***
As his mindreturned to the barbecue that Friday afternoon, all in all Markfelt quite positive about life. Even though there had been the oddmoments of tension between them – usually about his lack of workand direction, which were becoming a little more regular recently –he was looking forward to Gemma getting back from her work. It wasa lovely hazy day which always helped his mood, and now that therewas some sign of life from the briquettes, things didn’t seem toobad. On the whole, it was comforting to reminisce about the lastseven or so months, and his earlier sense of despondency seemedperhaps rather indulgent. It hadn’t been long after his releasebefore Mark had also come to feel something close to affection forLittlehampton, in spite of its unmistakably down-at-heel image —maybe, perhaps, because of it. Wandering around the town, he hadliked coming across the occasional commemorative plaqueshighlighting the Roman occupation of the area. He and Gemma hadspent a few weekend lunchtimes eating in the slightly forlornseaside cafés or harbour-side pubs, sometimes along with randomgroups of ageing bikers who seemed to see Littlehampton as a sortof emblem of bygone, and missed, days. Gemma’s rented apartment onPier Road had been particularly cool and was a class above his own;the elegant main room overlooked the river and lighthouse, andbeyond that the Channel. They’d spent some intense but specialevenings there at the start of the year and of their relationship,including listening to John Lennon songs in the wake of the shockof his murder; he particularly remembered playing Roxy Music’sversion of 'Jealous Guy' time after time.
However, afterthe first couple of months of freedom, as the new year had gatheredmomentum, and tempering a little his positive mood and feeling asthe barbecue at last sprang into life with some gusto, there hadn’tbeen that much to get particularly excited about. Sure, they hadbought the house together and the move to Petworth had beensomething of an adventure, but that had been about it. It wasn’t asif he hadn’t tried to get his life moving again, but if he washonest about it the latest endeavour, dabbling in the antiquesbusiness, showed little signs of taking off for him, and wasbasically just another example of self-indulgence.
Maybe hehad expected it to be too easy, but he assumed with his backgroundas a university lecturer and with two degrees he’d be able to pickup something, and if nothing else some part-time lecturing atleast. In fact, after the Christmas break he had given that a goand had made appointments at a couple of local further educationcolleges to offer his services – the problem was trying to explaina six-year gap in his CV and avoiding having to fill in any awkwardquestions on application forms about previous convictions. Hisfirst attempt, at the College of Technology in Worthing, had beenunsuccessful; indeed, he was left with the distinct impression thatthe two full-time, General Studies lecturers who had met him felthe was over-qualified and potentially some kind of threat to them.After that, he had managed to talk himself into being given atwo-hour evening class teaching General and Communication Studiesto a group of engineering apprentices at the Chichester College ofTechnology – a typically uninspired example of 1960s architecture,soulless square blocks with not a curve in sight. The course itselfwas apparently a compulsory module on some kind of vocationaltraining programme they were enrolled on, but the studentsthemselves had absolutely no interest in improving theircommunication or general skills. Mark had soon realised why he hadbeen offered those hours. He had struggled through sessions fromJanuary till Easter and it had been more than enough to put him offthat career path. It had been how he could imagine taking an Fstream in some sort of failing comprehensive would be, except thatthese students were adults, supposedly. Although not overtlyaggressive their obvious disdain came over with a slightlythreatening air; in particular, he hated having no sensibleresponse to questions about the relevance of it all. One of themost amusing books he’d read while serving his sentence hadbeen Wilt; and Tom Sharpe’s description of Henry Wilt’s experiencesof trying to teach literature to bored apprentices in what musthave been a very similar type of college had certainly captured thetone of his own brief encounter with similar students. Heremembered with some fondness, and maybe slightly rose-colouredglasses, the buzz of teaching bright undergraduates at SussexUniversity before he’d thrown it all away. He realised how he hadrevelled in the respect, bordering on admiration, that came withthat status; and there had been the added bonus of plenty of young,attractive and impressionable students.
Apart from theacademic world which wasn’t looking a likely prospect, drugs wasabout the only other area Mark had any sort of background in,having dabbled with buying and selling when he was a studenthimself. In fact, soon after getting out of Ford and with littleelse to do, Mark had looked up a couple of contacts he’d had inBrighton but to little avail. They’d given up dealing and settleddown – it was probably no surprise that the hippy dream wascertainly becoming a thing of the past. He had to face it, he waswell out of touch with that scene. Even though Mark was aware thatit smacked of desperation he had also tried unsuccessfully to getsome help in that direction from one of his old university mates,Martin, who had always been well-connected. Their reunion meetinghad turned out to be a slightly uncomfortable affair, though;Martin’s record business was going well and he’d been friendlyenough on the surface but there had definitely been an awkwardnessbetween
