head back. Pain shot like an icicle down my neck and into my spine.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I thought of that. Here’s a bottle.’
He passed me a glass bottle of Perrier. I looked at him, then examined the seal. Digging the metal cap into the palm of my hand, I cracked opened the bottle and drank deeply, directly from it.
Mark watched me gravely.
‘Where’s Jess?’ I said at last.
‘She went out for a walk. She’ll be back soon.’
My head felt heavy and old, layers of rust accreted round a thick iron sphere. My right leg was dead. I wiggled my toes to move the blood around and waited for the prickles in my thigh and calf, and the slower dull ache in my knee.
‘Do you …’ Mark stood awkwardly. ‘Do you remember much about last night?’
‘I remember what you did.’
‘Yeah. Look.’ I thought he was about to excuse himself, to tell me it had been a mistake or an accident.
‘It’s not that I want you to like me,’ he said.
‘Good,’ I said, ‘I don’t.’
He blinked at me, cocking his head to one side.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘what do you want?’
‘Want?’ My voice was flat.
‘You make it sound so …’ He frowned. ‘It’s not payment, not like that. Just, what do you want? That I can help with? I owe you one. That’s all. Because I’m sorry.’
My head crackled and bled with white static humming. I licked my lips. I tasted blood.
I took another sip of water, feeling the bubbles bursting on my tongue as a gentle agony.
‘I don’t want anything from you, Mark.’
He stood up and moved close to my bed. His thighs were pressed against the mattress. He bent down smiling, the way one might lean over to tuck a child into bed.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think you do. I think I know how to make it up to you.’
*
Jess returned as the sun was setting. Her hair was loose, windswept from her walk. She embraced me so naturally, and when we kissed she tasted of autumn berries, tart and sweet. She put my hesitant hand on her breast and I felt the nipple, small and hard beneath her sweater.
She said, ‘I’m sorry, really sorry about last night. I didn’t think he’d …’
But my heart was pounding and my skin was electric, and my thumb was on the point of her breast.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘It’s fine. Let’s not talk about him now.’
And after a minute or two all thought faded away.
5
First year, January, first week of term
Kendall jostled me as we crowded into the library.
‘You’ve had a busy vac, eh?’
I supposed he had seen Jess and me kissing before we parted into subject groups, she downstairs to sit with the rest of the music students, I up in the gallery with the physicists.
‘Mmm,’ I said.
There was a bustling of rulers and special pencils and lucky protractors. A few words whispered as we found our places in the ancient library. I was accustomed to a more utilitarian exam setting: the school gym, underneath the basketball hoops, with rubberized floors that squeaked when we shuffled our chairs. But Oxford is defined by its superfluity of beauty, by its application of beauty to the mundane. The morning light filtered through the library windows, splashing crimson on the pale floor tiles. The gold-tooled volumes of the College Record gleamed. Each of us had our own wooden inkwell, lined with indigo glass, in case we should care to write our answers with a dip-pen.
‘Quickly, please!’ called the librarian.
‘Fast work,’ said Kendall, winking. ‘Nice one.’
I smiled. ‘Yeah.’
‘Why do you think they call them collections?’ He was speaking quite loudly, even though the library was becoming hushed. ‘Why collections? Why not exams? Or tests? What are they collecting?’
I made an indeterminate noise. It might have been a ‘hmph’, or perhaps an ‘ahm’.
‘At least we’re in it together, right, Stieff? None of us will do well, not except …’ He jerked his head towards the next table, where Guntersen was laying out
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I thought of that. Here’s a bottle.’
He passed me a glass bottle of Perrier. I looked at him, then examined the seal. Digging the metal cap into the palm of my hand, I cracked opened the bottle and drank deeply, directly from it.
Mark watched me gravely.
‘Where’s Jess?’ I said at last.
‘She went out for a walk. She’ll be back soon.’
My head felt heavy and old, layers of rust accreted round a thick iron sphere. My right leg was dead. I wiggled my toes to move the blood around and waited for the prickles in my thigh and calf, and the slower dull ache in my knee.
‘Do you …’ Mark stood awkwardly. ‘Do you remember much about last night?’
‘I remember what you did.’
‘Yeah. Look.’ I thought he was about to excuse himself, to tell me it had been a mistake or an accident.
‘It’s not that I want you to like me,’ he said.
‘Good,’ I said, ‘I don’t.’
He blinked at me, cocking his head to one side.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘what do you want?’
‘Want?’ My voice was flat.
‘You make it sound so …’ He frowned. ‘It’s not payment, not like that. Just, what do you want? That I can help with? I owe you one. That’s all. Because I’m sorry.’
My head crackled and bled with white static humming. I licked my lips. I tasted blood.
I took another sip of water, feeling the bubbles bursting on my tongue as a gentle agony.
‘I don’t want anything from you, Mark.’
He stood up and moved close to my bed. His thighs were pressed against the mattress. He bent down smiling, the way one might lean over to tuck a child into bed.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think you do. I think I know how to make it up to you.’
*
Jess returned as the sun was setting. Her hair was loose, windswept from her walk. She embraced me so naturally, and when we kissed she tasted of autumn berries, tart and sweet. She put my hesitant hand on her breast and I felt the nipple, small and hard beneath her sweater.
She said, ‘I’m sorry, really sorry about last night. I didn’t think he’d …’
But my heart was pounding and my skin was electric, and my thumb was on the point of her breast.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘It’s fine. Let’s not talk about him now.’
And after a minute or two all thought faded away.
5
First year, January, first week of term
Kendall jostled me as we crowded into the library.
‘You’ve had a busy vac, eh?’
I supposed he had seen Jess and me kissing before we parted into subject groups, she downstairs to sit with the rest of the music students, I up in the gallery with the physicists.
‘Mmm,’ I said.
There was a bustling of rulers and special pencils and lucky protractors. A few words whispered as we found our places in the ancient library. I was accustomed to a more utilitarian exam setting: the school gym, underneath the basketball hoops, with rubberized floors that squeaked when we shuffled our chairs. But Oxford is defined by its superfluity of beauty, by its application of beauty to the mundane. The morning light filtered through the library windows, splashing crimson on the pale floor tiles. The gold-tooled volumes of the College Record gleamed. Each of us had our own wooden inkwell, lined with indigo glass, in case we should care to write our answers with a dip-pen.
‘Quickly, please!’ called the librarian.
‘Fast work,’ said Kendall, winking. ‘Nice one.’
I smiled. ‘Yeah.’
‘Why do you think they call them collections?’ He was speaking quite loudly, even though the library was becoming hushed. ‘Why collections? Why not exams? Or tests? What are they collecting?’
I made an indeterminate noise. It might have been a ‘hmph’, or perhaps an ‘ahm’.
‘At least we’re in it together, right, Stieff? None of us will do well, not except …’ He jerked his head towards the next table, where Guntersen was laying out
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