Adam Mars-Jones - Cedilla

The landlord had done me a service by picking me up off the floor, but I was in a very awkward position. Leaning against a wall without crutch or cane I was as helpless as a beetle on its back. In fact I had time to think, as urine seeped downwards from my crotch, that even after his traumatic metamorphosis Gregor Samsa could have run rings round me.

It seemed that the other members of Write Off Tuesday, prudently treacherous, had disappeared. They weren’t far behind Thomas in terms of drunkenness, but some profound wastrels’ instinct must have enabled them to leave the premises while his vomit was still actually airborne. Benny had seemed to be the conscience of the group, but not every group has a conscience.

To my astonishment Thomas opened his eyes and got to his feet. I could have sworn he was in a coma. He didn’t look at me, propped up against the wall as I was like a rank-smelling broom. He didn’t look around him at all. His eyes were entirely blank, but there was a lurking awareness in there somewhere, and a furtive purpose. I swear that he shook the worst of the mess off himself, the ejecta and excreta. Like a dog, more or less, except that he bounced feebly on the balls of his feet to start the dislodging process. Perhaps rough tweed, the material of his sports jacket, is especially prized for this resistance to defilement. Then he lurched with grim concentration towards the door and left.

This was one more betrayal, of course. Leaving me in the hands of the enemy was as bad as abducting me in the first place, but I was fully compensated by the joy of being alone, however uncomfortable, ashamed and malodorous. The landlord might never be the president of my fan club, but he was certain to be better company than the polyglot hearties who had just absconded.

Even so, Thomas as he left reminded me sharply of Julian Robinson from Vulcan. There was no physical resemblance, and loyal Julian would never have walked out on anyone. But Thomas walked out with a tottering stiffness, as if he didn’t trust what might happen if he allowed his knees to bend. It looked for all the world as if he was wearing calipers.

A plump trout on the scales

Left on my own in the squalor of the Zebra’s toilet, I cheered myself up with memories of Julian. We had ended up as good friends in the school, to the point where we had pet names for each other. Despite my childish gloating over the superiority of my chemistry set (Fun With Gilbert) over his (Lotts for Tiny Tots), the human chemistry between us was good. Julian and John became Tooley and Tonny. We were sublimely innocent of the overtone of tool .

I don’t know why we didn’t go into the toilet cubicles, which were distinctly roomy, being designed to accommodate a wheelchair plus a person, but we didn’t. Perhaps we relied on the sliding doors in the toilet block, which weren’t lockable, to give our explorations the tension they lacked. Julian would lean against the wheelchair for balance and unzip himself, plonking his prize member onto the armrest like a fishmonger slapping a plump trout on the scales. I would squeeze it and prod it for a few minutes in the interests of science and then say, ‘Now put it away. I’ve seen plenty.’ Unresentfully Julian would return his parts to privacy.

Then we would discuss how best to leave the toilet block without arousing suspicion. This seemed to be a friendship rooted in fantasy, and our solution was a rather far-fetched one. We decided that the best alibi for our risky intimacy would be to stage a fight in the corridor. I’d say, ‘Look here, I’d better knock you over when we’re in the hall.’ And he’d say, ‘Good idea.’ So I would steer the Wrigley so as to graze him, and he would cannon into the wall, shouting with outrage. Then I would cruise away at high speed, leaving him to shake his fist in my wake. I’d steam off as if I couldn’t care less what happened to him. This routine became slick with much practice — you go that way and I’ll go this — but I don’t see that it can ever have fooled anyone. Nothing could be fishier, in fact, than these aggressive displays of indifference.

I was left, though, with a certain fondness for the atmosphere of urinals, which came in handy in the public lavatory of the Zebra pub. It can’t have been long before the landlord came back. Self-pity had yet to become entrenched. He was carrying cloths and towels, and a hose, which he attached to a tap in the basin. He had his sleeves rolled up. He was wearing Wellington boots and an apron. Seeing that I was alone, he let out a disgusted sigh, but set to work on cleaning up as best he could. Sensibly he started with the wheelchair, whose wheels had been well sprayed by Thomas da Silva’s own hose of second-hand beer. It wasn’t as vile as it might have been. The vomit was really only beer, though tainted by digestion. Still, a little of that gastric-juice smell goes a long way.

I hoped he would come to me quickly, before I started sliding down the wall and had to scream for help.

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ he said wearily, ‘if this only happened once a year, say. But these days hardly a month goes by without something like this. When I took on this place I was told all this drinking-club rubbish was dying out, but I’ve seen no sign. Aren’t you all supposed to be smoking pot? Shouldn’t you be on a demo?’ It was soothing to be addressed in generational terms, to be treated as a standard aberration.

At last it was my turn. He dried the wheelchair off roughly and sat me in it. I thought he might be tempted to use the hose on me too, in the manner of riot police, but he changed over to cloths and warm water.

‘I have to admit you’re a novelty, though …’ he said. There was a curious intimacy to those moments, intensified by the lack of eye contact. ‘I thought I’d seen most of the gimmicks. There’s a pack of toffs who do the Run on pints of champagne. The Pitt Club, they’re called. Champagne makes a bit of a change from beer when it’s puked up … but not as much as you’d think. Tell me, do you think this sort of thing happens a lot in, say, Ely? Do you think it happens at all? It’s just I’ve had my eye on a pub there. Perhaps now’s the time … Those lads aren’t your friends, you know.’

At last I had my chance to explain. ‘I know they’re not my friends. That’s what I’ve been trying to say the whole time. I’ve never met them before.’

He frowned as he went about his work. ‘I see.’ I found the deliberate tempo of his actions soothing. Most people who get that close to me are flustered and fidgety. All his movements had the buffered ease of a strong arm pulling pints. ‘And because you’ve never met them before you obviously can’t give me any of their names.’

He assumed I was subscribing to the Colditz code of old-style undergraduates in trouble in the town, who would volunteer only name, college and tutor’s phone number, however gruelling the interrogation. Everyone knew that the police had little authority over university affairs, and couldn’t even enter the colleges without permission. ‘I hoped you weren’t going to be so loyal. Loyal and stupid. What’s your college, sir?’

‘Downing.’

‘But the missing gentlemen aren’t from there?’

‘Not that I know of. Never saw them before.’

He shrugged but didn’t press the point. Nor did he make any comment about an idiosyncrasy of the way I dressed in those days. Having my laundry done and taking regular baths made the basics of hygiene simple in certain respects. I economised on others, because of the great awkwardness of dressing and undressing unaided. I solved the problem of vests by not wearing vests. I solved the problem of underpants by not wearing underpants. I solved the problem of socks by not wearing socks — since I walk relatively little, my shoes don’t have much chance to rub. I had pared my costume down to shirt, trousers and shoes. In winter I didn’t go out much.