with me to read on the tube.' She hands it to him. It has a gloomy painting of an evil-looking boy as its cover.
'What's it about?'
'It's hard to say. You'd have to read it, really. It's the most terrifying book I've ever read. A boy gets followed and tormented by a protean devil called Gilmartin. It's •set in Scotland and Gilmartin pursues him all over these bleak, barren landscapes. You're never quite sure whether the devil is real or just a projection or externalisation of his own evil side.' She shivers and then smiles again.
'Oh,' he says, a little bemused. He gropes for a suitable and non-vacuous response, coming up with: 'You're Scottish, aren't you?'
'Yes. I only discovered it when I went to university, though. We had this reading room in the main library with a vast, domed ceiling. You were forbidden to talk and got
shouted at if you breathed too loudly. It was always full of rows and rows of serious academics with obscure, out-of-print tomes propped up in front of them. I was reading this one day, in late afternoon when it was just getting dark outside. I'd just reached a particularly scary bit - where they are digging up this ancient body that's still intact - when I felt a hand grip my shoulder from behind. I screamed really loudly and the noise echoed and bounced around the huge ceiling. People were horrified. It was only a friend asking me if I wanted to go for a cup of tea. I frightened the life out of him too. '
It has clicked for John - that description of the reading room. 'I was there too!' he shouts.
'Where?'
'The library . . . I mean, the university . . . I mean, I was at university with you!
She is immediately suspicious. 'Were you?' 'When did you leave?'
'Um . . . five years ago. No, four.'
'I knew it! I knew it!' He feels like getting up and dancing around the room. 'I knew I'd seen you somewhere before! I graduated six years ago, which must have been . . .'
'My first year, or the end of it,' she finishes for him and, scanning his face, says bluntly, 'I don't remember you at all.' 'No, well, I don't really remember you. Not properly.
You just look vaguely familiar. I probably saw you around the library or something, although I don't think I heard you scream.'
'You're not going to put that in your article, are you?' She looks genuinely worried.
'No. It will go no further - famous last words of a journalist.'
There is a pause. John leans back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head.
9 1
Alice looks about her. 'So . . .' she says eventually, 'Are we going to do it here?'
'What?'
'The interview. '
'Of course, of course. The interview. I thought we might go up to the canteen. Is that OK with you?'
She nods, getting up.
The strangest thing about this is that a thought can go on and on circling your mind, that you can't stop obsessing over it, that there are no brakes to apply to things you no longer want to think about. In normal life, you distract yourself - pick up a newspaper, go out for a walk, turn on the television, phone somebody up. You can throw your mind a sop, trick yourself into thinking you're all right, that the thing that's been haunting you is resolved. It won't work for long, of course - an hour, two hours if you're lucky - because nobody's that stupid and because these things always come back to you when you're once more idle and distractionless. In the small, dark hours of the night, when you're being rocked into blank-mindedness on a bus.
The problem with being like this is that you are constant prey to these exhausting cycles of thought. Just now, I am getting no rest from how terrible it is that he doesn't know.
He who knows me better than anyone else has no idea of this. No inkling. We think we know everything there possibly is to know about each other. And then suddenly I discover this massive thing that alters the whole path of my life.
It's like those kitsch religious cards you can buy in Catholic countries; the ones with a ridged,
'What's it about?'
'It's hard to say. You'd have to read it, really. It's the most terrifying book I've ever read. A boy gets followed and tormented by a protean devil called Gilmartin. It's •set in Scotland and Gilmartin pursues him all over these bleak, barren landscapes. You're never quite sure whether the devil is real or just a projection or externalisation of his own evil side.' She shivers and then smiles again.
'Oh,' he says, a little bemused. He gropes for a suitable and non-vacuous response, coming up with: 'You're Scottish, aren't you?'
'Yes. I only discovered it when I went to university, though. We had this reading room in the main library with a vast, domed ceiling. You were forbidden to talk and got
shouted at if you breathed too loudly. It was always full of rows and rows of serious academics with obscure, out-of-print tomes propped up in front of them. I was reading this one day, in late afternoon when it was just getting dark outside. I'd just reached a particularly scary bit - where they are digging up this ancient body that's still intact - when I felt a hand grip my shoulder from behind. I screamed really loudly and the noise echoed and bounced around the huge ceiling. People were horrified. It was only a friend asking me if I wanted to go for a cup of tea. I frightened the life out of him too. '
It has clicked for John - that description of the reading room. 'I was there too!' he shouts.
'Where?'
'The library . . . I mean, the university . . . I mean, I was at university with you!
She is immediately suspicious. 'Were you?' 'When did you leave?'
'Um . . . five years ago. No, four.'
'I knew it! I knew it!' He feels like getting up and dancing around the room. 'I knew I'd seen you somewhere before! I graduated six years ago, which must have been . . .'
'My first year, or the end of it,' she finishes for him and, scanning his face, says bluntly, 'I don't remember you at all.' 'No, well, I don't really remember you. Not properly.
You just look vaguely familiar. I probably saw you around the library or something, although I don't think I heard you scream.'
'You're not going to put that in your article, are you?' She looks genuinely worried.
'No. It will go no further - famous last words of a journalist.'
There is a pause. John leans back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head.
9 1
Alice looks about her. 'So . . .' she says eventually, 'Are we going to do it here?'
'What?'
'The interview. '
'Of course, of course. The interview. I thought we might go up to the canteen. Is that OK with you?'
She nods, getting up.
The strangest thing about this is that a thought can go on and on circling your mind, that you can't stop obsessing over it, that there are no brakes to apply to things you no longer want to think about. In normal life, you distract yourself - pick up a newspaper, go out for a walk, turn on the television, phone somebody up. You can throw your mind a sop, trick yourself into thinking you're all right, that the thing that's been haunting you is resolved. It won't work for long, of course - an hour, two hours if you're lucky - because nobody's that stupid and because these things always come back to you when you're once more idle and distractionless. In the small, dark hours of the night, when you're being rocked into blank-mindedness on a bus.
The problem with being like this is that you are constant prey to these exhausting cycles of thought. Just now, I am getting no rest from how terrible it is that he doesn't know.
He who knows me better than anyone else has no idea of this. No inkling. We think we know everything there possibly is to know about each other. And then suddenly I discover this massive thing that alters the whole path of my life.
It's like those kitsch religious cards you can buy in Catholic countries; the ones with a ridged,
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