The Ways of Paradox by Narya

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Pour, O Pour the Pirate Sherry

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Venue One still smelled of sweat and Red Bull from the Bop the night before, but the stage crew had worked all through Saturday to transform it back into a Cornish seaside cove. The rows of plastic chairs were back in position, the lighting rig had been double and triple checked, and Ariana's sore throat had cleared up after a few days of rest. Pre-show, our biggest problem was a broken police truncheon.

“I haven't got any spares!” Rosie wailed. “Xander's going to kill me!” 

“It's not your fault,” Theo pointed out.

“When has that ever made a difference?”

The plastic had split right at the base, and the offending prop now flopped uselessly in her hand when she brandished it. Immature giggles bubbled inside me, but I swallowed them firmly – Rosie didn't look like she'd see the joke.

“Pass it here,” I requested.

Rosie sniffed and handed the truncheon over. I placed my thumb over the base and pinched hard, then held it aloft. “There, look.”

“But Aaron can't walk around with it like that all night,” she objected.

“No, I know. Hang on.” I rearranged my face into the goofy, servile expression worn by the policemen, and stomped around imitating their loose, elastic gait – then, as I waved the truncheon at Theo, pretending to chastise him, I loosed my grip. Theo and Rosie exploded into hysterics as the truncheon wilted, and I gaped at it in mock horror.

“Brilliant,” said Theo when the laughter had eased off. “Rosie, go give that back to Aaron and show him what to do with it; tell him Claire's saved the day.”

I shrugged. “I'm a lawyer; if something doesn't go to plan, it's not a disaster; it's an opportunity.”

“A first rate opportunity?” 

I turned and grinned at the sound of Mark's musical tones. “Depends on what's gone wrong.”

He returned my smile, and nodded at Theo and Rosie. Other cast members called and waved across the green room as they spotted him; the nerves and animosity of last Saturday were nowhere to be seen. Xander, though, was heading in our direction, still scowling and carrying his pencil and notebook.

“Uh oh.” I got to my feet. “Right, team, look useful – I'd better go and get changed.”

“Me too,” said Theo, picking up his bag of pirate rags. “Mark?”

“I won't be a moment. I have something to ask Rosie.”

“I'm not sure I like the sound of that,” muttered Theo, throwing a jealous glance backwards as we headed for the toilets.

“Don't be daft. It'll be something to do with the costume.”

“Then what does she look so happy about?”

I glanced back too; Rosie was grinning and nodding enthusiastically. “Who knows? Trust me, Theo, he's not into her.”

“How do you know?”

I paused. In truth I didn't know how I was sure, but the more time I spent with Mark, the more certain I was that he wasn't interested in me, in Rosie, in Harrison, in anyone in the cast or even in the town. “Call it instinct. Look, why don't you just ask her out?” 

He held open the heavy doors out into the back corridor. “What, tell her everything?”

“No, you wally! Just...go for coffee with her. On your own. Or out for dinner or something.”

“Isn't that a bit obvious?”

“You'll have to give her a clue at some point, if you ever want it to go anywhere.”

He frowned. “Do you think she even likes me like that?”

“I think it's more likely than Mark being into her. Anyway, even if she doesn't now, she might after you've spent some time together by yourselves.”

“Is that experience talking?” he asked with a cheeky grin.

I elbowed him gently in the ribs. “Don't make me feel old. And unless you're planning to follow me into the ladies' loos, you need to go that way.”

***

As we assembled in the wings, cool nerves prickled in the lining of my belly and crept down my arms. There was still time for a cigarette; I reached into my apron pocket, then hissed as I remembered I'd thrown them all out. Instead I took a shaky breath, pulling downwards with my stomach, noting the sticky floor of the stage beneath my feet, the musty smell of cheap costume fabric and sweating bodies, the soft chatter of the assembling audience. It would be fine. It wasn't court. I'd done this before.

Just not for a while.

