The Thrill of the Case – Part One

It had all begun, thought Everarck, with an advert in one of those newspapers circulated by bus seat. The advert had been entitled Court of Public Opinion and its text had read as follows.

Are you so sexy it should be illegal? Do others call you a criminal snob? Now you can take them to the Court of Public Opinion and prove them wrong – or right! Call us now on 0800-ARREST-ME to register the law you could be guilty of breaking.

It was as though someone had been following Everarck’s thoughts for the previous 24 hours and known that he would plant his eyes on that particular corner of the free paper. Only last night had Everarck been accused by Zagonella, his girlfriend of 12 years, of intellectual vanity.

‘You only read that book because you want people to think you’re clever,’ she’d said, referring to the copy of Writing and Difference at which he’d been staring, glassy eyed, for ten minutes.

‘I am clever,’ he’d snapped and turned a crisp page.

‘That’s not the point.’

And it was as she’d said the word ‘point’ that he’d felt he was falling all the way to the plosive ‘t’. He’d been silent for a moment, quietly turned the page back again and then rallied.

‘So you think I am clever?’

She’d rolled her eyes then and gone back to her book, which was pink. He detested pink and couldn’t believe she read it in public. It was even worse that she should find it more interesting than him. Nevertheless, he’d gone to sleep, and when he woke up, she was gone, and the bedroom was cold, and there was streaky condensation on the bedroom window, which was framed by nasty, cheap curtains that he hated.

If he’d had any sense, he thought, he’d have become a lawyer and be living in the Barbados for half the year by now. He imagined gazing down at the Pacific Ocean from the purple mountains of the Barbados, sighed, and went and ate some Flax Puffs with brown sugar.

And then he’d seen that advert on the bus, and it was like everything had come together. He’d thought about it all day, at least when he wasn’t wondering why Zagonella hadn’t texted him. In the evening, Zagonella still wasn’t home.

‘Double shifts at the hospital,’ he’d tutted, eaten some microwaveable macaroni cheese, carefully cut out the advert, sat on the toilet reading it several times, put his pyjamas on, sat on the bed, stared at the receiver of the phone as though it were a portal to pandemonium, read the blurb on the Derrida book and then, at thirteen minutes past six, called the number on the advert, rocking backwards and forwards with the book clamped between his knees until it clicked and the tone changed.

‘The Court of Public Opinion is waiting for your call between 8 AM and 6 PM, Monday to Saturday. Alternatively, leave a message and we’ll call you back.’

‘Hello, my name’s Everarck, Mister Everarck Fanger BSc (Hons). I’m calling because everyone says I think I’m smart, I mean my girlfriend says I want people to think I’m smart, but I’m not, I mean I don’t. I mean obviously it’s nice if someone recognises my efforts to be intelligent, but I don’t need that. I don’t know if you can help me. If not, don’t worry about it. But if you can, here’s my number.’

He'd given his number twice and hung up, put the advert in the Derrida book, watched some TV and gone to bed, waking briefly when Zagonella slipped into bed beside him at some unnameable hour of the night.

Read part 2 of The Thrill of the Case.