‘I’m not in the mood, Ji,’ I said. ‘Sorry. I’m tired. How was your day?’

  ‘I found something spicy on rotten.com.’

  I raised my eyebrows. Spicy usually meant grotesque.

  ‘No blood. Much more fun. Sony has just released a new camcorder with a “nightshot” infrared feature.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘It was meant to be for looking at critters at night. But guess what? It allows you to see through clothes! X-ray vision! They’ve tried to recall the product – 700,000 have been sold – but it’s too late. A Japanese men’s magazine has just exposed the mistake. The nightshot function works best with dark clothes in bright lighting. Twelve websites have already posted footage of women in swimming costumes.’

  ‘Including rotten.com,’ I said. ‘You need to get out more, Ji.’

  ‘OK, no problem,’ he said briskly as I walked into my room and closed the door behind me.

  I’m very fond of Ji, his loyalty, eccentric mannerisms, mischievous sense of humour and excellent taste in malt whisky, but I sometimes wonder if I’m his only proper friend here. He’s at his computer when I leave every morning, and at it still when I return in the evening, but his door is always open, as if he’s hoping that someone might drop by, which makes me feel permanently guilty.

  It had been a full day of lectures and seminars, but I was looking forward to Louis’ party later nonetheless. I wanted to see Clio, and if I’m being really honest, I wanted to experience a slice of that glamorous student life that I keep glimpsing but am never invited to join.

  Someone had left a card for me at the Medical School reception. I sat down on my bed and pulled it out of my pocket. It was from Clio.

  I meant what I said yesterday. Please don’t come to Louis’ party tonight, whatever he might have told you about it. I came to your room this morning to talk to you in person, but you’d already left. Yesterday was fun – let’s not spoil the memory. xx

  What did she mean by not spoiling the memory? And why was she so keen for me not to attend the party? Throughout the anatomy class, I’d kept looking around, just in case Louis had managed to inveigle himself into the lab and film the cadavers. I’d come to realise he wasn’t exactly trustworthy, but I still wanted to go to his party. I lay back on my bed, hands behind my head. My plan was to have a quick nap before heading over to Louis’ house.

  A knock on the door. I could tell at once who it was.

  ‘Yes, Ji?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe what else I’ve just found on rotten.com.’

  ‘I’m not interested in X-ray vision, Ji.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘And I don’t want to see another cock-chop video.’ He tried to show me one the other night, but I refused, much to his surprise.

  ‘It’s not cock chop either. I think it’s another video of that kid who jumped. You know, the redhead.’

  I sat up on my bed. I didn’t want to see more footage of him falling, but I was intrigued by what Ji might have found.

  ‘What’s it show?’ I asked nervously.

  ‘It’s weird, man. Kind of a sex thing. Drugs too. Lots of Bolivian marching powder.’

  I’m not sure how old his English tutor is in Shenzhen, but Ji’s slang is always very retro, steeped in the world of 1970s movies. A minute later, I was leaning over his shoulder as he played me the video, barely able to believe my eyes. The footage was, as Ji suspected, of Aldous, shot in a dimly lit room with another man. I didn’t want to ask how he’d come across it. Both were naked as they snorted coke and started to have sex.

  ‘Jesus, that’s a bit explicit,’ I said, turning away. All I could think of was the argument I’d witnessed on Mathematical Bridge between Aldous and the female student. And then I remembered the rumours about a job interview. This wasn’t exactly a show reel to present his finest legal skills.

  ‘A pinky – that’s class,’ Ji said.

  I hoped that ‘pinky’ was more retro slang and referred to the rolled-up £50 note that both men had used to snort the coke. Ji played it over again. It was obvious that neither man knew they were being filmed, but it wasn’t clear where or how the footage had been shot.

  Was this why Aldous had called Louis evil? Because he had secretly filmed him having sex and taking drugs? I tried to think rationally, like a lawyer. There was no proof of Louis’ involvement. It was pure conjecture on my part. Both videos – the King’s College death and this one – had appeared on the same website, but then again, the website was dedicated to hosting shocking videos. It didn’t prove a causal connection in the real world.

