Black Chalk

‘Shh, I believe you, Jolyon,’ said Emilia. ‘It’s all right, really, it’s OK.’ There were tears in her eyes as well. She lifted the covers. ‘I just want you to hold me, that’s all I want. To be held, Jolyon. I promise, nothing more.’

Jolyon got under the covers and Emilia rolled against him, her warm breath pooling in the hollow of his neck. He wrapped his arms around Emilia and held her. Only held her. And then Emilia said, ‘We can be friends again now, can’t we?’

‘Of course we can, Em,’ said Jolyon.

Emilia wriggled against him beneath the covers until more of her was touching more of him. And in a few minutes’ time they were both asleep.

LIV(viii) Chad stumbled around Pitt until he finished the gin. This, he had ordained, was the signal for action, the starter’s gun at a race. He threw the bottle into the bushes at the bottom of staircase six.

He did not knock when he got to Jolyon’s room, he was furious and ready with challenges. And then he stopped and looked at the two figures asleep in the bed. He turned around, he closed the door gently. And then Chad headed for the library.

LIV(ix) ‘I’m seeing him after my tutorial,’ said Dee. ‘What’s so urgent it can’t wait?’

‘I’m not supposed to say,’ said Chad. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I want to read through this essay one last time.’

‘It’s amazing, Dee, it’s bound to be. You’re amazing. Just go now, it’ll only take a few minutes.’ He turned off her reading lamp and closed the three large books on the desk. ‘I’ll return these,’ he said. ‘You just get going.’

Dee sighed, doubtfully, but then packed her things as fast as she could.

There was a spring in her step as she hurried over back quad toward Jolyon’s room. She had been working on a poem for the last three days and now she knew how it would end. There was a wonderful inevitability to everything, if you only had the right light.

LV

LV(i)This is our fourth Christmas-tree meeting and yet the greeting kiss lands on my forehead just as lightly as ever. Perhaps my tactics require adjustment. Maybe the time has come for me to make my move.

Dee appears to be in a jocular mood. She is bouncing above me on the balls of her feet. Come on, Jolyon, she says, let’s do some real training. She makes fists and starts to hum boxing music. Come on. She pulls me to my feet.

I laugh and play along but I can’t seem to work out which foot to lead with. Dee’s music swirls, she opens her fists to offer me two targets weaving sparkler patterns in the dying light. I try to swap my feet, see a flashing white streak and swing. Sights blur and sounds muffle. Feelings slide.

And then I feel such a pain in my nose. Has Dee hit me? Why would she . . . ?

My face is pressed up against something, taste of earth in my mouth. No, it wasn’t Dee who hit me. It was the ground.

I roll onto my back. Dee is brushing my face, wiping the grass from my lips. Oh, Jolyon, what happened? Does anything hurt?

The pain in my nose is immense. I’m fine, I say. I think my foot got caught in a rat hole. Don’t worry, Dee. She looks so hurt for me that it makes my heart leap. Perhaps one day she will kiss all the sore parts of me better.

Dee fusses over me and I push her away, embarrassed. After spitting out more grass, I say to Dee, Maybe we should hold off on the skipping rope for a couple more days.

But Dee doesn’t laugh at my joke, she starts rummaging through her bag and I feel the first trickle on my lips as she fishes out a packet of tissues.

The nosebleed lasts for twenty minutes, a magician’s handkerchief display. Dee rubs my back, passes me tissues. When the bleeding stops a gory mass of paper is piled up next to the blanket.

And that’s when I feel it, the jolt. That’s when it comes to me –

Tomorrow, I say. JFK airport, 12.35 p.m.

Dee gives me a curious look.

That’s when Chad arrives. Tomorrow, I say. And then the last of the information buzzes into my mind. Virgin Airlines, I add with a snort, wiping the last crust of blood from my nose with the back of my hand.

LV(ii) We are silent for a while. Then Dee tries to tell me not to worry, everything will be all right. And so on and so on.

She stares down at the blanket for a new set of words, the ones she really wants to say. Jolyon, I’m sorry, she says, but I can’t help noticing a certain aroma on your breath whenever we meet. How much whisky are you drinking each day?

Perhaps more than usual, I say. But everything’s under control, I add frantically, worried at the thought of anyone interfering with my routine.

And the pills?

I need them, I say, thumping the blanket.