‘I’ll sit here alone if I want to,’ Guy tells her. It is probably meant to sound rebellious or determined but actually it just sounds pathetic.
‘Fine,’ Hol says, ‘I’ll sit through in the parlour, have a sandwich, read the paper.’ She looks at me. ‘Kit, you can go to the pub. We’ll be fine here.’
I feel torn; I should probably offer to stay too but I’m quite excited at the idea of going to the pub to be with the others, even though it’s a public space and will doubtless be full of people.
Guy sighs dramatically. ‘Oh, all right, all right,’ he says, and starts trying to get up, so we go through a bit of negotiation – I would prefer him to take his Zimmer frame but he says he won’t be seen looking like some effing geriatric, so we compromise on one of his aluminium and grey plastic forearm crutches – then I drive the three of us back through a sudden, briefly sunlit shower and park in the multi-storey next to Thaxton’s.
Thaxton’s is the big department store in the centre of town and the place where I thought I’d invented escalator shoe-shining, which is when you clean and shine your shoes by using the black plastic fibres at the stair edges. I was quite proud of this and demonstrated the technique to Hol on one of her visits about three years ago. She told me she’d heard the idea before and other people had obviously had it too.
I got quite upset and had to be mollified with tea and an éclair in the top-floor café. That was where Hol brought up the idea of the Many Worlds theory – possibly in desperation, as I was crying a bit – and said that on the other hand there must be a universe – perhaps even an infinite number of universes – where I really was the first person to think of escalator shoe-shining, and this made me feel better. It helps you to feel normal if you think there’s an infinite number of other yous, somewhere.
We find the others gathered around a pair of tables in the River Room Brasserie.
‘Hey! He made it! Yeah; cool!’
‘Wow, Hol’s charms worked.’
‘Guyster! Come on down! Here; have this seat. I’ll fetch another.’
‘Guy, this is Rick,’ Pris says, a little redundantly, as she’s sitting beside him holding his hand. Rick is a bulky, muscled man with a shaven head and an earring in his left ear. I’m not very good at telling how old people are but I think he’s a bit younger than Pris. He’s a telephone engineer. He is wearing jeans and a black leather bomber jacket over a yellow farmer’s shirt. He says hi and shakes Guy’s hand like he’s afraid he’s going to break it. He sounds like he’s from Essex but in fact he’s from Kent.
‘So, I was just getting a round in and I saw this guy I sort of half knew sitting there with an empty glass – this was in the old union, so it was probably a plastic, but you know what I mean – but anyway there was this hippyish-looking first year who looked like he needed a pint so I said, you know, hello, hi again, and he said hi and I said, “What are you for?” and Haze – as I now know the fucker to be – just looks up with this expression of real concentration on his face and stares off into the middle distance and nods like, really, really slowly and says, “Yeah … yeah … Like, what are we for? What is it all about? Where do we fit in?” and I’m sort of staring at him, thinking, What the fuck? But I got him a pint anyway; I’m generous that way. Still waiting for one back, mind.’
The others laugh, though we’ve all heard this story before, apart from Rick, I suppose. This is Guy telling this story. He’s as animated as I’ve seen him in a year; his eyes look glittery and bright and although he’s barely touched his shepherd’s pie (I told him he wouldn’t need a full-size main course if he was going to insist on a starter, but he wouldn’t listen) it doesn’t really matter because we’re not paying and it’s just good to see him so alive and holding court, as they say, and telling stories of the old days and being so obviously pleased to have people gathered round listening to him and laughing at what he says, even though they’re probably laughing a bit more than they would if he wasn’t so ill.
Haze laughs with the others and nods. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Fair enough. I was kind of stoned that day and—’
‘You were stoned that year, Haze,’ Pris tells him.
‘Yeah, all right, all right. I was thinking of doing Philosophy as a subsidiary to make up my credits, wasn’t I? And anyway it was, like, research, know what I mean? I had to road-test all those drugs I was providing for you sods, yeah? Didn’t want you lightweights OD-ing on me, did I?’
‘“Providing”? Ripping us off—’ Paul says.
‘I think you’ll find most of the nefaria consumed came via Guy,’ Rob says.
‘I was fucking growing most of the green stuff,’ Guy agrees.
‘So,’ Rick says, ‘was that, like, when you first started to meet up, you lot?’ He looks at Guy. ‘Cos you’re that bit older, right, Guy?’
