Black Chalk

She turns her head away from me and crosses her arms as if to ward off a chill. Her feet begin to pick out a path among the mess of my ransacked apartment, the shapeliness of her calves receding as I close my eyes.

And then I hear the door slam. I feel its shiver in the wall. My nose is definitely broken.

LVIII

LVIII(i) Jolyon was caught in a pincer movement, the Game on one side and Mark on the other. But Hilary term was ending and Mark, at least, was returning home. He came to see Jolyon to deliver a parting line. ‘Make sure to get some sleep then, Jolyon. Phase four begins next term.’

But still Jolyon couldn’t sleep. He was staying on at Pitt, the Game would continue to be played throughout the six-week break. A vote had been taken on the matter, two votes in favour . . . Jolyon hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge the procedure.

And so they played on. Chad and Dee continued to conspire and Jolyon continued to lose. But with most of the student population absent for six weeks, his opponents had to find their humiliations for Jolyon in the broader life of the city. At working-class pubs, cheap eateries, supermarkets . . . anywhere students were despised in the city. Day after day it was a mixture of the banal and excruciating. Public nudity, a one-man demonstration against immigration, street performance – unicycle, mime, Shakespeare – and a consequence to which they gave the name ‘Nuptials Interruptus’. Jolyon had to sit in on the wedding of two strangers and rise to proclaim just cause as to why the bride and groom should not be joined in holy matrimony. He was in love with the bride, he said, they were engaged in a torrid affair. He was chased from the church, threats being yelled as he fled. There was exhibitionism, heckling, rap, pretension, cross-dressing, auditioning, money-burning, experimental dance, snobbery, solicitation . . .

He lay in bed at night reliving the looks in strangers’ eyes. He could recall their faces with greater clarity than their words, their abuse. And so for the first time in Jolyon’s life, strangers were becoming something to fear, his days beginning to warp and crack, being shaped by the opinions of people he knew nothing about.

LVIII(ii) A week before Trinity term was due to begin, Jolyon made an appointment to see the college doctor, an affable gentleman wearing a regimental tie.

The doctor weighed up the creature before him and started to jot merrily on his prescription pad. Yes, it was very brave of Jolyon to come. And one could actually do things about insomnia and depression these days, old chap, medicine had made remarkable leaps and bounds. The doctor handed Jolyon a prescription for three types of pharmaceutical. No need to fret any longer. Jolyon should be sure to return if he required anything more. Anything at all, old chap. He made Jolyon promise. And Jolyon promised he would.

LVIII(iii) He pulled his scarf up to his nose as he left Pitt. It was a college scarf, the one they had bought for Chad to wear in the early days of the Game. But there would be more to Jolyon’s day than the simple wearing of a scarf.

He took a bus and met the others outside. Tallest was there, several feet away from Chad and Dee, who handed Jolyon his ticket. Jolyon’s seat was two rows in front of the others, they didn’t want to be associated with him once everything began.

In they went and Jolyon took his seat wearing the red-and-white scarf, which stuck out sharply surrounded by so much yellow and blue. Yellow-blue scarves, yellow-blue shirts, yellow-blue banners.

When the football match started, so did the singing and screaming. United, United, United. Fucking blind. Fucking cheat. Fucking nail ’im.

They had given Jolyon ten minutes to stand up and chant his first song, a familiar football tune but with a new set of lyrics. The opposition goalkeeper, Philippe Gherab, had been purchased from Le Havre. Chad and Dee had done their research.

Seven minutes into the match, when Gherab miskicked a back pass so that it hooked out of touch and the home crowd jeered, Jolyon got to his feet and started to sing, ‘Vous êtes merde et vous savez que vous êtes, vous êtes merde et vous savez que vous êtes . . .’

The crowd around him fell into a bristling silence. And then a voice shouted, ‘Who the fuck are you?’ and then hundreds of voices were chanting, ‘Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya?’

Jolyon, the nausea sloshing in his stomach, began to protest. ‘Because he’s French, their keeper is French. It’s you’re shit and you know you are. But in French.’

Some voices were abusing him, other voices were shouting, ‘Sit down, sit the fuck down.’ And then everyone was shouting it, ‘Siddown, siddown, siddown!’