Black Chalk (39 page)

Silence. Shortest leaned forward in his chair as he turned to look at Chad. And then Chad hammered his fist on the desk. ‘No! You told me you’d quit,’ he shouted. ‘No, Jolyon, you’ve lost. You admitted I’ve won. You told me, you…’

Jolyon, somewhere far beneath his queasiness, felt a bitter sense of pleasure as he stared absently at Chad. ‘I recall no such conversation ever taking place between us,’ he said. The words felt automatic as if he had been programmed to say them by his helplessness.

Chad jumped to his feet and started to snatch up Jolyon’s possessions from the desk, throwing them at the wall, glasses breaking, pills bouncing. He grabbed a book and tore out its pages, he threw the dried rose to the floor and stamped until its petals were dust. And then, when he was done, he collapsed back into the chair and held his hands to his face. Breathing heavily, Chad lowered his hands and stared hard at Jolyon. ‘You’re leaving Pitt,’ he said, ‘you can’t continue. It’s over. You’re done.’

‘I’m thinking of moving to London,’ said Jolyon. ‘It’s not far on the train. I’m not quitting, I won’t.’

‘This has to be some kind of joke,’ Chad shouted. ‘Just look at you for
chrissakes
, Jolyon, you’re finished. So you’ll commute here to perform your consequences as well? Don’t waste everyone’s time.’

‘Or maybe I could get a job in the car factory. I’ll rent a place at the edge of the city.’

‘The car factory? That’s ludicrous.’

Jolyon’s throat was parched and his voice began to crack. ‘This isn’t the end,’ he said, the words almost as broken as Jolyon himself. He closed his eyes, his voice barely more than a scratch. ‘I’m not quitting, Chad,’ he said. ‘I’m not quitting. I won’t.’

*   *   *

LXX(iv)
   They stared at each other while Shortest remained motionless in the armchair, cross-legged and smiling like a lucky Buddha. Jolyon had made his final move and he waited.

When Chad broke the silence he managed to restore some calm to his voice. ‘Then we’re going to have to come to some kind of arrangement,’ he said, glancing up at the ceiling. ‘Unfortunately there is another factor to consider. It seems I have to leave Pitt early as well. I have to return to the States,’ he said, shaking his head slowly. ‘Possibly I could be gone for some time.’ And then, Chad’s voice becoming strained, he added, ‘If you’re allowed to distort the Game, Jolyon, then so can I. But I’ll come back to finish this, you can be one hundred per cent certain of that. This is a temporary suspension. This is not the end, Jolyon, this is nowhere near the end.’

Jolyon brushed at his legs for a while as if they were covered in crumbs. ‘How long is
some time
?’ he said, looking at Chad with perfect calmness.

‘A year might be enough,’ said Chad, ‘two years definitely.’

‘And won’t you return to Susan Leonard?’

‘That’s not your business,’ said Chad. ‘I suggest we meet again in two years’ time.’

Jolyon threw up his hands slowly. ‘Well, I suggest fifty years,’ he said. ‘No, no, I suggest a hundred.’

‘Don’t be an
asshole
,’ said Chad.

‘There are two of us now,’ said Jolyon, ‘that means you no longer control the casting vote, Chad,’ he said. ‘There
is
no casting vote.’ Jolyon played at finding more crumbs to brush. ‘So if I want, I can be all the
arsehole
I like.’

While Chad and Jolyon stared at each other, Shortest uncrossed his legs and got to his feet. ‘Then I’m afraid Game Soc will have to intercede,’ he said, pacing back and forth with his hands held together behind him. ‘Waiting a few years is acceptable, perhaps even preferable. I mean, who knows what positions in life we’ll all attain in ten years’ time – which makes everything infinitely more interesting. But Game Soc can’t wait forever, Jolyon. And anyway there’s a wonderfully simple solution to your dispute.’ Shortest picked up the playing cards from the coffee table. ‘Your little game has been lacking in the element of luck for some time,’ he said, fanning the cards. ‘Let us allow the random its return’. ‘One of you will cut the deck. The card’s value is equal to the number of years you will wait before resuming your game. Mr Mason may require two years away, so let’s say that aces are high. Jacks are eleven, queens twelve, kings thirteen and aces fourteen. Do you both agree?’