One of the daughters clopped past in primly-laced, mid-heeled boots, and suddenly I no longer saw the stage flats and the excited cast milling about; I was in the wood panelled chamber outside the courtroom, waiting to go in, listening to the sharp rustle of robes and the smart mick-mock of sensible shoes on the polished floor. Cold sickness crept through my body, paralysing, like the deep aching lethargy of a hangover laced with the lethal ice of adrenaline. It felt like being poisoned. Breath wouldn't come and I wanted to throw up but I couldn't because there was nothing there, I could never eat on court days, my throat would dry up and refuse to swallow...

“Claire?”

I hadn't realised I'd closed my eyes. Mark stood next to me. The other pirates were stretching and passing weapons around; Theo and Rob were whispering about something in a corner. “Sorry. Miles away.”

Mark tilted his head back towards the green room. “May I have your opinion on something?”

“Er – yeah. Sure.”

As I followed him out of the wings my legs felt cold and clumsy, wobbling like chilled custard. I took another deep breath through my nose – quietly, so Mark wouldn't hear – then let the warm air slip out gently over my lips and teeth.. Get a grip, woman.

It was deserted backstage. The crew were all in position, and Rosie had taken up her customary post in the wings. 

“Do not laugh,” Mark warned me,” and unlaced his shirt.

My momentary bafflement cleared when he held the silky garment apart, and despite his command not to, I couldn't help giggling. “Oh my. Please tell me that's not real.”

From his clavicle down to his abdomen snaked the curling tentacles of a giant kraken, inked in garish shades of turquoise and maroon. Only slightly less startling, even in the half-light of the energy-saving lamps backstage, were the sharp-ridged outlines of his muscles. Hastily I braked that train of thought.

Mark raised an eyebrow and looked offended. “Of course it's real!”

I folded my arms.

His wide-eyed, injured expression gave way to a wicked smile. “Alright, no, it's not. It's a transfer, but I didn't want to put it on until I'd spoken to Rosie. She was helping me with it just now.”

I remembered her grinning delight. No wonder she'd looked pleased.

“Don't worry, I won't give her any ideas.”

I looked at him sharply. He knew, then. Of course, she hadn't exactly been subtle about it – but it didn't seem to bother him. I supposed he was used to the attention. “Where on earth did you get it?”

“The card shop on Market Street – they had a bin full of Hallowe'en costumes and accessories on final clearance at the back, I suppose they're trying to make space for the Christmas things. I thought I'd go and see if they had anything piratical, and I found this.” He fastened his shirt back up over the top of it.

“But nobody's going to see it.” I hated to point out the obvious, but nowhere in WS Gilbert's script was the Pirate King required to remove his shirt.

Unfortunately.

Mark gave an enigmatic smile. “Oh, Theo and I have a plan.”

“Why don't I find that reassuring?”

Theo was waiting near the edge of the stage when we got back, leaning against a painted flat and whispering his lines to himself one last time. Rob, dapper as ever, was adjusting his waistcoat. I couldn't see the audience, but I knew Venue One was almost sold out; people were finishing essays and beginning the luxurious wind down to Christmas. A silly show about singing pirates was the perfect thing to kick off the festivities – although I felt a needling of guilt at the thought of my backlog of tutorial work.

Tomorrow's problem. Just enjoy this.

The shadows shifted and softened, and an expectant hush fell over the audience. There was a smattering of applause for the orchestra, and then the violins launched into the overture, and we were off.

There was something different about a real performance. The light felt sharper, the air thicker and heavier, tasting of makeup and hairspray and rosin. Even the pirates bumbling about on stage took on a strange, enhanced quality, hyper-real, as though we were watching them on high definition film.

“All OK?” Theo whispered in my ear.

I nodded – and meant it. Mark's ridiculous tattoo and the familiar rush of opening night had eased my nerves back to manageable levels.

“Good stuff. Mark?”

“Ready when you are.”

Theo grinned, passed him a rapier, and raised his own in salute. “'Truce to navigation!'”

“'Take another station,'” Mark returned.

“Save it,” I laughed as Theo opened his mouth to respond with the next line. The pirates returned from their onstage chores and assembled back in the wings.

Mark gave me a lazy wink. “Practice never hurts.”

“Neither of you need it. You'll be brilliant.”

The overture was done; there was a breath of silence, then the drumroll began, the lights flared white and crisp, and the pirates exploded onto the stage in a boisterous, capering riot.

