Banquet for the Damned

CHAPTER ELEVEN

'Leather jeans. What were we thinking?' Dante says. 'What kind of impression are we going to make?'

'The right one,' Tom replies, casually. With his fingertips he pinches the black silk shirt off his collar bones and stares down his body, his face lit with pride. The untucked shirt sways over the belt buckle that supports his skin-tight leather jeans. Tossing the unruly mane of hair from off his face, he says, 'What is this, a f*ckin' costume?'

Dante shakes his head and sucks on a cigarette. There is no point in arguing – Tom went to his own mother's funeral in jeans and then dressed in brown leather trousers to watch Beechey, a friend of theirs who leaped to his death from a block of council flats, laid to rest. He would not change for anyone and people were never offended by Tom's clothes; he added a chic touch to anything frayed, faded, or torn. With his easy gait, his height, and the chiselled face enhanced by his raven hair, he should have been a model when the agencies were recruiting long-haired men, but it was too much of an effort for Tom, and the thought of going to a gym had appalled.

It is nine o'clock and still light. Dusk washes above the town in a dark-blue skyscape, mingling its lofty depths with purple and black streaks of cloud – a science fiction sky, Dante muses, with the stars almost airbrushed between the drifting vapours. The kind of sky you see on the covers of Prog Rock albums. He likes that about Scotland. You get those skies up here.

Turning from the silent Scores, they enter the rear lawn of the Quad through a garden gate, and emerge behind the immensity of St Salvator's College. As they marvel at the multitude of broad windows, the path leads them between large glass globes of white light, mounted upon black iron posts. The lawn they circle has been mown as flat and perfect as an English bowling green and is bordered by high walls thick with ivy. It separates the Quad from the Scores, and only the higher gables and turrets of the other colleges are visible over the wall. Following the path, they walk beneath a small arch into the Quad proper. St Salvator's tall square tower, with its red clock face, stands opposite them with an arch at either end. Parallel fifteenth century halls run down from the chapel, all lit from within to cast an amber glow over the paths and darkened central lawn of the court, of which Lower College Hall provides the base, completing the square.

'This is it,' Dante says, turning to survey the front of the palatial building. They walk toward the stone staircase, which narrows as it rises to the large wooden doors – now open to welcome the cool night air and guests. Dante and Tom drop their cigarettes, grind them out beneath the soles of their polished biker boots, and then kick the little flat butts under a holly bush.

'You know,' Tom says, his grinning mouth signalling the approach of raucous laughter, 'it's gonna go like really quiet when we walk in. Everybody is going to stop talking and then turn around to look at us. All of these professors and their uppity wives.'

'Stop it. I'm bricking myself as it is,' Dante says, but he too feels the first tremor of hysterics.

'Man, I'm going to lose it in there, I swear,' Tom says, his shoulders already twitching.

'No you're not,' Dante warns, his whole body stricken with fear, and his mind now conjuring a picture of them both racing back out of the Orientation, laughing, with tears on their cheeks. When one of them becomes possessed with hysterics, the other inevitably joins in; it has been the same since school. He hesitates at the foot of the staircase, not daring to catch Tom's eye. The caution is unnecessary; Tom skips up the stairs and disappears through the doors. Dante is compelled to follow.

Resplendent with a high ceiling, the long walls of the hall are covered in vast oil paintings housed in ornate rectangular frames, featuring dignitaries from the university's long past, all assuming gigantic poses. They glare from under powdered wigs or push their chests out, invariably clad in black, with massive pink faces and white eyebrows beneath imperious foreheads. A long table, covered in a white cloth, has been erected on the left side of the hall and twinkles with a hundred glasses. Between the glasses, a host of platters is filled with food.

Several of the guests, dressed in formal attire, but not black tie, turn and look at Tom and Dante. Their eyes do not linger for long. Dante feels his chest tighten and his leather trousers set like concrete around his legs. 'Come on, let's find Eliot,' he says to Tom, who is making eyes at the food and drink.

