Her nostrils were flaring and the track of a single tear marked one of her cheeks.
‘What is it, Emilia, what’s wrong?’
She began to lift her hand, her fist was holding something. When her arm came level with her face, she opened the hand. And out fell a piece of paper.
Jolyon looked down. He saw the no. 10 and the fragment of her name vanishing into a crease. ‘Oh, Emilia, no, no, I . . . I didn’t mean any . . . It was just lashing out, venting, like therapy, you know, I felt awful . . .’
When Emilia turned, Jolyon noticed that the cast was gone from her leg. But just as before, when she left him, she left slowly. The picture was flickering. But his head didn’t hurt him at all.
LXIII
LXIII(i) I write, I drink, I take pills. When I get home from the airport, when I wake up at five the next morning. I write, I drink, I take pills. Rewind and repeat.
So much to tell and so little time.
The intercom buzzes. Chad’s voice.
LXIII(ii) Excuse the mess, I say, turning to lead him from one end of my sty to the other.
Jolyon, maybe you should put on some clothes, Chad says.
I look down. OK, I say. You wait in the living room, Chad. Anything else I should do?
You could offer me a drink.
I have only whisky.
I’ll take a water.
So I dress, I find a glass among the swill of my apartment, I pour water for Chad and then take it, along with the whisky bottle, into the living room.
Chad inspects the filth-encrusted glass, its rim blackened with Magic Marker like the salt on a margarita. He places it on the table and pushes it away.
Have you come here to gloat? I say, indicating the mess all around.
You know that’s not why I’m here, he says.
No, I know why you’re here.
Well, it has to end, Chad says. He is sitting on my writing chair wearing crisp, dark jeans and a bright cerulean shirt with sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Chad now possesses forearms in the sense that Popeye the Sailor possesses forearms. He sighs as I fall onto the sofa. I feel bad, Jolyon, he says.
Fuck you, Chad, I shout. I feel bad. You feel guilty.
No, he says, I don’t feel guilty.
Well, good for you, I say, that’s probably what makes you such a winner.
I haven’t won anything, Chad says. Not yet, Jolyon.
I laugh and take a swig of whisky. The chair creaks as Chad arranges his muscular frame into a fresh position of refined easy-goingness. What the hell do you do? I ask, moving my hands as if measuring the breadth of his shoulders, his chest. Do you work out for a living, what is this?
Chad chuckles. Just diet and exercise, Jolyon. Living well, you know. And how about you? Did you become a lawyer in the end? Crusader for justice, defender of the poor and innocent, that was always the plan, correct?
I pursued other avenues, I say.
Chad laughs and waves his hand. Oh well, we have more important matters to discuss, he says. Three more days, your birthday. Shall we say two thirty?
Two thirty? I say, starting to laugh. Two thirty, tooth hurty? And then I laugh so hard that my body convulses, I have to slap my thighs. I’m sorry, Chad, I say, recovering slightly. It’s just . . . it’s a private joke, don’t worry.
Chad starts to get up. His smile looks forced, his eyes uncertain. OK then, Jolyon, may the best man win, he says, offering me his hand.
Reluctantly I respond and we shake.
And just as I think Chad will turn and leave, he takes a deep breath, holding on to my hand a moment too long before letting go. And then he says, Jolyon, whatever happens later, you do understand that none of this is personal any more, right? I want to make sure you know that.
You mean it was personal? But it isn’t now?
Chad sits back down. I guess it must have been, right? he says, leaning his elbows on his knees. God knows it wasn’t the money, the money was never enough to explain anything. Perhaps it was something to do with Emilia, or something to do with Dee. Or maybe I just wanted to beat you more than anyone else. That’s not so unusual, is it, Jolyon? You know, like fathers who flat-out refuse to let their sons ever beat them. Or someone who’d rather lose to any person in the world other than his own brother. I suppose that’s personal, right?
And now? I say.
You know what it’s all about now, Chad says. It’s all about escaping from Game Soc, of course.
We could make a pact, I say.
Chad laughs. I wondered that too, he says. And if I thought it would work . . . but they’d just come after us both, Jolyon. Anyway, what do you even stand to lose here? He waves his hand at the filth and the wreckage. I’m sorry, he says. And then Chad stares off to one side. Honestly, I wish I’d just lost the whole thing fourteen years ago without knowing what I know now. And then he turns back to face me. Did they send you the green-ink letters as well?
What letters?
You’re kidding me, right? Chad snorts. What letters? Tell me, Jolyon, what do you know about Game Soc?
Nothing, I say.
Nothing? Then what do you have to be afraid of, Jolyon? What are you hiding from?
This is what I think about saying in reply – Oh, I have my reasons, Chad, trust me. I have plenty to hide from. I’ll let you read all about it one day. Skip straight to the chapter that follows this encounter, you’ll find out soon enough.
But instead I say to him, What letters are you talking about, Chad?
Anonymous letters, he says. Bundles of letters written in green ink making certain grand intimations about Game Soc. Almost certainly from Tallest or Shortest, is my guess. And they were clearly intended to frighten me, so Tallest is the most likely, I think. What with him being such a fan of yours, Jolyon.
A fan of . . .? What? Chad, I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.
Chad blinks several times at me. And then he throws himself back in the chair. You’ve got to be kidding me, Jolyon. You don’t know what we were to them? Because if you don’t know even that much then you know almost nothing at all. He looks at me and waits to see if I comprehend any of what he’s saying.
I shrug.
Chad holds his head in his hands. He starts to mutter and shake his head. Muttering, muttering, shaking. When he drops his hands from his face, he says to me, We were their game, Jolyon. They were playing and we were just their little pieces. Knights, bishops, pawns. Tallest backed you and Shortest backed me. So if you win, Tallest wins as well. If I win, then it’s Shortest who gets the prize. You didn’t even know that much?
I shake my head. But how do you know all of this? I say.
The letters, of course, Chad says, although there is something hesitant to the way he says it and this makes me wonder if he’s telling me the truth. There were nine of them originally, Chad continues, all members of some rich boys club. Rich and bored and kicking around looking for something fun to do. And it was Tallest who came up with it. An astonishing, life-changing game. A game just like one he and some friends had played at boarding school to pass the time.
The details were never revealed to me, Chad says, but I know a few things. I know about the prize for winning. And I know Game Soc weren’t the winners. That’s why they had to find someone. Someone else to play, that was the price for losing.
Then who were the winners? I say.
I have no idea. But they were all rich, all from wealthy families. They were young and smart and well connected. And money meant nothing to them. So instead they played for something much more valuable. They played for power. Those who lost would be beholden to the victors for the rest of their lives. Whatever positions they reached, whatever stations in life, they would owe favours. Be they government ministers, influential bankers, publishing magnates, captains of industry . . . they would all look out for the winners, they would support them utterly and without any questions. Jolyon, you have to understand, our game was nothing compared to any of this.