Crazy Diamonds

'Stars and Gripes'

 

‘Ooh, I think I know this one.’

‘Shut up. I’m trying to listen.’

This has been the routine for the past five days: get up late for lecture/supervision, mince about college in hope of bumping into Charlotte, walk all the way down Cherry Hinton Road to Budgens, then go to Alex’s and get slowly addled while enduring sounds of the 60s.

‘Didn’t these guys do ‘Mrs Robinson’?’

Alex drops his smouldering stub into a Kronenbourg can. ‘Yes, yes they did.’ He opens the window wider then lies on his bed. ‘Why do you keep buying lager? It’s as weak as a diabetic’s piss.’

‘Only the heavy stuff for you, yeah? You’ll be on heroin soon.’

‘Fuck off.’

Tomorrow it’s back to Basingstoke for four weeks. Four weeks without Charlotte. Four weeks without any money, unless I get another job. While I’m at home, I’ll also need to finish a couple of essays. Starting them would help. Until now, I haven’t been able to generate much enthusiasm for the following questions:

 

What am I? Explore the theme of identity in John Clare’s poetry.

 

How does John Milton’s Paradise Lost qualify, in both literary and dramatic terms,

as an epic poem? 

 

It’s annoying that I have to write 2,500 words for each one, as the answer to the second question is obviously, ‘Because it’s fucking long.’

Alex has closed his eyes and his hands are clasped together on his belt. Watching a dozing Yorkshireman is not my idea of a fun night.

‘Let’s go to the bar.’

He remains as still as Tutankhamun.

‘It’s our last night of term and we’ve been in your room all week. Let’s go.’

Still he doesn’t budge. Now we’re listening to an instrumental that sounds like it’s from the 1920s. I look at the back of the CD case. ‘The Singleman Party Foxtrot’. Single man. I need to get out.

‘I’m going to the bar even if you’re not.’ I neck the rest of my can.

Alex opens his eyes. ‘That’s a shame. I was looking forward to ‘Scarborough Fair’.’

‘We won’t be here for the next month. Well, I won’t. Let’s make the most of the few hours we’ve got left.’

‘At the student bar? Honestly, I don’t know why you persevere with that place.’

‘It’s better than watching you fall asleep.’

‘Marginally.’

I stand by the door. ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Fine.’ Alex switches off the CD player. ‘I wanted to show you something anyway.’

He marches on, and I wonder what surprise he has in store. It better not be another cutlery creation. The only drama I want tonight is one in which I end up sweeping Charlotte off her feet.

As we walk past the SU office, I notice an American flag draped on the wall at the end of the corridor. A smartly-dressed couple emerge from the Great Hall.  

‘Hi, Paul! Hi, Luke!’

It’s Rich and Louise. Louise is wearing a long black wig for some reason.

‘How are you both?’ she says.

‘Fine, thank you,’ I reply.

‘What about you, Luke? I haven’t seen you for a while,’ Rich says.

Alex is doing his Clockwork Orange grin again. ‘I’m super.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

They’re being remarkably nice to him, though the Bible Study meltdown was some time ago, and they are in the forgiveness business after all.

‘Are you here for the bop?’ Louise asks.

‘What bop?’ I say.

‘Tonight’s bop! I’ve come as Cher, and Rich is Sonny. Do you like our outfits?’

Rich still looks like he wants to give me mortgage advice.

‘Yeah. You both look great.’

‘We arranged the bop with the SU. It’s been very last minute. Quite a few of our study group are staying here for Easter and they’re really homesick.’

‘We haven’t got tickets.’

‘You don’t need a ticket – it’s free! Our friends in the SU have been so kind. Are you both going to the bar?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Us too!’

We follow the glamorous pair, and then my heart skips a beat: Jean. What if she’s still fuming about the herbal bookmark? It’s been almost a week. She’s surely forgiven me by now.

The bar is heaving. There are other ordinary-clothed folk, but the majority have clearly had a rummage in the fancy dress cupboard. I spot Elvis, Britney Spears, Prince, Madonna (comical conical bra phase), Destiny’s Child, another Elvis, Chrissie Hynde, Axl Rose, and the Statue of Liberty (‘last minute’ my arse). I can’t see Jean, thank God, but nor can I see Charlotte.

‘I’ll get the drinks. Foster’s?’

‘What did I just say about buying lager all the time? I’m going for a smoke.’ Alex leaves, and I resolve to drink his pint if he doesn’t come back.

I gradually squeeze through the crowd, and I catch a glimpse of Jack between two hairy giants who are both wearing sunglasses (ZZ Top). I shuffle forward and I’m accordioned by their big bellies.

‘Sorry, dude!’

‘No problem.’ That’s a lie. My internal organs are now useless pancakes. Cheers, guys. I wish my nose wasn’t working either. I’m in a pit of sweaty pits. Charlotte, where are you? Take me away from here…

‘Hi, Nick.’

Damn it.

‘Hi, Jean.’ Dolly Parton. What a surprise.

‘Fancy seeing you here.’

‘Yeah. Such a coincidence. Can I get you a drink?’

‘No thank you. I’ll just have an apology, if you don’t mind.’

‘Oh. Yeah, of course. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about the…’

‘Fag?’

‘Yeah…the fag.’

To my utter amazement, Jean starts laughing. Perhaps I should stay here for the holidays as well. I could teach her how to smoke. She could teach me how to –

‘Quit goofing around, OK? This is Cambridge. Respect it. Not for my sake, but for yours.’

