X20 by Richard Beard Page A

know. I don’t care. I just want him dead.
    Walter is dead. I weigh up this fact carefully. Without doubt it is a major disaster. It is worthy of wailing. It almost certainly constitutes a shock of sufficient magnitude to justify, in order to cope, the lighting and smoking of a cigarette. Even the severest non-smoker would understand. Nobody would blame me, surely, not after such an unexpected tragedy, not after the unbearably sudden death of a close close friend like Walter.
    What I’m trying to say is that in my mind I am killing Walter for a cigarette. It simply isn’t true that giving up smoking is good for your health.
    He was bigger than me and stronger than me. He’d been captain of his school rugby team and his torso wasn’t unlike those on the postcards in Lucy’s room. He was less frightened than me and more clear-headed, so that when I tried to punch him he grabbed my head and put it under his arm. Then he squeezed my neck until I begged him to stop.
    He was now walking me calmly round the small garden in front of William Cabot Hall, as if I’d asked him for advice. He was counselling me. In the middle of the garden there was an over-sized statue of William Cabot sitting on a chair looking out to sea. There was a seagull, a real one, sitting on his head.
    â€˜Now listen to me,’ Julian said. ‘Just listen. There was never a bet.’
    â€˜Kim said it was after the time with the socks. That you had a bet with Lucy to see how gullible I really was.’
    â€™She’s just trying to get her own back.’
    â€˜Kim said you bet Lucy a pack of cigarettes that she couldn’t get me to smoke.’
    â€˜Gregory’
    â€˜What should I do, Julian? Just tell me.’
    â€˜Go and see her. Be nice to her.’
    â€˜I was nice to her.’
    â€˜Hell, Gregory, if you really like her buy a pack of fags, break down her door and smoke every single one of them in front of her face.’
    â€˜I mean apart from that. You’re sure there wasn’t a bet?’
    â€˜Do you really think she’d sleep with you just for a bet?’
    â€˜I never told you she slept with me. Who told you we slept together?’
    â€˜Go and see her, Gregory.’
    â€˜There must be something I can do.’
    â€™Sure. You could give up everything and go to Paris or New York, packing only your self-pity. When you arrive unwrap it carefully from your cardboard suitcase and mould it into art objects in the tradition of suffering lovers since the eve of time.’
    â€˜Come on, Julian, be serious.’
    â€˜Imagine it. Gregory Simpson in New York, the man who even gets worried about leaving his room in the morning.’
    â€˜It was a bet, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜For God’s sake, Gregory.’
    â€˜Well fuck you. Fuck everything.’
    â€˜Gregory, come back. Where are you going?’
    â€˜New York. Where d’you think?’
    He was always cracking jokes and larking about. When we were playing in the garden he’d pull me aside and ask me what did the big chimney say to the little chimney and I’d say, I don’t know, what did the big chimney say? And then I’d run off on a circuit of the lawn, turning my arms into wings and banking heavily into corners while dropping atomic bombs on Australian opening bowlers. By the time I landed I’d forgotten what the joke was.
    Uncle Gregory and my father spent a lot of time that summer talking in private. They once called me into the dining-room and Uncle Gregory solemnly gave me an envelope with my name written on the outside in capital letters. My father then took it away from me before I could open it. He said there was money inside so it was better if he looked after it for me. It was a very thin envelope, so I didn’t think it could be very much money.
    Uncle Gregory spent the next summer in the Royal Adelaide Hospital, and I used to send him a different Get Well card every month,