‘ . . .’
‘Fine then, Jolyon. You have something over me and I have something over you. Should we continue to circle or are we done now?’
‘It was an accident, Shortest.’
‘I don’t doubt it for the merest second, Jolyon.’
‘ . . .’
‘Was that all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent. See you next Sunday then.’
LXVII
LXVII(i) No one ever asked me. No one ever said to me, Jolyon, did you kill Mark? Something extraordinary happened instead. In the small world of Pitt, I was pardoned.
In the eyes of almost everyone at college, Mark and I had been close friends. And not just close but inseparable. Wherever I went, Mark went. Mark had swapped rooms just to live next door to me. The Pitt Pendulum had even run a cartoon. Me as groom, Mark as demented bride, a congregation of jealous faces.
Yes, that’s how it looked to Pitt. Six friends, a falling-out, my twinship with Chad left in tatters. But until his death, Mark and I had remained close. And perhaps Mark’s depression – surely it must have been depression – was in some way related to my behaviour. I must have been under a great deal of strain being close friends with someone depressive enough to take his own life, someone who found the world such a strain he preferred sleep over consciousness. And perhaps, now that everyone thought it through with the benefit of hindsight, my public enjoyment of Asian Babes was not so indicative of racism after all. And really those diary entries only revealed the sort of dark, unkind thoughts we all have from time to time. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. And no one thought to link the non-appearance of any further diary entries with the death of Mark. It was clear that whoever had been taping them to the walls had decided to stop out of respect for my grief. I think most people assumed my torturer to have been Jack.
For the next several days, girls stopped me and hugged me as I made my way around Pitt. Boys slapped my back, rubbed my shoulders. People who barely even knew me would tell me how sorry they were to hear about my friend.
One time I spied Jack and Emilia in a large group of people across back quad. They were walking toward me. Jack saw me and then cast his eyes quickly down. A moment later he appeared to have a sudden idea. Everyone nodded and shrugged and changed direction. I watched them all disappear through the Hallowgood gate.
Meanwhile I had spoken to the police who assured me that, while the circumstances of Mark’s death were in no way suspicious, with any such death they had a duty to make inquiries, they hoped I understood. I nodded solemnly. Perhaps they were testing me as we spoke, feeling for leads. If so then I passed. It wasn’t hard to act the grief-stricken friend, I was already broken. The police were very sensitive and understanding. It makes me sick to think of the lies I told.
LXVII(ii) But now the present must briefly interrupt my confession. Because there is still a life going on in this railroad flat. Only the barest scratch of a life but a life nonetheless.
Sometimes while writing I pause to wonder if Dee will come, if Dee will knock on my door and forgive me. But of course she won’t forgive me, how could she forgive such a thing? And then it occurs to me that perhaps losing her book was no accident. Maybe some terrible part of me has chosen to lose her poems, a secret piece of my mind that refuses to let her know about Mark. I have lost Dee’s book so she would flee from me, so she would never find out, never hate me for what I have done.
And it has worked. I sit all alone with my story. Only the past, the distant past.
LXVIII
LXVIII Emilia looked spectacular in black, a perfect Hitchcock widow among the candles and stained glass. Jolyon’s eyes fell first on her and Jack sitting together when he entered the church. Jack looked uncomfortable among the pews, there could be no jokes in this place. Jolyon thought he saw them holding hands during one portion of the ceremony but perhaps he only imagined it. Seated on her own, a few rows behind Emilia and Jack, was Dee. Black sat very naturally on Dee. And Chad also was sitting apart from his friends, across the aisle in a borrowed suit two sizes too big for him. But Chad looked otherwise composed, a monochrome study of stoicism.
Jolyon looked up at the ceiling of the church. It reminded him of the bar at Pitt, as if he were staring up at the undersides of enormous stone parasols. He could almost hear the chatter and bubbling laughter.
He had taken the train to London on his own and remained alone in the church, sitting as far back as he could. As far as he could from the coffin, the grief.
