'Pack it in, you two!' shouts someone from the doorway, where a crowd has started to form on the landing. 'We're calling the police' shouts someone else, but Spencer's indifferent, and I hear him say, in a whisper, his forehead touching Patrick's, 'Well, the correct answer's Spencer, Patrick, and if you've got any careers advice you want to give to me, you'll have some respect, and give it to my face, you stuck-up, little And then there's another flurry of motion as Patrick gets an arm free, and brings it up open-handed against Spencer's ear, a noisy ineffectual glancing swipe, but enough to make Spencer release the pressure on Patrick's neck, and then suddenly Patrick is lashing out, arms and legs flailing madly, hissing and spitting like an incensed child. People are screaming, and tumbling backwards out of the tiny room, and in the chaos I see Alice holding on to Spencer's arm, trying to pull him out of the way too, like some sort of movie-poster heroine, but he shakes her off and she falls back against the window frame, cracking her head loudly. I see her scowl and put her hand to the back of her head, checking for blood, and I want to cross the room to her to make sure she's all right, but Patrick is still swinging his arms round madly, lashing out at Spencer, who's crouching low, ducking out of the way, until suddenly he sees his moment. He stands, places one hand flat on Patrick's chest, holding him out of range, pulls the other arm back and then throws his whole weight forward into his fist, making contact 262.

with the side of Patrick's head with a loud, wet smacking noise, like meat slapped down on wood, sending him spinning round once, twice, and down face-first onto the floor.

There's a moment's silence, and then a sudden rush of people over to Patrick, who has rolled over on to his back, and is tentatively dabbing at his nose and mouth with his hand, checking for blood, and finding it in abundance. 'Oh, my G.o.d,' he's mumbling, 'oh, my G.o.d,' and I think he's about to cry as Lucy Chang squeezes through to the front, supporting the back of his head with her hand, helping him up into a sitting position, and I only really see three people clearly after that.

Rebecca is standing in the middle of the room with her hands over her mouth, suspended somewhere between laughter and tears.

Alice is leaning against the window frame, staring openmouthed at Spencer, one hand rubbing the back of her head.

Spencer has turned his back to Patrick, and is flicking his hand out into the air, examining his knuckles, breathing heavily. He looks up at me, blows air out through his gritted teeth and says, 'Let's go then, shall we?'

Downstairs they're all singing along to 'With A Little Help From My Friends'.

263.

3O.

QUESTION: The conditions blepharitis, ectropion, amblyo phobia and heterophoria would all result in what condition?

ANSWER An inability to see clearly.

We stride down the terraced streets in silence, Spencer somewhere close behind me. I can hear his footsteps slap the wet pavement, but I'm too angry, too embarra.s.sed, too drunk and confused to talk to him just now, so I keep my head down and stride on.

'Great party!' says Spencer eventually.

I ignore him, stomp on ahead.

'I liked Alice.'

'Yeah, I noticed!' I say, without looking back.

We walk a little further in silence.

'I know, Bri! How about a game of "If This Person Were ..."?'

I start to walk a little faster.

'Look, Bri, if you've got something to say to me, just say it now, 'cause this is just f.u.c.kin' stupid . . .'

'And what if I don't? You going to hit me, too?'

'It's certainly very tempting,' he mutters under his breath. 'All right, mate,' he says, 'you've made your point, just listen will you?' but I keep walking. 'Please?' he says. The word doesn't come easily, and he sounds like a petulant child, forced to say it against his will, but I stop and turn to listen.

'All right, Brian. I'm very sorry ... for hitting... the captain 264.

of your University Challenge quiz team . . .' but he can't get to the end of the sentence without starting to giggle, so I turn again, and keep on walking. After a while I hear him running up behind me, and I flinch maybe, but then he's standing in front of me, scowling, walking backwards quickly. 'What did you want me to do, Bri? Just stand there and take it? He was treating me like s.h.i.t. . .'

'So you decided to hit him?'

'Yeah . . .'

'Because you disagreed with him?'

'No, not just that . . .'

'And you didn't think of maybe arguing with him, debating your point of view, in a calm, rational way?'

'What's my point of view got to do with it? He was trying to make me look like a t.i.t . . .'

'. . . so you resorted to violence!'

'I didn't resort to it. Violence was my first choice.'

'Oh, yes, very cool, you're very hard, Spence . . .'

'Well, you weren't exactly going out of your way to help me, were you? Or were you scared he'd drop you from the team?'

'I was sticking up for you!'

'No, you weren't, you were just flapping your big f.u.c.king social conscience around in front of your girlfriends. If you hadn't raised the subject . . .'

'What did you want me to do, hold his arms behind his back for you? Those are my friends, Spencer . . .'

