28. All Bikes on the Western Front #2
Briar reads the beginning of the introduction again as the kettle comes to a rollicking boil, quivering in place until it clicks off and Westby fetches the teapot.
‘Oh,’ he says, staring down at it stupidly. Briar looks too. It’s full to the brim with untouched tea. ‘Ah well. Cold now, needed some fresh anyway.’
‘What was it you said about consideration? An exchange of value?’
‘Mmm.’
‘So what are you offering, to . . . to God, or the universe, or whatever? You get the Work, and they get . . . ?’
‘It’s all the effort you put into learning and understanding the fucking things.
The story goes that the first Working was an agreement that hard work and bloody labour would have to be put in to understand them, and doubly so to create any more, which is why it’s damn-near impossible to get right and takes at least a hundred years. ’
‘What does God get out of that?’
‘What does God get out of anything? The guy’s a despot and a pervert.
Maybe he just likes to watch me sweat.’ Westby solves the teapot problem by opening the window and dumping the cold tea out, and then plops a couple of Earl Grey teabags in and refills it.
‘I mean, exchanging something of value for labour is par for the course. And hard work alone is Godly as fuck. You don’t have to actually be building a two-storey extension on the back of heaven. It’s enough to just be doing the work.’
‘The Work,’ Briar says, emphasising to capitalise.
‘Exactly.’
‘Do you believe any of this?’
Westby picks up a brown-stained spoon and pokes at the teabags, probably trying to squeeze as much caffeine out of them as possible.
‘Well, the Work works. So I believe there is an agreement with some higher power. I don’t particularly care who, as long as they keep the lights on.
’ He blinks down at the tea, suddenly seeming unsure of himself, like he’s remembered something important.
‘Are you—?’
‘Do not ask me if I’m okay.’
Briar picks up the lid and drops it onto the top of the pot with a small ceramic clink. ‘Okay.’
There’s a single knock at the door, and then it’s shoved open.
‘That’s not really how knocking works,’ Tate says, following Hadley into the room.
‘Hello,’ she says. ‘We’re going to break into that janky vending machine in Baldwin and strip it and then get high and watch films in the tower. Oh - hi, Jones.’
‘Hi.’
‘You look bad.’
Briar glances over at Westby’s antique mirror. There are dark bags under their eyes, and their bruising has gone a sickly yellow. ‘I had a bit of a weird night.’
Tate brightens. ‘Oh yeah, how was the formal?’
‘You went to the formal?’ Westby looks aghast. ‘The summer formal? Did you wear a little outfit? Did you wear a mask?’
‘I did,’ says Briar. Everybody’s looking at them. They realise, suddenly, that they should have rehearsed a version of this story to recite now. ‘I went to see Bastian. We’ve been . . . talking.’
‘You’re my hero,’ Hadley says, in a breathy falsetto. ‘Shit, though, seriously - that’s great. Fourth Trial’s coming up. It’s going to be impossible for any of us to get close, but if you’re there . . .’
‘In grave danger,’ prompts Tate. ‘In harm’s way. Briar’s not going to the fourth Trial, Hads. Any of us take another step towards Mons and Alistair will probably actually kill us.’
‘Not to mention,’ says Westby, ‘the fact that Wolfe is a human atom bomb. You shouldn’t go anywhere near him, Jones. He should have one of those signs on him that stops people walking into electrical substations.’
Briar doesn’t say anything. How can they? They can’t tell fact from fiction any more when it comes to loving Bastian and pretending to love Bastian. They can’t even trust their own memories.
‘Whatever. We can talk about this later. Westby, put down your pen, you’re holding it like it’s a knife. Let’s go smoke a blunt and watch Heathers.’
Westby throws the pen, outraged. ‘We’re not watching Heathers again. If I want to watch people cunt around in blazers I can go to one of Milly’s equestrian nightmares.’
He does get up, though, and then they all troop over to Baldwin where Hadley can’t get the vending machine to glitch in her favour and can’t convince Briar to shake it until it gives her what she wants, so they have to hand over money in exchange for goods - consideration, Briar thinks - and then they go to the tower, crack open the window so that Hadley can light a joint, and bicker about what film to watch on the laptop until Briar puts on Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
It feels soothingly normal. Briar needs that, right now.
