David Mitchell - The Bone Clocks

“The future Lord Rufus Chetwynd-Pitt,” answers Fitzsimmons, “is scoring drugs. Pity for him it’s not an academic discipline.”

“It’s a recession-proof sector of the economy,” I note.

“This time next year,” Olly Quinn picks at the label of his nonalcoholic lager, “we’ll all be out in the real world, earning a living.”

“Can’t bloody wait,” says Fitzsimmons, stroking his chin cleft. “I despise being poor.”

“My heart bleeds.” Richard Cheeseman holds his ciggie in the corner of his mouth à la Serge Gainsbourg. “People see your parents’ twenty-roomed mansion in the Cotswolds, your Porsche, your Versace gear and jump to all the wrong conclusions.”

“It’s my parents’ loot,” says Fitzsimmons. “It’s only fair that I have my own obscene bonus to squander.”

“Daddy’s still sorting you a job in the City?” asks Cheeseman, then frowns as Fitzsimmons brushes the shoulders of Cheeseman’s tweed jacket. “What are you doing?”

“Flicking the chips off your shoulders, our Richard.”

“They’re superglued on,” I tell Fitzsimmons. “And don’t knock nepotism, Cheeseman; my well-connected uncles all agree, nepotism made this country what it is today.”

Cheeseman blows smoke my way. “When you’re a burned-out ex -Citibank analyst having your Lamborghini repossessed and your third wife’s lawyer’s got your nuts under a judge’s gavel, you’ll be sorry.”

“Right,” I say, “and the Ghost of Christmas Future sees Richard Cheeseman working on a charity project for Bogotá street-children.”

Cheeseman ponders Bogotá street-children, purrs, and desists. “Charity breeds fecklessness. No, it’s the way of the hack for me. A column here, a novel there, bit of broadcasting now and then. Speaking of which …” He fishes in his jacket pocket and retrieves a book: Desiccated Embryos by Crispin Hershey. REVIEW COPY ONLY is emblazoned in red across the cover. “My first paid review for Felix Finch at The Piccadilly Review . Twenty-five pence a word, twelve hundred words, three hundred quid for two hours’ work. Result.”

“Fleet Street beware,” says Penhaligon. “Who’s Crispin Hershey?”

Cheeseman sighs. “The son of Anthony Hershey?”

Penhaligon blinks at him, none the wiser.

“Oh, c’ mon , Jonny! Anthony Hershey! Filmmaker! Oscar for Box Hill in 1964, made Ganymede 5 in the seventies, the best British SF film ever made.”

“That film robbed me of the will to live,” remarks Fitzsimmons.

“Well, I’m impressed by your commission, our Richard,” I say. “Crispin Hershey’s last novel was superb. I picked it up in a hostel in Ladakh on my gap year. Is this one as good?”

“Almost.” Monsieur Le Critic places his fingertips together. “Hershey Junior is a gifted stylist, and Felix — Felix Finch, to you plebs — Felix puts him up there with McEwan, Rushdie, Ishiguro, et al. Felix’s praise is premature, but in a few books’ time, he’ll ripen nicely.”

Penhaligon asks, “How’s your own novel going, Richard?” Fitzsimmons and I do hanged-men faces at each other.

“Evolving.” Cheeseman gazes into his glorious literary future and likes what he sees. “My hero is a Cambridge student called Richard Cheeseman, working on a novel about a Cambridge student called Richard Cheeseman, working on a novel about a Cambridge student called Richard Cheeseman. No one’s ever tried anything like it.”

“Cool,” says Jonny Penhaligon. “That’s sounds like—”

“A frothy pint of piss,” I announce, and Cheeseman looks at me with death in his eyes until I add, “is what’s in my bladder right now. The book sounds incredible, Richard. Excuse me.”

THE GENTS SMELLS well fermented and the only free urinal is blocked and ready to brim over with the amber liquid so I have to queue, like a girl. Finally a grizzly bear of a man ambles away and I fill the vacancy. Just as I’m coaxing my urethra open, a voice at the next urinal says, “Hugo Lamb, as I live and breathe.”