  ‘And this has only just appeared on the site?’ I asked.

  ‘Couple of minutes ago. I keep an eye on the site so I don’t miss anything. Sometimes the best videos get pulled down very quickly.’

  ‘What a shame.’

  ‘Do you want to play a videogame tonight?’ Ji asked, still looking at his computer. ‘Mortal Kombat 4? It’s got great 3D computer graphics. We could get a pizza, maybe—’

  ‘Sorry, Ji, I’m going out tonight. Maybe another evening.’

  ‘OK, no problem.’

  His tone was cheerful, but I knew he was disappointed, which made me feel more guilty than usual. Maybe I could have played for a bit before heading out to Louis’ party, but I’m not really into computer games. Last week he tried to get me to play Mario Party on his Nintendo 64. I’d been at lectures all morning and cutting up dead bodies all afternoon. I was so tired that I fell asleep.

  I couldn’t stop thinking of the covert footage as I dressed to go out, a process that took longer than usual. Mostly I just chuck on anything I can find, but I wanted to fit in at the party. Casual but stylish, black rather than bright colours. It was the uber-cool arts set, after all. I thought again of the footage as I reverted to my trusty T-shirt and jeans. Would Louis really film something like that? Two people on a punting trip to Grantchester was one thing; a cocaine-fuelled sex session quite another.

  ‘“Dance like somebody’s watching,”’ Ji said from his doorway as I headed off.

  ‘“Nobody”, Ji – it’s “dance like nobody’s watching”.’

  But I wondered if Ji’s version might be right.

  25

  ‘Keep talking to me,’ Adam says on his mobile. ‘He can’t have gone far.’

  ‘He’s probably just popped to the loo,’ Tania says, reverting to her usual calmness. Adam would be running hysterically through the house by now, calling out Freddie’s name.

  ‘Double-check with your parents and then start looking outside,’ Adam says, picturing the layout of the property. He can see it all so clearly. The stable block is on one side of the main courtyard, opposite the garages. The windows of the stable block at the back open onto an orchard, bordered by a thick beech hedge. Freddie can’t have gone far if he climbed out of the window. It’s at ground level, but he’s never done anything like that before. Adam has – once. He closes his eyes at the memory. Stupid. So stupid. He was reading a story to Freddie at the time. It was about a monster who was scared of children and had climbed out of the window to get away from a little boy. Adam had decided to demonstrate how the monster had done it…

  ‘Where are you?’ Adam asks. ‘He might have climbed out of the window.’ The other option is too awful to contemplate, that Freddie might have been taken by Clio, to see another puppy… ‘It’s my fault if he’s climbed out.’ It’s his fault too if Clio’s taken him. ‘I’m sorry, I once—’

  ‘He’s here,’ Tania says, matter-of-factly, but he suspects she’s more relieved than she sounds. ‘It’s OK, he’s safe. He’s here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘With Dad, in his garage. You’ve got to stop scaring me like that, Adam. Jesus. Stop being so bloody paranoid all the time. I’ll call you back.’

  Adam can hear Crispin, Tania’s dad, apologising in the background. ‘I know it’s late, but he couldn’t sleep and he loves his Scalextric car,’ he is saying.

  Tania hangs up before Adam can hear or say any more. He leans against the kitchen island, head bowed, and lets out a sigh of relief too. Thank God Freddie’s safe. He probably wandered over to the garages to see Crispin, who couldn’t resist an opportunity to show him a new piece of track. The Scalextric set is already huge, but he’s always adding to it: a chicane here, pit lane there. Crispin’s like that, as all grandfathers should be. Mischievous, untroubled by routine and children’s bedtimes. It’s just such a shame that he doesn’t like Adam. Never has.

  Adam wants to take a train down to Wiltshire tonight, to be with them all, but Tania wasn’t exactly encouraging. Understandable, given the photo she was sent of him with Clio, but he needs to reassure her in person. It’s proved impossible to argue his case in texts and over the phone. He’s about to look up train times when something catches his eye on the dresser, where Clio had moved her mobile to charge it. He walks over and picks up a card, propped against a mug. It looks like it could be one of Freddie’s, something to help young children learn the alphabet. One side is dark crimson. On the other, written in big black text on a white background, a single capital letter: ‘S’. But Freddie’s a quick learner and mastered the alphabet a while back.

