I - The flasher episode

I will now recount the time when I did not encounter the famous
Waveney flasher.

For one reason or another, I was alone in the H0 kitchen. My memory is
sketchy, but I believe most of the harpies were at an LCR, Manley had
gone to bed and I had just returned from escorting Helen to Jody's
place in the village. I doubt this explanation, as Manley rarely goes
to bed before I do myself, but as an explanation, and an introduction
to my precarious situation, it does wonders, many of them
numerous.

There I was in the kitchen, still behatted from my travels, rifling
through the student rag Concrete in search of something worth reading.
Concrete, to ends completely unknown to me, models itself partly on a
reactionary tabloid newspaper, and partly on a vacuous style magazine.
This means that while Manley shakes his head, red with laughter, after
reading the headline, "Chaplaincy hires child kidnapper," I am left to
wonder how exactly this fortnight's 'fashion faux pas' is "wrong in so
many ways," since the writer rarely elaborates on such a statement. We
then turn to the horoscopes, which are terrible, since the writer takes
very seriously indeed the task of making them funny. This means ending
the column with the suggestion that Cancerians "stay in bed and
masturbate."

So for some reason, I was perusing this publication, in the kitchen,
as I say. On the front page was more news of the infamous flasher, the
villain that has been solely responsible for students being told to
keep a sharp lookout at all times and avoid walking alone at night. He
had exposed himself to three more young women, the body count rising to
five. One had been privy to him performing 'a sex act.' Well, so long
as it's only an act?

Concrete's editors were naturally indignant about this, and demanded
that students be made safer. The use of more lighting and security, it
was proposed, would solve matters. Far be it for anyone to suggest that
students stop expecting everything to be made safe for them, and
anticipate the dangers of wandering around alone amid the liberal
night. I mean, a paper has to campaign for something, otherwise just
whom is it supposed to be representing?

Ah, but enough of my dour cynicism. I had raised the subject of the
flasher once or twice among the harpies, and not impressed them with my
hints towards admiration and justification of his actions.

"After all," I said, "doesn't it come under freedom of expression?
What is it in our culture that says a man's parts are only to be
displayed in the comfort of his own home, or on video? Why is this
thing that young women now apparently salivate over not to be given for
free?"

"Jon," said Helen, forcibly, "don't you think it's foul?"

"Not really," I replied, my boisterousness quite failing to delight.
"He performs actions that many men do, just in a different
place."

"Yes, a completely inappropriate place," Besse scorned.

I spluttered in mock contempt. "Appropriate!" I sirened. "Why, how
many times have we all crossed the boundaries of what is appropriate?
It is a poor law, an oppression of individuality."

"But he's not trying to express his individuality," Si?n protested.
"He just wants to shock people."

"Exactly!" I tried to seize the argument, but I wasn't yet sure just
how exactly Si?n's point backed me up. "Because, you see. You see, if
we weren't so ridiculous as to be shocked by a very natural
action?"

"Natural?" Lianne interrupted, giving me time to complete the argument
in my head. "How is it natural?"

"Sex is natural - animals do it in front of each other etc." I hurried
on. "But you see, if we weren't so absurd as to be shocked, then, I ask
you, would he do it anymore? We could solve both our problems without
acting out vengeance on some depraved creature."

No one else really thought that this was the point of the matter.
Monsters are monsters after all; they are not like us. That is one of
the few lies I dislike.

So there I was, in the kitchen, with my paper. I put it down, having
found little of immediate interest, and considered matters. I forget
which matters, but matters were certainly considered.

In came Joe Hell, the saucepan wizard, no doubt ready to create
something startling with aubergines and honey. He went straight over to
the window and heaved it open, allowing the great dragon of smoke to
slip into the late evening.

"Jon," he said, very amused and with hands on hips. "Have you just sat
there while the kitchen filled with smoke?"

"Er," I explained.

He hopped over to the rings and threw away his charred meat.

"You really are incredible. Why didn't you open the window?"