“Huzzah!”

“En garde!”

Theo, Mark and I shared one last smile, and then they were on, jabbing and feinting and ducking, joyous grins splitting their faces. The pirates, expecting Mark's tricks and showboating now, gasped and cheered in appropriate places – as did the audience, I was relieved but unsurprised to hear. By the time I went on, Venue One was fizzing with energy and goodwill. I needn't have worried about the audience not responding to my song; even between the verses they chuckled and clapped, and at one point they let out a soft “aah” of sympathy at the Pirate King's wounded expression when I confessed Frederic had been bound as his apprentice in error. I gave Mark a glare that was only half in character.

Stop stealing my scene!

He widened his eyes into an expression that said, “Who? Me?” better than any puppy-face Harrison or Theo had ever given me.

The show wound its way through the ridiculous sequence of events that passed for its plot, and the pantomime incompetence of the policemen threatened to halt the entire production as the audience shrieked and wept with laughter. The response to Aaron's wilting truncheon, I was gratified to note, was particularly loud.

“Nice touch,” Theo whispered, waiting for his next entrance.

“Thanks. You guys all set?”

Theo glanced at Mark and nodded, and almost before the policemen had finished their doleful chorus, the pirates launched into the bouncing a cappella that preceded their entrance.

“A rollicking band of pirates we, 
Who, tired of tossing on the sea...”

I covered my mouth to muffle the snort that escaped as the policemen scattered in horror, bumping into one another in their panic and in some cases leaping into each others' arms. A lively call-and-response ensued, and as the policemen scrambled off the stage to hide near the orchestra, the pirates stomped on, bellowing cheerfully about how very quiet and stealthy they were being.

'With Cat-like Tread' was always going to be the number that brought the house down. The infectious melody, ludicrous lyrics and buoyant swashbuckling of the pirates never failed to lift an audience, even in mediocre productions – which ours, I noted smugly, was definitely not. Even so, this was something special. Invisible threads of energy seemed to bind the pirates together, every single one of them radiating confidence, their characters flowing beyond their skins and costumes and inhabiting the stage utterly. Their movements were sharp yet fluid, their leaps and turns executed so perfectly it appeared effortless – and Mark led them through it all, alternately chivvying his crew along and encouraging the audience, acknowledging them, gauging their involvement, lifting them with a wink or a grin when he judged they needed it.

At the end of the song, cheers and whistles flew gleefully over the applause. The pirates bowed elaborately in all directions, but the noise did not abate; the audience wanted more. We'd planned for this. Mark and Theo gathered the pirates back to the centre of the stage as the orchestra played a slightly slower introduction to the chorus, and they belted out one more iteration of the main theme, gamely high-kicking in time to the music like a troupe of can-can dancers. I thought of Rosie's whimpers of anxiety when Theo and Mark had practised this in the living room, and smiled.

Even this, though didn't seem to satisfy the audience; if anything, the cheers were louder and longer this time. I caught Rosie's eye. It seemed a shame to cut the performance short when they were so geared up, but we didn't have a second encore prepared – although Theo and Mark seemed to have ideas of their own. They strutted up and down the front of the stage, each of them holding a solitary finger in the air, mouthing, “One more?” at the audience, and beaming.

What are you up to? I wondered, amused.

Mark flashed me a momentary grin.

Eventually the orchestra got the message and struck up the main theme again. The pirates formed two lines from the back to the front of the stage, each row facing the other. Mark stood at the far end – then as they launched into the lyrics, there were gasps and shrieks from the audience as he backflipped down the aisle the pirates had created for him.

Jesus. Even I hadn't expected that, and I was ready for almost anything at this point. Xander would hit the ceiling afterwards – as, no doubt, would the Union health and safety team.

But the audience still screamed and stamped their feet, and then someone at the back started chanting like they were at a gig.

“We want more! We want more!”

It spread rapidly, rising in volume and deepening in timbre. Mark, behaving for all the world like a rock and roll front man performing for a stadium crowd, cupped his ear and feigned bemusement. He glanced back at Theo, shrugged, shook his head and began to walk away – and the shouts and cheers soared in pitch. He paused, turned, and once more held a questioning finger in the air.