They looked at each other and nodded.

‘Good, then,’ said Shortest. ‘Mr Johnson, why don’t you cut?’

*   *   *

LXX(v)
   The ace of spades.

*   *   *

LXXI(i)
   Fourteen years ago, my birthday, the ace of spades. Fourteen years ago today.

*   *   *

LXXI(ii)
   My mind has been tumbling away from me for so long, ever since that night on the tower.

Jolyon, you win.

My memory, already not such an impressive piece of equipment, began to deteriorate daily from the moment of Mark’s death. It was as if my brain had come up with a cast-iron plan to hold on to my sanity. If memory was the thing that could hurt me the most then my mind would cease to form strong memories. Instead it would paint for me only faint pictures, enough memory by which to survive, nothing more. Yes, my mind had to protect me from myself.

But there was an awful flaw in the plan. Sharp memories of Pitt had already formed, and they couldn’t be easily erased. But what could be forgotten was the minutiae of life, the everyday, the world outside. And so now I live in a cage, trapped inside this story, a tale so vivid I feel it coursing through the circuits of my flesh every day.

Meanwhile, life goes on around me uncared for, unnoticed. Because instead of the world outside, every day I find myself wandering among towers and domes. I am surrounded by merlons and crenels, I live poised above a flagpole, my universe twenty-five metres high, an eighty-foot drop. The world outside is only distant chatter far below, some kind of happiness playing out on a faintly lit lawn.

Gravity, nine-point-eight. Time, two and a quarter. And the eyes very suddenly shut.

*   *   *

LXXI(iii)
   I have been working since I woke at five and at last Pitt is all written down. It is nine thirty now, it has been an abstemious birthday so far. A few sips, a light cocktail of pills. Chad arrives in five hours’ time and then we will play. It seems to me that medication and celebration go hand in hand. I have such a hunger, a thirst.

*   *   *

LXXI(iv)
   Almost noon. Deliverance straight from the bottle. Would you like ice with that, sir? Pop pop pop go the rocks. Their pinks and their yellows and blues.

And now feel free to sing along. You know this tune?

For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a Jolyon feh-heh-low.
And now I think I should try to clear my head.
Which nobody can deny.

Am feeling very muddy, so hard to concentrate. Fingers not finding these keys so well. But I must try to be ready, the day of the comeback fight has arrived. The fighter waits in his dressing room. He seems defeated before he has even stepped into the ring. The audience can only hope for some miracle.

*   *   *

LXXI(v)
   The phone rings.

Jolyon, it’s me. Meet me by the Christmas tree, five minutes.

Click.

*   *   *

LXXI(vi)
   I feel the stir of my youth for the merest moment, my memory roused by the sight of her. Dee’s hair is dark again. Black and straight and sleek. She is hugging herself in the heat, beside the brief shadow of the tree.

I try not to stumble too much, not to lurch too wildly as I approach. I stop a few feet from her and Dee takes a step back.

So, did you find it? she says. Did you look, Jolyon?

Dee, you can’t even begin to know how sorry I am.

I’ve been to the police, Dee says desperately. I’ve spoken to all the people who work in the park. I’ve stopped strangers in the street and put up reward posters everywhere within ten blocks of your apartment. Nothing, Jolyon, nothing.

What should I say to Dee? That I have been too busy with my own words to look for hers? How many forms of guilt can I juggle at once? I want to reach out and stroke the dark silk of her hair. Don’t worry, Dee, I say. I’m going to find your poems. I’m going to find them, I say.

It’s too late, Jolyon. It’s too late. Dee’s eyes dart down. She is holding an envelope creased in her folded arms. She notices me looking and reaches out slowly, the letter trembling, and hands it to me. Don’t open it until you get back to your apartment, she says. Please, one last promise, Jolyon. I don’t want you to read it in public.

I promise, I say, taking the envelope, my name written on its front in red ink. Please, Dee, just one last chance. Let me try.

She forces a smile. It’s too late. It’s not your fault, Jolyon, but it is too late, Dee says, wrapping her arms around her body. And please don’t follow me. You won’t see me again, she says, looking down at the ground.

Dee, please, no, I say. Dee, what is it?

