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doesn’t come into it. Anyway, there’s no such thing as objective truth.’
A statement of the obvious, I thought, but he seemed shocked by it, and we began to argue, less about law than about deception.
‘If you tell a lie, it’s a lie, even if the person you’re telling believes you,’ he said.
‘No, the only issue is whether you’re caught lying.’
‘Exactly: once a man is caught lying, no one believes him any more — that’s why being truthful is important.’
‘So if an ugly woman asks you if you find her beautiful you’ll be honest and say no?’ I said.
‘I’d probably fudge it for fear of hurting her.’
‘You believe in white lies, then.’
‘I might use them for the purposes of social harmony,’ Ollie said, ‘but I don’t believe in them ethically.’
‘What are ethics for if not to create social harmony?’ I said.
‘I give up,’ Ollie laughed. ‘Get us another beer, will you? Here’s a fiver.’
‘I enjoyed that,’ he said, when I brought back the drinks. ‘You’re cleverer than I thought.’He could be a patronising bastard. But I liked to provoke him and he enjoyed being made to think. Soon our debates became a ritual. Every Thursday I’d get up in time for the ethics lecture and after it we’d head for the student canteen, piling our trays with pizza, milkshakes, fruit and chocolate, and face each other across a table. Abortion, the death penalty, apartheid, capitalism, one-day cricket — Ollie could defend any corner with equal conviction (a skill that has since served him as a barrister), but I’d unsettle him by countering his legal arguments with philosophical ones: what did he mean by ‘good'? what did he mean by ‘reality'? if ‘logical deduction’ was as infallible as he claimed, let him logically deduce man’s purpose on earth. It was a chess match with no pieces, table tennis without a ball. And to me the high spot of the week.
With his sports buddies deserting him, or Ollie finding it too painful to be around them, I soon became his sole companion. We’d go out to the pub or engage in competitive activities, or non-activities, in his room: chess, draughts, whist, Scrabble, even tiddlywinks (if I could persuade him to play for money, so much the better). All games were alike to him, their sole purpose being for one person — Ollie Moore — to win. You can’t touch me, he liked to crow. We cannot all be masters, and mostly I was content to come second. But once when he was winning at darts, his triumphalism got to me.
‘There’s more to life than winning,’ I said, as he aimed for double top.
‘That’s rich coming from you,’ he said. ‘You love winning.’
‘Me? I’m just here to keep you company.’
‘So you won’t mind if I sink this and make it five—nil.’
‘Why should I? We’ve not finished yet. It’s best of eleven.’
He laughed and slapped me on the back before throwing the dart home.
Whenever I wonder what Ollie saw in me, it’s his laughter
I remember. At school I’d survived by mimicking the teachers. Busty Mrs Anders, lisping Mr Witchett, hunchbacked Mr Moody - it didn’t take much to send them up, but my classmates seemed to enjoy the parodies. With Ollie, too, I played the court jester. If nothing else, it helped him forget his gammy leg.
On all our outings, it was Ollie who paid. I would protest, before we went, that I couldn’t afford whatever it was (a film, a gig, the pub), and he would tell me not to worry, he’d foot the bill. I told him I felt bad about it, and privately I was resentful: whereas I watched my pennies but got into debt, Ollie spent freely but still had money left over. Though the beneficiary of his largesse, I hated the system that made it possible. When we debated politics, I used to argue for the abolition of inherited wealth.
‘I suppose you’re a socialist,’ he said.
‘And proud of it.’
‘You want to clobber the rich.’
‘No, liberate the poor.’
‘Socialism is envy rationalised,’ he