be all over it. There’s no room for fuck-ups, no room. One mistake, one slack drill, boom.’
The door to the garden opened, and a handful of guests poured out. Will put his mask back on, stubbed out his final cigarette and turned to hug one of the girls.
After half an hour the party started to fill up, the music got louder and, it seemed to Tom, the guests got a bit edgier. Back inside, Will liberated a bottle of vodka from somewhere and they tackled it; they were only interrupted by the arrival, Tom was amazed to see, of the same man in the Harlequins shirt who Jules had confronted outside the pub earlier. He didn’t recognize Tom. Evidently he was also one of Will’s gap-year cookery gang. Will greeted him with no particular enthusiasm and they were forced to talk to him, or rather listen to him, trapped in a corner by his boorishness. Tom got restless. Who the hell was this bloke? As if he had heard him, the man thrust out his hand. ‘Sorry, chap. Didn’t say hello. Jonty Forbes.’ Tom winced. He hated being called chap. He squirmed his hand forward and had it crushed by his new acquaintance.
Jonty changed tack: ‘What say we get this party going, amigos? Your nostrils as hungry as mine?’
Tom watched as Jonty grabbed a fold-out table, wrestled with it and finally succeeded in erecting it with an undignified grunt of triumph. Drawing up a stool he cut some cocaine into lines using a credit card, ostentatiously wetting his forefinger, dabbing it on the powder and then rubbing itonto his gums. Will was encouraging him: ‘Wow, thanks, mate. This is really kind of you. Is it good?’
‘Good? The best, pal!’ Jonty looked at his deftly drawn lines with pride.
Will egged him on: ‘Go on, Jonty, we’re in. Put some more out. I’m good for the cash.’ Delighted, Jonty emptied out a packet to form a little mountain of white powder on the table. Out of his wallet came a twenty-pound note, which he rolled into a tube.
‘Right, who’s first?’
‘No, after you,’ said Will.
‘OK. Get your skis out, lads, because here comes a blizzard!’ announced Jonty as first one, then two lines disappeared up his nose, reminding Tom of films about aliens coming to earth and beaming up unsuspecting humans. Manfully, Jonty was about to tackle the third line when out of nowhere Will kicked the table away, seized him by the throat, lifted him up and slammed him back against the wall.
‘You twat! Do you have no idea that your fucking drug money goes back to fund the same cunts who blow up my soldiers?’ he screamed at him, eyes blazing with unblinking hatred, mad in his skull. He looked to Tom as though he thought he was back in Helmand in a firefight with the Taliban, in a one-track mania to kill. Jonty’s own eyes bulged out of his sockets, his eyelids unable to close around them. Will drew his head back as if to butt his quivering victim, and Tom winced in anticipation, but then he stopped, blinked and said quietly, in a low snarl of contempt, ‘I’d headbutt you if it wasn’t going to kill you. You make me sick, you piece of shit.’
He threw Jonty to the floor, where he choked and spluttered, his face pasty with dribble and cocaine. Will looked around him and calmly addressed the cowed crowd: ‘Sorry,everyone. I think I’ve ruined this party. Oh well. Come and visit me when I’m in Selly Oak lying in bed with no legs. Or come to my funeral and pretend that you were my best mate. Enjoy your spreadsheets and calculators. I’m going.’
As Will turned away, the hapless Jonty, with a speed that belied his girth, leapt to his feet and charged at him. As if on autopilot Tom stepped over the fallen table, drew his fist back, threw it forward and smashed him back to the floor again. ‘And stay down, prick,’ he snarled, amazed at how infectious Will’s anger was. He turned to leave.
Will clapped him on the back, and as they pushed through the onlookers Tom stopped dead, rooted in front of a girl who had
The door to the garden opened, and a handful of guests poured out. Will put his mask back on, stubbed out his final cigarette and turned to hug one of the girls.
After half an hour the party started to fill up, the music got louder and, it seemed to Tom, the guests got a bit edgier. Back inside, Will liberated a bottle of vodka from somewhere and they tackled it; they were only interrupted by the arrival, Tom was amazed to see, of the same man in the Harlequins shirt who Jules had confronted outside the pub earlier. He didn’t recognize Tom. Evidently he was also one of Will’s gap-year cookery gang. Will greeted him with no particular enthusiasm and they were forced to talk to him, or rather listen to him, trapped in a corner by his boorishness. Tom got restless. Who the hell was this bloke? As if he had heard him, the man thrust out his hand. ‘Sorry, chap. Didn’t say hello. Jonty Forbes.’ Tom winced. He hated being called chap. He squirmed his hand forward and had it crushed by his new acquaintance.
Jonty changed tack: ‘What say we get this party going, amigos? Your nostrils as hungry as mine?’
Tom watched as Jonty grabbed a fold-out table, wrestled with it and finally succeeded in erecting it with an undignified grunt of triumph. Drawing up a stool he cut some cocaine into lines using a credit card, ostentatiously wetting his forefinger, dabbing it on the powder and then rubbing itonto his gums. Will was encouraging him: ‘Wow, thanks, mate. This is really kind of you. Is it good?’
‘Good? The best, pal!’ Jonty looked at his deftly drawn lines with pride.
Will egged him on: ‘Go on, Jonty, we’re in. Put some more out. I’m good for the cash.’ Delighted, Jonty emptied out a packet to form a little mountain of white powder on the table. Out of his wallet came a twenty-pound note, which he rolled into a tube.
‘Right, who’s first?’
‘No, after you,’ said Will.
‘OK. Get your skis out, lads, because here comes a blizzard!’ announced Jonty as first one, then two lines disappeared up his nose, reminding Tom of films about aliens coming to earth and beaming up unsuspecting humans. Manfully, Jonty was about to tackle the third line when out of nowhere Will kicked the table away, seized him by the throat, lifted him up and slammed him back against the wall.
‘You twat! Do you have no idea that your fucking drug money goes back to fund the same cunts who blow up my soldiers?’ he screamed at him, eyes blazing with unblinking hatred, mad in his skull. He looked to Tom as though he thought he was back in Helmand in a firefight with the Taliban, in a one-track mania to kill. Jonty’s own eyes bulged out of his sockets, his eyelids unable to close around them. Will drew his head back as if to butt his quivering victim, and Tom winced in anticipation, but then he stopped, blinked and said quietly, in a low snarl of contempt, ‘I’d headbutt you if it wasn’t going to kill you. You make me sick, you piece of shit.’
He threw Jonty to the floor, where he choked and spluttered, his face pasty with dribble and cocaine. Will looked around him and calmly addressed the cowed crowd: ‘Sorry,everyone. I think I’ve ruined this party. Oh well. Come and visit me when I’m in Selly Oak lying in bed with no legs. Or come to my funeral and pretend that you were my best mate. Enjoy your spreadsheets and calculators. I’m going.’
As Will turned away, the hapless Jonty, with a speed that belied his girth, leapt to his feet and charged at him. As if on autopilot Tom stepped over the fallen table, drew his fist back, threw it forward and smashed him back to the floor again. ‘And stay down, prick,’ he snarled, amazed at how infectious Will’s anger was. He turned to leave.
Will clapped him on the back, and as they pushed through the onlookers Tom stopped dead, rooted in front of a girl who had
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