“One more?” he mouthed.

The response was deafening. I felt a warm glow in my stomach like I'd been drinking red wine.

My God, does that man know how to work a crowd.

Mark gave a devilish wink and nodded to the orchestra.

As the familiar chords rang out once more, all the pirates formed a semi-circle near the front of the stage – except for Rob, who trotted about looking politely baffled by the whole thing. On the ascending sequence of notes that was their cue, the pirates ripped off their shirts and jumped up and down in time with the music, swinging their tops around their heads like football fans at a cup final. The stage lights were as hot as a green house, and it was an energetic number anyway; all of them were sheened with sweat, but they flung themselves into the chorus like it was the first time that night they had sung it, not the fifth. The whistles and cheers reached manic levels – and it wasn't hard to see why. Most of the pirates were in reasonable shape, and Mark, hideous fake tattoo notwithstanding, could have walked into a modelling career. 

I caught Rosie's eye, and we smiled at each other before bursting into giggles.

At the end, as the pirates roared one final time about stealing upon their prey and feeling their way with cautious dread, they let go of their shirts, and Rob gave a squeak of alarm as the garments flew here, there and everywhere across the stage. He scuttled around picking them up as the rest of the pirates basked in the adulation of the audience – who still wanted more, if the volume was anything to go by.

Enough now, I thought, even though my grin was fixed on my face, so wide that the bases of my ears were aching. It was one thing to give an audience plenty of what they wanted, but not at the expense of the rest of the show. Anyway, they couldn't possibly top that last encore.

Mark stepped forward, palm raised, demanding silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen – your indulgence, please.” He smiled as the racket subsided. “We haven't finished yet,” he explained.

It got a laugh. Everyone, of course, knew the show wasn't finished – and I knew he'd stolen the line from an Australian production from the 1990s, but I doubted many others would realise. 

It didn't matter; it had the desired effect. The audience settled back into their seats, and it was the pirates' turn to feign panic as the Major-General approached. They scurried back into the wings, some of them trying to wriggle into their shirts as they went.

“Well?” asked Mark.

“Mad – but brilliant,” I whispered. “Now get dressed, you're back on at any moment!”

The plot's silly tangles were gradually unravelled, culminating in the Major-General's daughters all pairing off with the policemen and pirates – who were revealed not to be pirates after all, but “noblemen who had gone wrong.” We took our bows to a medley of 'Here's a First Rate Opportunity,' 'Paradox,' and 'When the Foeman Bears his Steel,' with particularly loud cheers for Mark, Ariana and Theo, then we sang one final farewell chorus of 'With Cat-like Tread' – high-kicking this time, rather than backflipping or removing clothing. 

The audience were still on their feet clapping as the curtain fell. In a last-minute moment of inspiration, Aaron stuck his hand out between the two pieces of cloth and gave the audience a wave. There was one more chuckle, and then the applause died off. The sound of shuffling and chattering drifted through the curtain from the auditorium onto the stage.

“We did it!”

“Go team!”

“Bloody brilliant, Mark...”

“Ariana, that was gorgeous!”

Theo was nearest to me; with an excited squeal I turned and flung my arms around his neck. “Well done, you were amazing!”

“Thanks.” He hugged me back hard, lifting me off my feet, and I shrieked again. “You were great too – a scheming pirate wench from head to toe. And you!” He put me down as Mark approached us both. “Bloody backflips! That's not what we practised,” he added to me.

“I don't doubt it.”

Mark gave a nonchalant shrug. “One should always keep something back for opening night.”

“Opening and closing, in this case,” I said sadly. We'd only been able to book Venue One for one night, with all the Christmas events kicking off.

“All the more reason to get out and celebrate.” Theo looked around at the crowd of performers and crew members. “Where's Rosie?”

“She'll be collecting costumes and props back in. Anyway, we need to get changed first, and I've got to get this makeup off, I look about a hundred and twelve...”

Eventually we reconvened in the auditorium, where Harrison was waiting for us.

“Fantastic, guys.” He hugged Rosie and I, slapped Theo on the back, then turned to Mark and stuck out his hand. “Dude – thank you. You were incredible.”

