Jolyon coughed on his smoke, it rushed out of his nose and his eyes filled with tears.
‘See,’ said Emilia, ‘you find homosexuality amusing, Jack. You joke about it constantly but there’s nothing intrinsically funnier about gay sex than straight sex. It’s all just trains and tunnels. Humour’s your defence mechanism against anything that scares you. And it clearly does scare you. Fear, Jack, that’s what a phobia is.’
‘Listen,’ said Jack, ‘there’s no question of fear. I for one happen to love the gays. Plus, I think we could all get along a whole lot better. Why can’t we cooperate to reach our goals? I mean, take women for example. We want to fuck them and the gays love talking to them. Neither of us has any interest in the other act. So surely we could come to some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement.’
‘I think they’re spies,’ said Mark, sitting up suddenly. ‘Oh, sorry, Jack, not gay men. Game Soc. Which is not to say my thread’s infinitely more interesting than your little stand-up comedy routine.’ Mark and Jack exchanged looks like duellists appreciating the sport of the contest before Mark continued. ‘It’s well known that this university was for a long time, and probably still is, a recruiting ground for the British secret services. And by the way, I hear that your history tutor, Jack, is one of their talent scouts.’ Jack nodded as he mouthed the words it’s true to the room. ‘Maybe Game Soc are on the lookout for young people with intelligence and initiative. And then this game, whatever we come up with, becomes our recruitment process.’
‘But if they’re British intelligence, why would they bother listening to me, an American?’ said Chad. ‘They rejected everyone else who went near them in about one second flat.’
‘What, so you think Britain doesn’t spy on America?’ said Mark. ‘And no doubt America spies on us. And much better, I bet. Maybe they see you as a potential double agent.’ Mark finished his drink in one enthusiastic gulp. ‘Look, we’re all friends in this room. But that doesn’t mean I expect us to tell the truth about ourselves all the time. And I’m sure it’s the same with Britain and America’s so-called special relationship. Anyway, who else might want to throw ten thousand pounds at us?’
‘But we haven’t even seen the money,’ said Emilia. ‘It might be a hoax, someone’s idea of a student prank.’
‘I know who has enough money to afford it,’ said Jolyon. ‘That secret society Toby was telling us about the other day. What are they called?’
‘The Saracens,’ said Jack. And then answering Emilia’s enquiring look, he added, ‘A posh rich-boys-only club. Remember those passport photos you sent in along with the room questionnaires and forms a few months ago? Apparently the Saracens somehow get hold of the pictures of all the female freshers and sift through deciding which ones to invite along to one of their champagne-and-coke sex parties.’
‘Elizabeth told me that at the warden’s drinks,’ said Mark. ‘She said she received an invite to a mysterious champagne party just a week ago.’
Jack studied Emilia’s reaction. ‘Don’t worry, Emilia,’ he said, ‘I expect your invitation just got lost in the post.’
Emilia raised her foot but Jack was ready. The desk chair had wheels and this time he scooted clear of the danger.
‘Like I’d want to be leered over by a bunch of boys with dicky bows and Coutts accounts,’ said Emilia. ‘Stupid wankers.’
Emilia swore rarely and there was a short silence as if an amen had been spoken.
‘But the trouble with it being the Saracens,’ said Mark, ‘is they don’t sound like they have the imagination to spend their money on anything better than booze, coke, chasing girls and paying for repairs after they trash the restaurants they meet in.’
‘And Game Soc’s three didn’t look much like they’re into debauchery,’ said Jolyon.
‘Well, it doesn’t have to be the Saracens,’ said Chad. ‘Aren’t there plenty of other rich people here?’ he said. ‘And thousands of clubs. Or how about a psychological experiment – don’t they often use students in those things?’
They all looked to Emilia. Although they had been at university for only a short time, already they deferred to each other on issues that might one day lie in their area of expertise.
‘It wouldn’t be considered ethical nowadays,’ said Emilia. ‘Not like back in the days of Milgram or the Stanford experiment.’ She swatted the air between herself and Jack who was reaching over to offer her a joint. ‘Get that thing away from me, Jack,’ she said.
Jack shrugged. ‘You might as well give in now, Em. Because you know we’ll corrupt you one day. The bookies aren’t even offering odds. You absolutely know we will.’
XVIII(ii) ‘The most important thing to do first,’ said Jolyon, ‘is decide who else we invite to play. We need six. Right now we’re only five.’ He waved his piece of paper, a list of over twenty names and every one crossed out. ‘I can’t think of a single person,’ he said.
‘Why can’t we plan the consequences first?’ said Jack.
‘Because this game is going to be fair and democratic. We won’t decide anything else until there are six of us. Every player has to be present and we vote on everything.’
‘Oh, so we’re a democracy?’ said Jack. ‘And you just decided that on your own, did you, Jolyon?’ He shook his latest cigar-like creation to better distribute the resin. He twisted its end and threw it to Mark who was holding the lighter.
‘Jack, tell me, who came up with this whole thing?’
‘I’m just saying,’ said Jack. ‘It’s a joke, OK?’
Mark toked hard on the joint and puffed his cheeks as he held the smoke deep. After each exhalation he tried calling out a different name, another candidate for the last spot.
But none of them were right. Too rich or too full of themselves. Too pretentious, too smug. Jolyon’s lips tightened with every rejection. ‘Well, I can’t think of anyone else,’ he said.
Emilia looked around the room. ‘We definitely need one more woman,’ she said. ‘Whoever the last spot goes to, she has to be female.’
‘Agreed,’ said Jolyon. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Then how about Cassie?’ said Emilia. ‘She lives next door to me.’
‘Who the fuck is Cassie?’ said Jack.
‘Oh, you know who she is,’ said Mark. ‘Cassandra Addison. It’s just that you know her better as Dee.’
‘Oh, fuck me, not Dee,’ said Jack. ‘My first day here I arrived the same time she did and I nearly told my dad to drive me straight home. I got out of the car and she walked past carrying a stuffed rabbit. And I don’t mean a toy, I mean a once-living once-carrot-munching wascally wabbit. And she was wearing some tatty old second-hand wedding dress. It looked like it must have been fifty years old.’
Jolyon pointed excitedly. ‘You mean Havisham,’ he said. ‘Chad and I always call her Havisham. Big Dave – you know the Scottish guy with all the hair – he asked her out for a drink and she turned up at the Churchill in a wedding dress. He said he’s going to need years of intensive therapy before he can even ask another woman so much as her name.’ Jolyon picked up his list and his pen.
‘Jack, why do you call her Dee?’ said Chad.
Jack put down the book on which his joint-rolling assembly line was arranged. ‘She’s into writing poetry,’ he began. ‘I mean, I know half the people here think they’re poets. But Dee’s different. Dee Addison’s on a mission. She says that when she’s written five hundred poems – you’re going to love this – as soon as she inks the final line of the five hundredth verse,’ his legs bounced excitedly, ‘she’s going to kill herself.’