Black Chalk

LXXV(i) Chad looks at me like a doctor waiting for a frail old lady to begin listing her complaints.

I respond with my own look, a tuck of the chin, a puffing out of the cheeks. And then I say to him, Go home and see your parents, Chad.

LXXV(ii) He tries to act as if my words are only the well-meaning advice of a friend. Well, thanks for the suggestion, Jolyon, Chad says, his cheeks flushing. Obviously it was already part of the plan, he adds innocently. But thanks all the same.

I stretch out on the sofa like a starlet in a silk dressing gown. Oh no, I say, I don’t think you quite understand, Chad. Or perhaps you’re being deliberately obtuse. What I mean is that you must go and see your parents. That going to see your parents is your consequence. And then I laugh gaily. I mean, it’s hardly a consequence at all, Chad. Although obviously I’ll have to accompany you to ensure fair performance, I say. And then I add, I seem to remember it’s quite a charming drive up there. To the old farmstead.

He stares at me. When at last he speaks his voice is low, a guttural threat in the back of his throat. You can’t do this to me, Chad says.

I scratch behind my ear. That’s funny, I say, because I think I can. It was you who offered me first move. And I don’t think there’s anyone would try to argue that a simple visit to the very people who gave birth to you belongs anywhere but the least serious pot. We must remain objective here.

The threat is rising in Chad’s voice. This isn’t happening, he says. And then, louder still and his fingers stabbing the air, Chad says, You can’t do this to me, Jolyon. It’s not right. Because I’ve won. You have no idea.

I remain perfectly calm. I have no idea of what? I say.

And at last his rage rushes out. Of everything I’ve done to you, Chad shouts. He pushes down on the arms of his chair as if he’s about to rise, as if he might attack. But instead Chad falls back, and suddenly his strength is gone. When next he speaks it is as if there has been a key change, the slide from major to minor. You don’t understand, he says. You have no idea of all the ways I’ve beaten you. So you can’t do this to me, Jolyon. I’m winning. I’m . . . Chad closes his eyes and his voice trails away.

I’m sure you’re right, Chad, I say, nodding thoughtfully. So it’s simple. Just go and see your parents.

No, Jolyon, Chad says, his anger pitched quietly now. This can’t be happening. This is not how it ends.

Chad falls silent. He stares over my head, out beyond my windows, his arms flat at the sides of the chair as if he is waiting, as if he wants to feel the earth turn beneath him and the truth will have drifted away.

I say nothing. I watch Chad’s chest heaving up, falling back, as little by little the heaviness in his breathing subsides.

Finally he tips back his head. Jolyon, this is what you don’t understand, Chad says, his voice turning bitter-sweet now. I haven’t been in New York for four days. I’ve been here since before I called. I’ve been beating you every single day and night since that phone call. Chad lowers his head to stare at me. Jolyon, I’ve been running your life for five weeks.

And now it is my turn to pause, to think everything through. And the earth doesn’t turn beneath me, it lurches wildly. It feels as if I am staring through the side window of a speeding car and I can’t turn my head, I can’t find anything on which to focus. Snatches of the last five weeks go spinning through me. My routine, my story, my life. Until gradually everything begins to slow – the world, my thoughts – and my eyes find something on which to focus. I am looking at Chad, his mouth foreshadowing a smile. I stiffen at the sight of it, remembering my edge, recovering my game. Bravo, Chad, I say. That’s really very impressive. Yes, I understand now. So why not simply go and see your parents . . . ? I reach out my hand as if offering him a gift.

Chad’s smile dissolves. No, you really don’t see, he says, beginning to sound impatient. Don’t for one single second make out you understand what I’ve done, he says. I’ve . . . Chad is rubbing his forehead in disbelief . . . I’ve been leaving your notes for you, Jolyon. I’ve been inventing and placing mnemonics, writing half your book. I’ve been pulling the strings of this pointless life of yours every day for five weeks.

Chad begins to look desperate. If you’re high on pills, Jolyon, that’s because of me. More whisky every day? Me! Don’t pretend you understand. I’ve beaten you every single day. Who took away your water? Me! Well, except for the one glass you kicked over yourself, I’ll admit you provided the spark for a good number of the ideas yourself. And who made you drink whisky instead of your water? Who kept gradually changing the line on your glass? And more pills as well, more drugs whenever we felt like it, whenever we thought you were starting to get suspicious.

Chad sees me flinch.