A Dream of Wessex by Christopher Priest

Author:Christopher Priest [Priest, Christopher]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Science Fiction
Publisher: Faber and Faber
Published: 1977-04-13T23:00:00+00:00

seventeen

The meeting lasted all day. In the evening, as they walked along the corridor to the dining-room, Paul fell in beside her. John Eliot and Mander were a few yards ahead of them; Mary and Colin walked a few paces behind.

Paul said: ‘I want a word with you.’

She stared ahead, trying not to acknowledge him.

Each table was set for four, and Julia headed for the one she had used at lunchtime. Paul followed, and sat at the same table. John Eliot saw this, and came over to them.

‘I expect you two have a lot in common,’ he said, smiling at Julia.

‘Old college days,’ Paul said. ‘Which year did you take your finals, Miss Stretton?’

As Eliot went over to sit at another table with Mander, Julia said softly. ‘You can drop the pretence, Paul. I’m going to tell them.’

‘What? Everything? You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Everything they need to know. I’m not the only one who doesn’t want you here.’

‘Tell them whatever you like. Suits me. Are you going to tell them about the money?’

‘What money?’ Julia said at once.

‘The fifty quid you owe me.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ A movement by the door caught her eye, and she turned away from him, her face reddening. It was Marilyn, and Julia waved to her to come to the table.

Julia went through the motions of introducing her to Paul, but inside she felt a deep, familiar dread. She knew which fifty pounds Paul meant, but it didn’t matter. Not now.

Paul said to Marilyn: ‘You’ve just saved Julia from an old debt. She owes me fifty pounds.’

Marilyn laughed. ‘I thought you two had only just met!‘

‘He’s joking,’ Julia said, and forced a laugh of her own.

One day they’d had a row. Why it was that day and that row didn’t matter ... it was just one of dozens. Paul had won an office sweep, and he had come in from work brandishing the winnings. He was talking big in those days, wanted to set up on his own. Julia - it felt like a different Julia now - had spent the day job-hunting, was tired and bitter. An argument had started, the row developed. At the end, Julia had snatched the money from where he’d put it, stormed out of the flat. Stupidly, stupidly, she lost her purse, and with it went the money and her door key. Afterwards, he would only let her in after she wept and knelt outside the door, and he’d pushed her on the bed and possessed her violently. There was a parting shot, there always was with Paul: the worst fifty quid’s worth he’d had. That week.

Later he told the story for laughs, changing the facts to suit his own vanity. He always told the story in her presence, always got his laugh. After that, whenever money was mentioned, any money, he always somehow equated it with sex.

The surface of the dining-table was deep-grained, dark- polished wood, and Julia stared at the rush place-mat in front of her, shifting it with her fingers and making the cutlery tinkle.

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