Black Chalk

And then I nearly fall to the ground as my legs become weak. H E L L O N E, reads the sky. HELL ONE.

I run back to my apartment as fast as I can.

VII(iii) What a terrible omen. HELL ONE, like the zip code of my life. Or the title of its first episode, maybe. A movie featuring me fourteen years ago, my life in the Game, and in five weeks’ time, look out for the sequel. Hell Two: The Game Strikes Back.

But I will go outside again. Tomorrow. Yes, I’m fine now. Baby steps, several minutes. Long enough for me to remember how much there is in the world to recommend it, enough for me to gain a little strength. And my tormentor was only an airplane running low on fuel, that’s all, nothing more.

To calm myself while I write this all down, I make a cup of tea which I am currently finishing. And to hell with the expense – I used two bags so that the tea tastes good and strong. The tea soothes me, makes me think of England. Small hands around a mug, itchy warm in wintertime.

And then I start to laugh. I laugh for the first time in years as I picture myself running from words in the sky. Eyes wide and my beard and pale limbs flailing wildly. Not exactly a poster boy for the advantages of the hermetic lifestyle.

And when I stop laughing I realise that humour is a wonderful thing, a very good omen with regard to my comeback. In five weeks’ time I have no doubt I will have rediscovered the better parts of me. I can win this thing, I truly believe I can.

So as part of my training regime I must head outside into the world every day. There are delights as well as demons beyond my four walls. And soon I will slip back, free and willing, into the warm and numb beauty of American life.

VIII

VIII(i) They gave the academic terms quaint names over there. Michaelmas, Hilary, Trinity. But a week before Michaelmas began there came Freshers’ Week, a time to settle in before the onslaught of academia. And every night throughout that week the two of them found some time alone in Jolyon’s room. Cocktails and liberty. Justice and nubs of cannabis resin. The world rejigged and smoothed and social inequality banished forever in their chatter, their grand world schemes.

Chad unloaded himself more and more in Jolyon’s presence, spoke ever more freely, and to hell with his twitchy mental censor. One day he thought he might even talk to Jolyon about his father, the daily look in his eyes that said there was something disgusting and wrong with his son. And Jolyon would do nothing but listen and shake his head. And then perhaps they would eat a whole pizza together.

Toward the end of that first week, with smiles and mock indignation, they began to argue pleasantly over whose idea the Game had been. Just days after the first spark, Jolyon began to claim the credit. Chad, however, became convinced the idea had been his own. Both sides vigorously submitted their evidence but neither would admit defeat.

Had they argued about the Game many months or any number of years later, then neither of them would have fought for the credit. They would, both of them, have bitterly ascribed blame to the other.

For almost a week they had only a vague idea of how the Game would be played, just a few principles. A large financial reward for the winner. Numerous consequences for losing – like teenage dares – at first just embarrassing, later on mortifying. Sizeable deposits to ensure the performance of consequences. A gradual escalation. And the dares had always to remain purely psychological, nothing physically dangerous. A game of the mind.

But the large reward for winning quickly became an insurmountable issue – Chad the farm boy on a scholarship and financial aid, and Jolyon, the product of divorced Sussex schoolteachers, only moderately better off than his American friend. The precise make-up of the Game hardly seemed worth pinning down while funds remained an obstacle.

VIII(ii) ‘Oh, that’s a face I would definitely never tire of seeing on the end of my cock.’

Jolyon and Chad already knew which girl Jack was referring to without having to follow his eyes.

Jolyon sighed. ‘Jah-aaaack.’

‘What?’ said Jack, turning to see two disapproving faces. He bunched his shoulders and held out his palms. ‘Don’t you dare judge me. You think it. I just say it.’

The cliques and cabals were already forming at Pitt. In each case there was a central core around which the groups formed, a heart dense enough to begin the accretion of human mass. Often a group would take shape around a shared interest such as rowing or rugby or studying Beowulf in its original Anglo-Saxon. Or a clique might orbit around qualities such as money or beauty or pretension. But Chad couldn’t describe his own group’s defining feature. He felt it peculiar that he could label every other clique but his own. Perhaps Jolyon was the only thing that defined them. They were all the sort of people Jolyon liked – the normal ones at Pitt, Jolyon would have said.