It’s a stocky, swarthy man in a fisherman’s sweater with wiry dark hair, whose “Lamb” sounds like “Limb”—a New Zealander’s vowels. He’s older than me, around thirty, and I can’t place him. “We met back in your first year. The Cambridge Sharpshooters. Sorry, it’s appalling men’s-room etiquette to put a guy off his stride like this.” He’s pissing no-handedly into the gurgling urinal. “Elijah D’Arnoq, postgrad in biochemistry, Corpus Christi.”

A memory flickers: that unique surname. “The rifle club, yes. You’re from those islands, east of New Zealand?”

“The Chathams, that’s right. Now, I remember you because you’re a natural bloody marksman. Still room at the inn, you know.”

Now I know there’s no cottagey thing going on, I start pissing. “You’re overestimating my potential, I’m afraid.”

“Mate, you could be a contender. I’m serious.”

“I was spreading myself a bit thin, extracurricular-wise.”

He nods. “Life’s too short to do everything, right?”

“Something like that. So … you’ve enjoyed Cambridge?”

“Bloody love it. The lab’s good, got a great prof. You’re economics and politics, right? Must be your final year.”

“It is. It’s flown by. Do you still shoot?”

“Religiously. I’m an Anchorite now.”

I wonder if “Anchorite” means “anchorman,” or if it’s a Kiwi-ism or a rifle club — ism. Cambridge is full of insiders’ words to keep outsiders out. “Cool,” I tell him. “I enjoyed my few visits to the range.”

“Never too late. Shooting is prayer. And when civilization shuts up shop, a gun’ll be worth any number of university degrees. Happy Christmas.” He zips his fly. “See you around.”

PENHALIGON ASKS, “SO where’s this mystery woman of yours, Olly?”

Olly Quinn frowns. “She said she’d be here by half seven.”

“Only ninety minutes late,” offers Cheeseman. “Doesn’t prove she’s dumped you for a gym rat with the face of Keanu Reeves, the anatomy of King Dong, and the charisma of moi. Not necessarily.”

“I’m driving her home to London tonight,” says Olly. “She lives in Greenwich — so she’s bound to be along by and by …”

“Confide in us, Olly,” says Cheeseman. “We’re your friends. Is she a real girlfriend, or have you … y’know … made her up?”

“ I can vouch for her existence,” says Fitzsimmons, enigmatically.

“Oh?” I glower at Olly. “Since when did this cuckolding crim take precedence over your stairs neighbor?”

“Chance encounter.” Fitzsimmons tips his roasted-nut crumbs into his mouth. “I espied Olly-plus-companion at the drama section in Heffer’s.”

“And speaking as a reformed postfeminist new man,” I ask Fitzsimmons, “where would you position Queen Ness on the Scale?”

“She’s hot. I presume an escort agency is involved, Olly?”

“Screw you .” Olly smiles like the cat who got the cream. “Ness!” He jumps up as a girl squeezes through the crush of student bodies. “Talk of the devil! Glad you got here.”

“ So sorry I’m late, Olly,” she says, and they kiss on the lips. “The bus took about eight hundred years to arrive.”

I know her, or knew her, but only in the biblical sense. Her surname escapes me, but other parts I remember very well. An afterparty in my first year, though she was “Vanessa” back then; potty-mouthed Cheltenham Ladies College, if memory serves; a big shared house down the arse-end of Trumpington Road. We necked a bottle of Château Latour ’76, which she’d nicked from the cellar in the pre-party house. We’ve sighted each other around town since and nodded to avoid the crassness of ignoring each other. She’s a craftier operator than Olly, but even as I wonder what’s in him for her, I recall a drunk-driving offense and a suspended license — and Olly’s warm, dry Astra. All’s fair in love and war, and although I’m many things, I’m not a hypocrite. Ness has seen me and a fifth of a second is enough to agree upon a policy of cordial amnesia.