Starter For Ten (9 page)

As for being asked to spy for Her Majesty's Government, well, even leaving aside my ideological reservations, I'm pretty sure that languages are important to a career in spying, and I do only have O-level French. It's a Grade A, but still, in terms of actual espionage this pretty much limits me to infiltrating, say, a French primary school, or maybe, at a push, a boulangerie.

Red Cobra, it's Dark Swallow here; I have details of the bus timetable ...

Which just leaves The Challenge, and now I've managed to cock that up too. It's the first meeting tonight, and it's taken all my powers of persuasion to even get invited. Patrick refused to return my calls, and when I did finally catch up with him he said it wasn't really necessary for the reserve to come along, as he was pretty sure that no one was going to get run over. But I kept on and on until he caved, because if I don't come along, then I don't get to see Alice, not unless I start hanging around outside her halls of residence.

And don't think I haven't thought about it either. In the six days since we met, I haven't seen her once. And I've been looking. Whenever I visit the library, I find myself doing a circuit of all the desks, or loitering suspiciously in the Drama section. When I go to the bar with Marcus and Josh, and am being half-heartedly introduced to some new James or Hugo or Jeremy, I'm watching the door over their shoulder in case she comes in. Just walking between lectures, I'm constantly on the look-out, but there's been no sign of her at all, which suggests that she's having a very different university experience to me. Or maybe she's seeing someone else? Maybe she's already fallen in love with some handsome, cheek-boned bastard, a Nicaraguan poet in exile or a sculptor or something, and she's spent the last week in bed, drinking fine wines and reading poetry aloud. Don't think about it. Just ring the doorbell again.

I wonder if Patrick has deliberately given me the wrong address, and am about to head off when I hear him trot down the stairs.

'Hi!' I say, smiling brightly as he opens the door.

'Hello, Brian,' he groans, addressing that point to the right of my head which he seems to prefer, and I follow him up the communal staircase to his flat.

'So is everyone coming tonight?' I ask, innocently.

'I think so.'

'You've spoken to them all?'

'Uh-huh.'

'So you've spoken to Alice?'

He stops on the stairs, turns and looks back. 'Why?'

'Just curious.'

'Don't worry. Alice is coming.' He's wearing his official university sweatshirt again, which puzzles me a little. I mean I'd sort of understand it more, if it said Yale or Harvard or something, because then it would be a fashion choice. But why advertise the fact that you're at a university to all the other people who are at the university with you? Does he worry that people will actually think he's just pretending!

We enter the flat, which is small and plain, and reminiscent of an Eastern-bloc show-home. It smells of warm mince and onions.

'I've bought some wine!' I say.

'I don't drink,' he says.

'Oh. Right.'

'I suppose you'll want a corkscrew. I think I've got one somewhere. D'you want tea, or do you want to start straight on in with your alcohol?'

'Oh, booze please!'

'Right, well if you just go through there, I'll be with you in a minute. You don't smoke do you?'

'No.'

'Because it's strictly no-smoking . . .'

'Okay, but I don't smoke . . .'

'Right, well, it's just through there. Don't touch anything!' Because he's a third year, and because he's obviously got parents with money, Patrick seems to have got his life in some kind of semi-adult order: proper, non-institutional furniture, which he probably owns, a television, a video, a living room which doesn't have a bed or a gas-cooker or a shower in it. In fact he's barely a student at all; everything in its place and a place for everything, like the living quarters of a monk, or a particularly fastidious serial-killer. While he's searching for the corkscrew, I look around the living room. On the wall above his desk is the flat's only decoration; a poster of a beach, with a set of footprints disappearing into the sunset, and that inspirational poem about how Jesus is beside you always. Though it would be fair to point out that if Jesus had been beside him in the TV studio last year, then he might have got more than 65 points.

There's a ring on the doorbell, and I hear Patrick lollop downstairs, so I take the opportunity to examine his shelves; economic textbooks mainly, neatly alphabeticised, a Good News Bible. Another shelf of videos - Monty Python and the Holy Grail and The Blues Brothers - reveals the lighter side of Patrick Watts.