‘Thanks, Jean. Thanks for looking out for me.’

‘There’s someone else looking out for you too.’ She points to the ceiling and smiles, then thrusts through the thirsty throng and disappears.

All I want is two pints of lager and the girl of my dreams. Stage 1 is within reach – if only Eminem would hurry up and decide what he wants.

Finally, my turn, but as The Real Slim Shady turns to transport his drinks, he accidentally nudges me so that I tread on someone’s blue suede shoe. Elvis (no. 3) is not happy.

‘Hey, dude. Watch where you’re stepping.’

‘Sorry.’

He takes the liberty of stepping in front of me so that I have to wait even longer to be served. Ah, fuck it. I can’t be bothered with this. Charlotte isn’t here and Alex didn’t want a drink anyway. I’m not too keen on the green, and God is probably keeping a beadier eye on me, but I demand to end the term on a high. I’ll put up with whatever it is Alex wanted to show me, as long as he rolls me a fat one. First, I need to extract myself from this dense mass…

Five minutes to walk ten metres! Like bloody Passchendaele.

Alex is standing in the buttery archway.

‘Where are the drinks?’

‘I was about to get them, but –’

‘Can’t even buy a couple of pints. Come on, follow me.’

We go through the buttery, past the pigeonholes, up a winding stone staircase, then we stop at an old door…

‘Oh no, not the turret again!’

‘Yes, the turret. Grab that chair.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do it. We’ll need it in a minute.’

I lift the ornate wooden chair that’s between the door and a chest of drawers. Above the chest is a large abstract painting that reminds me very much of Alex’s exhibition painting, except that this one is in shades of just one colour – red.  Alex strikes a lighter and we go up a winding stone staircase and into the dead rat room that I never wanted to be in again.

‘We’ve been here before, remember?’

Alex waves the lighter about like he’s listening to a ballad at a rock concert. He pauses. ‘Look at this.’

I inch closer. ‘A trapdoor.’

‘No, it’s a hatch, you idiot. Trapdoors go in floors, hatches go in ceilings. This one leads to the top of the turret.’

‘Won’t we get into loads of shit if we open it?’

‘Only if we get caught. Give me that.’

Alex takes the chair and positions it under the secret door.

‘What if it’s padlocked?’

‘It isn’t. I’ve already checked.’

He stands on the chair. ‘Voila!’ The hatch door is open, and Alex hauls himself into the starry night. ‘Are you coming up or not?’

I want to get high but not like this.

‘What do you think?’ Alex says after I’ve shredded my stomach climbing onto the roof.

‘It’s cold, and I hate heights.’

‘Stop moaning.’ He sits against the wall like a bored sniper on a fag break.

‘You’re not going to make me do another Moral Panics album, are you?’

‘Do you see any recording equipment here? I just want to have a smoke.’

‘You could have done that in your room.’

‘Look! I mean look! Look at the view! No one else has this. Just you and me. Be a bit more grateful for fuck’s sake.’

Alex shakes his head and mutters to himself as he retrieves the paraphernalia from his pocket. He’s got a point – I can see the illuminated spires of King’s College from here – but it’s not worth getting kicked out of uni for, and I’m feeling dizzy.

‘Do you still talk to Lawrence?’

Alex sighs. ‘No, not really. He emailed me a few weeks ago.’

‘Is he still into Swedish reggae?’

‘No. He’s recorded an entire album about weasels. I only suggested it to him as a joke. I suppose you want some of this after your latest bar failure.’

‘Yes please.’

I watch Alex methodically prepare two tightly packed parcels of puff.

‘What’s the plan for the holidays? Hunting for Syd?’

Bad move. Alex jumps to his feet.

‘Peace, man!’ I say.

He grabs my coat at nipple level with both hands and pushes me into the wall.

‘Don’t be a knob. Let go of me.’

He pushes me harder, and I lean backwards over the edge.

‘Let go! Fucking hell!’

His knuckles dig into my chin.

‘Let go of me! Please?’

I’m released, and Alex sits back down. I rub my eyes then look at him open-mouthed.

‘I only asked you a question!’

‘Yes, but you keep asking me the same question.’

‘You said you came here specifically to see him.’

‘Incorrect. I came here to get a degree.’

‘And you said you wanted to meet Syd.’

‘I will. Patience. I’ve got at least another two years, unlike you.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You can’t copy my work forever.’

‘That’s not fair. I did the Hamlet essay on my own.’

Yes, but why did you have to do the Hamlet essay in the first place?’

Alex lights both spliffs and hands me one. I nod my thanks. We smoke in silence, which is broken by the sound of muffled music.

‘The bop’s started,’ I say.

Alex tuts, takes another drag, then slowly closes his eyes.

I try to identify the song that’s currently shaking the Great Hall windows. Yep. Bon Jovi. ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’.

As we carry on smoking (both on our third spliff), Alex becomes less and less inclined to participate in conversation. I play my musical guessing game until the part of my brain that’s reserved for such activities decides to have a nap. A partial eclipse of the mind, soon to be total, then I’ll sleep under this blanket of stars…

‘Nick!’

I rub my eyes again. Nope, they do not deceive me. Alex is standing on the wall with his cock out and he’s excreting an arc of liquid gold.

‘I’ve convinced the porter that it’s raining.’

He moves from side to side like a garden sprinkler. The gravity of the situation only dawns on me after he’s zipped up his flies.

‘Have you just pissed on a porter?’

‘I have indeed.’

‘Is he still there?’

‘No. I think he’s gone to get an umbrella.’