Dante steers himself through the centre of the crowd, which is predominately male and middle-aged. He looks around for Eliot, ever anxious to avoid the occasional pair of curious eyes that turns toward him. After he passes through the main body of the gathering, he checks the seats lined against the walls by the small round tables at the head of the room, where people sit and eat. Tom is no longer behind him, lured away, no doubt, by the promise of food. Then he sees Janice, from the School of Divinity, on his left, and he smiles at her. The smile is not returned. She twists her pale neck and whispers into the ear of the man on her right, his face distinguished by a long jaw. He immediately looks up at Dante, and stares right at him, his face unmoving, the intensity of his look only broken when he turns to mutter into Janice's ear.

She keeps her haughty face turned to Dante and continues to watch him as he back-pedals through the crowd. He knocks against a man clad in tweed, wearing a bow tie. He apologises, then flees to find Tom.

And as far as he can see, Eliot is not here. Maybe he is late, he hopes, holding back any paranoid musings about being stood up. The only eyes upon him are those of Janice and the tall, long-jawed man, now joined by a squat bald man in a three-piece suit. They have followed him through the crowd and seem content to hang back and stare.

Dante turns his back on them; there is no law against assisting Eliot and he's been invited to the party by a member of staff. He can think of nothing, besides his inappropriate clothes, capable of provoking such a reaction from three strangers. What is it in their eyes: disapproval or apprehension?

Before he can take another step toward the distant shape of Tom's sleek head, a hand falls on his shoulder from behind. Dante swivels about to find himself staring into the face of the fat man who previously stood with Janice and long-jaw. 'Hello there, I'm Arthur Spencer. Hebdomidar of the university. I hear you've been asked to attend to some important work. With Eliot. Eliot Coldwell.' The voice is pleasant and the large bald head gleams like an opaque marble. Confused, Dante accepts the hand, which is pudgy, pink and hairless. He shakes it gently, as if a firm handshake will bruise the man's scrubbed paw. But at least the eyes are friendly: small, blue, and enclosed by pink-rimmed eyelids and gingery lashes, the skin resembling uncooked pastry as they close and then tremble after a blink.

'Not exactly,' he replies, but likes the sound of what the man has suggested. 'I don't really know what my role will be. To help with research and things, I guess. While I put some of his ideas to my own music. Oh, sorry. I'm Dante. Up from the Midlands.'

'Well, I am afraid you will get little from him tonight, Dante. Eliot has failed to appear. It's a dreadful shame, you know,' he adds, with a gentle shake of his head, expressing pity as if Eliot were ill. 'But wait here and I shall get you a drink.' Arthur Spencer bustles to the refreshment table, pausing once to greet another member of the faculty congregation.

There is no way around it: Eliot has failed to show. It is a 'dreadful shame', the man said. What is he to make of this? What does he actually know about Eliot, beside the stories in Banquet and a handful of letters reiterating the individual's need for a purposeful vocation? Eliot loaded him down with books after a strained and sometimes spiky first meeting, and now he's been tailed since arriving at the party.

Arthur Spencer returns, holding two glasses of white wine, mincing his way on small nimble feet between elbows and heads thrown back to laugh at punchlines Dante has not heard and does not expect to understand even if he did. Arthur offers the glass. 'There you are, sir.'

'Cheers.' Despite his dismay, there is something he wants to like about the Hebdomidar. Besides a couple of shopkeepers who sold them cigarettes, this is the first friendly face he's encountered in St Andrews. He forces himself to remember the man's surname. 'Mr Spencer?'

'Arthur, please,' the Hebdomidar says.

He gulps the Chardonnay down and relaxes. 'You said it was a dreadful shame?'

Arthur takes a breath, cocks his head to one side, makes an attempt to speak and then stops.

'What?'

'Well, how well do you know Eliot?'

He welcomes the inquiry; it gives him the opportunity to seek reassurance.

'I met him a couple of days ago, for the first time, and he was all right then.'

Arthur smiles, and nods at what sounds like a familiar story. 'So the research, and this talk of his book. How did this come about?'

'Banquet for the Damned is my favourite book. Our next album will be a conceptual record about it. And I've been writing to Eliot, on and off, for a year. A few weeks ago, he suggested I become his research assistant. To help with his second book, so I jumped at the chance. To meet him more than anything. And it'll help our music. You know, being close. It's an acoustic project.'

'Really,' Arthur says, frowning. 'You mean to say you never met the man before? Extraordinary.'

'Yeah, never even spoke to him on the phone. Maybe I should have done, before he went and arranged our accommodation and everything.'