  He pours himself a Talisker whisky and sits down at the table with the card, trying to work out what’s happened today, weigh up every possible explanation, eliminate the most unlikely. It’s conceivable that the photo could have been sent by a neighbour. Clio had come back into his life seeking an affair, was politely declined, and left, presumably for France to look after her mother. Should he go round and confront Lynda next door? She’s surprisingly handy with modern technology. But would she really send a photo to Tania?

  He takes a long sip of his whisky, clenching the glass until he can see the whites of his knuckles. Clio knew exactly what she was doing tonight. He walks upstairs, taking the card with him, and retrieves the video player from under their bed. This time he will force himself to watch the whole film. Glass of whisky in hand, he presses play and sits back.

  There he is, having lunch with Clio at the restaurant, drinking champagne. Louis had managed to film for quite a while before he was spotted outside. The film cuts away to Grantchester Meadows, panning across the bucolic setting. And then the lens focuses on a distant punt, emerging from the dripping willows into a pool of sunshine. It’s him and Clio. Adam shifts in his seat. He’d forgotten how in love he’d felt that day. As if on cue, he is kissing Clio on the riverbank. It’s a tasteful, long-range shot, but how the hell did Louis manage it? For a brief moment Clio looks up, staring directly at the camera like she did tonight. Adam freezes the shot. Had she seen Louis? Was it anger in her eyes? Defiance? Or something else?

  He presses play again. Now he’s cycling down King’s Parade, seemingly without a care in the world. Where was he off to that day? At this point the video is still what it was meant to be: innocent highlights of his life, a typical day in the life of a first-year medical student, give or take a bit of artistic licence. The next shot hints at the darker tone to come. Adam still remembers his surprise when he spotted Louis standing opposite him at the stainless steel dissection table in the Anatomy School, camera lens poking out from under the white coat he’d just picked up. He was only there for a few seconds, before the roll call, but long enough to film the cadaver’s exposed heart and lungs. It’s been more than twenty years, but Adam would recognise that body anywhere.

  ‘Colin’ played an important part in his student experience – the dissection classes were a rite of passage for all first-year medics – but his corpse should never have been filmed. It could have got Adam thrown out of university. But that’s nothing compared to the film’s finale, what happened that night at Louis’ party. Why did he insist on going? Was it just for the glamour? Or was he hoping that some of that effortless Cambridge confidence might wear off on him, the shy boy from Newlyn? Clio had warned him enough times. But still he went.

  26

  May 1998

  I stopped off at the college bar for a quick pint before heading over to Mortimer Road, where Louis lives. Tim, who’s set on becoming a neuroscientist, invited me over to join a group of medics, and the company was good, the banter lively. Medics tend to stick together and my year is a particularly tight bunch, but as the only first-gen, I still don’t feel a proper part of the pack. It’s more my fault than theirs. They always make me feel welcome, but I find the alpha-male competition difficult to handle at times, particularly Tim’s manner. He’s full of self-confidence, sure of his own abilities.

  They’re so different from Clemo, Jori and Morgan back home – typical quiet, artistic Newlyn types, much more my sort of friends. The photographer, the musician and the painter. Sometimes I wish my Cornish mates would shout about themselves a bit more, they’re all so damn talented. Smoking less dope might help too. I like how they’re just as at home in their own company as in a group. Same with the gill-netter crew; we might have been a team on the boat, but you’re also on your own when you’re on watch in the wheelhouse at 3 a.m., 150 miles off Land’s End. Not that any of that crazy bunch could be described as quiet or artistic. I miss that, having two very different sets of friends – my attempt, perhaps, to straddle Dad’s two worlds of painting and fishing.

  ‘What’s this film of your life then, Dosh?’ Tim asked.

  Tim calls me Dosh because of my surname. Adam Pound sounds fine to me, but Dosh has stuck since freshers’ week. Ironic, given how little money I seem to have compared to everyone else.

