“Don’t pretend you read books.” Cheeseman gropes for his review copy in vain and I catch a distant glimpse of a tortured gay child having his satchel emptied off a sooty bridge over the Leeds–Bradford railway line. She-Goth Two rips the book down its spine and tosses the halves away. The male Goth goes
Olly retrieves one half, Cheeseman the other. He’s riled now. “Crispin Hershey’s last crap has more artistic merit than your lifetime’s output. Your music’s derivative wank. It’s parasitic. It’s a hatpin through the eardrum, darling, and not in a good way.”
He was doing quite well until the last sentence, but if you bare your arse to a vengeful unicorn, the number of possible outcomes dwindles to one. By the time I’ve put the drinks on a handy shelf, She-Goth Two has indeed extracted her hatpin and flown at Monsieur Le Critic, who topples operatically; the table upends and glasses slide off; female spectators gasp and shriek and go, “Oh, my God!”; She-Goth Two pounces on the fallen one and stabs downwards; I grab the hatpin (glistening?) and Penhaligon pulls her off Cheeseman by her hair; the bassist’s fist misses Penhaligon’s nose by a whisker; Penhaligon staggers onto Olly and Ness; and She-Goth One’s screeching becomes audible to the human ear—“Get your hands
“The wanker was asking for it,” states She-Goth Two.
“He started it,” insists her friend. “He provoked us!”
“Multiple witnesses,” I indicate the scandal-hungry onlookers, “know
“Who,” the bassist’s aggression is shaky, “the fuck are you?”
I perform my craziest L. Ron Hubbard laugh. “Postgrad in law, genius. What’s more interesting is who
She-Goth Two’s braggadocio is wilting. “But I …”
The bassist’s pulling her by the arm. “C’mon, Andrea.”
“Run, Andrea!” I jeer. “Melt into the crowd—oh, but wait! You’ve glued posters of your mugshots all over Cambridge, haven’t you? Well, you
Penhaligon rights the table and Olly gathers the glasses. Fitzsimmons hauls Cheeseman onto the bench, and I ask him how many fingers I’m holding up. He winces a bit, and wipes his mouth. “It was my ear she went for, not my sodding eye.”
A very pissed-off landlord appears. “What’s going on?”
I turn on him. “Our friend was just assaulted by three drunken sixth-formers and needs medical attention. As regulars, we’d hate to see your license revoked, so at A and E Richard and Olly here will imply the assault happened
The landlord susses the state of play. “Nah. ’Preciated.”
“You’re welcome. Olly: Is the Magic Astra parked nearby?”
“In the car park at the college, yes, but Ness here—”
“Um, my car’s available too,” says helpful Penhaligon.
“Jonny, you’re over the limit and your father’s a magistrate.”
“The breathalyzers’ll be out tonight,” warns the landlord.
“You’re the only sober party, Olly. And if we phone for an ambulance from Addenbrookes, the cops will come along too, and—”
“Questions, statements, and all
Olly looks at Ness, like a boy who’s lost his finger of fudge.
“Go on,” Ness tells him. “I’d join you, but the sight of blood …” She makes a
“I’m supposed to be driving you to Greenwich tonight.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get home by train—I’m a big girl, remember? Call me on Sunday and we’ll talk Christmas plans, okay? Go.”
MY RADIO ALARM is glowing 01:08 when I hear footsteps on the stairs, the pause, the timid