'That pillock? Your friend? f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, Brian, it's worse than I thought. He treats you like a piece of s.h.i.t.'

'He does not!'

'He does, Bri, I saw him do it. He's a complete w.a.n.ker and he deserves what he got . . .'

'Well ... at least he doesn't try and get off with the girls I like . . .'

'Whoa, whoa, hang on there.' And he stops me, putting one 265.

open hand on my chest, just as he did to Patrick, before he punched him, and I wonder if he can feel how fast my heart is beating. 'You think I was trying to get off with Alice'} You really think that's what I was doing?'

'Well, it certainly looked that way to me, Spence - all that head-rubbing . . .' and I go to put my hand on his head, but his other hand snaps up, grabs my wrist and holds it tight.

'You know Bri, for someone who's meant to be educated, you can be pretty f.u.c.king stupid sometimes . . .'

'Don't talk to me like that . . .' I say, wrenching my hand away.

'Like what?'

'Like that, like you always talk to me! What is it, Spence, this need to ... smash everything up? I'm sorry things aren't going well for you at the moment, I'm sorry if you're not happy, but there's stuff you can do about that, Spencer, practical stuff, and you just choose not to, because it's easier to just f.u.c.k about, and f.u.c.k things up, and sneer, and take the p.i.s.s out of people who are actually trying to do something with their lives . . .'

'What, like you, you mean?' he says, sn.i.g.g.e.ring.

'You're just jealous, Spencer, you always have been jealous of me, just because I work hard, just because I'm clever and got some qualifi . . .'

'Whoa, hang on. Clever? Is that what you call it, you c.o.c.ky c.u.n.t? When I first met you, you couldn't even tie your f.u.c.king shoe-laces! I had to teach you to do it. You had "left" and "right" written on your plimsolls till you were fifteen! You couldn't even get through a game of football without bursting into tears, you soft sod. If you're so clever, then how come you don't know what people say about you behind your back, how much they laugh at you? I've stuck up for you for years and years since your dad died . . .'

'What's my dad got to do it with it?'

'You tell me, Brian - you tell me.'

'Just leave my dad out of it, all right!' I shout.

266.

'Or what? What are you going to do, cry}'

'f.u.c.k off, Spencer, you f.u.c.king . . . bully.' But there's a hot itchy feeling behind my eyes, a tight knot of panic in my stomach, and I suddenly realise that I have to get away from him, so I turn around and walk back the way we came.

'Where you going?' he shouts after me.

'Dunno!'

'You running away, Brian? Is that it?'

'Yeah, if you like.'

'So how am I meant to get back?'

'Dunno Spence. Not my problem is it?'

And then I hear him say, quite quietly, almost to himself 'Go on then. p.i.s.s off,' so I stop and turn, expecting to see him sneering or grinning, but he's not. Instead he's stood quite still some distance away, under a street light, with his head tilted back, his eyes tightly closed and the heel of one hand pressed against his forehead, fingers curled up tight.

He looks about ten years old. I have this sense that I should go up to him, or at least just stand a little bit closer, but instead I shout down the street: 'You've got to go, Spence! By tomorrow morning. You can't stay in the house any more. It's against the rules.'

He opens his eyes, which are wet and red and tired, and looks at me levelly.

'And is that why you want me to go, Brian? Because it's against the rules}'

'Yeah. Partly.'

'Right. Well. I'll go then.'

'Okay.'

'And I'm sorry if I've . . . embarra.s.sed you. In front of your friends.'

'You haven't embarra.s.sed me, I just . . . don't want you around. That's all.'

I turn, and walk quickly away without looking back, and I'm sure, I'm convinced that I should feel good, and defiant, 267.

and strong about having finally stood up to him for once, but for some reason I don't. I just feel hot and hollow and stupid and sad, and I have no idea where to go.

I'm not sure how long I walk for after that. I'm vaguely aware that I've got the only keys to the house, and that the sensible thing to do would be to go home and let Spencer in. But he can always wake Marcus or Josh up; after all, I'm not my brother's keeper. I'll just give him enough time to find his way home and get to sleep, and give myself a chance to walk off the booze and the confusion, and then sneak back home and sort things ?

out in the morning. But after an hour or so the drizzle starts to thicken into rain, and though it's really not my intention, consciously anyway, I eventually find myself outside Alice and Rebecca's halls of residence.

The front gates are locked at one in the morning to all but key-holders, so I have to clamber over the high old cast-iron railings. I manage to do so without setting off any alarms or impaling myself, but then almost immediately slip over on the smooth soles of my brogues and toboggan down the muddy wooded embankment, finally coming to rest underneath a rhododendron bush. I wipe the thick mud off my hands on wet leaf mulch, crouch under the bushes and wait for someone to come along the gravel path to the main entrance.

