‘Why did you stop?’ I asked.

He shrugged, and blew on his coffee. ‘Someone crashed. After that the police started doing patrols. No more fun.’

I remember that story particularly, because it occurred to me for the first time that Francis might be lying. The tale had a cinematic quality about it which suggested it could have been lifted straight from an old American movie. I wavered for a second, then quashed my doubts and stowed the story carefully amongst the other details of his biography, giving it pride of place in my collection. It wasn’t that Francis was a good liar, if indeed he did tell lies, but rather that his listeners became good dupes. He had the knack of making you want to suspend your disbelief, of stretching your credulity so you could drink in more and more of his magic. I wanted to believe that there were people like this in the world, people who shed the usual skein of fears and insecurities, bills and tickets, and were free to engage in more elevated dramas. I swallowed the car story, and much else besides over the following weeks.

9

I WAS ALSO initiated, at Michael’s behest, into the Tudor Night Climbers. In the aftermath of his close escape in my room they had called a temporary halt to their operations, waiting until the eye of authority turned back to drugs, vandalism, noise pollution and the 101 other infringements that ate up the fabric of communal discipline. By the time night climbing was back on the agenda, Michael sensed the inevitability of my inclusion and headed it off with a great show of magnanimity, inviting me out for a solitary pint at the Granta and issuing me a solemn invitation, making me swear repeatedly never to divulge anything about the organization or its members. There then followed a speech about the trust that had been placed in me, and an insistence on this remaining a private matter between us until such time as he could ‘break it to the others’. I discovered without surprise that it was Francis, rather than he, who had founded the club. From the very beginning, night climbing seemed of a different order to the other ways we occupied our leisure. It was also distinctive among our pastimes as the only one that was free.

Michael and Francis vied with one another in displays of daring. At least Michael vied, and Francis pretended not to notice, which infuriated him. Lisa never baulked at anything attempted by the others, but there was no showmanship in her ascents, just a grim determination to get to the top. Her pride seemed to lie in never questioning, never complaining, and never accepting help. She took pleasure in the fact of conquest. As for Jessica, she told me that in the beginning she had joined the boys not out of desire, but to prevent Francis from doing anything too stupid. She’d left them to do the first few climbs on their own, but could not sleep when she knew they were out together, and spent the small hours smoking and watching television in the Common Room until Francis called her to say he was safely back in his bed. Her first climb had bound her to their rooftop adventures, and when she spoke about it her only regret was her ruined nails, which she would look at and sigh. The pressure of fingerjams and rough grips had left them blunt and ragged, and they made a strange contrast to her smooth skin and perfect hair.