Mark shook his hand, smiling. “You're very welcome. I look forwards to seeing what you can do next semester.”

“Come on.” Theo herded us out of Venue One. “Let's get next door and start the party!”

I heard a braying of post-pubescent male voices from the Union bar, followed by a chant of “Chug! Chug! Chug!” For a moment I felt like I was back in London on a Friday night, surrounded by Big Law graduates, running on alcohol, adrenaline and three hours of sleep. 

I glanced at Mark, whose expression told me he had no intention of going near what sounded like the First Fifteen's pub crawl. I saw his eyes flicker between Theo and Rosie, unwilling to disappoint, and rescued him. “All that noise makes me feel ancient. I'm going for a whisky in the Pat – and maybe nachos.” I chucked that out as a lure to the younger three. The piles of melted cheddar, tangy salsa and soggy tortilla chips were like a siren call to Harrison and Theo, and Rosie would follow their lead.

“Sold,” said Harrison immediately.

“Me too.” Mark looked deeply relieved.

Theo made a noise of indecision. “I told Byrdie and Seb I'd meet them for one...”

That explained it. His Harrovian schoolmates were both on the rugby team, currently necking pints of Tennent's across the hall. “Please yourself. Rosie?”

“Oh, Whey Pat, definitely. They have Jenga!”

I smiled ruefully. I had a feeling her enthusiasm was not for the pub's collection of games.

Theo knew it too, his eyes travelling jealously between Rosie and Mark. 

“See you later, then, bud.” Harrison set off, limping awkwardly across the hall. Rosie followed with a wave and a blown kiss to Theo.

“Yeah. See you.” Theo gave me a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Keep an eye on them.”

“Always.” On impulse, I gave him another quick hug. “And you behave!”

He gave me one of his signature cheeky salutes, then crossed the hall and disappeared into the throng around the bar. Another braying cheer rolled out of the doorway; evidently he had found his rugby friends.

Mark watched him go, silver eyes thoughtful. “It must be hard for him.”

“Sorry?”

He looked back at me, one eyebrow raised. “He likes Rosie, doesn't he? That must be difficult, living under the same roof when she's oblivious.” A crease appeared in his forehead. “She is oblivious, isn't she?”

“Oh, completely.” I glanced into the bar, but could no longer see Theo's messy mop of hair. “I'm impressed you picked all that up.”

He shrugged his right shoulder, smiling a smile that was half mischief, half sadness. “It's hard not to. They're somewhat obvious.”

“They're young.”

“You're young.”

“Older than them.” I narrowed my eyes. “And not much younger than you, I don't think, unless you've discovered some miracle anti-ageing formula as yet unknown to mainstream science.”

For a brief moment something like shock flitted across his face, as though I'd guessed too close to the truth – but how could I have, when the idea was so ludicrous? – and then all sadness and surprise were gone and his expression was carefully neutral, though still friendly. “Shall we? Otherwise Rosie and Harrison will drink the pub out of whisky.”

“Unlikely; Rosie hates the stuff. Anyway, have you been to the Whey Pat? Trust me, they're not going to run out...”

A short walk later, we escaped from the freezing November air into the thick stuffy warmth of the bar. I could smell the melting cheese from the kitchen in the back, and the yeasty, slightly sweet scent of real ale. It was busy but Rosie and Harrison had managed to claim our favourite table, in the corner near the dart board, and were setting up a game of Jenga. In the back room the folk band played a giddy, swirling version of 'Irish Rover.'

“What can I get you?” Mark asked.

I scanned the stacked shelves to the back and left of the bar, then shrugged and smiled. “Surprise me.”

He tilted his head. “Do you trust me?”

“To choose a whisky? Yes, I think so.” I held my arm out. “Here – I'll take your bag, then you're not juggling...”

“What took you so long?” Harrison gave me a knowing smile as I approached. Mark, perusing the whisky selection, didn't notice.

“Will you please stop it?” I hissed as I slid into my seat.

Rosie carefully slid a brick off the bottom layer and placed it on the top of the tower, a familiar sparkle in her eyes. “I'll have him if you don't want him.”

I tipped my head skywards. “I give up. I'm amazed we haven't scared the poor guy away.”

