‘David, pass me the dictionary so I can prove the supposed English Literature student utterly wrong.’
David tried to pull out the dictionary from the base of the pile but the pile threatened to topple. He groaned and stood up and removed the stack of history texts. Something behind the books caught his eye. ‘My goodness,’ said David. ‘What’s this I see here, Mr Jack Thomson?’
Jack pretended not to hear and stared at Chad. But Chad only smiled.
David picked something up. ‘My oh my oh my,’ he said. He held the thing close to his glasses and then grinned excitedly before revealing his discovery to the room.
It was a picture frame, an expensive frame, thick wood stained with a black lacquer. They had all seen the picture before, of course, but pretended now to see it as if for the first time. The photo had been taken in Jolyon’s room one night, early on in their first term, several months earlier. Jack was in the photo, a cigarette slanting from the corner of his mouth. Red drunken eyes. In his right hand he was holding up and displaying for the camera his half-finished drink. His left arm meanwhile was around someone’s shoulder, a fellow reveller. David’s shoulder. David too was waving his drink for the camera.
‘Well, I barely even remember this being taken,’ said David. ‘But then I suppose we do both look a little, shall we say, ebriose.’ David moved his nose closer to the picture, screwed up his eyes as his spectacles almost bumped with the glass in the frame. ‘Oh, now it’s coming back to me, my sole invite to one of your parties,’ he said. ‘But the way I remember it, wasn’t it Dee with the camera? And also I was under the impression that it was Dee’s camera, not your camera, Jack.’
‘You’re quite right, David,’ said Dee, ‘it was my camera. But Jack asked me for a copy of that photo when I showed him the pictures.’
David turned gently pink. ‘How very, very funny,’ he said. ‘And there was I thinking Jack not-so-secretly despised me.’
‘What other photos does he have hidden up there?’ said Chad.
David put the picture frame down on the seat of his armchair and shifted piles of books to peer behind them. ‘There don’t seem to be any more photos up here,’ he announced. ‘Jack, where are your other photos?’ he asked.
Jack gulped. ‘I don’t have any other photos,’ he said. He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I look terrible in every photo I’ve ever seen. That’s the only picture of me in which I look even half good.’
David picked up the frame again, held it at arm’s length, and stared hard at the photo then Jack. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this, Jack, but you don’t look so terribly good in this photo. And neither do I. We are both undoubtedly the worse for several Hemingways.’
‘Then let’s take another one,’ said Dee. ‘A better one this time. Properly composed.’
‘You have your camera?’ said David.
‘Of course,’ said Dee, with enormous glee. ‘I take it everywhere, don’t I, Chad?’
‘She never leaves home without it,’ said Chad.
‘And you’ll make a copy for me as well this time,’ said David.
‘Absolutely,’ said Dee. ‘As many as you want.’ She turned to Jack. ‘Come on then, Jack, assume the position,’ she said.
Jack moved slowly. David detected nothing but everyone else in the room could see it. The struggle for dignity, the urge to flee. Behind David’s shoulder, Jack glared until Dee was ready to take the picture and Jolyon challenged him with a look.
‘After three say cheese,’ said Dee. ‘One, two, three.’
‘Cheese,’ said David.
‘Cheese,’ said Jack.
L(v) When Jolyon returned to his room he found his door unlocked. At first this seemed no cause for concern. And then, as he turned to sit on his bed and take off his shoes, he saw an old white sock pinned to his door. On the sock the number four was written in green marker pen.
Sock four: lock door. Yes, he had placed it there to remember to start locking his door every time he left the room. It sometimes took a while for his mnemonics to bed in.
He went to his desk to find his evening routine and noticed the red folder in a curious position. It was sitting apart from everything else on his desk, which was where he left it if he had work to do. But he had done the work, there were three overdue essays for Professor Jacks in there, Jacks had demanded them by tomorrow. Jolyon opened the folder. Nothing inside, nothing. A panic surged through him. Three essays, three whole days’ work. And he knew they had been there, he hadn’t imagined working for three solid days.
He looked at the clock above his desk, nearly three in the morning. He remembered locking his door, didn’t he? He had seen the sock as he left and had locked his door. Or was he constructing this memory? Did he only really remember going over and over the pilled surface of the sock with the pen to make the four stand out?
He sat at his desk feeling sick, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Mark Mark Mark.
There were tears in Jolyon’s eyes. He pulled them down his cheeks and then wiped his fingers over the desk. He opened the top drawer and took out some paper and a pen. He wondered how much of what he had written he could remember. His mind had not been so good of late. Not so very good.
He looked again at the clock. Nine hours to noon, three hours per essay.
And then he would kill Mark. Tomorrow he would find him and kill him. He should put something memorable somewhere to remind him to kill Mark.
LI
LI I am full of my evening routine when I feel the same light kiss on my forehead as yesterday. Dee sits down on the blanket and crosses her legs, her shorts sliding gently over her thighs. How was your day, Jolyon? she asks. Tell me everything.
The park lounges all around as I glance here and there for reminders.
What is it? Dee asks.
But my head feels like a beehive deadened with smoke. I don’t know, I say. Working, I suppose. There’s so much to write about, I don’t remember exactly.
Then tell me about your lunchtime walk, Dee says. Where did you go?
I pause to think. Left or right? I don’t even remember. All of my walks have blurred into one. Just the usual, I say, tearing up handfuls of grass in frustration.
Dee sighs, leaning forward and gripping my wrist. Her hand is as cool as a stone and the grass slips away through my fingers. Oh, Jolyon, Dee says, you really do have a mind like a colander. She pats my wrist tenderly as she lets me go. But don’t worry, she says, let’s just chat about something else. Do you want to talk about your story?
OK, I nod. I would like to lay my head in Dee’s lap. Yes, I nod again.
Dee does most of the talking, she seems to remember my words so much better than me. But I do at least contribute to the chatter, these are the early stages of my conversational training. As the discussion nears an end, Dee says to me, You know, Jolyon, your story makes me think of something D. H. Lawrence once said. Never trust the writer. Trust the tale.
And you trust my tale? I say.
There is not a single untrue fact, Dee says.
Then you like it?
How can I like it? It was the worst year of my life. Dee looks at me as if I have taken an absurdly wrong turn. No, that’s oversimplifying everything, she shrugs. Maybe it was more like Dickens. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Dee falls silent. And then I see her glance toward her book of poems beside me on the picnic blanket. Yes, let’s talk about your work now, I say to Dee.
She hides a blush with her hands.