Never Tell (16 page)

You shall not covet your neighbour’s house; you shall not covet
your neighbour’s wife, nor his male servant, nor his female
servant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that is your
neighbour’s
.

Bible, Exodus 20:17

Since the
Post
article about the defecating in the cathedral, there had been some mutterings amongst the students that Dalziel’s exploits were going too far. To silence his critics, he organised another Society X soirée on Valentine’s Night, this time to celebrate the tenth commandment, the one about coveting stuff. Only he asked Lena and James to help him arrange the party, and not me. I wasn’t sure what I was meant to have done wrong, but I had a feeling it was something to do with the girl in the pub. Dalziel had seemed so upset that evening when we left, and even more so that I’d witnessed it. When I’d asked him later why she’d been so cross, he simply cut me off mid-flow and refused to talk about it again.

The anti-religion aspect of the party meant nothing to me; I knew now it was just an excuse – Dalziel had admitted as much – and I was unsure whether he’d put pen to paper for his dissertation the whole time I’d known him. And I wasn’t sure how much I was looking forward to the night. Frankly, Dalziel’s mood was scaring me a little since the Pegasus incident. He seemed increasingly desperate and wild, only calm really when we were in our opium trance.

I realised I was forgiven when he arrived at my room the night before the party. We got high together, and I was allowed to invite Jen as a special honour, and this time the evening was funny, people wore silly masks and came with real pigs and lambs. Lena and James went one better and stole a donkey from the sanctuary out by Woodstock. Dalziel had the bench from one neighbour’s garden removed and put it in the neighbour’s garden on the other side, and then rang the police to offer an eye-witness account. An extremely unamused WPC came to take a statement about what had occurred. When she left, Dalziel shut the front door triumphantly and turned to the inebriated crowd.

‘Number Nine.
“You shall not bear false witness against your neighbour”,’
he crowed, and everybody whooped and clapped. It seemed so harmless and silly that the dramatic events of that January night melted into a distant memory. I watched him intently as he spoke; when I looked up, James was watching me. We’d been spending more time together as a group again in the past few weeks and it was a strange triangle Dalziel, James and I created, one that Lena sometimes barged into as well, though more and more often she was so wasted she was in her own world. James too was drinking all the time, Dalziel constantly plying him with whiskey and a new type of dope they called skunk, so strong it was hallucinogenic. James and I had stopped connecting properly a while ago, although we had never officially called it all off.

‘I am the ultimate iconoclast,’ Dalziel declared that night, standing in front of a print of the hideous green Grünewald Christ on the cross, pain and suffering seeping from every pore. His eyes glittering dangerously, Dalziel held up a knife and slashed Jesus again and again.

‘The ultimate twat aristocrat, doesn’t he mean? Thinks he’s fucking God,’ someone muttered. ‘Christ, this is embarrassing.’

‘Perhaps God’s fucking him – who can tell with this lot?’ a female voice whispered back. ‘What next, thou shalt definitely shag a sheep?’

Turning sharply, I recognised the female editor of the rival student paper, the
New Student
, standing behind me. A jolly Brummie with one long eyebrow and too many freckles, she winked at me.

‘I thought von Bismarck’s lot were bad, but this is bloody stupid,’ she murmured to her companion. ‘Someone ought to tell him this is real life, not fucking Brideshead Regurgitated.’

‘He’s certainly a vile body though.’

They both sniggered, and I felt a flush creep all over me. Was it for my benefit? I didn’t know, but it was the first time I’d heard anyone speak out against Dalziel, and I realised I felt physically shocked, which later seemed naïve. I didn’t know whether to say something to them – or what I would have said if I’d dared speak – but Dalziel was talking again now.

He turned back from the poster and toasted the room, unaware of his critics. ‘Here’s to nihilism,’ he crowed, and we toasted him back – even the editor and her crony, with their cans of Stella.

People started pogoing to The Undertones’ ‘Teenage Kicks’; I could see that Jen was having fun, as she danced with Brian, the boy with the bullet head. I shuddered, remembering the last time I’d seen him – between Huriyyah’s legs. Then Lena began an excruciating ‘Dance of the Seven Veils’ striptease, much to everyone’s hilarity – and quite quickly I stopped enjoying myself altogether. Lena was more and more out of control these days, since she and Dalziel had stopped the pretence of dating. She seemed beyond reach.

