“Nor have I fucked a donkey, destabilized a Central American state, or played Dungeons & Dragons,” retorts Cheeseman, “but I reserve the right to hold opinions on those who do. Your show was a bobbing turd and I don’t take a word back.”
She-Goth One takes over: “ Scribble scribble scribblewith your faggoty pen in your faggoty notebook and snipeand bitchand slag offreal artists, you hairy lump of dick cheese.”
“ ‘Dick Cheese,’ ” says Cheeseman, “from ‘Richard Cheeseman,’ yeah, that’s reallyclever. Original, too. Never once heard it.”
“What d’you expect,” She-Goth One snatches up Desiccated Embryos, “from a Crispin Hershey fan? He’s a prick, too.”
“Don’t pretend you read books.” Cheeseman gropes for his review copy in vain and I catch a distant glimpse of a tortured gay child having his satchel emptied off a sooty bridge over the Leeds–Bradford railway line. She-Goth Two rips the book down its spine and tosses the halves away. The male Goth goes gur-hur-hur.
Olly retrieves one half, Cheeseman the other. He’s riled now. “Crispin Hershey’s last crap has more artistic merit than your lifetime’s output. Your music’s derivative wank. It’s parasitic. It’s a hatpin through the eardrum, darling, and not in a good way.”
He was doing quite well until the last sentence, but if you bare your arse to a vengeful unicorn, the number of possible outcomes dwindles to one. By the time I’ve put the drinks on a handy shelf, She-Goth Two has indeed extracted her hatpin and flown at Monsieur Le Critic, who topples operatically; the table upends and glasses slide off; female spectators gasp and shriek and go, “Oh, my God!”; She-Goth Two pounces on the fallen one and stabs downwards; I grab the hatpin (glistening?) and Penhaligon pulls her off Cheeseman by her hair; the bassist’s fist misses Penhaligon’s nose by a whisker; Penhaligon staggers onto Olly and Ness; and She-Goth One’s screeching becomes audible to the human ear—“Get your hands off her!” Fitzsimmons is kneeling down, with Cheeseman’s head on his lap. Cheeseman looks like a guy in a comedy seeing stars and birdies, but the ear dribbling blood is more worrying; I examine it closely. Good: Only the lobe’s torn, but the attackers don’t need to know that. I arise and shout at Come Up to the Lab in a fisticuff-quelling roar: “A monsoonof piss and shit is headed straight at you for this.”
“The wanker was asking for it,” states She-Goth Two.
“He started it,” insists her friend. “He provoked us!”
“Multiple witnesses,” I indicate the scandal-hungry onlookers, “know exactlywho was attacked by whom. If you think ‘verbal provocation’ is an admissible defense for grievous bodily harm, then you’re even stupider than you look. See that hatpin there?” She-Goth Two sees the blood on the tip and drops it; two seconds later it’s in my pocket. “Lethal weapon used with intent. Got your DNA all over it. Custodial term, four years. Yes, girls: four years. If you’ve punctured the ear canal, make it seven, and by the time I’vefinished in court, seven years will mean seven. So. Reckon I’m bluffing?”
“Who,” the bassist’s aggression is shaky, “the fuck are you?”
I perform my craziest L. Ron Hubbard laugh. “Postgrad in law, genius. What’s more interesting is who youare—an accomplice. Do you know what that means, in nice plain English? It means you get sentenced too.”
She-Goth Two’s braggadocio is wilting. “But I …”
The bassist’s pulling her by the arm. “C’mon, Andrea.”
“Run, Andrea!” I jeer. “Melt into the crowd—oh, but wait! You’ve glued posters of your mugshots all over Cambridge, haven’t you? Well, you arefucked. Well and truly.” Come Up to the Lab decide it’s time to vacate the building. I yell after them, “See you at the hearing! Bring phone cards for the detention wing—you’ll need them!”
