Part 23 (2/2)

'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 owners.h.i.+p 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.'

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