Dalziel found me lingering in the corner, wondering whether to leave. He kissed the top of my head lightly. ‘Two birds with one stone, and another magnificent success,’ he drawled. ‘I just can’t help myself.’

I smiled weakly. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Why don’t you go upstairs?’ he murmured. ‘It’s specially for you, you know.’

But suddenly I didn’t believe him. Nothing was for me, it was all a charade, and I was stunned by a sudden flash before my eyes: as if I’d just experienced the beginning of the edifice crumbling and felt the urge to flee before it collapsed on me. I kept seeing the gun levelled at the horse’s great chest; at the skinny little groom. I didn’t understand what motivated Dalziel any more, I realised that now.

Soon after that the dark boy appeared and Dalziel vanished with him, so I went upstairs and had a pipe in the smoking-den that had been created in a bedroom, trying to curb my inexplicable jealousy. Dalziel would say it was so pedestrian – envy. But the bullet-headed boy had abandoned Jen now and had persuaded a ratty girl with train-track braces to give him a blow-job in the corner, and she was so drunk she was alternating it with being sick, so I left and went home with James, utterly confused.

That night James and I had strange disjointed sex for the first time in weeks, and it was like being out of body. I had felt so strongly about him at first, but now I watched us from the ceiling dispassionately, simply craving a return to my own private and romantic land, a land free of Society X’s taint.

THE
NEW STUDENT –
FEBRUARY 1992

What fuels Dalziel St John’s arrogant belief that his pathetic Society X holds any sort of allure for those with half a brain? We all know that Oxford is rife with societies, mostly for the rich and stupid. Piers Gaveston has celebrated actor Hugh Grant looking pretty in leopard-skin and God only knows what those
boys got up to (anyone there, God?). The Bullingdon Club is of course for those male students with more money than sense -£1200 a tailcoat, people? Ex-chancellor Nigel Lawson’s daughter Nigella even bravely tackled Sedan Chair Croquet in the Dangerous Sports Club (ooh, the danger). But the Honourable Mr St John prides himself in letting women into his marvellous society as well – how very modern – although I have a sneaking suspicion there is a very specific reason for this quaint anomaly. Yawn
.

Having attended a meeting of the so-called ‘Secret Society’ the other night, I can safely say I was far from impressed. The evening was hardly challenging. Although St John chooses to surround himself with a group of easily-pleased suburban acolytes who apparently do whatever he suggests, this, I should point out, does not equate power. It just means he’s choosing the weak. Suicidal ex-lesbians, drippy English students and music geeks who can’t play a note are not the new élite, I fear. Nor is it ‘iconoclastic’ to slash cheap pictures of Christ; St John calls it ‘nihilism’, I call it embarrassing. And as for the celebration of stealing farm animals, there’s something deeply alarming in this practice. Far be it from me to suggest bestiality but really …

I would suggest that the Honourable St John take a leaf out of Daddy’s book and keep his antics to the golf course. We have had one upper-class tragedy in recent years to tarnish the university’s reputation: we don’t need another one.

N.B. Can anyone actually remember a single important change brought in for the good of the nation by the senior St John, our current Home Secretary and at present, Britain’s most powerful man? Answers on a postage stamp, please …

Chapter Eight
GLOUCESTERSHIRE, MARCH 2008

The day after Maya’s boyfriend died at Albion Manor, my mother came to collect the children for the weekend and James flew out to Vietnam. I’d tried one final time to suggest that I might accompany him – my mother had even offered to babysit for the whole week – but James still rejected the idea. He was going earlier than originally planned, to ‘see a man about some marble’, as he put it, for his luxury chill-out room and for a meeting in Saigon. The reopening of Revolver in London was looming and he was determined that it was exactly what Britain needed. ‘People need cheering up right now,’ he said simply, and I had felt some affection for his black-and-white view of life; his optimism in frivolity.

The affection soon vanished on the way to the airport when I finally told James about Xavier and the Kattan story. I’d been nervous about mentioning it, but even I was shocked by the strength of his disapprobation.