“Ssh!” Harrison jerked his head towards the bar, where Mark was now settling up.

I gave him what I hoped was a natural smile as he joined us.

“Here you are.” He slid one of the tulip-shaped glasses across the table towards me.

“Thanks. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, no!” I protested. “I should be buying yours, really; we've been drinking your wine and whisky all week, not to mention that you rescued our show.” 

Harrison glanced up at that and gave me a guilty smile, before returning to the Jenga tower.

Mark shook his head, smiling. “You got me out of the library, away from the periodicals, and doing something I love. A drink is the least I can do.”

“Don't you love your subject?” I asked, nosing my whisky. It smelled like burnt chocolate.

“It passes the time.”

I raised my eyebrows. Postgraduate degrees were a bloody expensive way to pass the time – although I'd already surmised money wasn't much of an issue for him.

He winced, as though reading my thoughts. “I know, I'm lucky to be able to do it. Only...” He paused, eyes clouding for a moment, then he sighed. “Never mind. It's hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

He didn't respond at first, staring into his whisky glass – but when he lifted his head and met my gaze, I had to suppress a shiver. It was like he was looking at me for the first time, his silver eyes cataloguing and assessing everything about me, gentle yet intense and deliberate. My forearms prickled and my cheeks heated. I wasn't afraid, exactly, but somehow it felt as though he'd caught me naked – then he glanced at Rosie and Harrison and looked away. If he'd been considering explaining more, he changed his mind at that point; when he turned back to face me the piercing, unearthly look had gone, replaced by the neutral smile. “Do you like the whisky?”

I knew that was it for now. I sipped the deep gold liquid in my glass and let its warmth spread over my tongue and across the back of my throat. It was sweet and nutty, and softer than it smelled. “Gorgeous. What is it?”

The guarded mask slipped a little as his smile took on a teasing slant. “Guess.”

“No!” I laughed. “I don't know enough, I wouldn't know where to start – other than it definitely isn't an Islay.”

“Try.”

I leaned back. “You like your guessing games, don't you?”

He shrugged, his features once more impassive. 

“Fine.” I sipped again. Walnut, butterscotch, cocoa. “Arran?”

He smiled and raised his glass to me. “Eighteen years old.”

I dreaded to think what it had cost. “Great choice. Thank you.” I tipped the glass in a circle so the liquid coated the sides and clung on in flowing stalks. “You obviously know your stuff.”

“I obviously have too much time on my hands.”

“That's not what I meant at all.” The bitter, anxious tones of Alfred Prufrock tickled in my brain, and once again I pushed aside the guilt I felt about my coursework. I remembered his wistful comment about doing what he loved. “You should come to Quaich Soc – the whisky tasting society.”

At that moment Harrison and Rosie's Jenga tower collapsed across the table, to much shrieking and laughter. Harrison looked up with a grin. “You should,” he agreed.

“I'll think about it.”

“Five quid for five drams, you can't argue with that.” Scooping up the bricks, he looked up at his gaming companion. “Rosie?”

“What, whisky?” She started to shake her head, then looked at Mark and gave an elegant shrug. “Maybe.”

Don't encourage her. I tried to give him a subtle glare, and passed him a Jenga brick that had escaped into my lap. Carved into the top of it by some bored punter were the words “IRN BRU.”

“Or you could always tread the boards again,” I said to Mark. Rosie and Harrison were boxing Jenga away, evidently planning to switch their mode of entertainment. “Xander wants to do Les Mis next term.”

He looked interested at that. “I've always wanted to play Valjean.” He met Harrison's eyes, smiling. “Although I'm sure I'll have a fight on my hands, once you're fit again.”

This time Harrison's answering smile was a little cool. “I wouldn't let you have it easily, that's for sure.”

“You could both be in it.” I eyed Mark speculatively, thinking of his magnetic performance as the Pirate King. “You'd be perfect as Enjolras.”

His smile flickered. “Aren't I a little old?”

“I don't think so...anyway, under the lights, who'd notice?” He still seemed hesitant, rolling his whisky around in the glass and avoiding my eyes. “Come on, you'd be brilliant – waving that flag at the top of the barricade, stirring Paris into revolution...”