But beside them are a series of about twenty identical VHS cassettes; a shelf of home-recorded videos with immaculately hand-typed white labels placed precisely along the spines. I step up to get a closer look and let out an involuntary gasp. The labels read:

O3/03/1984 - Newcastle versus Sussex 1O/O3/1984 - Durham versus Leicester 17/03/1984 - King's, Cambridge versus Dundee 23/03/1984 - Sidney Sussex versus Exeter 3O/O3/1984 - UMIST versus Liverpool 06/04/1984 - Birmingham versus UCL

...and so it goes on, Keele versus Sussex, Manchester versus Sheffield, Open versus Edinburgh. On top of the cassettes is a picture in a frame, lying face down. I'm feeling fairly Marion Crane now, but I pick it up and look at it, and yes, it is indeed a photograph of Patrick shaking hands with Bamber Gascoigne and I realise with a sudden spasm of horror that this is Patrick's shrine, and that I have stumbled blindly into the lair of a madman ...

'Looking for something, Brian?'

I spin around, and look for a weapon. Patrick is stood in the doorway, with Lucy Chang peeking over his shoulder, and Lucy Chang's panda rucksack peeking over her shoulder.

'Just admiring your photo!'

'Fine, but could you put it back exactly where it came from?'

'Yes, yes of course . . .'

'Lucy - tea?'

'Yes, yes thank you.'

He shoots me a hands-off look, and heads back to the kitchen. Lucy sits on the hard-backed chair at Patrick's desk, but right on the edge, so as not to squash her panda. We sit in silence, and smile at each other, and for no apparent reason, she lets out a nervous little tinkling laugh. She's very small and neat, wearing a very clean and neatly ironed white shirt with the top button done up. Not that this is at all important, but she's quite attractive too, even with the disconcertingly low hairline that seems to be creeping down her forehead to meet up with her eyebrows, like a wig that's slipped forward.

I try and think of things to say. I contemplate telling her that according to the Guinness Book of Records, Chang is officially the commonest surname in the world, but I assume she already knows that, so instead say, 'Hey, well done on that amazing score! Eighty-nine points!'

'Oh, thank you. And well done to you, well done for . . .'

'...losing?'

'Well...yes, I suppose so!' and she laughs again, high and brittle. 'Well done for losing!'

Out of politeness, I laugh too, and say, 'Still, never mind. Fail again, fail better!'

'Samuel Beckett, right?'

That's right,' I say, taken aback. 'What are you studying, again?'

'Oh, second year Medicine,' she says, and I think, my God, she's a genius. I watch in frank awe as she struggles out of her novelty rucksack.

'I like the panda,' I say.

'Oh - thank you!'

'Peeking over your shoulder! Or should I say Beijing over your shoulder!'

She looks at me uncomprehendingly, so by way of clarification, I say, 'Did you bring it with you from home?'

'Pardon me?'

'Did you bring it from home?'

She looks puzzled. 'You mean my halls of residence?'

I have the sensation of falling. 'No, your, you know ...your original home.'

'Oh, you mean China! Because it's a panda, right? Well actually, I'm from Minneapolis, so no.'

'Yes, but originally you're from ...?'

'Minneapolis'

'But your parents, they're from . . .'

'Minneapolis . . .'

'But their parents are from . . .'

'Minneapolis . . .'

'Of course. Minneapolis,' and she smiles at me with perfect, sincere kindness, despite the fact that I'm clearly ignorant, racist scum. 'Where Prince comes from!' I add, funkily.

'Exactly! Where Prince comes from,' she says. 'Though I've never met the guy.'

'Oh,' I say. I try again. 'Have you seen Purple Rain?'

'No,' she replies. 'Have. You. Seen. Purple Rain?'

'Yes. Twice,' I reply.

'Did you enjoy it?' she asks.

'Not really,' I reply.

'And yet you saw it twice!'

'I know,' I say, and add humorously, in a pretty good American accent, 'Go figure!'

And then, thank God, the door opens and it's Big Colin Pagett, carrying four bottles of Newcy Brown and a cardboard bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Patrick shows him in like a head butler showing in the chimney-sweep, and in the awkward silence that follows, I take time to ruminate on the complex art of conversation. Ideally, of course, I'd like to wake up in the morning and be handed a transcript of everything I'm about to say during the day, so that I could go through it and rewrite my dialogue, cutting the fatuous remarks and the crass, idiotic jokes. But clearly that's not practical, and the other option, of never speaking again, isn't going to work either.

