Grantchester Grind (14 page)

‘I’m not,’ said the Bursar. ‘I’m damned if I am. In any case I haven’t got any influence
with him. You don’t know what he’s like.’

‘I’ve got a bloody shrewd idea,’ snarled the Senior Tutor. ‘Wears blue sunglasses and a
polo-neck sweater–’

‘Quite,’ interrupted the Praelector, ‘but I don’t think the Bursar is talking about
his appearance. I think he means his psychological make-up, his mentality in so far as
he has one, though increasingly they do say that the higher anthropoids are capable of
rational thought…Not that I’d put Kudzuvine among the higher anthropoids. Much lower
than, let us say, a brain-damaged baboon. Now where was I? Yes, the Bursar’s objections
to sitting and chatting with the creature are, I presume, based upon the fear that Mr
Kudzuvine may feel that his present condition has resulted from his association with
the Bursar. I can give you every assurance that he will regard you as a true friend.’

‘Why should he? And what is his present condition?’ demanded the Bursar, who had been
horrified that whatever that condition was it required Kudzuvine to wear a catheter and
bag.

‘Let us take your second question first. It has some bearing on the question of his
fondness for you. Unfortunately what occurred on Sunday in the Chaplain’s rooms rules
out any feelings of affection Mr Kudzuvine might have felt for the Chaplain and me. In our
efforts to get the man to tell us who he was we perhaps went about it the wrong way.’

‘Ah, of course that explains everything,’ said the Chaplain. ‘When I enquired about the
bagpipe he acted most peculiarly. Of course, of course! I’d forgotten about the cooking
brandy and I can see that my remarks about the benefits of colonic irrigation–’

‘What the hell is he talking about?’ asked the Senior Tutor, reacting to the mention
of cooking brandy.

‘Nothing, nothing. The point I am trying to make is that while, thanks to Dr MacKendly,
Kudzuvine does not know what hit him, by the time he comes to his senses he may recognize
who hit him. That rather rules the Chaplain and me out.’

‘Are you seriously saying that you and the Chaplain actually assaulted this man?’
Dr Buscott asked. He was enjoying himself enormously.

‘No, I am not saying that,’ said the Praelector coldly. ‘I am using the word “hit” in a
metaphorical sense of his not understanding what was going on. Have I made my meaning
absolutely clear, Dr Buscott?’

Dr Buscott nodded. He was astonished at the transformation that had come over the
Praelector now that there was a crisis in Porterhouse and the Dean wasn’t there to exert
his authority. The Praelector was a very old man indeed who had previously always
stayed in the background. Dr Buscott found it all exceedingly strange. He would never
understand what made the Senior Fellows tick.

The Bursar, on the other hand, was still trying to understand why the hell Kudzuvine
should feel any fondness for him. ‘When you say “thanks to Dr MacKendly”…?’ he said, and
left the question unspoken.

‘I mean that the College doctor has administered some mild medication, thus
reducing Mr Kudzuvine’s mania and criminally intrusive behaviour to a gentle
docility and calmness that is, I am told, quite remarkable. Skullion…the Master sits
beside his bed a lot of the time and they seem to have hit it off quite well together. As
you know the Master is not an easy fellow to get on with.’

‘Nor is Kudzuvine,’ said the Bursar, who still didn’t like the Praelector’s repeated
use of the word ‘hit’. ‘He’s bloody nasty.’

‘He was very nasty I agree, but now he’s not,’ said the Praelector. ‘So we will come with
you as far as the bedroom door and you will…’

There was some brief resistance on the Bursar’s part but it was overcome by the
Praelector’s promise that someone would be within striking distance all the time. And by
the Senior Tutor’s description of what would happen to him if he didn’t go.

‘When you say “within striking distance”,’ said Dr Buscott, ‘are we to take it that you
also mean that in a metaphorical way?’

‘No,’ snapped the Praelector, ‘I mean it literally. You will be manning the tape
recorder on the landing and the porters are there too. So if we are ready, gentlemen…’

But the Bursar still prevaricated. ‘What sort of questions am I to ask?’ he said and
helped himself to a very large whisky from the decanter on the sideboard.

‘You’ve read the list Mr Retter supplied, haven’t you?’ said the Praelector. The Bursar
nodded. ‘So there is no need to waste time.’

‘Can’t I just have another quick one?’

‘No,’ said the Senior Tutor, ‘you can’t.’