She turns and she hurries away.

*   *   *

LXXI(vii)
   The posters taunt me as I stumble home. Stapled to trees, beneath missing cats. Large reward.

I fall into my apartment and steady myself on the kitchen counter. I tear open the letter.

*   *   *

LXXI(viii)
   Oh, Jolyon, I hope I’m not too harsh to you in the park, I don’t want to be harsh. And please, I don’t want you to feel guilty. Perhaps I have been downplaying how hard I’ve been finding life for the past several years. Your story is so important, I didn’t want to distract you with the petty ins and outs of my own obscure existence.

Don’t blame yourself, Jolyon. I had fourteen years to right myself. And the failure is mine, all mine.

Please would you find it in your heart to hold on to the second page of this letter? And then, if you ever find it, if anyone ever finds it, you can paste it straight into my book. I would like that very much.

It makes me enormously happy to think that you might do one final thing for me.

It’s true, I never really deserved a saviour. I am so very, very sorry.

Dee x

*   *   *

LXXI(ix)
   While I read the note, I feel the grain of the second sheet of paper against my fingertips. Thicker, heavier, like a piece of old parchment.

Already I know what this is. The words don’t matter. But I let Dee’s note drop to the floor anyway.

The first thing I see, the first mark on the page, is a large and ornate initial decorated with scrollwork and vines. A stamp in red ink. My gift to her.

D (Black Chalk)

(i)

Six boys one day went running through the woods

inventing games while twisting through the leaves

Exhausted found a copse of old burned trees

and settled there to tally up the score

while feeling in their pockets for

the black chalk

(ii)

Aloft six clouds converged in breaking light

and flocks of angels grouped to form a list

debated who on earth was worthiest

But night had fallen when at last on high

they scrawled those names across the sky

in black chalk

(iii)

Six fledgling soldiers told to notch their guns

to keep engraved a note of every kill

were raising up their flag upon a hill

Then finding that the slate was deep within

they trembled as they filled it in

with black chalk

(iv)

And when soon comes the melancholy time

for you to speak of love, do not deceive

No love was earned and what did I achieve?

So draft upon the basalt tomb what was, what might have been

it is my final wish that you should write it in

black chalk

LXXI (x)
Oh, Dee, no. Please, Dee, no. No no no.

*   *   *

LXXII
   Jolyon left Pitt and moved home to his mother’s house in Sussex. For the first month he spent most of his time sitting listlessly in his bedroom. But then he decided to look for a job, something to distract him before guilt sucked him under.

He found work in a factory that manufactured shrink-wrap labels, plastic sleeves for bottles, cans, aerosols … For nine hours a day he stood by a whirring conveyor belt onto which a cutting machine disgorged labels. After every hundred a buzzer went off and Jolyon had to scoop up the sleeves and pile them neatly together. But often there was a great build-up of friction and the sleeves would fight against his hands.

Once successfully gathered each stack had to be wrapped in a rubber band and placed in a cardboard box. When a box became full it had to be closed and taped shut. But the buzzer never stopped buzzing, so Jolyon had to learn to do this fast while still managing to gather and bind and fight with the static.

But once he mastered it, Jolyon felt soothed by the work. Rituals of repetition, a routine interrupted only by small and periodic challenges. And the rattling of the machines made conversation impossible and this soothed him as well.

When he wasn’t working he read law books. Not because he had decided to return to Pitt but simply because law books were the only unread books he owned. And soon they started to comfort Jolyon just as the monotonous work of the factory comforted him.

Most of all he liked to read legal judgments. Jolyon enjoyed submitting to the opinions of appellate judges and law lords, men and women of learning and experience. He let their conclusions rain down on him like the warm spray from a shower head. He felt like a gatherer of truth, a piecer-together of fact from little fragments. You could find truth in order just as you might properly build a life that way.

Ten months after he had left Pitt he wrote a letter to inform the college he had decided not to return. Wiseman phoned a few days later. At first he tried to talk Jolyon around but Jolyon wouldn’t budge. Jolyon told Sir Ralph about his job at the factory but mentioned that he still enjoyed reading law books. He could hear the regret in Wiseman’s voice when he wished him well and said goodbye.