“I don't think so.” He drained his glass and pushed his stool back, scarred hand tensed in a fist at his side. The melted flesh was streaked red and white. “Please excuse me; I should go.”

“What did I -?”

“Nothing.” But it was too quick, too sharp. “I'm behind with my work. I hadn't realised the time.”

I passed him his bag, blood heating my cheeks, though I had no idea what I'd done or said. “Well, maybe we'll see you at Quaich Soc next week?”

“I'll let you know.” He nodded to Harrison and Rosie. “Harrison – get well soon. And give my regards to Theo.”

After he'd left, Harrison, Rosie and I looked at each other. In the back room, the folk band's violinist played an unaccompanied, soulful rendition of 'Leezie Lindsay.'

“Tell me I didn't say anything offensive,” I pleaded eventually.

They both shook their heads.

“Maybe he just really wants to play Valjean.” Harrison shrugged. “Fine with me. Enjolras leads the best song in the show.”

“I doubt it's only that.” Rosie stacked the final Jenga bricks in the box. “But he definitely didn't want to play Enjolras.”

***

We debated staying for nachos, but it felt like the gloss had gone from the evening after Mark's sudden departure. Rosie decided to meet some Physics friends at Ma Bell's, but Harrison and I headed for home.

“Cheer up.”

I looked at him, wrapping my arms across my stomach to protect from the vicious wind. “Hmm?”

“You've been in a glump since Mark left.”

In spite of myself I laughed. “A glump?”

“A rare and peculiar hybrid of gloom and grump, often caused by an excess of alcohol.”

His speech was deliberately slow and enunciated. “What on earth were you drinking?”

“Amrut cask strength,” he admitted.

I rolled my eyes. “I still can't believe you're old enough to drink.”

“Well, I am, and have been for quite a while.”

“A year and a half. That isn't 'quite a while'.” Somewhere up ahead I could hear a loud, tuneless rendition of 'With Cat-like Tread.' Clearly someone had enjoyed the show. “You hungry?”

He smiled. “Always.”

Twenty minutes later we were back in our front room with Simon and Garfunkel on the stereo, sharing a large, cheap, takeaway pizza smothered in garlic butter, chilli oil and spicy processed beef.

“I know it's not good for you,” Harrison said with his mouth full, “but it's so bloody delicious.”

“I don't know how you and Theo manage it. I'm going to be the size of a house by the end of my course.”

“You could join a sports team. Or go running – that's how we keep it off. Well, OK, not so much at the moment,” he added at my raised eyebrows. “Or there's the stables. You used to love riding.”

I hadn't been in the saddle for years. “Maybe.” I looped a strand of cheese over the end of my pizza slice. “I wish I knew what I'd said.”

To his credit, Harrison followed my train of thought effortlessly. “I don't think you should beat yourself up. It was something to do with that whole Enjolras versus Valjean debate, but I don't really think it was about him wanting the main part.”

“No, neither do I.” I didn't know Mark well, but such pettiness didn't seem to fit his character.

Harrison sucked thoughtfully on a pizza crust. “Don't you think there's something a bit...off about him? I like him, don't get me wrong!” he added swiftly as I opened my mouth. “Or I think I like him – no, don't snap!” He held up his hands as though fending off the verbal attack he'd pre-empted. “Jesus. Let me get this out; I'm not even sure I've got it straight in my own head. I hadn't thought about it until tonight.”

“Sorry.” I leaned back into my chair and tucked my knees up under my chin. “Go on.”

“This isn't about him taking my part in the show; I know that was my own fault, and it was pretty amazing of him to step into the breach like that. And you're right, he does seem nice, but don't you think it's all very...I don't know what the right word is...practised? Polished? A bit like the sugar coating on a Smartie. Along comes this guy who's super good looking and super charming and super talented, and everyone's crazy about him – but if I stop and think, I have no idea what sits behind all that. We know nothing about him at all.”

“We've only known him for a week and a bit!”

