Tom Sharpe - Grantchester Grind

'Ah, of course that explains everything,' said the Chaplain. 'When I enquired about the bagpipe he acted most peculiarly. Of course, of course! I'd forgotten about the cooking brandy and I can see that my remarks about the benefits of colonic irrigation-'

'What the hell is he talking about?' asked the Senior Tutor, reacting to the mention of cooking brandy.

'Nothing, nothing. The point I am trying to make is that while, thanks to Dr MacKendly, Kudzuvine does not know what hit him, by the time he comes to his senses he may recognize who hit him. That rather rules the Chaplain and me out.'

'Are you seriously saying that you and the Chaplain actually assaulted this man?' Dr Buscott asked. He was enjoying himself enormously.

'No, I am not saying that,' said the Praelector coldly. 'I am using the word "hit" in a metaphorical sense of his not understanding what was going on. Have I made my meaning absolutely clear, Dr Buscott?'

Dr Buscott nodded. He was astonished at the transformation that had come over the Praelector now that there was a crisis in Porterhouse and the Dean wasn't there to exert his authority. The Praelector was a very old man indeed who had previously always stayed in the background. Dr Buscott found it all exceedingly strange. He would never understand what made the Senior Fellows tick.

The Bursar, on the other hand, was still trying to understand why the hell Kudzuvine should feel any fondness for him. 'When you say "thanks to Dr MacKendly"…?' he said, and left the question unspoken.

'I mean that the College doctor has administered some mild medication, thus reducing Mr Kudzuvine's mania and criminally intrusive behaviour to a gentle docility and calmness that is, I am told, quite remarkable. Skullion…the Master sits beside his bed a lot of the time and they seem to have hit it off quite well together. As you know the Master is not an easy fellow to get on with.'

'Nor is Kudzuvine,' said the Bursar, who still didn't like the Praelector's repeated use of the word 'hit'. 'He's bloody nasty.'

'He was very nasty I agree, but now he's not,' said the Praelector. 'So we will come with you as far as the bedroom door and you will…'

There was some brief resistance on the Bursar's part but it was overcome by the Praelector's promise that someone would be within striking distance all the time. And by the Senior Tutor's description of what would happen to him if he didn't go.

'When you say "within striking distance",' said Dr Buscott, 'are we to take it that you also mean that in a metaphorical way?'

'No,' snapped the Praelector, 'I mean it literally. You will be manning the tape recorder on the landing and the porters are there too. So if we are ready, gentlemen…'

But the Bursar still prevaricated. 'What sort of questions am I to ask?' he said and helped himself to a very large whisky from the decanter on the sideboard.

'You've read the list Mr Retter supplied, haven't you?' said the Praelector. The Bursar nodded. 'So there is no need to waste time.'

'Can't I just have another quick one?'

'No,' said the Senior Tutor, 'you can't.'

The little group went out into the morning sunlight and made its way across the Fellows' Garden and past the Master's Maze to the Lodge and presently the Bursar was ushered into the bedroom where Kudzuvine was lying propped up against the pillows. The Bursar approached him warily. Kudzuvine didn't look at all vicious. On the other hand he didn't look at all well. Something about his eyes.

'Hullo, Karl,' the Bursar said huskily, breathing whisky fumes. 'You don't mind me calling you Karl, do you K. K?'

'No, Prof, I don't mind. I'm just delighted you call me anything. Man, Professor Bursar, am I glad to see you. Have I had one hell of a trip. I mean I didn't know they came that bad. This was a trip like nothing I've ever known and I've had some way-out ones in my time.'

'Well, I suppose all this gadding about and going to the Galapagos Islands must have made you an experienced traveller.'

'Traveller? Galap…What you say? Gal…'

'Where the turtles are.'

'What turtles?' The panic-stricken look was coming back into Kudzuvine's eyes.

The Bursar decided to steer the conversation back to more immediate problems. 'And how do you feel now? Are you feeling any better? In yourself I mean.'

Outside the bedroom door the Senior Tutor recoiled from the expression. He had had enough discussions about the Self to last him a lifetime. The Praelector and Dr Buscott continued to listen intently. Kudzuvine's literal selfishness was becoming more and more obvious. 'In myself? How do I feel in myself? You mean "in" like in, man?' he muttered. 'Hell shoot, I don't know how I feel any fucking place. I don't even know where the fuck I am and I've got this fucking ogre comes and looks at me like I'm in an iron lung and can't move a damn bit of me and my eyes won't shut and you ask me how I feel in myself? Shit, there ain't no answer to that one. Ain't no words I can find any place.'

'But you're feeling better now surely?' said the Bursar. 'You are sitting up and talking and opening and shutting your eyes quite normally.'

'Now. Sure I am. I can move again and of course I keep opening and shutting my eyes just to make sure I can because, Prof, some of the things I've seen around here I don't ever want to see again. No siree. Not this side of hell I don't. And I got to tell you I don't smoke even joints after this trip. I don't know what it was I took but I OD'd on something fucking awful. I mean the Chemical Warfare guys ought to take some of my blood and look into it see what the fuck it was. They could scrap the Marine Corps with that stuff in the arsenal. And the battle tanks and win wars no problem. Jesus it was something else I can tell you. Still is half the time. I keep having this feeling I'm dead or something.'

'How extraordinary,' said the Bursar. 'It must be most unpleasant.'

Kudzuvine stared at him in horror. 'Unpleasant?' he squeaked. 'Unpleasant it isn't. It's…it's…hell, I don't even know what it is. Some old guy I think I've seen someplace comes in and starts fucking praying like I'm really dead and I can't move or say anything and I'm trying to but he won't listen and there's another guy and a nurse and Quasimodo in a wheelchair looking like he's measuring me up for something and when they're gone I have these terrible dreams about cooking brandy. You know what cooking brandy is, Prof?'

The Bursar said he had a shrewd idea but Kudzuvine disagreed. 'Not this cooking brandy you don't. Not the way I know it. You can't, it's not possible because it's in my fucking head. It's got to be the only place it is. Man, you know any good shrinks round here? Because when I have that dream I know I've got to be schizoid and I need help but bad.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' said the Bursar to keep on the right side of him. 'I take it it's a very nasty dream then?'

'When?' said Kudzuvine, getting disoriented again.

'When you have it,' said the Bursar.

'Is it ever. Jesus it's the worst, man, the worst. There's this monk, man, and a terrible old guy and I mean old and mean and terrible and I'm being held down on the floor and they've got this fucking rubber douche bag and…'

'I think we can miss this dream out,' said the Praelector loudly from the landing. Kudzuvine's mouth dropped open and he started violently. So did the Bursar.

'Did you hear that?' Kudzuvine demanded when he could speak.

But the Bursar had had time to think. 'Hear what?' he enquired.

Kudzuvine shrank down the bed. He had to be insane.

The Bursar changed the subject. "There's been something I've been wanting to ask you for some time,' he said. 'Mr Hartang told me he allows his staff to wear exactly the same clothes as he does because he wants the staff to be comfortable I think that's very considerate of him, don't you?'