river and as he wandered opposite the slipways and boathouses he thought about the consequences awaiting the others. What lurked in each pot remained a secret from each of them. And in many ways the threat of the unknown was a good element of the Game. But surely if some of them knew what might befall them, the play might progress a little faster. And Emilia in particular, if Emilia . . . And then, feeling guilty, Chad snapped away from his thoughts. Instead he stared at an eight on the river, their pairs of oars folding and straightening, the ephemeral fog of their breaths.

But the thought wouldn’t go away. Because it was undoubtedly true that if Emilia knew what they had planned for her, she might run from the Game. And in all honesty, forewarning would be an act of kindness, much better for her to know in advance than to have to go through with it. Why should he feel guilty for the simple recognition of a clever strategy?

But first of all there was Friday to get through. He would worry about everything else after that.

When he got back to the house below the river, Mitzy was in the kitchen, perched cross-legged on a dining chair. Although it was nearly five o’clock she was eating Honey Nut Cheerios from a large bowl cradled between her thighs. She had on a pair of red terrycloth shorts and a grey T-shirt, Notre Dame, where her brother played football. Somehow, despite the sludgy weather in Britain, she had maintained her deep tan, her legs the colour of the strong tea Chad was trying to acquire a taste for.

When she saw Chad she became excitable. Bouncing on crossed legs she told him she had just taken a phone call from the liaison officer about Friday’s event. She relayed the message, everything had been OK’d and arranged. ‘So then, Mr Mysterious, do I get an invite?’

‘Of course,’ said Chad, resisting the urge to tag on the observation that it was a public event in any case.

‘Awesome, Chad. Friday’s gonna be awesome. I’m so proud of you.’

‘Thanks, Mitzy,’ said Chad. The word proud seemed inappropriate between them. But never mind, it was sweet of her. Mitzy was

sweet, the sort of girl he should love, a simple sort of love for his first.

‘Hey, how about when it’s over, like to show you how awesome you’ve been, I mean only if you haven’t already arranged something with your English friends, because I like totally understand if you have, how about I take you out to dinner? Just you and me, Chad. To celebrate. What do you think?’

‘I think definitely, Mitzy,’ said Chad. ‘That really would be great.’

Mitzy clapped her hands, a small fluttering motion. And then she sang out the word awesome, pitching it at the highest note she could reach. Chad noticed the milk from her spoon dripping as she held it like a microphone, dripping and splashing and running down her thighs.

XLI

XLI(i) I leave a bunch of gerberas and a short note for Dee before I head out of my apartment at noon. My beard has been itching hideously for days. I think it might be time for a shave. A haircut as well.

OK, between you and me, dear reader, the truth. I would like to look good for Dee. But please keep this to yourself. All I can think of is Dee. Dee Dee Dee.

Chop chop chop and enough hair on the barbershop floor to stuff a large cushion. Next the beard – first a buzz cut with clippers, then the scrape of the blade. And now I look better than I have done in years. Not that I have spent much time admiring myself in the mirror. Because when I get home I find Dee’s letter.

XLI(ii) Oh, Jolyon, thank you for the flowers and the very dear note. You are utterly sweet and I feel truly blessed having you back in my life. And thank you for agreeing to the rules. I’m sorry, the FRAMEWORK.