‘Just a couple of years,’ Guy says, lifting his half of Beamish. ‘Lot more fucking mature.’
‘Whoo!’ Alison says.
Paul puts on what I think of as his newsreader voice and tells Rick, ‘Guy had had an … interesting, diverse and involved university career up until that point, I think it would be fair to say.’
‘What can I tell you?’ Guy says. ‘I’m a fucking Renaissance man, me. I had eclectic tastes.’ He nods at Hol. ‘Actually, first one of this lot I met was prickly little Holly here.’
‘You may have mistaken me for mistletoe,’ she tells him. ‘First thing you did was try to stick your tongue down my throat at the Freshers’ Disco.’
‘I were probably trying to shut you up, lass,’ Guy says. He seems to be sounding more deliberately northern right now, as though Rick being so conspicuously from the south has brought out some sort of regional competitiveness. He grins round at the others. ‘Anyway, you were unable to resist my bluff rustic charms for long, isn’t that right, love?’
Hol is nodding slowly, and smiling. ‘Next day I happened upon Guy, nursing a pint of Guinness and a cheap cigar and looking studiedly louche in his best Young Fogey gear, in the snug of The Northumberland Arms—’
‘God, that place was a dive!’
‘Supposedly this was the pub where all the lecturers used to go,’ Pris tells Rick, ‘to get away from the likes of us.’
‘Looking very world-weary and disillusioned, he was,’ Hol continues, still smiling softly at Guy.
‘I were practising me fin-de-siècle look for the fin-de-fucking-siècle,’ Guy says, sipping at his beer. He’s not supposed to drink anything at all because it interferes with some of his medication, but it’s hard to deny him the pleasure.
‘About eight years early!’ Haze says.
‘Soulful-looking, I thought at the time,’ Hol tells everybody else, though mostly keeping her gaze on Guy, who is sort of smiling into his half-pint glass.
‘Naive like that, you were,’ he says, not looking up.
‘Not the first to fall for that look,’ Pris says, laughing.
Alison nods. ‘And certainly not the last.’
‘I asked him what he was drinking,’ Hol continues, ‘and he said, What did it look like? and I said, “Well, Guinness, the old man’s drink”, and he just sort of took a deep breath and sat back on his bar stool and held the glass up and looked at it like he was studying it for the first time and said, “That’s the thing about a good porter” – and he shrugged, or shook his head and sounded so rueful and sort of growly as he said, “Deals with all your baggage.”’
‘Oh, God …’ Rob says.
Alison shakes her head. ‘I don’t know if that’s cheesy or profound.’
‘Preesy?’ Haze suggests. ‘Chofound?’
‘I don’t get it,’ Rick says, looking round. ‘What’s—’
‘Porter,’ Pris says, squeezing his hand. ‘It’s the old-fashioned name for the sort of beer Guinness is.’
‘Aww, right,’ Rick says, though he still looks confused. ‘I thought it was stout …’
Hol is laughing. ‘And I was just smitten, I thought—’ She p
uts her right hand flat on her chest, just below her neck. ‘Oh, my … This guy is so deep.’ Her eyes go wide.
‘Not me, love,’ Guy says, though he’s smiling. Also his face looks a little flushed. ‘Deep as a reflection. Known for it.’
‘Thought you were in love, did you?’ Alison asks Hol. After a moment, Ali makes a slight smile.
Hol nods slowly. ‘At the very least, I thought he ought to be in love with me.’
There are a couple of low Whoos from round the table. Hol looks at Guy with a sort of smirk and he looks back at her.
‘Swept off your feet, weren’t you?’ Haze says.
‘Yes,’ Hol says, drawing the word out. ‘Though of course the usually unspoken consequence of a girl being swept off her feet is that she almost immediately ends up on her back.’
‘Had his wicked way, did he? Eh?’ Rick says, winking at Guy.
‘Oh, my ways are pretty wicked too,’ Hol says. She drains her G&T and raises one eyebrow. ‘Arguably wickeder.’
‘As we all know!’ Haze says, laughing, then looking quickly round at everybody else. He even glances at me.
‘Excuse me,’ Paul says as his phone trills. He gets up and walks off to take the call.