There is a perceptible hardening of the man's features after his mention of accommodation. 'We?' he asks.

'My friend, Tom, came too. He's the guitarist in the band.'

'I see. And you had no, how shall I put it, no prior knowledge of Eliot other than his book and the letters?'

'That's right. But don't look so surprised, we were desperate to get out of Birmingham. It turned into quite an adventure, with that arm on the beach and everything.' Dante wants to continue and tell Arthur about the scream, but the man becomes immediately uncomfortable at his mention of the arm. There is an awkward silence, until Arthur ends it. 'You are a writer?'

'No. Besides lyrics for songs, if that counts.'

'But Eliot has a publisher for the second book?'

'I don't know. Maybe he'll write it first and then, you know, look around.'

'Look around, of course.' Arthur seems to deflate with relief. Then his face adopts a quizzical expression. 'Do you think a publisher will be receptive to a book by Eliot?'

Dante nods. 'Of course. Banquet is a classic. It's a crime it's still out of print. But things do come back and what Eliot said is important.

Although,' Dante adds sheepishly, 'you might not think so.'

'On the contrary. It's a fine read. Although I haven't perused it for years. A little unsavoury in parts I fear, and there are far healthier ways to achieve enlightenment than experimenting with the black arts.'

'I see that as just a metaphor, for raising your consciousness. You know, like with poetry or meditation.'

The man nods, studying him for a time before speaking in the tone of a confidant. 'Well Dante, it may surprise you, but I have known Eliot for practically all of my adult life. We were at Oxford together.'

'I envy you that,' Dante says, out of his depth again.

'He has always been a good friend. But . . . and this might be hard for you to digest, particularly after coming so far, Eliot is not the man he was.'

Dante holds his breath.

'I can see confusion in you already, Dante, despite your admiration for him. But there have been hard times in his life and it is best that you are made aware of certain facts. It's only fair that I put you in the picture. He has problems. Serious problems. He is subject to embarrassing digressions and, well, some quite abnormal behaviour. You see, I doubt whether he's capable of writing the book.'

Arthur sighs. 'This is so hard. I find it so touching that his book has been such a positive influence on a young man, and on a musician too. But Eliot has been unwell recently. You could say he never really recovered from an unconventional youth. And to be absolutely honest, and you deserve nothing less, it was his travelling and certain episodes that Banquet was based upon that began his illness.' He emphasises the word 'illness', and raises his eyebrows as if to impart a further cryptic embellishment.

'But don't take this the wrong way, Dante. He was once a force to be reckoned with, and made an excellent contribution to his faculty.

But that was some time ago.' The man's voice softens. 'I tell you this in confidence. There are alcohol problems. And I'd hazard a guess that Eliot needs to attend to his personal problems now. Rather than launching into a new project. It's all quite serious, I'm afraid to say.'

'I don't believe this,' Dante mutters. 'It can't be right.'

'I know it must be difficult for you.'

'But the other day he was fine. I mean he was lucid and clever and –'

'There are rare moments of clarity, but on the whole, I am afraid . . .'

'What about his partner, Beth. Can't she help?'

Arthur closes his eyes for a second. 'Dante, perhaps we had better sit down.'

They sit on the other side of the hall, beside the refreshment tables. A short distance away from where they sit, Dante notices Tom. He holds a plate loaded with food and he speaks to a young blonde woman in a black dress. She stands close to him, smiling.

'Dante,' Arthur says, as soon as they are settled, 'Beth and Eliot have an unconventional arrangement. I am really not sure it is my place to divulge so much, but I think their days are numbered in this town. St Andrews is a quiet place. Young people come here to receive an excellent education, and there really is no room for the more unconventional aspects of academia. If you follow? A great risk was taken in inviting Eliot to lecture here. It was only his considerable knowledge of religion that encouraged the university to go out on a limb and invite a somewhat controversial figure here in the first place. Beth was a student of Eliot's, and their relationship did not befit his position. I am afraid he has let a great many people down. His students, his friends, and ultimately himself. I suppose I am trying to tell you that Eliot has been unethical. He lost his effectiveness a long time ago. Perhaps even in the fifties. Prison must have been hard for him.'

The words fall like axes. 'Prison?'

Arthur nods. 'Turkey. And Haiti.'

By looking at the floor, Dante attempts to conceal his shock.