"Ah, the sausages!" I cried, recognising a chance to excuse my
actions, or lack of them. "I saw them when I first came in and elected
to keep an eye on them. But then, you see, Paul came into the kitchen -
I assumed they were his and allowed my mind to pass on to graver
matters."

"Well I only just remembered them," Joe told me. "And I thought,
'Oooh, God - I'm going to set off another fire alarm.' So I ran down
the corridor and into the kitchen, only to find you sitting there,
wreathed in black smoke and staring at the cupboards."

"Joe," I said, eager to change the subject. "I'm going to go and look
for the flasher."

"Excellent idea, old man. Give me a moment to eat and I'll come with
you."

"Really?"

"Definitely. We can have a nice, long chat with him."

I agreed that this was a commendable proposal, and went to occupy
myself with something while Joe mixed up an alternative dinner for
himself. After we were both done with our business (I had paced the
corridor in deep thought,) we set off in our selected late evening
costumes. These, Joe had commented before, made us out to be a flasher
and a rapist. My long coat, long hair, wild stare, irregular teeth and
conspicuous hat rendered me suitably manic and grubby. His own lengthy
blonde strands, trailing from his black hood, his fairly pink face,
faint eyebrows and hands concealed in the front pocket of his sweater
all conspired to make him seem brooding, secretive and unpredictable.
Our quarry was outnumbered and outclassed, and our only concern was the
prospect of an untimely arrest.

With this safely out of mind, we trudged down past Nelson Court to the
lake and began patrolling eastwards through a thin fog. I found myself
glad of Joe's company as my imagination outmanoeuvred me, and presented
me with the vision of a large, round elephant of a man bulging through
the mist, sneering at me with violent lust in his eyes, dribbling over
trembling, apelike fists. Until then I had somewhat naively assumed our
prey was a strange, little old man hobbling around and baring his gums
at girls. I could confront such a gent confidently and sympathetically,
but against the foaming, deformed beast I stood no chance.

Joe Hell, however, strikes a tall and brave figure, even when dressed
as a rapist. When he ties back the waves of very fiery, sunny hair into
a short stump of a ponytail, he resembles the cheery but noble samurai
of Japanese legend, even more so when he haunts the Waveney hollows in
his dressing gown. He has a very approachable, humble and yet excitable
demeanour, and a light, mild voice, so that even his fits of anger
render him strangely loveable. He is enthusiastic as a sportsman and
artist, and he is an artist not only with words and ideas, but with
music and food as well. In conversation with him I find myself feeling
calmed and even spirited. Along with Paolo, I consider him one of the
wise and reliable guardians of the H0 spirit, while Manley and myself
are the sneaking agents of espionage.

Together, we walked well beyond the boundaries of the campus and found
ourselves crossing rough fields and climbing over fences. We talked
about what we would do when we found the flasher. Should it be a
stand-off, or should we approach him like an old friend? Should we give
him a taste of his own medicine perhaps?

But as our man continued to hide himself away from us, we became less
concerned with our planned meeting and more with where we had come to.
After no more than three quarters of an hour walking, the campus
buildings were nowhere in sight, and neither was anything else but
trees and hedges. We elected the best thing to do was carry on in the
same direction until we arrived somewhere. On the way to that
somewhere, we exchanged accounts and advice on dealing with the other
sex, Joe with his usual, very ordered approach to a problematic
subject: it isn't ideal - in fact it frustrates me no end - but we can
only do our best to get by. Eh, Jon? Yes, that's true, I sighed,
forgetting that until then I had been proposing to myself some extreme
measure to end my frustration once and for all. That is, as I have
said, the effect that Joe, quite uniquely, has upon me.

Presently, we came to our somewhere, and it looked like a deserted
dual carriageway. So we scrambled through thick weeds and over some
elastic lengths of barbed wire, and we strode down its centre, still
lamenting and venting, throwing our hands out into the vast,
impressionable space that had fallen upon us. We had still not found
the famous flasher when we arrived, unexpectedly and to our great
relief, back at the perimeter of the University village, but he no
longer seemed to be of particular importance.