‘Anyway,’ Hol says, ‘that, unless I’m much mistaken, was the start of us all meeting up and spending years two and three of our distinguished academic careers as one big happy disfunctionality up at Willoughtree House.’ She stands, holding her empty glass, looking down at Guy. ‘And now, it’s my round, I do believe.’
‘Fuck me: Creation Myths of Bewford Uni Film and Media Studies Faculty Ninety-Two Intake,’ Guy says, holding his glass out to Hol. ‘Make mine a pint of Guinness, love; I think I fancy me chances.’
She just smiles at him.
‘Hey, Kit.’
I am in the Gents’ toilet of the The Miller’s Boy. They have Dyson Airblade driers and I can hardly hear Paul over the sound of the appliance. The line of super-fast hot air on the skin of my hands feels pleasing. I confess I had been wondering what it would feel like if you could sort of swing one of these off the wall like a drawbridge or something and fit your cock into it, letting the blade of hot air pummel it as you moved it in and out … so I react in a slightly startled way when Paul says hey.
I clear my throat. ‘Uncle Paul.’
‘Yeah, we can probably drop the “uncle” bit now, I think. You finished with that?’ he asks, nodding at the hand-drier and standing with his hands raised from the elbows like a surgeon before an operation.
‘All yours,’ I say, realising my hands have been dry for a moment or two and I’ve just been sort of mindlessly moving them up and down and in and out.
He inserts his hands into the drier, watches the only other guy in the place leave, then says, ‘Hol tells me you’re on the case of the missing videotape, yeah?’
I nod. ‘I’ve been looking.’
‘Think it’s going to turn up?’
Shrug. ‘I don’t know.’
He looks at me, his eyes narrowing a little. Those are probably laughter lines, though he doesn’t look like he’s laughing. ‘How, ah, assiduously are you searching?’
I have to think about this. Obviously I know what ‘assiduously’ means, but I’m not sure how you measure or express assiduousness or calibrate for somebody else’s working definition. What would be the SI unit? The assid? The ass? Assaying assiduousness. Tricky.
‘Look,’ he says, taking his wallet out. I look. There are a lot of notes in there. He takes one out. It’s big and red. He refolds it and presses the fifty-pound note into my hand. ‘Bit of an incentive,’ he says. ‘Advance on a finder’s fee, yeah? Let’s say, another two of those if you find it and you’re able to let me know first, let me have sight of it? Deal?’
I stare at the note. I’ve never held one of these before, and only ever seen them on TV or in films. Maybe the ATMs of London dispense these. They certainly don’t up here. I can’t think of anywhere local that would accept one; it might as well be foreign currency. A bank would convert it into the more practical shape of two twenties and a tenner, I suppose. Also, I’m fairly sure the one time I ever heard mention of a ‘finder’s fee’ was in the Coen brothers’ film Fargo, and I seem to recall things didn’t turn out too well for the person who expected to be on the receiving end of one.
‘I think technically the tape would still be Dad’s property,’ I tell Paul.
‘Understood,’ he says, folding my fingers over the note so it’s hidden in my palm. Again, I’ve only ever seen this done in the movies, but Paul performs the act like he does this every day. ‘Just want to be told first, see it first. Can you do that for me, Kit? I’d be … very grateful. Like I say, another couple of those to come. This is strictly between us, of course. Man to man. Yeah? That has to be a condition.’
There’s no question I’m going to take the money – of course I am. This is free money for something I was going to do anyway so I’d be mad not to and I – we; Dad and I – need the dosh. I’m already thinking of loopholes in this verbal agreement Paul and I seem to be setting up here where I could make sure I see him first after I find it – if I find it – and show him the tape and let him have it and then almost immediately tell Dad or Hol or one of the others, telling them Paul asked to see it like we’d just bumped into each other rather than set it up in advance. Or I could just lie and take the fifty and not say I’ve found the tape – again, if I find it – until they’ve left on Monday and there’s just me and Guy in the house.
Too much to think about. I’m probably looking hesitant.
‘In fact, let’s … Let’s make it another four of those; two-fifty altogether. Yeah?’ Paul says. He’s standing close enough for me to smell his aftershave. ‘Best offer.’ He winks at me.
Two hundred and fifty. Blimey; that’s as much as you get for a clip used on You’ve Been Framed.
‘What’s on this tape?’ I ask him.