Harrison shook his head. “It doesn't matter. People let things slip. You know that, you're trained to watch out for it, right? Little things; it just happens naturally in conversation. “Oh, that place? My Grandma lives there.” “Oh, that film? I like that too!” “Oh, spiders? I've been terrified of them since my brother locked me in my uncle's cellar when I was four.” You see? People do it without thinking – unless they've got something to hide.”

I sipped the beer I was clutching. It was cold, bitter, metallic. “So you think Mark's hiding something?”

“Well, he's nowhere on the internet.”

“Not you too!”

“Come on, Claire, no Facebook is one thing, but this guy's like a ghost! It's 2011, for crying out loud. Everyone has a digital footprint.” He took a sip of beer. “You've noticed stuff too, haven't you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I had half an ear on your conversation earlier.” At least he had the good grace to look apologetic. “Look, I'm not saying he's an escaped axe murderer. In fact, I don't really know what I am saying – except that I think there's more there than we're seeing at the moment, so whatever got to him in the pub, it's not your fault.”

I thought about the scraps I knew from the stray remarks he'd made – his lack of a family, his inability to settle, his vague explanation for his injury. “He's ex-military. That might explain why he seems guarded; he probably doesn't want to talk about the past. He might not even be allowed to,” I added, wondering for the first time exactly what the nature of his service had been. He didn't seem like a typical foot soldier.

Harrison nodded slowly. “Is that how he got that hand?”

“Yeah.”

“Where was he? Iraq?”

“I don't know. Does it matter?”

“Well, it might explain why he didn't want to play Enjolras.”

I tilted my head. “What do you mean?”

“That barricade scene is brutal – gunshots, smoke, blood...”

“Oh.” Suddenly I felt stupid for not seeing it. My stomach twisted.

“Pirate swordfights are one thing. But if he's seen active service, I can't imagine he'd be in a hurry to re-enact the Paris Uprising.”

“No, you're right.” I took another swallow of beer. “Damn, I should have thought...”

“Why would you? Especially if he doesn't talk about it.” He put down his beer and leaned forward. “Go and see him tomorrow, if it worries you that much. You know where he lives, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then.”

I stretched my legs out, smiling reluctantly. “So you're giving me advice now. Wow. My sort-of big sister role will soon be redundant.”

“Never.” The familiar mischievous glint returned to his eye. “Anyway, screw all that. We've got an important decision to make.”

“What's that, then?”

“Who gets to eat the last slice of pizza?”

We stayed up late drinking cheap lager and playing Buckaroo, and I tried to forget about Mark. Rosie texted just before one to say she was crashing at a friend's place out on the Scores, and at half two there was a scrabbling at the door as someone tried and failed to lift the latch. 

“Theo,” I groaned, at the same time as Harrison said, “Bloody hell, he sounds like the velociraptor from Jurassic Park...”

“What?”

“You know, when it's trying to open the door to get at the kids...”

I got up to let him in, my annoyance tempered by the fact that he'd actually come home – that suggested he was probably just drunk, as opposed to anything worse – but whether by luck or judgement he managed to make the door swing open. It squeaked on its hinges, and I smiled tolerantly at the sound of him wrestling with his coat and stumbling around trying to take off his shoes.

“Hey, Theo,” I called.

“Hi.” He was pale-faced and unsteady, but he gave a proud (if wobbly) smile as he announced. “I came back!”

I bit back a giggle. “So I see. Sit down; I'll get you some water.” I cast my eyes over him quickly as I passed him to get to the kitchen, but there were no signs that he'd ingested anything harder than alcohol. I exhaled softly.

When I returned to the living room he had leaned over the back of Harrison's chair and engulfed him in a bear hug. “You're a beautiful, beautiful man, Harrison...”

“Put me down,” Harrison grinned, pushing ineffectually at the arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“OK, OK.” Theo straightened up again, and swayed a little. “Ugh...”

“Theo?” I put the glass of water down.

“I've had a few.” His complexion was rapidly draining from pale to grey. 

“I can tell. Come on, let's get you to bed.”

“Bed. Yeah.” He took a couple of steps forward, one hand on the edge of the table. “Oh...the cat...”

“Cat?”

“Yeah. The grey one. It's in...it's in the stairwell again.”

And then he slid sideways and vomited neatly into the empty pizza box.