The little group went out into the morning sunlight and made its way across the
Fellows’ Garden and past the Master’s Maze to the Lodge and presently the Bursar was
ushered into the bedroom where Kudzuvine was lying propped up against the pillows. The
Bursar approached him warily. Kudzuvine didn’t look at all vicious. On the other hand he
didn’t look at all well. Something about his eyes.

‘Hullo, Karl,’ the Bursar said huskily, breathing whisky fumes. ‘You don’t mind me
calling you Karl, do you K. K?’

‘No, Prof, I don’t mind. I’m just delighted you call me anything. Man, Professor
Bursar, am I glad to see you. Have I had one hell of a trip. I mean I didn’t know they came
that bad. This was a trip like nothing I’ve ever known and I’ve had some way-out ones in my
time.’

‘Well, I suppose all this gadding about and going to the Galapagos Islands must have
made you an experienced traveller.’

‘Traveller? Galap…What you say? Gal…’

‘Where the turtles are.’

‘What turtles?’ The panic-stricken look was coming back into Kudzuvine’s eyes.

The Bursar decided to steer the conversation back to more immediate problems. ‘And
how do you feel now? Are you feeling any better? In yourself I mean.’

Outside the bedroom door the Senior Tutor recoiled from the expression. He had had
enough discussions about the Self to last him a lifetime. The Praelector and Dr Buscott
continued to listen intently. Kudzuvine’s literal selfishness was becoming more and
more obvious. ‘In myself? How do I feel in myself? You mean “in” like in, man?’ he
muttered. ‘Hell shoot, I don’t know how I feel any fucking place. I don’t even know where the
fuck I am and I’ve got this fucking ogre comes and looks at me like I’m in an iron lung and
can’t move a damn bit of me and my eyes won’t shut and you ask me how I feel in myself? Shit,
there ain’t no answer to that one. Ain’t no words I can find any place.’

‘But you’re feeling better now surely?’ said the Bursar. ‘You are sitting up and
talking and opening and shutting your eyes quite normally.’

‘Now. Sure I am. I can move again and of course I keep opening and shutting my eyes just
to make sure I can because, Prof, some of the things I’ve seen around here I don’t ever want
to see again. No siree. Not this side of hell I don’t. And I got to tell you I don’t smoke even
joints after this trip. I don’t know what it was I took but I OD’d on something fucking
awful. I mean the Chemical Warfare guys ought to take some of my blood and look into it see
what the fuck it was. They could scrap the Marine Corps with that stuff in the arsenal. And
the battle tanks and win wars no problem. Jesus it was something else I can tell you. Still
is half the time. I keep having this feeling I’m dead or something.’

‘How extraordinary,’ said the Bursar. ‘It must be most unpleasant.’

Kudzuvine stared at him in horror. ‘Unpleasant?’ he squeaked. ‘Unpleasant it isn’t.
It’s…it’s…hell, I don’t even know what it is. Some old guy I think I’ve seen someplace comes
in and starts fucking praying like I’m really dead and I can’t move or say anything and
I’m trying to but he won’t listen and there’s another guy and a nurse and Quasimodo in a
wheelchair looking like he’s measuring me up for something and when they’re gone I have
these terrible dreams about cooking brandy. You know what cooking brandy is, Prof?’

The Bursar said he had a shrewd idea but Kudzuvine disagreed. ‘Not this cooking brandy
you don’t. Not the way I know it. You can’t, it’s not possible because it’s in my fucking
head. It’s got to be the only place it is. Man, you know any good shrinks round here? Because
when I have that dream I know I’ve got to be schizoid and I need help but bad.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said the Bursar to keep on the right side of him. ‘I take it
it’s a very nasty dream then?’

‘When?’ said Kudzuvine, getting disoriented again.

‘When you have it,’ said the Bursar.

‘Is it ever. Jesus it’s the worst, man, the worst. There’s this monk, man, and a
terrible old guy and I mean old and mean and terrible and I’m being held down on the floor
and they’ve got this fucking rubber douche bag and…’

‘I think we can miss this dream out,’ said the Praelector loudly from the landing.
Kudzuvine’s mouth dropped open and he started violently. So did the Bursar.

‘Did you hear that?’ Kudzuvine demanded when he could speak.

But the Bursar had had time to think. ‘Hear what?’ he enquired.

Kudzuvine shrank down the bed. He had to be insane.