So maybe it's better to think of conversation as being a bit like crossing the road; before I open my mouth I should take a few moments to look both ways, and carefully consider what I'm about to say. And if this means that my conversation gets a little slow and stilted, like a transatlantic phone call, if it means I spend just a little extra time standing on the metaphorical conversational kerb, looking left and right, then so be it, because it's clear that I just can't keep stumbling blindly out into traffic. I can't keep getting run over like this.

Thankfully there's no need for conversation right now because while we wait for Alice to arrive, Patrick pops on one of his precious video cassettes - last year's grand final, and we sit and watch the Dundee team win again, while Patrick mumbles the answers and Colin eats his bucket of chicken, and for fifteen minutes, those are the only sounds: Colin sucking on a chicken thigh, Patrick muttering insanely from the arm of the sofa.

'...Kafka ...nitrogen ...nineteen fifty-six ...the duodenum ...trick question, none of them ...C.P.E. Bach . . .'

And every now and again, I'll chip in with an answer, or Colin will, through a mouthful of brown meat - Ravel, Dante's Inferno, Rosa Luxembourg, Veni Vidi Vici - but clearly Patrick's marking his territory, showing who's boss, because his voice gradually gets louder ...

'...THE MOODY BLUES ...GOYA ...TYPHOID. MARY ...THEY'RE ALL PRIME NUMBERS

...and whilst I love the show as much as anyone, I can't help thinking that this is maybe taking things a little too far ...

'... RHINE, RHONE, DANUBE... MITOCHONDRIA... FOUCAULT'S PENDULUM

...has he learnt them by rote? Are we meant to think he's never seen it before, or are we meant to think that he just knows all this stuff anyway? And what does Lucy Chang make of all this? I glance to my side, and she's staring at the floor with her eyes closed, and I think maybe she's upset, or embarrassed, understandably, but then I notice a slight shudder across her shoulders and I realise that she's trying not to laugh ...

'...ODE TO A GRECIAN URN ... GO DIDDLEY ...THE ST BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY MASSACRE ...THE BERLIN AIRLIFT . . .'

...and just as it seems she might burst, the doorbell goes downstairs, and Patrick heads off, leaving the three of us staring straight ahead at the telly. In the end, it's Colin who speaks first, in a low, conspiratorial voice.

'Is it just me, or is this fella completely round the fuckin' twist?'

With Alice's appearance the atmosphere lightens considerably. She arrives breathless and bundled up in scarf and coat and suede mittens, and looks round the room, smiling and greeting everyone. 'Hi, Bri!' she says warmly, and gives me a provocative little wink. Patrick buzzes around her, the sap, running his hands over his beige plastic hair, offering up his seat, and pouring her a glass of the Bulgarian Cabernet Sauvignon that I brought along at great personal expense as if it was his own. When Alice asks, 'D'you mind if I smoke?' he says 'Of course!' as if it's suddenly a terrific idea, why hadn't he thought of it himself, then he looks round for something to use as an ashtray, and finds a little desk-tidy containing paper clips, which he empties onto the desk with wild, punky abandon.

Alice squeezes in next to me on the sofa, her hip pressed up tight against mine, Patrick clears his throat, and addresses the team.

'So, here we are then! "The Fantastic Four!" And I really think that we've got something special this year . . .'

Hang on a second - Fantastic Four!

'Just to explain how things work then . . .'

I count the people in the room; one, two, three ...

'...the first stage is that we need to qualify for the actual televised competition . . .'

Why not say 'Famous Five'? It wouldn't have hurt him to say 'Famous Five'.

'This is in two weeks' time, and it's informal, but pretty tough so, we're going to need our wits about us if we're to actually make it on air. So up until then, I suggest the four of us meet up here this time every week, and just run through some questions that I'll prepare in advance, and maybe watch a tape or two, just to keep our hands in . . .'

Hang on a second - why can't I come? I have to come, if I don't come then I don't get to see Alice. I put my hand up to ask a question, but Patrick's putting a tape in the video, and can't see me, so I clear my throat and say, 'Um, Patrick ...?'

'Brian?'

'So I don't need to come then?'

The don't think so, no . . .'

'At all ... ?'

'No . . .'

'You don't think it's a good idea then ...?'

'Well, we'll only need you in an emergency. I just think it's best if the four of us get used to each other as a team, seeing as, you know, we are the team.'