'Over the last few years,' Arthur continues, 'Eliot began to drink again and suffer from certain lapses of memory. And, well, the rest has been a rather unfortunate mess. I am afraid he is incapable of taking lectures, and hasn't produced a credible paper in years. It is only through the generosity of another of our circle from Oxford, the Proctor, that he is still with us in a consultancy role.'

Dante sinks into his chair; the sounds of clinking glass and scraping cutlery amplify to a swirling clutter of noise in his ears, and his head feels unnaturally heavy. The voices in the hall are louder now, mocking, laughing at his impetuous journey and pitiful hopes of escape. If what this man says is true, he has driven four hundred miles to assist a man ridden with dementia. But what this Spencer says makes sense. It explains Janice's reaction when he first went to the school, as well as Eliot's cryptic dialogue, and the eyes of the staff tonight.

Arthur's voice seems to drift across to him from another dimension. 'So sorry, Dante. If there is anything we can do to help . . . Perhaps we can assist your interest in Eliot with our recollections. After all, we knew him in his prime. And what a prime. Captained his county, you know. One of the first to climb . . .' Arthur's voice trails off. His jowly face suddenly reddens.

'I believe I may command the best position to impart my résumé, Arthur.'

Dante sits stunned, bewildered by both Arthur's reaction and the unexpected sound of Eliot's voice. Arthur rises from out of his seat, wearing embarrassment on his face like clown paint. There is something else too, setting that grin fast and making his small eyes flick about. It appears as if he is frightened. Arthur Spencer looks down at Dante and mumbles something about a visit to his office on North Street.

'Sure,' Dante says.

'Bloody fool,' Eliot says, watching the Hebdomidar move away through the crowd on his journey back to Janice and the long-jawed man, who still watch with a keen interest. 'Over there, Dante, are three clever debunkers. You know what a debunker is? A person who lacks imagination, Dante. Who can only thrive in the material world. Their dull creed replaced spirituality with a new god of economics. But what has that achieved? People are dissatisfied, bored, unfulfilled. Those three can do nothing but mock the intuitive and the creative. Like us, Dante, who flee the everyday world and seek a meaning through our endeavours. We are the fortunate ones.' The words are bitter and come fast, Eliot's breath polluted by whisky, his eyes struggling to focus. But Dante finds the words exhilarating and far closer to what he loves about Banquet.

Eliot then slumps into the chair Arthur Spencer vacated. The speech appears to have exhausted him and, as he leans forward in his chair, he winces as if suffering from back pain. For a while he looks past Dante and glares at the trio across the hall, who finally turn their faces away. 'Forgive me, Dante.' His words are softer now. 'We were friends once. Good friends.'

Dante nods, inspired by Eliot's words and angry at himself for even daring to doubt the man. People like the Hebdomidar are clever orators, capable of playing with your emotions by feeding you lines. Every genius is despised in his own time, and he knows a thing or two about envy: the band scene at home is brutal. And, after all, what is a Hebdomidar? He has no idea, but the name conjures an association with administration. Maybe this Spencer is a money man. And Janice runs an office. How could they understand Eliot? 'I hear you,' Dante says.

'I know you would never doubt me, Dante. It is important that we trust each other. Am I right?'

'Absolutely.'

'Good. You would do well to steer clear of them. There is unfinished business and I do not want it interfering with our collaboration.'

'No. Not at all. I'm all yours, Eliot. You can trust me.'

'I know,' he replies, but looks away from Dante.

From where he is sitting, Dante can see that Eliot has closed his eyes. 'Are you all right?'

Eliot nods, but keeps his head bowed until the moment of pain has passed. 'Beth is here,' he says. 'She has plans this evening with –' he pauses, a struggle to remember the end of the sentence he's begun '– with friends, but would like to meet you before. You should meet her.

She looks marvellous tonight.'

'Sure.'

'But there is a slight problem, Dante. You see, she refuses to come inside. There is bad blood here, between Beth and certain members of staff. I can only apologise, but you must become accustomed to our habits. I suppose I have always been on the run from something. An outcast if you like. And Beth, somehow, became tangled in a little unpleasantness too. But don't worry, I have faced far greater perils than a trio of bureaucrats.' He pats Dante on the shoulder in a fatherly manner. 'Can I ask a favour, Dante?'