The Bursar changed the subject. “There’s been something I’ve been wanting to ask you for
some time,’ he said. ‘Mr Hartang told me he allows his staff to wear exactly the same
clothes as he does because he wants the staff to be comfortable I think that’s very
considerate of him, don’t you?’

Kudzuvine came to life again. The mention of Hartang seemed to have galvanized him. It
had certainly taken his mind off his own sanity or lack of it. ‘He told you that? Hartang,
old E.H. told you that?’

‘Yes, that’s what he told me,’ the Bursar agreed. ‘What I was wondering is why he wears
such an obviously cheap wig.’

‘Well let me tell you something, Prof,’ said Kudzuvine, evidently warming to a subject
close to his heart. ‘Comfort, zumfort. That old bastard doesn’t give a hound-dog’s shit for
the comfort of the staff. Most of the time like twenty-four hours in the day he don’t know
they’re even there. Pays them–has to because they work the money for him–but they drop dead
in front of him he don’t even notice except there’s a mess on the floor. Happens one time I
was there and he’s bawling this guy out because he’s lost a consignment some place, an
island some place…’ He tried to think where and for once the Bursar had the good sense not to
mention the Galapagos Islands and turtles. ‘Cayman or Bahamas somewhere there like the
Bermuda Triangle. Whole fucking twenty million gone play hookie. So E.H. is going to
have this guy down the Bermuda Triangle too after he’s been through the shredder first.
And he’s telling him his fucking fortune and the guy don’t like what he’s hearing and he’s
got a weak heart or something so he gets death first before the independents arrive to
fly him out in a body-bag. Lying there cold meat and you know what old E.H. is worrying
about?’

‘No,’ said the Bursar, utterly appalled by what he was hearing. ‘What was he worrying
about?’

Kudzuvine smiled fondly at the memory of the occasion. ‘Guy’s pissed himself on the
carpet and E.H. is saying get the whole thing up he isn’t going to have the room stink of
fucking piss is all he cares. Goes out for his lunch. Comes back and there’s a new carpet but
he don’t like the fucking colour so that’s got to be changed too. You think that’s all?
Changes his mind again. Got to be a marble floor. Guy pisses on it you can wipe it up. Same
with blood. Don’t show. That’s good old E. H for you. Lovely man. Right?’

It was hardly the word the Bursar would have chosen.

He glanced nervously at the door but remembered that the Senior Tutor was out there
and in any case Kudzuvine was in an obviously amiable mood and was still fond of him. Not
that the Bursar wanted his fondness but he was stuck with it. ‘So what happened to the man
who had died?’ he enquired.

‘Nothing. Too late. Cancelled the independents from Chicago and had him cremated
real nice. Natural death and all so there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘I suppose not,’ the Bursar agreed. ‘But if he doesn’t care about the people he employs,
why do you all wear the same clothes he does? You want to look like him? Is that it?’

Again a strange smile lit up Kudzuvine’s face ‘Prof Bursar, you got it the wrong way
round,’ he said and there was no doubting his affection for the Bursar now. ‘Who the fuck
wants to look like old E. H? Man’s as ugly as a fucking pig. Just not going oink all the
time, is all. And pigs is what it’s all about.’ He paused to let the Bursar come to grips with
this information.

The Bursar failed to. ‘Pigs?’ he said. ‘How do pigs come into it?’

Kudzuvine laughed this time. He really was feeling much better. ‘Wrong again, Prof
baby. Pigs don’t come into anything. It’s what goes into pigs he don’t like one little
bit. Like he’s phobic about pigs. Some guys in his situation get phobic about bridges or
new expressways. Knew a guy once had this bad thing about crocodiles ’cause they eat just
about anything and every little bit. Said to him one time, “Harry, so why fucking worry?
You’re living in Atlanta, Georgia, not up the fucking Nile, Africa.” Didn’t do no good.
They took the poor bastard shark-fishing one day, like for bait. Got some big monsters too
with him. Took them hours to wind those babies in.’ He paused again at the memory of this
extraordinary feat. ‘So with old E.H. it’s pigs. He don’t want to end up in their swill tub
like the wife of some guy he read about some time. He says to me one time we’re going some
place he won’t eat Chinese not if he’s starving and I say, “That’s real nice of you, Mr
Hartang. Is that because they eat hound-dogs and puppies and all?” and you know what he
says? Says, “Karl K.”–always calls me that when he is in a good mood–“Karl K. you’re so
fucking dumb and you don’t even know it. Try thinking sweet and sour.” So I try thinking and
I’m out of the tunnel. “Oh, pork, you mean pork.” Man, he went a funny colour and was I glad
that fucking plane was pressurized or I’d have been deepsixed right then. But I got him
calmed down by the time we landed Miami some place. Learned not to mention pigs or pork. And
bacon is a no-no too. Even weaner is off the fucking menu. We had some dealings with a
Heinie once called Weaner only they spell it different like with an I and an E and old E.H.
pulls the rug on the deal because someone tells him a weaner is a small pig. And you got to
be careful with fucking. I don’t use that sort of language with E.H. in case he don’t hear
too good. Yes sir, Prof Bursar, he and anything piggy don’t mix good.’

