'Fife Park,' one of them says. 'It just attracts those types. They always go for the cheapest accommodation.'
'Yeah,' another chips in. 'Same in Albany last year. We had one just like him.'
'But his parents are loaded, aren't they?' the third questions.
'Damn right!' Jason shouts, his blood up after a fifth pint of Caluden Ale. 'He's a typical spoiled Southern ponce. Never had to work a day in his life, never washed a fuckin' dish, and his mummy and daddy bail him out after every failed course. He's a piece of shit.'
Laughter roars around the table.
'What are you going to do?' one of the delighted spectators asks.
Jason takes a deep breath. 'Well, he's soiled every dish, cup and spoon since the other lads left in May. There is nothing left to use. It's all in the sink, or strewn across the table. You know, some of the scraps on his plates are actually rotting. So I am going to put all of it in his room. On his bed. No, under his disgusting bedclothes that have never been washed.'
'Fantastic,' one of his mates says.
'Then,' Jason continues, only pausing until his friends fall silent again, 'when he comes back from the pub, pissed up no doubt, and finds it, I shall demand a sum of money for all the bread, milk, tuna, bog roll, cereal, olive oil and God knows what else of mine he's been using all year.'
'He'll never pay. He'll just lamp you.'
'Good! I want him to take a swing, because it's all been building up inside me for a whole year. It's been eating me, so I can't sleep, or think, or work. Single-handedly, he's ruined my fourth year. He's changed me. My personality. And it will all come out. It'll just explode…'
His friends start to snigger now, uncomfortable and a little nervous. Jason's eyes have developed a far-away gaze, and his bottom lip trembles. His hands clench until his knuckles crack and look like they are ready to pop through the skin. Two of his friends pass cigarettes around the table while the third considers patting Jason on the shoulder, but soon thinks better of it.
'I'm going home now,' Jason says quietly in the uneasy silence, and leaves the table.
'Jesus. He's going to murder Rick,' someone says, once Jason has left the pub.
'He deserves it. You heard what Rick called Jason's girlfriend.'
'Yeah, but what if it goes too far? Jason could get into some serious shit.'
'Serves Rick right. Anyone that turns a good-natured lad like Jase' into a psycho has got it coming.'
Rick launches a crumpled beer can down the bank toward David Melville Hall. The empty missile drops short of the ground-floor windows. In retaliation for the beer can's failings, Rick stamps on the first bicycle he passes. The mountain bike has been left chained to a lamppost, and rattles against the concrete pole after his foot makes contact. Nothing falls off the bike or snaps, so he swears and carries on down the gravel path that passes the Sports Centre. He staggers here and there, corrects himself and then continues to walk in a straighter line. Then he considers going back and pulling the saddle off the bike frame, but it seems like too great an effort.
Can't be arsed.
He's never liked Jason, not since the first day of term when he asked him if he minded not smoking while others ate. But it is not just the eye-rolling or the petty hen-pecking comments about the dishes; there are other things he dislikes about the man, and he will tell Jason about them all, tonight.
Rick has failed the year, and has not been sleeping well. Jason knows this but continues to nag him about the kitchen. Nightmares have left Rick reluctant to pursue the usual sixteen hours of sleep he has become accustomed to after a drink. The dodgy gear he scored in an Edinburgh club must be the cause of the dreadful imaginings that now seem to pounce every time he closes his eyes. There is plenty of bad acid around, but the shit he took in July was rancid. He's been off drugs since the nightmares began and, as an alternative, chooses to drink more heavily. Maybe he should try to get sleeping pills from the Yank sleep doctor, the quack who he's supposed to see tomorrow morning.
Rick left the pub at nine-thirty, having expended the last of his parental contribution. He will have to borrow some money to phone home and ask his dad for more cash. But right now, all Rick can think about is a cigarette. He's desperate. Maybe he can ask Jason for a couple of fags — those cheap roll-ups he smokes. And then ask him for change to make the call home. But he must make sure to do it before they have the row. That will be more diplomatic. Rick grins. Turning a familiar corner on the path, he breathes a sigh of relief; this is the last leg of the tiresome walk from town to Fife Park.
Something scuttles under the hedgerow next to his left foot. Rick flinches and then bends over to peer through dark leaves and bracken. A bright-red pheasant darts away through the undergrowth, its tiny head bobbing up and down above a bulbous body. 'Fuck,' he says, before feeling the sudden rush of adrenaline dissolve in his muscles. He exhales noisily. It is vital he fights off the fatigue that immediately tries to establish itself, created by a lack of sleep and worsened by the effects of too much beer. He will have to be alert for Jason. He can take him though; the guy is soft.
High above, the sound of a jet from the Leuchers airbase ripples across the horizon. As it is still light enough to catch a glimpse of the distant golf course and sea from the path he walks, he might be able to watch it fly over. Could be something more interesting than a Tornado. Usually, the planes come in pretty low from out at sea, practising bombing runs on Iraqi targets, and the noise is deafening. He turns and looks to the horizon, visible between and over the top of the dreary concrete of the North Haugh building and Andrew Melville Hall, arranged below the hill he crosses, on the summit of which the budget halls of residence, David Russell Hall and Fife Park, have been built.
As he scans the purple expanse of darkening sky, something in the distance catches his eye. Rick stops, and looks across the dark-green leaves stretching across the furrowed acres of root crop to the distant wood. Is someone standing in the field? He screws up his eyes. In the dark, from this angle, it almost looks like a man standing up with his head bowed. But it would have to be a man on stilts because no one is that tall.
Rick moves closer to the fence and places his hands on the top strand of wire. He's never seen anyone in the field before, not even a farmer. No, it can't possibly be a man. It is a tree, surely. The thin trunk only resembles a torso in poor light from a distance, and those other things that hang down like long arms must be the branches. It is just the black silhouette of a dying tree that he's never noticed before. But despite the cushion from fear that a belly full of alcohol provides, something about the distant shape makes him feel uneasy. It's not the kind of thing you would want to look at sober.
The jet is coming closer now and, for a moment, Rick wishes he were in it. He carries on walking, and averts his eyes from the ugly thing perched in the field. But his senses stay alert. He has an acute notion of being watched. Impulsively, he looks back to the field. The tree has vanished. The field now resumes its natural appearance, empty except for a forest of root-crop and an occasional hovering seagull. Rick stops walking again and goes back to the fence to take a keener look. His eyes sweep across the field from left to right. Although his vision judders a little from the drink, he becomes absolutely certain that the figure has disappeared. It can't have been a tree in that case. It must have been a man. But no one can move that quickly. They were standing near the centre of the field and could not possibly have made it back to the trees in only a few seconds, or hidden in the crop, because it grows no higher than a man's ankle. The air seems colder now. But then he's stopped moving, and that would explain why he now shivers. Time to move on, because staring across the field, in the descending dark, hurts his eyes. He shakes his head and carries on.