'Yeah. Of course.'

'Spend some time with Beth. You'll like her. Get to know each other. I suspect you may become close. I think it is important if so much is to be shared.'

He feels uneasy again. Surely Eliot's not suggesting anything amorous? He has to calm himself and stop being so malleable. 'You won't be there?' he asks, a touch of nerves registering in his voice. But Eliot is distracted again; his eyes wander about the hall. Dante is about to repeat the question when Eliot turns to face him. 'She won't bite you, Dante. Not unless you want her to.' The malicious grin is back.

In addition to feeling foolish, confused and now awkward, he struggles to dampen his suspicion. 'I'd love to meet her. We can get talking about the work.'

'Yes,' Eliot interrupts, his grin turning into a fragile smile, as if he were disappointed that Dante has failed to accept some voluptuous and tempting bait. 'I have something to take care of, but you should go to her. She's outside. Waiting for you.'

Rising to his feet, Eliot suddenly gasps. One tremulous hand reaches to his back. Dante scrabbles to assist him, but Eliot bids him sit with a waft of the hand. 'Wait until I'm gone,' he adds in a whisper, and then staggers from the hall, leaving Dante alone. Not being asked about his progress reading Eliot's books is fast becoming the evening's only salvation. He considers finding Tom, to discuss the alarming exchange, but notices his friend is still closing the gap with the blonde by the refreshment table.

Becoming almost psychotic for a nicotine fix, he leaves the hall after Eliot has gone. And the benefits of the night air, outside in the deserted quadrangle, are immediate. He sits upon the stone wall by the holly bushes and front steps, and finds his cigarettes in his denim jacket. It is darker now, the last vestige of twilight having deserted the sky to summon a greater silence and a legion of new shadows into the court. Leaning back, he takes several long drafts of cigarette smoke into his lungs and tries to get his thoughts straight. Nerves prevented him eating much of the salad Tom prepared for dinner, and the one glass of wine he's guzzled makes his head spin. A sudden influx of nicotine into his system turns his brain-judder into a dizzy spell. He looks around for Beth.

No sign of her, and where has Eliot gone? They've said virtually nothing to each other since his arrival, and now he won't even stay around to introduce him to Beth. Instead, he has to go outside and find her for himself. What is it all about? Can the man only tolerate his company for brief periods of time? And this Beth: what is Eliot trying to suggest about their working relationship? Looking at the sky, Dante dares to whisper, 'Don't let my hero be a f*cked-up, alcoholic pervert.' Then he sniggers, looking forward to unloading it all on Tom. And thank God he has Tom with him. Here he is, sitting outside after being warned off by the university authorities and deserted by his host, while Tom closes in for the kill on a babe in a designer dress. There is little he can do but shake his head at another preposterous situation in his recent life.

And where is this Beth? Eliot said she was waiting outside, but there is no one in the Quad, just him with his visions of an early return to the Midlands. If things continue to get much worse, what other choice will he have? Trying to explain the whole improbable mess to Tom will be awful, before the packing of their bags and the journey back down the M6 to a greater uncertainty. And, if he is honest with himself, Birmingham is out of the question. They now have nowhere to stay, no parental support left to drain, and not even a friend they can bunk with. Everyone in their crowd is already living four to a damp house, on housing benefit and only crawling out of bed to sign on or to rehearse in a studio. Ill, drunk, crazy, unpopular: Dante has no choice other than to give Eliot the benefit of the doubt. He looks at his cigarette, to acknowledge an old friend, and reminds himself of his own creed: to distrust anyone like the Hebdomidar who wears a suit.

'Dante,' a far-off voice calls.

He starts at the distant sound of his name and looks up. Across the dark grass of the central court he sees a young woman. She stands between the wide arches of the chapel's cloisters. She is tall and dressed in black. Her hands are concealed in the deep pockets of a long winter coat that sweeps around her ankles. Her hair is dark and pulled back from her narrow features. The face, although indistinct, suggests refinement to him: pale, the eyes large, and the nose thin.

Peeling himself from off the stairs, he begins a slow walk across the lawn, puffing on his cigarette as if it were his last. As he approaches, she raises a hand, gloved in leather, and waves to him. On her distant face he senses a smile and he returns the wave, hesitantly.