Penhaligon rights the table and Olly gathers the glasses. Fitzsimmons hauls Cheeseman onto the bench, and I ask him how many fingers I’m holding up. He winces a bit, and wipes his mouth. “It was my ear she went for, not my sodding eye.”
A very pissed-off landlord appears. “What’s going on?”
I turn on him. “Our friend was just assaulted by three drunken sixth-formers and needs medical attention. As regulars, we’d hate to see your license revoked, so at A and E Richard and Olly here will imply the assault happened offyour premises. Unless I’ve read the situation wrongly, and you’d prefer to involve the authorities?”
The landlord susses the state of play. “Nah. ’Preciated.”
“You’re welcome. Olly: Is the Magic Astra parked nearby?”
“In the car park at the college, yes, but Ness here—”
“Um, my car’s available too,” says helpful Penhaligon.
“Jonny, you’re over the limit and your father’s a magistrate.”
“The breathalyzers’ll be out tonight,” warns the landlord.
“You’re the only sober party, Olly. And if we phone for an ambulance from Addenbrookes, the cops will come along too, and—”
“Questions, statements, and all sortsof how’s-yer-father,” says the landlord, “and then your college’d get involved, too.”
Olly looks at Ness, like a boy who’s lost his finger of fudge.
“Go on,” Ness tells him. “I’d join you, but the sight of blood …” She makes a yuckface. “Help your friend.”
“I’m supposed to be driving you to Greenwich tonight.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get home by train—I’m a big girl, remember? Call me on Sunday and we’ll talk Christmas plans, okay? Go.”
MY RADIO ALARM is glowing 01:08 when I hear footsteps on the stairs, the pause, the timid tap-tap-tapon my outer door. I put on my dressing gown, close my bedroom door, cross my parlor, and open up, leaving the chain on. I squint out: “Olly? Wassa time?”
Olly looks Caravaggian in the dim light. “Half twelve-ish.”
“Shit. Poor you. How’s the bearded one?”
“If he survives the self-pity, he’ll be fine. Antitetanus booster and a glorified Elastoplast. A and E was the Night of the Living Dead. I only just dropped Cheeseman off at his flat. Did Ness get to the station?”
“For sure. Penhaligon and I escorted her to the taxi rank at Drummer Street, Friday night being Friday night. Fitz met Chetwynd-Pitt and Yasmina after you left and went off clubbing. Then, once Ness was safely off, Penhaligon followed on. I wussed out, spent a sexy hour here with I.F.R. Coates’s Bushonomics and the New Monetarism, then called it a night. Look, I’d”—I do a whale-sized yawn—“invite you in, but I’m bushed.”
“She didn’t …” Olly thinks, and Connect 4 counters drop, “… stick around for a drink or—or anything? At the Buried Bishop?”
“I.F.R. Coates is a bloke, Olly. He teaches at Blithewood College in upstate New York.”
“I meant,” how Olly aches to believe me, “Ness, actually.”
“ Ness?Ness just wanted to get to Greenwich.” I’m mildly hurt; Olly ought to trust me not to hit on his girlfriend. “She’d have made the nine fifty-seven to King’s Cross, thence to Greenwich, where she’s no doubt tucked up and dreaming of Olly Quinn, Esquire. Lovely girl, by the way, from the little I saw of her. Obviously besotted with you, too.”
“You reckon? This week she’s been a bit, I don’t know, ratty. I’ve been half afraid she might be …”
I continue to act dumb. Olly lets his sentence fizzle out.
“What?” I say. “Thinking of dumping you? Hardly the impression I got. When these huntin’, shootin’, fishin’ types reallyfall for a guy they go all headmistressy to hide it. But don’t discount the more obvious cause of female crankiness, either; Lucille used to turn into a scorn-flobbing psychopath every twenty-eight days.”
Olly looks cheerful. “Well. Yeah. Maybe.”
“You’ll be meeting up over Christmas, right?”
“The idea was to sort out our plans tonight.”