‘What’s this about?’ Hadley says, squinting dubiously at the opening titles. ‘God, I hate that they used to put all the credits at the front. Makes me feel sleepy.’
‘You haven’t seen it?’ Briar asks. ‘It’s basically a Western buddy movie about a hot throuple.’
‘Okay. I’m in.’
They all manage to cram themselves onto the sofa, and then when that gets too annoying, Hadley drags over one of the armchairs and curls up in it, tucked into the wingback.
She checks the time on her phone about half an hour into the film and says, ‘S’cuse me, fellas, off for a walk,’ grabs her bag and disappears.
‘Where’s she going?’ Briar asks, as the door closes. ‘She’s going to miss the bit where he rides a bike.’
‘Why the fuck are they riding bikes in this Western?’ Westby grumbles, arms crossed over his chest. ‘Ride a horse, you charlatans.’
Tate’s nose wrinkles. ‘She’s meeting Rochester.’
‘What? Rochester’s back in? Again? Christ, the man’s like a novel respiratory virus. I thought last time was the big break.’
Briar is a little too high not to say, ‘Why is she sleeping with a teacher?’
Tate and Westby exchange a look, and Tate coughs. ‘She says she’s not actually fucking him. They just talk.’
Westby huffs through his nose. ‘And we say, “Oh, that’s all right, then, as long as he’s just obviously grooming you.”’
‘She says you can’t be groomed if you know what grooming is, but that’s obviously bullshit.’
They watch Paul Newman ride his bike around and Briar assumes Westby is at least a bit charmed by it, because he doesn’t complain that it’s not a horse, and eventually Hadley comes storming back in, sits down on the steps and produces a squat, dark bottle of spiced rum from her pocket, which she takes a generous gulp from before offering it around.
‘Nice walk?’ says Westby.
‘We’ve broken up again,’ says Hadley. ‘So yeah, thanks, it was great.’
They lapse into silence, watching Butch and Sundance bullshit their way across South America.
Briar catches Tate watching Westby, whose gaze has drifted out of the window as he taps his fingers irritably against his own knee, teeth worrying his lower lip; the next time they look, Westby has fallen fast asleep.
‘Hey,’ Briar says quietly. ‘Can you ever tell? When someone’s Working? Like . . . a feeling, in the air?’
‘No,’ says Tate. ‘Well, you wouldn’t, but scholars kind of can, if they really pay attention. If you know it well, you can recognise the parts of it that are being used. It’s how you build up your defences against it.’
‘Right,’ Briar says, watching the rise and fall of Westby’s chest, the angelic expression of total peace on his face.
When the film ends, Tate is asleep too; Briar’s media player ticks over to the next file in the folder, and with alphabetic inevitability, Casablanca begins to play.
‘You want me to—’
‘Nah,’ says Hadley. ‘I know this one.’ She’s almost finished the rum, but she offers the dregs to Briar, who accepts.
‘Hadley,’ Briar says slowly, because the thought is skimming too close to the surface, ‘I think I . . . really hurt somebody.’
Hadley rolls her head over to look at Briar. ‘What, like, made them cry?’
‘No, like . . . put them in the hospital.’
‘Oh. When?’ she says, bleary-eyed but interested. ‘Last night? Today?’
‘No. A long time ago.’
‘Did they deserve it?’
Briar thinks of Seb’s long-suffering, dead-eyed silence as Jason whispered poison in his ear. ‘I don’t know. He wasn’t a particularly nice person.’
‘Then it’s fine,’ she says croakily, shaking her head, like Briar’s odd for thinking twice about it. ‘Good, even. Good for you. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Yeah,’ Briar says, even though their stomach feels like lead.
The laptop flickers black and white over their faces, and Hadley’s eyes close.
Briar thinks she’s drifted off, when she says with surprising clarity, ‘Go see Wolfe, yeah? Find out about the next Trial. But be subtle. It’s important,’ and then turns over and does fall asleep.