They sat on the blanket feeling sick. Sick and ashamed.
But Jolyon decided that someone had to speak. ‘What do you want us to do, Emilia?’
‘Take it out,’ she said. ‘And I want us all to promise we’ll never put anything in as bad as that one. Not for anyone.’
Jolyon shifted uncomfortably. ‘That does sort of miss the point of the Game, Emilia. Look, Chad’s only here for a year. We have to finish at some point.’
‘Then let’s all just stop it right now. Why shouldn’t we? We can all agree it ends now before someone gets hurt. Come on, who’s with me?’ The others swallowed and looked down at the blanket.
‘Look, Emilia,’ said Jolyon, ‘you never really had the stomach for this game. You found out something you shouldn’t and maybe it’s for the best. You don’t owe the Game anything. Maybe you just pull out and we give you your money back. You walk away with your thousand pounds, no damage done, and everyone’s happy.’
‘Right, I see,’ said Emilia, ‘and that’s how you all feel, is it?’
No one said anything.
‘OK then,’ said Emilia, and then the anger seemed to drop away and was replaced by efficiency. She picked up her rucksack and slowly threaded her arms through its loops, each motion very deliberate. And then she began to walk across the grass, heading straight for the gate. There was no urgency to her step, perhaps she thought someone would follow. Very soon they all could see that her shoulders were shaking, shuddering to the rhythm of her tears.
‘Do you think I should go after her?’ said Jolyon, turning to Dee.
‘You should wait till tomorrow.’
While Chad sat down, Jolyon picked up the bottle and poured him some wine. And then they all sipped their drinks, staring off into the lake. There was the sound of birdsong and the water gulping with the splashing of frogs. ‘Who came up with that consequence anyway?’ said Jolyon. ‘I remember us talking about Jack’s idea for Game Soc and what a huge coincidence that Emilia’s father was a miner. How did we get from there to . . . ? Chad, wasn’t it you?’
‘It might have been,’ said Chad. ‘Honestly, I don’t remember.’
XLVI(v) The sound, a harsh and sharp squealing, was so loud that Jack moved his hands to his head as if something were screaming down at them from the sky. Dee covered her ears. The noise lasted a few seconds and then came a crashing sound and a rumbling like rocks falling from a cliff.
‘Jeez, what the hell was that?’ said Chad.
Jolyon had already jumped to his feet. ‘Brakes,’ he shouted.
And then they were all on their feet, running, and Jolyon in front.
They ran across the grass and out through the gate. They ran up the lane. Some people had come out of their houses.
Jolyon was the fastest, he reached the end of the lane first and saw the jackknifed truck, its nose thrust into the front of a small stone cottage. The truck’s trailer was blocking off most of the road. He kept running. First he saw the bike. And then further along the truck driver bending over her. She was lying in the road, her silk scarf fluttering in the breeze but her body motionless. He called out her name. Emilia. Emilia. He called it out again and again and again.
XLVII
XLVII(i) We pull up outside my apartment at five thirty. I dash up my steps eager to find Dee’s reply. I have been thinking about our meeting all the way home. And that’s when I have an idea. I have just enough time if I run. Casey’s on Eleventh for my surprise and after that a drugstore.
*
The afternoon’s clouds have slipped from the smooth dome of the sky and the park is lush and loud, the East Village out and enjoying the gifts of an early summer.
A loudspeaker plays salsa, trombone sliding beneath Spanish words, horns stabbing the air. A path to my left is crammed with people, a prayer meeting, a preacher waving sunrise hands. The congregation is rapt, their heads like apples in a box.
And soon I am there, the middle of the park, out of breath. I scan our meeting spot and see no Dee, only the sunbathers who crowd the grassy knoll, pale flesh like matchsticks. This is good, I have time to prepare my surprise.
I conceal the gift, it takes only seconds. I have bought a picnic blanket on the way to the park. I spread it out and sit down.
While I am considering the worthiness of my surprise, I feel a tapping on my shoulder.
Hello, Jolyon.
Dee’s voice, unmistakably Dee.
I look up and see her fringed with blue sky as she bends down and kisses me lightly on the forehead. Then quickly she sits and crosses her legs. Red lipstick, white shorts and a gauzy white shirt. She has a large tote with her, woven and straw-like.
Say something then, she says, rocking.
I look at Dee’s simple clothes. You’ve changed, I say, you’ve become . . .
Boring, she says, stretching the word.
No, I was going to say refined.
Refined? Like sugar, ugh.
I always imagined you’d become more bohemian the older you got, I say. Headscarves and kaftans, cigarette holders.
Dee laughs. You know, when we were at college, I always thought I was going to be someone. Maybe I was even rehearsing to be someone. But instead I became bland. And all because I realised the time had come for me to hide.
Hide from what?
From failure. Like I told you, writing and writing and failing. And now I just want to disappear into the crowd. Who wants to stand out if they’ve achieved nothing?
Well, I think you look good, Dee, I say. And I like you as a blonde.
Dee looks happy. And I like you hairless, Jolyon, she says, pointing at her dimple.
I rub the smooth pommel of my chin.
I’ve been reading about how you lost your beard, she says.
I have become exceedingly forgetful of late, I reply.
She laughs. Well, yes, I’ve been reading about that as well.
I’m pleased to have made her laugh but now I can’t think of anything witty to say. Instead I scratch awkwardly at the pattern of the blanket, palm trees splashed against pale blue sky.
So I have something for you, Dee says. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a large book as thick as a wedding album. It is old but well cared for, red leatherette. You haven’t forgotten your promise, Dee says.
Of course not, I say, taking the book, touching it softly. I promise to keep it safe, I say.
Dee smiles at me gratefully. There are four hundred and ninety-nine poems inside, she says. I wrote another one today. And don’t worry, I didn’t write it to get closer to five hundred. I wrote a poem for you, Jolyon.
If I am quiet it is not only because I feel awkward holding a conversation with a woman for the first time in years. It is also because I feel close to tears.
Dee touches me kindly on the knee. Life should have been so much better to us, Jolyon, she says.
Maybe, I reply. Or better to you. This is probably all I deserved.
No, Dee says sharply. None of this was your fault. It’s like you said, what happened was the result of misfortune.
I don’t tell Dee that she’s wrong. But I suppose if she keeps reading, she will have to find out eventually. Instead I say to her, I have something for you as well, Dee. Your present is under the Christmas tree.
Dee seems touched. Show me, she says, reaching out to me.
I pull her to her feet and lead her. On the lowest branch of the tree, attached with a piece of red ribbon, hangs a small gift bag. Dee opens the bag and removes the contents wrapped in tissue paper. Inside is an ink-pad and three rubber stamps. A silhouette of Jane Austen framed in laurel leaves, an illustration of Charles Dickens holding a quill and an ornate initial decorated with scrollwork and vines. The letter D.