The Bursar felt extremely uneasy now but fear and curiosity kept him glued to his
chair. ‘Yes, I see that,’ he said hesitantly, ‘but I still don’t understand about the white
socks and polo-neck sweaters and the blue sunglasses which you wear.’

‘Shoot, that’s easy. Like with the metal detectors and the I.D. cards, it’s for
protection. Someone gets in the fucking building with an Uzi…No, with an Uzi he could
probably do a total but there’s no way an independent is coming in the precautions we
take, not with an Uzi. Got to be real small and plastic and with maybe one slug and he’d have
to hide the thing up his ass and no independent I know would do a thing like that. Blow his
ass off with an unreliable plastic .38 no proper trigger? No way. So he gets in the
building, who’s the target? Everyone looks the same. Goes round asking if you’re Edgar
Hartang and he’s got no ID. Hey, Prof man, tell you something. I wouldn’t want to be that
guy. Like they’d Calvi him like they did that other guy under Black Monks Bridge only this
time they’d meat-hook him he was lucky. Right? So that’s why old E.H. has the Transworld staff
wear the same clothes he does. You don’t get where Edgar Hartang does in the multi-media
finance business without you cover your ass pretty damn good and E.H. has his covered
every which way.’

‘But why does he wear a cheap wig like that?’ the Bursar asked in spite of himself. He had
never heard such horrible stories before in all his life.

‘Why’s he wear the wig? And he sure as hell does wear it all the time I’ve been with him.
Same as the shades. No one knows what he really looks like. He takes it off, could be
someone else no one knows. Yes, sir, Prof Bursar, got to get up real early like the day
before yesterday to catch that old motherfucker because he don’t sleep far as I can tell
and he’s always some place else or like in the bunker we got over here.’

‘The bunker being…’

‘Transworld Television Production Centre. Boy is that place fireproof. Take a megaton
to blow that baby away, know what I mean?’

The Bursar knew something. He should never have had anything to do with Kudzuvine. That
fund-raising seminar had been the biggest mistake of his life. Until now he hadn’t even
known such people existed and, if they did, they shouldn’t be allowed to. All the
Americans he had met had been polite, educated people. But this was a mad, horrible,
sadistic and monstrous world he had been introduced to. And into. He had to get out
before his reason failed completely. Very slowly and with the utmost caution he got out
of his chair and moved towards the door.

‘Hey, Prof Bursar baby, you ain’t going? Hey, no, stop, I need you. I got to need
you.’

But the Bursar wasn’t waiting to find out what Kudzuvine got to be needing him for. He
wanted out, and Kudzuvine needed a hole in the head. Instead he got Skullion.

‘I think we should allow the Master to sit with him,’ said the Matron as the gibbering
Bursar tumbled through the door. ‘He usually has a definitely calming effect on the
patient and I’ll phone Dr MacKendly. I think it would be best if he were given something
to quieten him down.’

‘I’ve always been amazed at the Master’s ability to exert his authority over the most
unpleasant people,’ said the Praelector a few minutes later as he and the Senior Tutor
went downstairs in the wake of the Bursar who was being comforted by the Chaplain.

‘That wasn’t an unpleasant person,’ said the Senior Tutor, ‘the swine is a bloody
gangster.’

‘I knew that from the very moment I set eyes on him,’ said the Praelector, ‘but what a
very useful gangster he is proving to be.’

Above them Dr Buscott was carefully removing the long reel of tape on which every word
Kudzuvine had said had been recorded and was replacing it with a fresh reel. But before
doing so Dr Buscott had taken the additional precaution of ending the recording with
his own sworn statement and that of the Chaplain that what had been heard was a true and
authentic record of what had been said at the time and date.