Ice cold water is dripping from the leaves and dribbling down the nape of my neck, and thick muddy water is starting to soak into my suede brogues, so that it feels as if my feet are wrapped in cold, damp cardboard. I'm just about to give up and head home when I finally see someone coming down the driveway to the house. I slip out of the bushes and walk a little way behind them, and when they've opened the door I shout 'wait' and they stop and turn.

'Hold the door!' The man, who I don't recognise, regards me suspiciously. 'Forgotten my keys! Would you believe it! And on a night like this!' He's looking at my shoes and trousers, which 268.

are caked with leaf mould. 'Fell over! G.o.d, I am soakedl' but he's not moving, so I fiddle in my wallet with numb slimy fingers, and show him my NUS card - trust me, I'm a student - and this seems to do the trick for some reason, because he opens the door and lets me in.

I slap wetly down the dark corridors, leaving a trail of compost on the parquet, until I come to Alice's room. There's a narrow ribbon of orange light under the door, so I know she's awake. I press my ear against the door, and can hear some music - it's Joni singing 'Help Me' from Court and Spark - and I can almost feel the warmth and light through the heavy wooden door, and desperately want to be on the other side. I knock gently. Too gently in fact, because she doesn't hear anything, so I knock again, and whisper her name.

'Who is it?'

'It's Brian,' I whisper.

'Brian?' and she opens the door. 'Oh, my G.o.d, Brian, look at you!' and she takes my by the hand and tugs me inside.

She leads me to the centre of the room and immediately takes charge of the situation, adopting the demeanour of a strict but kindly Edwardian housekeeper - 'Don't sit down, and don't touch anything, not until we've dried you off, young man!'

- and she starts to root through her drawers, pulling out a baggy green hand-knitted jumper, a pair of loose tracksuit bottoms and a pair of hiking socks. 'And here, you'll need this, too,' and she undoes the cord of her white towelling dressing gown, takes it off and throws it to me. Underneath she's wearing an ancient grey T-shirt, shrunk up to above her belly-b.u.t.ton, with a print of Snoopy lying on his kennel on the front, cracked and faded like a mediaeval fresco, a pair of big, battleship grey cotton knickers, and a pair of black men's socks rolled down to her ankles, and it occurs to me that this is without doubt the most sensual and erotic sight that I have ever seen in my whole life.

'Look at you - your hands are shaking.'

269.

'Are they?' I say, and when I open my mouth to speak, I realise my teeth are chattering too.

'Come on, get your kit off, or you'll get pneumonia,' she says sternly, hand outstretched. I'm a bit nervous about getting undressed, partly because the dumb-bells haven't really had a chance to kick in yet, and also because I'm wearing one of my old school vests, so there's bound to be a slight war-time-orphan look about me. But I seem to remember that my boxers are in fairly good nick, and I am extremely cold, so I relent. She stands next to me as I start to get undressed, and notices that my hands are shaking too much to undo the b.u.t.tons of my shirt.

'Here, let me,' she says, and starts to undo them, top to bottom. 'Why aren't you with Spencer?'

'We had a bit of a falling-out.'

'So where is he then?' Why's she still talking about Spencer?

'No idea - back at my house probably.' The b.u.t.tons are undone, and she backs away, so that I can take the shirt off. 'I'm so sorry about all that . . .'

'What?'

'You know - Spencer, the punch-up . . .'

'Oh, G.o.d, don't worry about that. I quite enjoyed it actually. I mean, I'd usually never condone physical violence, but in Patrick's case I'm prepared to make an exception. Wow, your friend Spencer can really fight, can't he?' Her eyes twinkling at the memory of it. 'I know I shouldn't say this, but I do think there's something quite exciting about men fighting, you get a sense of the appeal, you know, like in ancient Roman gladiatorial combat.' I'm sat on the edge of her desk now, trying not to get mud on it, unravelling the slimy mud-soaked laces of my shoe. 'I once went out briefly with this guy who was an amateur boxer, and I used to love going to watch him train and fight. We always used to have the most amazing, animalistic s.e.x afterwards; all the blood and bruises and everything, there was something really beautiful and sensual about it. The blood on the pillow afterwards . . .'

27O.

and she stands there for a moment, with my mouldy shoes in her hand, and gives a little involuntary erotic shudder at the memory. I start to gingerly peel my wet trousers off. 'Of course, outside the bedroom and the boxing ring, we didn't have a lot in common, so it was doomed from the start really. Not a good basis for a relationship, is it? If you're only attracted to them when they're half-naked and beating someone's brains out. Have you ever hit someone, Brian?'

I'm standing in my pants and vest, so you'd have thought the answer would have been fairly self-explanatory. The? G.o.d, no.'

'Or been hit ... ?'