I press my ear to the closet and listen hard. And then I throw open the door in a breathless rush of adrenalin. I let out a guttural roar and raise my fists.
Nothing, the closet is empty. Mostly empty. Then I notice that, lying on the floor, there is a very small, green plastic house.
I turn the little house over and over curiously in my fingers. It takes me a minute or so before I remember Monopoly and then the other board games. I drop the house in the garbage. This is not one of those important memories I need to retain.
XXVII(v) I perform my afternoon routine quickly and then hurry back to my story. I want to read everything I have written so far with great attention to detail, right from the very first word.
And now, as sleep begins its pull on the cords of my eyelids, I have something to report.
XXVII(vi) First let me say that my mind is not what it used to be. And even in the past it was not exactly free from hairline cracks, or the odd crevice or two, so please read the following statement with some degree of caution.
I cannot say with utter certainty that all of the words in this story have been written by me. It seems that some of them may not have been my own.
XVIII
XXVIII(i) Mark’s birthday was a loose affair, a gathering of friends old and new in a Thames-side pub. A bewildering number of friends, thought Chad, and all of them like characters from a book that once would have made him feel callow and small yet eager to climb into a world way above.
When the pub closed they fell out of its doorway straight into the home of one of Mark’s friends whose parents were away for a month, business and pleasure in Cape Town. And the party began anew, its vigour refreshed.
When at last they headed back to Mark’s mother’s house, the new day was at their backs, raising itself over Victorian rooftops. And in the half-light, drunk and in a whirl of other hazes, Chad felt almost like one of Mark’s London friends. As if overnight he had been lightly sketched in by the brush of the city.
XXVIII(ii) When he awoke his head hurt and there was a note next to him on the floor. They had tried unsuccessfully to rouse him. ‘Hair of the dog, the Starling,’ the note concluded.
Oh shoot, Chad groaned. And then he remembered himself, rose, showered and dressed. But none of it made his head feel any better.
The pub stood at the far corner of the square. A residents’ key was required to access the private garden and beyond its black railings were trim lawns and gravel paths as yellow as a beach. Chad ran his finger along the tips of the railing spikes as he walked, as he promised himself that one day he would live somewhere like this. It was the sort of thought he could only allow himself to enjoy without Jolyon present.
He found them lounging in the pub, near to the fireplace. Jolyon, his arm around Emilia, had a chair and a beer ready for him.
Emilia saw him approaching first. ‘Oh good,’ she said. ‘How are you, Chad? I was so worried about you this morning.’
Instead of replying, Chad dropped heavily into his seat and let his head fall to the table.
‘See, I told you. He’s the silent type, Emilia,’ said Mark. ‘Or maybe that’s just his game-playing tactic. They say it’s the quiet ones you have to look out for.’
‘I know,’ said Emilia, ‘but I can’t work out which type of silent type Chad is.’
Chad peeped up at Emilia. Of all her sweet faces, perplexed was perhaps his favourite.
‘Is he the strong silent type or another type of silent?’ she said. ‘Are there any other names for any other silent types? There should be. There should definitely be the stupid silent type.’ And then Emilia looked alarmed. ‘Oh, I’m not saying that’s you, Chad. Sorry, just thinking out loud.’ She hmmed and bit her lip. ‘The shy silent type, the weak silent type. The psychopathic killer silent type. Come on, what type of silent type are you, Chad?’
Chad pushed himself up and back into his seat. He stared at Emilia, not blinking. He stared and stared.
‘I’m sorry, Chad,’ said Emilia, her fingers dancing at her neckline. ‘I really didn’t mean to offend you.’
Chad laughed. ‘No, I was answering your question,’ he said. ‘I’m the silent silent type.’ Emilia laughed too but it came out rather forced.
Jack stepped in – there could be no humour in Jack’s presence without Jack’s approval and involvement. ‘No, he’s the last one, psychopathic. Silent but violent. Like a fart,’ he said.
Dee looked disgusted.
‘What?’ Jack complained. ‘Surely you did that at school. I thought everyone did.’
‘Being at school with you must have felt like one long trip to the circus, Jackie-oh,’ said Dee.
‘You tell me, Dee. What was it, a hundred schools you went to? Two hundred? You must have passed through my hood at some point.’
‘Oh, it’s let’s make fun of the orphan time, hooray,’ said Dee. ‘I do so love our quality time, Jack. I only wish there’d been more tragedy in my life for you to mine with your cute little funnies.’
‘What? I’d have loved being an orphan. You think four parents are better than none? I’d have killed to have no parents.’
‘There’s still time for that,’ said Chad. ‘We could make matricide and/or patricide one of the later consequences.’
‘See, I told you,’ said Jack triumphantly. ‘Silent but violent.’ Jack shaped his hands as if around a crystal ball and gazed into the imaginary globe before him. ‘Chad, yes, I see you now. Leg chains and handcuffs and a prison boiler suit. But which one of us did he kill?’ Jack’s eyes widened and he let out a scream, oblivious to the silence it provoked in the crowded pub. ‘Let me put out my eyes.’ He mimed driving a pair of spikes into his face. ‘The horror, the horror.’
Dee applauded sarcastically. ‘Bozo the clown brings the house down again,’ she said. ‘You’re quite the prognosticator, aren’t you, Jack.’
‘If whatever you just said means psychic, then yes,’ said Jack. ‘I mean, come on, it’s not like any of our futures are that hard to predict.’
‘Oh really?’ said Emilia. ‘Why don’t you try us then, Jack?’ She now wore her serious face. Almost as sweet as perplexed.
Jack returned to his imaginary globe. ‘Emilia, the pretty one who pretends to have no hate,’ he said, affecting a soothsayer’s croak. ‘Emilia will marry first of everyone gathered here today, for she cannot bear to be alone. She will marry a country veterinarian named Giles. His family own a stud farm on great England’s southern coast.’
‘Crap,’ said Emilia. She folded her arms disagreeably. ‘I’d never marry a posh Tory type,’ she said. ‘My dad would never speak to me again.’
Jack raised his finger to silence the interruption. ‘She does not like the truth but truth must out,’ he said. ‘Giles has red hair and freckles and they have children four, all ginger sons. Giles in his spare time is a Mick Jagger impersonator and his band is named the Rolling Clones. And what a merry band they are, the most in-demand Rolling Stones impersonators at all the weddings taking place within a thirty-five-mile radius of the city of Winchester. For three years running.’ Everyone was laughing except for Emilia, her folded arms stiffening. ‘At forty years of age,’ said Jack, ‘Emilia wonders why she never made use of her psychology degree. She volunteers as a prison visitor and develops a dubious rapport with one prisoner in particular. Inside of jail he is known by a single moniker. Gash. Aargh, put out my eyes again, for Gash is none other than Chad.’ Jack closed his eyes and then opened them again. ‘The vapours have passed now,’ he said.