‘Embarrassing shit,’ he says ruefully, nodding.
‘Not porn?’ I ask, jokily (I think).
‘Definitely not,’ he says immediately, like he was just waiting for the question. I’m starting to think it is porn. ‘So,’ he says, standing back and looking at the inner door of the Gents’ as it trembles and the outer door makes a flapping-open noise. ‘Deal?’
‘Deal,’ I tell him, and slip my hand and the note into a gilet pocket.
‘Really?’ Hol is saying to Rick, as Paul and I come back to our shunted-together tables. Rick is folding a newspaper and sticking it into an inside pocket in his leather jacket. ‘The Daily Mail?’ Hol says, gaze flicking from Rick to Pris. ‘Hate-filled, right-wing rant-rag the Daily Mail, to give its full title; the newspaper with its knickers permanently in a twist?’
‘Yeah,’ Rick says, shrugging inside his jacket. ‘They were out of Morning Stars, weren’t they?’ He glances at Pris, who is looking round at the others and rolling her eyes.
‘Oh, Christ, here we go,’ Paul says. ‘Leave it, Hol.’
‘Hol finds the Guardian a tad right-wing,’ Pris tells Rick.
‘I was getting the Sun till about six months ago,’ Rick says reasonably. He nods sideways towards Pris. ‘Herself took offence. Think she was jealous of page three.’ (Pris rolls her eyes again, though she is smiling as well.) ‘Bloody hell, eh? Thought I was moving up in the world.’ Rick grins, looks at Paul, Rob, Guy and Haze. ‘Still miss the football in the Currant. Bit shit in this.’ He taps his jacket where it bulges over the newspaper.
‘You’ll have to excuse Hol, Rick,’ Guy tells him. ‘She blames herself for the past twenty-odd years of neocon excess, bless. Feels if only she’d been a more engaged, political journalist and properly inspiring – you know, rather than a hack sitting in the dark regurgitating bile onto undeserving Hollywood product – it might all have been so different. Eh, Hol?’ He gets to the end of this little speech and sits shaking with what might be a suppressed cough, swallowed laughter, just hiccups or a malfunctioning gag refl
ex – it’s impossible to say.
‘Yeah, I take full personal responsibility for everything,’ Hol says, glaring at Guy, her mouth a tight line.
‘You read what the fuck you want, mate,’ Rob tells Rick, and sits back.
‘Don’t you worry, chief,’ Rick says. He drains his pint glass. ‘My round. That be a red wine, Holly?’
‘No thanks. I’m fine.’
‘Come on; just kiddin you. Have a G&T. It’s only a paper.’
‘Fine,’ Hol says, handing him her glass. ‘Make it a double. You persuaded me.’
‘Never taken much, has it, Hol?’ Alison says.
‘Never,’ Hol agrees promptly. She smiles a broad smile but her voice sounds like she doesn’t care.
‘So, Rob,’ Rick asks, ‘what is it you do?’
‘I solutionise outcomes,’ Rob says.
Hol, who had been talking to Pris, looks over and says, ‘What?’ but Rob doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.
‘We’re both in Grayzr Corps,’ Alison tells Rick, glancing at Rob.
Rob nods sideways at Alison without looking at her. ‘We work in Moral Compliance.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Rick says. ‘What’s that then?’
‘Pre-identing up-torrent crisis nodes and realitising positive issue-relevant impending-threat-modulated countermeasure envision-sets within the applicable statutory and regulatory challenge/riposte-space,’ Rob says, without taking a breath. He looks round at the others.
Guy and Haze, who had been arguing about drugs, are looking at him.
Hol is staring at him, then she looks at Alison. ‘That was a joke,’ she says. ‘That was a joke, wasn’t it?’
Alison smiles at her.
‘What’s the big problem?’ Rob asks. ‘It’s just what I do.’
‘Sorry, mate,’ Rick says. ‘I’m none the wiser.’
‘Think we knew that from the—’ Guy starts to say, but Hol, who is sitting beside him, flicks a fist into his thigh. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he says, rubbing his leg.
‘Sorry,’ Hol says quickly. ‘That was harder than I meant.’
‘I’ve nothing left there, Hol,’ Guy grumbles, wheezing. ‘Fucking fuck-all muscle-mass. I have to sit down to pee; can’t stand up long enough to take a piss. Jesus.’