‘I can’t fucking believe you never said anything.’ James slammed his fist against his window as we joined the M4. My thoughts were speeding so fast I could hardly untangle them quickly enough to defend myself.

‘But I tried to tell you days ago that Xav had called me. It’s just – well, you never listen.’

James’s face was deathly pale, the shadows huge under his eyes. ‘You what?’ His tone was quiet and menacing. I hadn’t heard that tone for a while.

I clutched the wheel tighter. ‘You weren’t interested,’ I said as blithely as I could, overtaking a caravan that rocked dangerously. ‘And why would it have been such a bad idea anyway?’

‘You know the answer to that, don’t you, Rose?’ His top lip had gone rigid as it always did in anger. ‘Oh, it all makes sense now. For fuck’s sake.’

‘It’s fascinating. He’s fascinating. I’ve told Xav no, but you know, James, I’ve got a feeling, a sense, something big’s happening out there.’ I was gabbling with nerves. ‘He’s got his daughter practically a – a prisoner in that monstrous house, her boyfriend’s dead, it’s practically open murder. It’s like bloody Jane Eyre up there, women locked in the attic, and you know, I think Xav might be right about the al-Qaeda connection.’

An Aston Martin tore up behind me and flashed its lights. ‘Bloody idiot,’ I muttered, but refused to budge.

‘Rose,’ James looked in the mirror, ‘move over.’

‘I won’t be bullied by some stupid git, J. I’m doing ninety.’

The Aston inched nearer and flashed again.

Reluctantly I pulled into the middle lane. ‘God knows what he’s up to, or who is coming and going there. There’s chemicals piled everywhere and that bloke Zack, who works for him, is a nutter. He’s even got the Islam flag tattooed on his arm.’

I heard myself, too late. I thought of the terrible government adverts. I pushed the thought resolutely away.

‘Hadi Kattan? Are you serious? Don’t be so fucking stupid,’ James snapped. ‘Your imagination’s running away with you. He’s just a brilliant businessman. A wheeler and dealer maybe. Not a terrorist.’

‘But you don’t know anything about him, James,’ I said. ‘Just because you had a drink with him once and he asked you to shoot some birds, you think he’s your best mate. And you told him about bloody X, didn’t you? About Oxford? I mean, why would you do that?’

‘I didn’t.’ James looked at me like I was mad. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘He seemed to know about it.’

‘How could Kattan possibly know about Society X?’

‘He said something about blasphemy. He said something about – about you telling him stuff.’

‘Rubbish. Why in God’s name would I mention X? I was hoping he was going to give me money for the club. It’d be madness to tell him anything about our bloody sordid past.’

‘He insinuated it.’ I was sure Kattan had.

‘Well you’re wrong. And you’re playing with bloody fire again, Rose.’

‘Why? Look at it, J. Look at the facts. Henchmen, whispering, a politicised son who hasn’t shown up yet. A daughter who’s demonstrating for Islamic rights. And now her boyfriend is dead too. I mean, what else do you want?’ Stubbornly I stared at the unfurling road. ‘And why shouldn’t I do the research, if I want to?’

‘Because you agreed.’

‘I didn’t agree. Not really. I just said I’d give it a rest for a while. While the kids are small.’

‘They’re still small.’

‘Oh, you’ve noticed, have you?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means, James –’
in for a penny, in for a pound –
‘that most of the time you hardly notice the kids, full stop.’

‘That’s bollocks.’

‘It isn’t bollocks, and you know it. You don’t notice any of us these days, you’re so caught up all the time.’

‘I’m making money for the family.’ This was his usual tactic. ‘I’m earning our keep.’

‘You’re not making money drinking into the small hours and never coming to bed. You’re not making money getting fucked and playing X-box with Liam, or snorting coke all night in London, pretending to make music with twatty popstars.’

‘I’m not. I don’t,’ he muttered. His tone changed; he looked just like one of the children when they knew they’d done something wrong. ‘Hardly ever.’

‘Oh, come on, J. You promised to knock it on the head when we came here, but it’s just got worse and worse. You’re even having the bloody nightmares again. And you’re arguing with Liam. Has he messed up again? You need to tell me. I can help.’