Starter For Ten Part 23

'Well . . . it's just that when you talk to me, you have this habit of over-enunciating everything, like I'm profoundly deaf or something?'

'Oh. Do I?'

'Uh-huh, you kinda lean over and nod and use very simple words, like I've got this incredibly limited vocabulary? And I don't know if it's because I'm "of Chinese Origin" or American or something, but I've never been to China, I don't speak Chinese, I don't even particularly care for Chinese food, so I will be able to understand if you just, you know, talk good old, regular, colloquial English . . .'

'Sorry. I didn't realise I was doing it . . .'

'It's okay, it's not just you, I get it a lot. I mean, all the time . . .'

'I'm so embarra.s.sed . . .'

'Don't be, it's fine, it just sounds a little patronising, that's all.'

'Actually I think you'll find it's p.r.o.nounced patronising!'

'Not funny, Brian.'

'No, right, of course not.' We're outside Richmond House now. 'So, will I see you at the party tomorrow?'

'Maybe. I'm not so good at parties.'

'But maybe.'

'Maybe,' and she sets off up the hill.

'By the way - can I just ask you something?'

220.

She pauses, a little nervously 'Go on/ 'The brain - medically speaking, is it a muscle or a gland?'

'Well, it's a concentration of various kinds of nerve tissue, all with a similar, connected purpose, so technically I suppose that would make the brain an organ. Why?'

'Just wondered. See you tomorrow.'

'Bye,' and I watch her panda disappear off up the hill.

Then I turn and am about to trot up the steps to the front door when I notice a hunched shape in the shadows, slumped against the front door, head down, barring the way. I freeze halfway up the steps, and peer at the man, who runs both hands over his closely shaved head before looking up at me. I'm just coming to terms with discovering what it's like to be mugged when the dark shape lurches to his feet and speaks: 'So - who's the Asian babe then, Bri?'

And, stepping out of the shadows, I recognise the sharp, shrewd eyes of Spencer Lewis.

221.

26.

QUESTION Frequently used in sculpture, where it is sometimes known as Florentine marble, what is the hydrous fine-grained translucent variety of gypsum formed by bedded deposits precipitated from evaporating sea water?

ANSWER Alabaster.

'Spencer? What are you doing here?'

'Just thought I'd come and visit, that's all,' and I run up the stairs and go to hug him, and he goes to punch the top of my arm, and we do that weird little dance that boys do when they greet each other. 'And you did invite me . . .'

'Yeah, I know I did, but . . . hey, what's happened to your hair . . . ?'

He runs his hand over his head, which has been shaved right down to the scalp. 'It's the escaped-convict look - don't you like it?' he says, and I notice the thick, slurred quality to his voice, indicating that he must have got p.i.s.sed on the train.

'Yeah! Yeah, it's very . . . bold. Who did it?'

'I did.'

'For a bet, or . . . ?'

'f.u.c.k off, Brideshead. So, can I come in or what?'

'Of course,' I unlock the door and turn the hall light on, and we squeeze past the bikes in the hallway. He looks different in other ways too, his eyes look hooded and tired, smudged purple underneath, like bruises. Despite the bitter cold he's wearing just a crumpled, old Harrington that I 222.

remember from school, and as luggage he's carrying a thin plastic bag, which as far as I can tell, only contains two cans of lager.

'I did phone this morning, spoke to some posh bloke,' he says as we climb the stairs.

That's my housemate, Josh. It's Josh and Marcus.'

'What are they like then?'

'Oh, they're all right. Not really your type.'

'So are they your type then?'

'I don't think they're anyone's type actually.' And we're outside my bedroom. I open the door.

'So - this is where all the action takes place is it? Nice . . .'

I take my coat off, and throw it casually over the dumbbells before Spencer sees them.

'Make yourself at home. D'you want a cup of tea, or coffee or something?'

'Got any booze?'

'I think there might be some home-brew.'

'Home-brew?'

'It's Marcus and Josh's really.' 'What's it like?'

'Bit like p.i.s.s?'

'Alcoholic though?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Go on then.'

And, reluctantly, I leave him alone in my room, and hurry to the kitchen to get the booze. I need a drink, too. Spencer's arrival has thrown me completely, partly because he's clearly being a bit weird and mean, and partly, I suppose, because I never expected in my life to be unhappy to see him. Also, I'm a little anxious, because I think I may have left my poetry notebook on my desk, open on a tentative new erotic sonnet that I'm working on. The first line contains the words 'b.r.e.a.s.t.s of alabaster', and if Spencer reads that, then I'll never hear the end of it.

And suddenly I can hear the opening of the Brandenburg 223.

I.

DAVID NICHOLLS.

O.

Concertos playing very loudly from my room, so I grab the mugs of beer and hurry back to find him sitting at my desk with a f.a.g in his mouth, the Bach alb.u.m sleeve in one hand, the Communist Manifesto in the other.

'So what are you these days, communist or a socialist?'

'A socialist I suppose,' I say, turning the volume down.

'Right. So what's the difference then?' I know he knows the difference, and that I'm being teased, but I tell him anyway.

'A communist is opposed to the notion of private property and ownership of the means of production, whereas socialism is about working towards . . .'

'Why's your mattress on the floor?'

'It's a futon.'

'Right. A fu-ton. Did the Asian babe teach you that then?'

'"Asian babe" - racism and s.e.xism in the same phrase!' I say, slipping the b.r.e.a.s.t.s-of-alabaster poem into the desk drawer. 'Actually Lucy's originally from Minneapolis. Just because she's of Chinese origin, doesn't mean she's Chinese.''

'G.o.d, you're right, this beer really is p.i.s.s. Can't we go down the pub or something?'

'Bit late, isn't it?'

'We've still got half an hour.'

'I've got to do some reading before tomorrow morning.'

'What have you got to read?'

'Pope's The Rape of the Lock.'

'Sounds racy. Do it in the morning though, yeah?'

'Well . . .'

'Come on, just a quick one?'

I know I shouldn't go, of course. But this room suddenly feels too small and bright, and getting drunk now seems like a necessity, so I say okay, and we go to the pub.

The Flying Dutchman is still busy when we arrive, and as I wait at the bar, I look across to where Spencer's standing, 224.

glaring round the room with his red eyes narrowed, puffing sourly on another cigarette. I get a pint for me, a pint and a vodka for him.

'So, a student pub this, is it?' he asks.

'Don't know. I suppose it is. Shall we see if we can find a table?'

We squeeze through to the back, holding our pints over our heads, find an empty table and settle, and there's a moment's silence before I say, 'So - how's things at home?'

'Oh - wonderful. Really Al.'

'So what brings you here then?'

'You invited me; come any time, remember?'

'Of course.'

And he's silent for a moment, seems to make a decision, and then says, a little too casually 'And like I said - I'm an escaped convict, aren't I?'

'What d'you mean?'

'Well, let's just say I'm in a spot of bother. With the legal system.'

I laugh, and then stop laughing. 'What for? Not another fight . . .'

'No, I got caught, didn't I? Fiddling the dole.'

'You're joking . . .'

'No, Bri, I'm not joking,' he says wearily.

'How come?'

'Don't know - someone must have split on me I suppose. Hey, it wasn't you, was it?'

'Yeah, Spencer, it was me. So what's going to happen?'

'Don't know, do I? Depends on the magistrate I suppose.'

'You're going to court?'

'Oh yeah. They're having a crackdown apparently, so I'm up in court next month. Good news isn't it?'

'So what are you going to say?'

'In court? Don't know yet. I thought I might say that G.o.d told me to do it.'