  ‘Not my idea,’ I said, happy to be surrounded by familiar, friendly faces. In a few minutes, I would be at a party where I knew only two people: Louis and Clio. And they were still not talking to each other.

  ‘Sounds like one for the Papworth Sleep Clinic,’ Tim said.

  ‘It’s going to be action packed, I tell you,’ I said. ‘“He opens his dissection manual, starts to read, falls into a stupor.”’ I dropped my head to the table.

  ‘It’ll be great…’ Tim was on his own thing now, tracing a film banner in the air with a finger. ‘The name’s Pound. Adam Pound. Licensed to kill.’

  ‘Isn’t every medical student?’ Anil quipped. He’s of the few other students in our college who, like me, wants to become an actual doctor who interacts with patients rather than go into academic research.

  ‘I can see it now,’ Tim said. ‘X-rated, I hope.’

  ‘Talking of which, who was that beautiful creature you went punting with yesterday?’ Anil asked.

  I blushed, wondering where Anil might have seen us, and took a long sip of my beer.

  ‘She’s called Clio. She was in that play I did.’ The play that they’d all said they would come along to see, but no one had, of course. ‘And I’m about to go partying with her.’

  ‘Get in there, Dosh,’ Anil said, clinking his beer glass against mine.

  Ten minutes later, I was hovering outside Louis’ house on Mortimer Road. I had no trouble finding the place. The music was thunderous, strobes lighting up the night sky like a sparking furnace. Someone was lurking in the shadows on the street, hoodie up, asking students as they arrived if they wanted any gear: Es, acid, weed. I declined and headed towards a group of partygoers who had spilled out into the small front garden, clutching bottles of Beck’s in one hand, cigarettes in the other. For some reason they were all wearing sharp black suits, skinny ties and fedoras. One of them was emptying his guts into a flowerbed.

  I took a deep breath and walked inside. The smell of weed hit me first, followed by the unmistakeable stench of human sweat. Everyone was dancing – in the hall, in the front room, the kitchen, the living room, in the courtyard out the back. Swaying more than dancing. The music was pulsating techno. The last time I’d heard music like that was when I was gutting turbot on a gill-netter in the Western Approaches. And it didn’t take a medic to spot that everyone was off their heads: glazed, staring eyes, all inhibitions gone. I needed to relax, stop analysing people as potential patients, but something else was wrong. What was everyone wearing?

  ‘Adam!’ a voice shouted above the music. A tap on my shoulder. I spun round to see Louis and reeled backwards. He had a camcorder in one hand and a silver-tipped walking cane in the other, but it was his face that shocked me, more specifically his eyes. The irises were glowing bright orange.

  ‘You like them?’ he said, opening his eyes wider. ‘Relax, they’re contacts. My little homage to De Niro in Angel Heart. Alan Parker at his best.’

  ‘Was I meant to dress up?’ I said, as a sickening realisation swept through me.

  I looked from Louis, who had swapped his usual outfit for an immaculate black suit and tie, to everyone else around me. As I suspected, I was the only one who hadn’t got the fancy-dress memo. It’s one of my worst fears. Of course, the suits outside had been from The Blues Brothers. A lot of Reservoir Dogs were in there too, what looked like some droogs from A Clockwork Orange, one Sheriff Woody, and an Edward Scissorhands in the corner, blades glinting in the flashing lights. And those were just the ones I could identify.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s not obligatory,’ he said. ‘If anyone asks, why don’t you say you’re Nelson from Flatliners.’

  ‘Nelson?’ I’d seen the film a few years earlier but couldn’t remember much – a bunch of medical students exploring the afterlife.

  ‘Kiefer Sutherland,’ Louis added.

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘I need to get a few shots in the can, then we’re done,’ he said, stepping back to film me with his camcorder.

  ‘Seriously?’ I said, blushing.

  My failure to dress up had left me feeling more self-conscious than usual. Vulnerable. I tried to pull a cool smile for Louis. His camcorder looked brand new and I remembered what Ji had told me. Was it the latest model, the one with night vision that could see through clothes?

  ‘You need infrared, it’s so dark in here,’ I said, trying to see if I could read any of the writing on the camcorder.