From about fifteen feet away he is able to see her more clearly: her skin white and smooth across her high cheekbones, her mouth wide and lips generous. In her early twenties, he guesses, and at least six foot tall in her heels.

Smiling, he sidles toward her. Huddled within the confines of the coat, she seems reluctant to emerge any further into the quad. Her lips are painted a bright red and return his smile. Her teeth are perfect but dark, or so it seems. Must be the shadow. When he stands before her, she lowers her astonishing eyes, as if glancing down with embarrassment at the realisation that a blush has stained her cheeks.

'Hi, Beth,' he says.

Something pulls taut inside of Dante when she laughs. The sound hums from the top of her long nose, which wrinkles in a way he thinks delightful. She offers a gloved hand. 'Hello, Dante.' The sound of her soft Highland accent makes him go warm inside, and he remembers Tom mentioning the voice of the checkout girl. It was like honey, Tom said, and he understands the comparison: smooth, sweet.

He stops smoking and as he accepts her hand, he cradles her thin fingers, and only through a conscious act of resistance does he quell the urge to stroke the soft leather of her gloves. She smiles again and lowers her eyes to the ground, where the tips of her patent boots peek out from beneath the hem of the woollen coat. Dante struggles to find words, any words, and finds himself unable to do anything but stare at her with a mute wonder, while still holding onto her hand. Is she Eliot's lover? What did the Hebdomidar suggest about their relationship? And how can Eliot trust any man around her, let alone encourage them to meet her? Is it all a game?

He thinks back to Banquet and the descriptions of Eliot's free loving exploits in his exploration of Tantric rituals. Surely Eliot was not suggesting that anything intimate should pass between them?

Squeezing his fingers into his palms, he tries to defend himself against the unreal night, with its arboreal smells, old shadowy stones, and big fairy-tale globes on giant candlesticks.

Like someone who has watched him for years and never had the courage to speak, Beth continues to smile at him. She seems bashful, but eager for something too. A notion of love at first sight comes to him. Is this what it feels like when you see a stranger and know something significant and unspoken has happened that will never vanish? 'You must be cold out here,' he says, imagining words are unnecessary, as if communication could be telepathic between them.

'Just a little,' she replies, and he marvels some more at the melody in her voice.

A silence falls between them. Dante raises his eyebrows; he is nervous, and considers another cigarette to hide behind.

'I am sorry that we had to meet like this,' Beth says. There is something in her manner that makes him presume she is relieved to see him. 'But you came, Dante. I am so happy. Your letters were lovely.'

His voice seems to originate from outside his body. 'You read them?'

'All of them. And I want to make it up to you. For all of this. You have every right to be angry.'

'Angry?' Dante says, transfixed by her. 'I'm not angry, Beth. I'm grateful. It's a dream come true. It's an honour to meet Eliot. And you . . . You took me by surprise. I'm sorry for staring like this.'

'Thank you,' she says, and as her stare pierces him, the hairs rise along his spine, from the nape of his neck to his tailbone. She moves forward, her coat covering a hush of static as her long legs descend a stair between the chapel arches. Leaning forward, her smooth face moves closer until it nestles against his cheek, where she leaves a cold kiss. A press of lips that pass tiny arctic prickles across his skin and encourages him to close his eyes. 'Eliot wants us to become friends,' she whispers, bathing his face with her sweet breath. 'We have so much to share, Dante. We both have a bond with Eliot. A bond existing before we even met him.'

'You liked Banquet too?' he asks, unable and unwilling to open his eyes in case she vanishes.

'It was the reason I went to him.' Her voice is strong in his ear, and her slender body sends out little charges of electricity across the narrow divide between them, stinging him in a way that feels good.

'You were a student here?' Dante asks. He opens his eyes, but it is hard to focus. Her blurred face is at an angle, and occupied with a study of his mouth.

'Yes,' she says.

'And Eliot, he is all right, isn't he? The Hebdomidar said he had an illness.'

Beth steps back, away from Dante, the look on her face mischievous.

'He is well enough for me.'

'I wasn't suggesting anything,' he stammers.

Beth smiles. 'I'm teasing you already. Sorry.'

'No worries,' he says, instantly relieved that she is not really displeased.

She stares past him and into the distance. 'It may surprise you, but you were my idea. I saw your pretty photo that came with the music.

