And they had their own form of deposit as well. Money might not have mattered to them. But their standing in the world meant everything to them. And so that’s what they all deposited. Their reputations.
So when Middle walked away . . . Look, like I say, I’m really not sure exactly how it all went down. Maybe the rest of them, whoever the rest of them are, simply decided that he needed a gentle reminder of his obligations. Anyway, a few years after we were done playing, Middle was doing very well climbing the greasy pole of a prestigious private banking house. Until one day he was arrested for the possession of a particularly large quantity of cocaine. He managed to wriggle out of serving any jail time, but he lost his job. And after that, no one in the banking world would touch him.
The letters told you this? I say. But how do you know any of it’s true?
The information about Game Soc’s game? I don’t know if it’s true. But Middle? Along with the letters I was sent a whole bunch of additional reading material – we’ll come to that in a bit. But one of the things that was included was a bundle of press clippings, news stories all about Middle’s arrest, the trial . . . and one of the press clippings had a note written in green pen. It said something like, Middle is aware there are considerably worse crimes on the statute book than possession of class-A drugs. And that was it. Chad claps his hands in sarcastic delight. In the very next letter, I was sent another bundle of press clippings. Can you guess what the story was this time? Let me see if I can remember one of the headlines – Oxford Student’s Suicide Offers Grim Reminder.
Chad covers his eyes, I hear him sniff. And I want to tell him what really happened to Mark, I want to help him. But how can I tell Chad now? What if he were to use it against me? His body shakes gently between the arms of the chair.
Chad takes one long last sniff and then looks at me again. Let me tell you about some of the other things I got sent, Jolyon, he says. I have boxes full of this stuff back home in England, more press clippings, magazine stories, books . . . One time it was a story about a drinking club in Poland, all these tough guys who got together to down bottles of vodka and play games. One night, after a particularly vigorous session, things got a little out of control. They ended up cutting off each other’s hands with axes. Or another time I’d tear open the envelope and pull out an eighteenth-century essay about gentlemen gangs who roamed the streets of London slashing and stabbing and gouging out eyes. Pamphlets produced by fringe groups about American high-school shootings and video games, a long investigative piece about a secret collegiate society at Yale, another one about the Bilderberg Group, an entire book on the history of Russian roulette. And all of these things were covered in notes, every time in the same green pen. Notes or phrases that were circled, whole paragraphs underlined. Anything about games, about rules and punishments, consequences, conspiracies, secret societies.
Oh, I tried not opening the letters. But somehow I couldn’t make myself destroy them. The idea that I was a part of all this, something so big, something . . . it was grotesque, it was ludicrous even. But at the same time I was fascinated. The secrecy, the hidden gears, it felt like a drug. Some nights I’d go to where I’d hidden the letters and open whole stacks in one go. And then I’d spend all night reading them over and over and over.
Chad looks up at the ceiling as if he can see the words of those letters hanging over his head. And you really knew nothing about any of this at all? he says. Chad slumps back in his chair looking suddenly exhausted.
No, nothing, I say. I am looking at Chad for a sign, a tell. Is this the truth or is he just trying to scare me? I can’t imagine the Chad of fourteen years ago making up such a story and telling it with so much conviction. But how much has he changed? He looks tired and uncertain, he looks like a younger Chad wearing an ill-fitting disguise. His muscles seem foolish now, a thin and worthless shield. I feel the whisky surging inside me, the pills whirling away. I remember my story and my mind pushes Chad away. He belongs somewhere else, this all belongs somewhere else, somewhere later.
I swing my legs off the sofa and face him. Well, thank you for coming, Chad, I say. But as you can see, I’m really quite busy here.
Chad looks confused. That’s all you have to say, Jolyon? You’re really quite busy?
I have a lot of work on, I say. My head swims, the room lurches. Would you mind seeing yourself out? I say.
Chad looks spurned. Sure then, Jolyon, he says, getting to his feet. Sure, I can tell how busy you are. He turns and leaves the room. A few moments later I hear him call out, Thursday, Jolyon, two thirty!
The front door clicks shut.
LXIII(iii) Am I afraid that I might become trapped in a game I never wanted to play? I don’t know. And I don’t have the time to be scared of ghost stories. I don’t even have the time to consider whether I believe in the existence of ghosts.
Perhaps Chad wanted to scare me. Maybe he made it all up. But anyway, I have my own reasons to fear Game Soc. More specifically, I have my own reasons to fear one particular member of their threesome. But we’ll come to that soon enough.
No, I don’t have time to consider either the present or the future. Because now the moment, fourteen years ago, has arrived.
The reckoning. An elegant solution. My endgame with Mark.
LXIV
LXIV(i) His head didn’t hurt. No, his head didn’t hurt him at all.
Jolyon could feel each grain of wood as he hammered his fists against Mark’s door, could sense his weight gathering at the soles of his feet. When the door opened, Mark’s face was bright, his lips dry and parted. ‘Jolyon, good to see you,’ said Mark. ‘Can’t imagine what could bring you so urgently to my door.’
‘You really want to beat me?’ said Jolyon. ‘You want to win so much you’d hurt Emilia just to get at me? OK then, Mark, just remember whose choice it was to raise the stakes. Come on then, let’s play.’
Jolyon turned and started to leave but Mark stayed where he was. ‘I don’t have to do anything, Joe. Nothing that comes out of your mouth ever again.’
Jolyon stopped at the edge of the stairs. ‘No, but you’ll like this game, Mark.’ he said. ‘The odds are stacked in your favour.’ The words were written inside him, Jolyon only had to move his lips. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t have a thousand pounds to give you right now. But I will, one day. And I’ll give you back your thousand pounds plus another thousand if you can beat me today. Plus, I’ll admit you were right all along. You’ll enjoy that even more than the money.’
Mark looked uncertain. ‘What’s the trick?’ he said.
‘There’s no trick,’ said Jolyon. ‘You win, you get two thousand pounds. I’ll use next year’s grant or I’ll work through the summer. You have my word and you know I’ll keep it.’ Mark shrugged. ‘But if I win,’ Jolyon continued, ‘you call off this vendetta. Double or nothing. And it’s a game of physics, Mark. A game of gravity and acceleration.’