Black Chalk

Chad, his eyes wide and shocked, instinctively raised his hand and it seemed for a moment as if he might strike back. Dee looked at him, dared him to, and then Chad lifted his hand to his bright stung cheek. And Dee was gone.

LXVI(iii) Chad stood motionless by the door. He looked like a small boy who had been shamed by a teacher. Jolyon stared at him. He still felt guilty and yet he wanted to see Chad in all his humiliation. Chad glanced only momentarily back at Jolyon but this was long enough. He started to shuffle from the room.

Jolyon waited until Chad was halfway through the door. ‘You win,’ Jolyon called out after him. ‘I’ll quit next week, Chad. Congratulations, the best man won.’

Chad only paused, not turning around. His shoulders rose and then fell as he moved out into the hallway, as he disappeared gradually down the stairs.

LXVI(iv) Jolyon didn’t sleep. He lay in his bed picturing Mark’s eyes. The moment before, the moment after. Moment after moment after moment. And then, very early in the morning, Jolyon went down to the phone at the bottom of his staircase and dialled the number.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Jolyon.’

‘Aha.’

‘ . . .’

‘ . . .’

‘What were you doing at Pitt?’

‘What were you doing coming out of the chapel?’

‘ . . .’

‘You see, I heard that’s the way Mark got up there. Through a chapel window, that’s what they say, Jolyon, up via the roof of Great Hall. How about you?’

‘ . . .’

‘So shall I tell the police what I saw?’

‘No.’

‘Good. But will they find any evidence? Might anyone else have seen you?’

‘No.’

‘Very good. Then I suggest we both hold on to our information like playing cards. Very close to our chests.’

‘Why would you do that, Shortest?’

‘Let’s just call it a sense of fair play.’

‘How do I know you won’t say something later?’

‘Respect the Game, Jolyon, and the Game will respect you.’

‘Is that what you were doing skulking round Pitt late at night, Shortest? Respecting the Game?’

‘Do we really have to spell it out, Jolyon? Oh dear, I was hoping we might be a little more English about the whole thing. Your erstwhile transatlantic friend has had an adverse affect on you.’

‘ . . .’

‘Fine then, Jolyon. You have something over me and I have something over you. Should we continue to circle or are we done now?’

‘It was an accident, Shortest.’

‘I don’t doubt it for the merest second, Jolyon.’

‘ . . .’

‘Was that all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. See you next Sunday then.’

LXVII

LXVII(i) No one ever asked me. No one ever said to me, Jolyon, did you kill Mark? Something extraordinary happened instead. In the small world of Pitt, I was pardoned.

In the eyes of almost everyone at college, Mark and I had been close friends. And not just close but inseparable. Wherever I went, Mark went. Mark had swapped rooms just to live next door to me. The Pitt Pendulum had even run a cartoon. Me as groom, Mark as demented bride, a congregation of jealous faces.

Yes, that’s how it looked to Pitt. Six friends, a falling-out, my twinship with Chad left in tatters. But until his death, Mark and I had remained close. And perhaps Mark’s depression – surely it must have been depression – was in some way related to my behaviour. I must have been under a great deal of strain being close friends with someone depressive enough to take his own life, someone who found the world such a strain he preferred sleep over consciousness. And perhaps, now that everyone thought it through with the benefit of hindsight, my public enjoyment of Asian Babes was not so indicative of racism after all. And really those diary entries only revealed the sort of dark, unkind thoughts we all have from time to time. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. And no one thought to link the non-appearance of any further diary entries with the death of Mark. It was clear that whoever had been taping them to the walls had decided to stop out of respect for my grief. I think most people assumed my torturer to have been Jack.

For the next several days, girls stopped me and hugged me as I made my way around Pitt. Boys slapped my back, rubbed my shoulders. People who barely even knew me would tell me how sorry they were to hear about my friend.

One time I spied Jack and Emilia in a large group of people across back quad. They were walking toward me. Jack saw me and then cast his eyes quickly down. A moment later he appeared to have a sudden idea. Everyone nodded and shrugged and changed direction. I watched them all disappear through the Hallowgood gate.

Meanwhile I had spoken to the police who assured me that, while the circumstances of Mark’s death were in no way suspicious, with any such death they had a duty to make inquiries, they hoped I understood. I nodded solemnly. Perhaps they were testing me as we spoke, feeling for leads. If so then I passed. It wasn’t hard to act the grief-stricken friend, I was already broken. The police were very sensitive and understanding. It makes me sick to think of the lies I told.