Marcus ran him a bath and placed some painkillers and a glass of water by the sink. He sat watching TV while Mouse bathed, smiling as he heard his friend singing to himself and splashing about. When he was done, Mouse came into the room wearing Marcus’s dressing gown. He sat down next to Marcus on the sofa.
‘What’s the plan for tonight? I thought maybe a quiet one? Film and a curry?’
‘Actually, I have plans. I’m going over to east London to see Daffy.’
‘Daffy? Really? How brilliant. Can I come?’
‘Of course.’
They dressed together in his bedroom, and it reminded Marcus of the excitement he used to feel as they got ready for a night out at university: music on the stereo, sharpening drinks and then a spray of aftershave and out into the night with its endless potential. They strolled down to the Tube together and then made the long trip across town on the Central Line.
Marcus liked the way each Tube line had its own identity. This identity was fashioned partly from the upholstery of the trains and the feel of the stations, partly from the districts of London which the line linked and the passengers who travelled upon it. The Central Line was bohemian and trendy, linking Notting Hill to Bethnal Green via Oxford Circus and Tottenham Court Road. The District Line was more sedate, old-world, running from the City through St James’s Park to Sloane Square. He liked the hurried dependability of the Victoria Line and the deep, dusty donnishness of the Northern Line, while the shimmering futurism of the Jubilee Line and the down-at-heel Bakerloo left him cold.
They got off the train at Liverpool Street and walked along Bishopsgate towards Shoreditch. Marcus had arranged to meet Daffy in a pub behind Hoxton Square. They strolled through crowds of young people wrapped up against the cold, the haircuts and jewellery becoming more inventive as they moved up into Shoreditch. Daffy was sitting facing the door when they came in, and he raised his arm and waved, grinning.
‘I didn’t know you were coming, Mouse. Well, this is brilliant. Come on now, sit down. What are you having?’
Daffy had a thin moustache and wore a denim shirt and skinny jeans, high-top trainers on his feet. He seemed to know the bartender and bought a round of beers with whisky chasers.
‘I can’t tell you how good it is to see you guys, cheers.’ He took a long drink. ‘I run into various people from university now and again, but never anyone from our college. Thought the church had claimed you all. I was the only pagan left.’ He chuckled and raised his glass again. ‘Cheers, anyway.’ He faced them, grinning.
‘It’s good to see you too. Mouse and I were talking on the way over about how sorry we are that we lost touch with you. I mean, I think you know all about the Course.’
‘I do indeed. You tried to persuade me to join last time I saw you. Not my bag at all, you know what I mean? I almost joined just to see you guys, though.’
‘It’s hard to keep in touch with people. The Course just takes up so much of our time. But with you, Daffy. . I mean, I think there are some friends where it really doesn’t matter how long you don’t see them for. When you’ve been through so much together, you can always just pick up where you left off. So tell us what you’re up to now.’
Daffy put his beer down on the table.
‘I’m in advertising. I had a couple of nothing jobs when I first left uni, but I’ve been at this place for over a year now. I work on the creative side. And I live over this way, just down beside Columbia Road. Share the flat with two blokes I met clubbing a few years back. I suppose I’m having a pretty good time.’
‘Any girlfriends?’
‘Oh, too many, too many. But no. There have been a few who stuck around for a while, but no one special. I always get a girl in January or something and then dump them in the summer. I go a bit mad in the sun, see? Basically, life is just this thing I get through either side of Glastonbury, you know what I mean?’
‘I’ve always wanted to go,’ said Mouse.
‘Oh, it’s fucking awesome, man. Come with us next year. A right proper eye-opener, I promise you. That’s a real religion for you.’
They ordered burgers from the bar and watched the pub fill up around them, reminiscing all the time about their university days.
‘And how’s Lee? I haven’t seen her since your wedding, Marcus. She was so pissed then, man.’
Marcus looked at Mouse and saw his friend shake his head very slightly.
‘She’s not really around any more,’ said Marcus, looking down at the drinks on the table, carefully removing the pickle from the top of his burger.
‘Ah, shame. She was fit. Still, it happens, doesn’t it? People drift in and out. Sure you’ll pick up where you left off when she’s back.’
Marcus looked up and saw that Mouse was staring at him.
‘Does anyone want another beer?’ Mouse said, and rose to walk to the bar.
A sofa became free in a corner of the pub and they moved there. They talked for a while longer and then Daffy stood up, rubbing his hands.
‘Right boys, I’m going to a gallery opening. Do you want to come along? It’s Hugo Carrington, you know, the guy from uni.’
Marcus had come across Carrington a few times at university. He was an angular aristocratic type whose father was equerry to the Queen. Carrington had studied art, but left halfway through his second year. He had launched his career to some public acclaim with a show in Mayfair soon after.
‘Sure,’ said Marcus. ‘Yeah, I remember Carrington.’
They walked down through Hoxton Square, which was full of happy chatter and the thud of bass from different bars and clubs. The gallery was on Kingsland Road and already a long queue snaked down the pavement outside. Some cupped their hands to the blacked-out window, trying to make out what Carrington had created inside.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Daffy. ‘I’m guestlisted. I’ll make them add you two.’
They walked past the long line of fashionably attired young people and Daffy spoke for a moment with the woman at the door. They followed him inside.
The noise of a hundred shouted conversations greeted them as they walked through black felt curtains and into the gallery. It was very hot and Marcus could see scores of men who looked just like Daffy, their sideburns razor-cut into daggers, bellowing into the faces of pretty girls. There was a bar along one side of the room and Daffy reached over and passed a warm bottle of beer to Marcus. Marcus thanked him and began to saunter around the room, gently pushing his way past trendy types who didn’t seem all that interested in the art. He walked through an archway and into a gloomy back room which was dominated by a huge spinning sculpture.
Wheels turned within wheels, something whirred manically inside a sphere, a great turbine chugged. The dial of an enormous clock at the centre glowed ominously in the half-light, its hands circling. A swinging blade flashed for an instant and then disappeared. The light was so dim that Marcus could barely make out how each part was connected, but he was enchanted, and turned to look for Mouse. He saw his friend speaking to Daffy on the other side of the main gallery and gestured to him. Mouse crossed the room and stood next to Marcus in the dark. They sipped their beers and stared at the rotating sculpture.
‘It’s strange to see Daffy again,’ said Mouse.
‘Do you think he has changed?’ asked Marcus.
‘I don’t know. Maybe his accent is a little less strong, but other than that. . I think it might be that he hasn’t changed at all.’
They continued to look at the machine for a while longer and then went out to the bar for more drinks.