But it was impossible for Jolyon to remain alone at Mark’s mother’s house where everyone gathered after the funeral, the house crammed with so many bodies. And being there reminded Jolyon guiltily of how, with delicate flutes of champagne, they had toasted Mark’s nineteenth birthday only three months earlier in that house. Now he made small talk with people he only half knew. They ate sandwiches and said all the appropriate things. Shocking, tragic, so young.
The ceiling seemed to descend slowly around and around like the lid of a screw-top jar as a palpable grief began to evaporate from the dense welter of bodies. Grief gathered on the insides of the windows, trickled down the panes, collected in droplets on the window frames. And Jolyon stood there trying not to see the pain in everyone’s eyes but felt their hurt seeping into him, wordlessly drenching his heart.
And when Mark’s mother came to him, Jolyon thought he might shatter into a million black stars. Only her arms, which Mark’s mother wrapped around him as she might once have done her son, held Jolyon together. And then she said to him, ‘Mark told me all about you, Jolyon.’ She held him by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. ‘And I could tell that he loved you the most. So that’s why I’m asking you. Please, Jolyon, if you know anything, anything at all. Why did he do it? Why did my beautiful son . . . what made him . . . ?’
Jolyon’s throat was coarse and sore. He looked at Mark’s mother, her trembling lips, her sleepless eyes. If he were to say to her ‘I really don’t know, Mrs Cutler’ then it would all be over, they would hold each other again and he would say how sorry he was for her loss. But how could he do that? He had already taken her son. How could he leave Mark’s mother alone with the torment of wondering why every haunted second of every night and day?
Their game had been such a pale imitation of life, such a blunt and childish thing. Because only life had real consequences, only life could cause real pain. There was nothing Chad and Dee could ever have dreamt, no consequence imaginable, that Jolyon could less have endured than what he had to do now. He led Mark’s mother to the side of the room and they sat together at the very edge of a sofa, as if to sit any further back would be an insult to the memory of Mark.
A young man of great promise had died and no one deserved any comfort. No one deserved to rest or even to sleep or breathe. And Jolyon least of all.
LXIX
LXIX(i) Sitting here now in New York, fourteen years after that funeral, I can still hear every word I said to her, each and every lie I drizzled over Mark’s mother.
She looks at me with such a heartbreaking mixture of pain and gratitude, wiping her eyes tenderly as I tell her that her son was the cleverest person I ever met, the brightest at Pitt without any doubt. She squeezes my hand when I tell her that Mark wanted to be the very best. And he was the best, I say to her. But he couldn’t see it, he was hard on himself, so hard. When we started, we all found ourselves suddenly surrounded by so many intelligent people, the brightest in the land. And Mark was a perfectionist. Yes, yes he was, she nods. If he couldn’t do something perfectly he’d rather not do it at all. His work began to suffer. And there’s such pressure at a place like Pitt to perform, I have friends at other universities who barely have to work at all but at Pitt they start to hound you if you begin to slip. Her grip tightens on the handkerchief balled in an unsteady hand. Mark became paralysed by the pressure from without as well as the pressure he put on himself to succeed. He was working on his own theory, something to do with dark energy, the invisible forces of the universe. I didn’t understand the physics behind the theory and it was so frustrating to Mark that he couldn’t share his glimpse of such beauty. He wouldn’t take it to any of his tutors until the theory was complete and that might have taken years, decades even. She laughs with a small huff at the memory of her son, obstinate and proud. But I had no idea, I tell her, how heavily the burden of his work was weighing on him. Yes, I could see he was down. Sometimes he wouldn’t get out of bed until late in the evening. She swallows hard, remembering the same thing. In the last week of his life, Mark said he’d arrived at a solution. He was wild-looking, excitable, and I thought he meant his theory on dark energy. But now, I say to her, I think maybe he was talking about something else. I am so sorry and I don’t know if any of this makes any sense.