And I knew you would be right for him. Your arrival is important to us. We are so close now.'

'Why do you have enemies?' he says, astounded that anyone could hold anything against so fair a girl.

'They?' she says. 'They are nothing. Even though they want to remove us, Dante, they are nothing. They can't even imagine what we have seen. What you will see.' Beth looks up at the sky and a tear moistens the corner of her eye. Her bottom lip trembles. Dante feels a surge of emotion inside, a need to comfort her, to do anything to soothe her. His hands make an ineffectual movement forward and then fall back to his sides. He wants to say something meaningful, but he is still full of the beautiful young face, as if this sudden longing has become a seizure. 'I'll help,' he whispers, a lump in his throat.

'So much has happened. And we need you now.'

'For what?' he hears himself ask.

'There isn't time for me to say. We must meet again.'

'Anytime. We could . . . You could . . . There's coffee back at mine. It's still early. I could take you home later.'

Beth shakes her head and dabs her eye. 'Meet me in St Mary's Court the night after tomorrow. Come at eleven. There will time for us then. Tonight, I just wanted to see you. For his sake.' Her eyes widen just enough to suggest the unthinkable, and Dante feels his stomach turn over. His vision dances, drunkenly, and he blinks hard, as if trying to stay awake in a warm car on a long drive. She turns to go.

He feels a sudden pain in his gut. 'Wait. At least let me walk with you.'

'No,' she says, with her back to him. Then she issues a gentle little laugh, as if to mock but also cherish his ardour. His face reddens, and he feels dizzy again. His head fills with a swarm of recriminations, doubts and ecstasies as she walks away. He loses his balance and takes a step back. What is he thinking? She could be involved with Eliot. Didn't Eliot refer to her as his partner? But what does that mean? It seems like such a tame expression, lacking in commitment: an association without an emotional tie.

Her soft voice floats through his confusion. 'You'll know soon.'

He nods and struggles to understand her strange signals, but she has already folded away, through the dusk of the cloisters. And as she goes, he sees her face in profile, looking out toward the Quad's perimeter walls, black with ivy and rustling with draughts. In the dark, her eyes appear to have closed, and her lips part to suggest the anticipation of a passion about to be requited. And then she is gone from sight and all he can hear is her heels tapping as she runs away from him, across the cobbles and through the arch to North Street.

He wavers on the path, stunned. He feels sleepy, as if she has physically fatigued him, but he is ecstatic too: a schoolyard princess has smiled, a crowd has roared, his voice has reached an operatic peak. Anything seems possible. And she kissed him; he can still feel the alien frost of her lips freezing through him.

Unconsciously, he finds himself walking through the arch after her, testing the air for her perfume with his nose and tongue. He looks along the wide tarmac river of North Street, hoping to see her with some equally delightful friend. But Beth is gone. All that remains of her is an imprint of her face in his memory, set alight by eyes so green and clear they astonish him. Eyes that read his letters and understood him.

Dante pulls his cheeks down with his fingers, the way he does when trying to wake up and shrug off a doze. The wine must have been strong, he guesses. Maybe the sea air and the shock of Beth's beauty have added to the effects of the drink and have deepened this muddle in his head. He is reminded of being drunk in a rock club, where sensual opportunities lurk around the flashing dance floor, and new faces look across to lure him over to fresh mouths: the high Tom could never resist. Something has come to life in him.

He turns back into the Quad and combs his fingers through his hair. How long has he spent scratching around in Birmingham, when all this was waiting a mere road trip away, like some beautiful dream you try to return to every night? Dante crosses the lawn and, as he walks back to the hall, he thinks of Tom inside with the blonde girl. Tom's contact with her reassures him. Competition between them for Beth could prove fatal. And all he wants now is another opportunity to be with Beth, alone. It will be for the best.

Something runs down the Wynd at speed, on the other side of the Quad's western wall. Dante pauses to listen to the skittering sounds. A new breeze stirs through the rose bushes and the ivy. He shivers. A dog? He feels relief when the sound fades . . .

Whistling, he tries to shake the remnants of the dizzy spell from his head; he still feels odd. With a yawn, he fishes inside his pocket for a cigarette and decides to head for home. Eliot and the Hebdomidar have worn him out. He just wants to roll a fat one, open a cold beer, and allow nothing else to interrupt his thoughts of Beth.