Black Chalk

XIII Games have awoken in me unpleasant memories of my divorce. Those boxes represent the only shared belongings I held on to when I left Blair four years ago. I even took the childish games we bought for the visits of her nieces and nephews. My ex-wife chose not to contest the ownership of Chutes & Ladders. Games had always been one of the sore points in our relationship, I couldn’t bear to lose even the friendliest of contests. And Blair deserved better, she only ever wanted to fix me. Poor Blair.

But never mind yesterday, yesterday was merely a blip. I have bagged up the games with the garbage, there will be no more frivolous pursuits. And today has felt better. My resolve remains undiminished and my story progresses. My evening routine is complete. The evening is a season unto itself, Keats’s autumn, all mists and mellow fruitfulness.

Chilli and rice. Check. Small nip of whisky. Check. Glass of water. Check.

Disrobe, brush teeth, take meds. One pink pill, one yellow, one blue.

And a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.

Life is a game of balances. Work, play. Wake, sleep. Stimulant, narcotic.

My snug skin, my cosy mind, the gentle hum of me. Check.

XIV

XIV Chad knocked on the door. He could hear the faint sound of creaks from within, the groaning of floorboards as Jolyon moved closer. Chad sense a tightness in his chest. Was he nervous? That would be foolish, he wasn’t here for any particular reason, only to hang out with Jolyon. At lunchtime perhaps they would go to the Churchill Arms. Maybe they would buy second-hand books beforehand or just sit and drink coffee and talk about the Game. So perhaps the feeling in Chad’s chest wasn’t nerves but a thrill.

When Jolyon opened his door, he smiled. He didn’t say anything, he only turned around and moved toward his bed where a newspaper was spread out, every inch of the blanket covered but for a small spot to which Jolyon returned.

‘I bumped into Prost at the bottom of the stairs,’ said Chad, ‘and he asked me to give this back to you.’ He waved several sheets of paper covered in handwriting.

‘Thanks,’ said Jolyon, ‘just leave it on the desk.’

‘What’s Prost doing with an essay on Roman law written by you?’

Jolyon looked confused for a moment. He picked up a page of newspaper and prodded it. ‘There’s a great story in here,’ he said. ‘Mikhail Gorbachev is being hotly tipped to win the Nobel Peace Prize next week.’

‘Jolyon, I thought you said – and let me get the words just right – that Prost is a one hundred per cent, grade A, total frickin cock.’

Jolyon sighed. ‘Look, when I finished my essay yesterday, I found him slumped over his desk in the library. It was midnight, he had nothing but a few torn-up attempts. His tutorial’s today, the guy was panicking. So I lent him mine.’

‘Even though he’s a total frickin cock?’

‘It seemed like the right thing to do,’ said Jolyon.

‘You mean you felt bad for him?’ said Chad.

Jolyon looked even more confused than before. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ he said.

Chad snorted. ‘Never mind,’ he said. He dropped the essay on Jolyon’s desk and took the chair next to the coffee table.

Jolyon tore the Gorbachev article from the newspaper, placed it to one side and then turned his attention to Chad. ‘Now then, would you like me to make you some breakfast?’ he said.

Chad looked around the room. There was a toaster and an electric kettle. ‘You mean a piece of toast?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Jolyon, ‘a real breakfast.’

Chad was doubtful. ‘Sure then,’ he said, ‘go for it.’

Jolyon grinned and turned on the kettle. He went to his desk, opened a drawer and removed two eggs and a tablecloth. Chad watched in silence as Jolyon smoothed the tablecloth over the coffee table. Round and white, made of delicate lace.

‘How do you take your tea?’ said Jolyon.

‘How do I what?’ said Chad. ‘Take? In a cup? What does that mean?’

‘Milk? Sugar? Please don’t say lemon.’

‘I’ve never had tea in my life,’ said Chad.

‘Good,’ said Jolyon. ‘Then you take it the same way as me. Strong, no sugar, just a thimbleful of milk. Excellent.’

When the kettle boiled, Jolyon poured two-thirds of its water into a glazed brown teapot that he took from beneath the coffee table. He then removed the lid of the kettle and lowered the eggs inside with a soup ladle. Returning the lid to the kettle, he looked at his watch. Then Jolyon went back to his desk and from the same drawer as the eggs, found two thick slices of white bread and lowered them into the toaster.