Mark leaned back and swore. He played a run of cards from his hand, three four five, and then shrugged. He picked up the cup and rolled the dice after barely a shake, a one and a two, the margin of loss to Jack large enough to earn him a second consequence. No one else had earned even one. He let his head fall back and dangled his arms limp as ropes. Then he swore loudly again and shouted, ‘Christ, that’s unlucky. Twice! Both fucking times.’
Emilia reached across the small table and stroked his arm. ‘But at least they’re only from the second-worst pot,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, Mark. Things have a habit of levelling out in the long run.’
Jack relaxed back into his chair. ‘Has anyone spoken to Camp David in the last few days?’ he said.
‘Stop calling him that,’ said Emilia.
‘What?’ I’m not judging him, Emilia. It’s just undeniable that the man happens to be very camp. And with his Christian name being what it is, what else should I call him?’
‘How about . . . David?’
Dee started to sing, ‘David and Jackie-oh sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G!’
Jack’s voice lifted an octave. ‘Camp David does not have a crush on me,’ he squealed.
‘No,’ said Mark bitterly, ‘and a north pole doesn’t have a crush on electrons.’
‘What?’ said Jack. He shrank back and eyed Mark up as if he had suddenly produced something shocking from beneath the table.
Mark looked hurt. ‘Because electrons are attracted to . . .’ Jack began to blink rapidly as if he were about to have a fit. ‘What?’ said Mark.
Emilia reached over and rubbed his arm again. ‘Please don’t ever let anyone try to make you any less strange, Mark. You just wouldn’t be you any more.’
Mark looked confused but before he could say anything more, Jack returned to his story. ‘Anyway,’ he said, half a wary eye still on Mark, ‘David’s becoming suspicious of our gatherings. He wants to know what goes on when we all disappear into this room. He asked me who the tall stranger is. And there was a definite glint in his eye.’ Jack turned to Middle and continued, ‘So if your leader is into wannabe Oscar Wildes with enormous beards but without the slightest hint of humour . . .’
Jolyon started to rub at his forehead, his knitted brow. The ominous sense of his anger mingled with the smoke in the air. ‘Who the fuck has been talking again?’ he shouted. ‘We already had this conversation about how vital – Jack, did you fucking say something?’
Jack recoiled. ‘Why would I tell you the story in the first place if I’d been blabbing to people?’ he said. ‘Don’t make out I’m some kind of idiot here.’
‘Mark?’ said Jolyon. His eyes were emptying of their light as if he could focus only on the rage building inside.
‘Why do I get suspected next?’ said Mark. ‘Why not your best friend, the toy poodle over there? Or your trophy girlfriend? Or the one you look at all the time like you really want to fuck her as well?’
‘Whoa,’ said Emilia, throwing her hands in the air, ‘I think that’s enough from everyone.’ She took a deep breath. Jolyon appeared to be on the verge of shaking. ‘Jolyon, listen, no one has said anything to anyone.’ She stood up and moved behind him. She started to knead his shoulders and a calmness slowly worked its way down through his tensed body.
The room was quiet as Jolyon came down from his rage. And then eventually he spoke. ‘OK, OK,’ he said. He rubbed at his forehead as if removing some smudge from his brow. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘David’s just very observant, that’s all,’ said Emilia.
‘He’s just nosy,’ said Chad.
‘He’s hoping it’s some sort of orgy,’ said Jack. ‘And he’s worked out that with five boys and two girls in a room, there might be a spare man for him.’
‘That’s enough now, Jack,’ said Emilia.
Jack looked exhausted. ‘What have I done?’ he said. ‘The man’s gay, Emilia. It’s a simple fact.’
‘You don’t have to take such salacious pleasure in bringing it up all the time.’
The dismay loitered on Jack’s face and Dee gave him a curious look, her eyes narrowing like an archer taking aim. ‘Ah, Jackie-oh, eureka,’ she said.
‘Eureka what, Suicide Girl?’ said Jack.
‘Oh, nothing. I just realised how intensely fascinating I find you, that’s all.’
‘Look, everyone,’ said Emilia, ‘I really think we’ve played as much as we can today. It’s lunch in five minutes, so why don’t we all go down early for once?’
Chad threw down his cards. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘But first things first, Mark has to pick his consequence from the pot.’
‘No, Chad,’ said Emilia, sounding unnaturally stern. ‘That can wait for later. We’re all going for lunch, we’re going to sit down together and we’re going to talk about anything but the Game for at least an hour. Right now. You understand?
XXXV
XXXV(i) Was I to blame when everything fell apart? When everything went wrong with the Game, was it because of mistakes made by me? I don’t think so. Maybe we should all share the blame. The right cocktail of people, the perfect blend for calamity. Every one of us secret competitors who kept our desires carefully hidden at school, where aspiring to be the best is acceptable only in sport or fashion or dating. So you keep your secret inside, your ambition to be the cleverest, the most successful. You shrug and pretend that good luck is behind your high marks. So many years suppressing a secret, the strength of it building and building inside. Then you arrive somewhere like Pitt and something dark and dangerous becomes unleashed.
Although I don’t think you can blame anything on Emilia. The sea change may have started before she left us but it was only afterwards that life in the Game began to deteriorate rapidly.
XXXV(ii) There now reside in my apartment two items I do not necessarily remember being here before. On the kitchen counter sits a beer coaster printed with a large and intricate B like a sailor’s knot. It is a white B set on a green disc. Brooklyn Brewery, the coaster reads at its edges. I also find, inside a cup on the same counter, a book of matches bearing the name of a bar – ACE bar – a place I have seen on my walks, several blocks from here. About a third of the matches poke out from the matchbook, curled and burned. Years ago, when I was a smoker, I never tore the paper matches from their books. I bent them out against the strike strip and flicked them with my thumb to light them. To extinguish the flame I always gave the matchbook an insouciant wave, leaving the match in place. I used to have such an easy manner, a certain cool lack of urgency.
But as far as I remember it has been maybe a decade since I last smoked a cigarette.
I picture the bar, its three neon letters red and glowing in the night. ACE. Fate plays mischievous games – it had to be that playing card! I imagine myself standing out front and lighting a cigarette for someone else.
But for whom?
Nothing comes to me. The entire set-up feels false in my mind. Right now, life feels like one long series of stabs in the dark. And I am locked inside a room that I never saw lit from the start.
This entire search is futile. One simple truth.
I don’t remember her.
XXXV(iii) It is nearly noon. Soon I will put on my shoes and leave, will keep my fingers crossed as I make my way around the block.
If my visitor comes back, I ask of her only one thing. Please forgive me.
Please. This here and now is not the whole man. Give me just a few weeks.