THE BURIED BISHOP’S a gridlocked scrum, an all-you-can-eat of youth: “Stephen Hawking and the Dalai Lama, right; they posit a unified truth”; short denim skirts, Gap and Next shirts, Kurt Cobain cardigans, black Levi’s; “Did you see that oversexed pig by the loos, undressing me with his eyes?”; that song by the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl booms in my diaphragm and knees; “Like,
“Hugo? You okay?” Penhaligon’s smile is uncertain.
We’re still logjammed two bodies back from the bar.
“Yeah,” I have to half shout. “Sorry, I was light-years away. While I have you to myself, Jonny, Toad asked me to invite you to his last all-nighter tomorrow, before we all jet off home. You, me, Eusebio, Bryce Clegg, Rinty, and one or two others. All cool.”
Penhaligon makes a not-sure face. “My mother’s half-expecting me back at Tredavoe tomorrow night …”
“No pressure. I’m just passing the invitation on. Toad says the ambience is classier when you’re there.”
Penhaligon sniffs the cheese. “Toad said that?”
“Yes, he said you’ve got gravitas. Rinty’s even christened you ‘the Pirate of Penzance’ because you always leave with the loot.”
Jonny Penhaligon grins. “You’ll be there too?”
“Me? God, yeah. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“You took quite a clobbering last week.”
“I never lose more than I can afford. ‘Scared money is lost money.’ You said that. Wise words for card players
My partner in recreational gambling does not deny authorship of my freshly minted epigram. “I
“Look, I won’t try to sway you one way or the other.”
He hums. “I could tell my parents I’ve a supervision …”
“Which would not be untrue—a supervision on probability theory, psychology, applied mathematics. All valid business skills, as your family will appreciate when you get the green light for the golf course at Tredavoe House. Toad’s proposing we raise the pot limit to a hundred pounds per game: a nice round figure, and quite a dollop of holiday nectar for
Jonny Penhaligon admits: “I
I mirror his chuckle.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER we’re bringing our drinks back to our nook to find that trouble has beaten us to it. Richard Cheeseman,
“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: “
“ ‘Dick Cheese,’ ” says Cheeseman, “from ‘Richard Cheeseman,’ yeah, that’s
“What d’you expect,” She-Goth One snatches up