Page 63 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

But Samson was almost halfway up the stairs. Miles tried to follow him but a shower of flames fell from the roof.

‘Samson, get out of there now.’

Samson half ran, half tumbled down the stairs, his jacket glowing with cinders which Miles beat out with his own coat.

‘Everyone’s out,’ he coughed as both boys fled from the building.

The sound of sirens grew louder until their harsh noise seemed to engulf the house. Dozens of partygoers milled around the grounds, some half dressed, some shell-shocked, all looking faintly ridiculous surrounded by the yellow-jacketed firemen running out their hoses with such purpose. Adding to the confusion, a long line of taxis had miraculously started to appear – someone had their head screwed on at least – and Miles saw people fighting to get into them, especially as the blue and red lights of a police car were heading towards them along the drive.

Quickly Miles pulled his mobile phone from the pocket of his soot-smeared tailcoat and stabbed at the keys. His stomach clenched with anger and shame at what he was about to do, but as he saw it, he had no choice. He didn’t want to be in any more debt to his father, but he didn’t want to go to jail either.

‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered as he listened to the phone ring at the other end.

He was relieved to hear his father’s voice.

‘Miles, what is it?’ Robert said with irritation.

‘I’m in trouble, Dad,’ said Miles. There was no point in sugaring the pill. ‘I need you to get someone down to Oxford.’

They talked for a few minutes, then Miles calmly put his phone back in his pocket and sat on a wall, watching as a policeman walked over.

‘Miles Ashford?’ he said. ‘I believe you are the organiser of this party?’

Miles glanced at the police officer’s uniform. A sergeant playing by the book, he thought contemptuously.

‘You

don’t look too clever, son,’ said the policeman. ‘I should get yourself checked out by the ambulance team. But in the meantime, I’d just like to ask you a few questions ...’

The college’s disciplinary committee were predictable. Judgemental, conservative and holier-than-thou. Miles stood in front of them barely registering what they were saying. ‘The importance of pastoral care at the college . . . The necessity to steer other students from drugs . . . The reputation of the university...’

Those wankers. What the hell did they know about life beyond their crumbling flint-knapped walls? Why the hell did he have to stand there and answer to them anyway? It was especially galling as he had almost avoided all of this, almost got off scot-free. To Miles’ surprise, his father had done everything he could to contain the story: the vice girls were paid off, the Youngblood membership warned to maintain their silence; even Alan Johnson’s parents were persuaded of the wisdom of dropping criminal charges, despite the damage to their home. Yes, Miles had spent a night in the cells at Oxford police station, but Dick Donovan had appeared the next morning and any formal charges had mysteriously melted away. Unfortunately, the Ashford clean-up team hadn’t been able to gag everyone: ‘an insider’ had contacted scandal-hungry tabloid the Daily Chronicle and the combination of drugs, prostitutes and an exclusive Oxford society was too irresistible, despite vicious threats from Robert Ashford’s lawyers.

The story had prompted an instant investigation by the university. The colleges traditionally turned a blind eye to the raucous behaviour at the elite clubs – clubs like the Carrington had only been suspended a handful of times in their history – but this was in another league entirely. They had no choice but to come down hard on Miles, despite the lack of much real evidence. Miles had been briefed extensively by the Ashford lawyers and knew what to say: the Youngbloods were not a registered university club and the party had not been held on university property; there was nothing to formally link them to the college at all. Moreover, there was nothing beyond hearsay to link Miles to the solicitation of prostitutes or the procurement of drugs – not even the Chronicle had been able to find a female party guest willing to admit she had been paid for sex. On paper, Miles had simply organised a party that had got out of control. But that didn’t cut any ice with the ancient dons staring down at him.

Miles slowly began to concentrate on what they were saying.

‘Aside from the newspaper allegations, Mr Ashford, the quality of your work has been considerably below the required level for this university,’ said Professor Stewart, a particularly severe-looking senior tutor. ‘Add to that your endless missed tutorials, a sub-standard tutorial report and a woeful history of penal collections. Under the circumstances, I feel we have been particularly lenient when we recommend that you rusticate for a period of one year.’

Miles closed his eyes. Rustication: temporary expulsion from the university. It was one better than being sent down, but still . . .

‘Fuck you,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Ashford,’ said the Dean, peering over the top of his half-moon glasses.

‘I said “Fuck you”,’ repeated Miles, enunciating the words as clearly as he could.

The dons exploded: ‘What’s the meaning of this . . .’ ‘How dare you? . . .’ ‘I’ve a good mind to . . .’ Just as predictable as ever, thought Miles. Holding his head high, he strolled out of the chambers and into the street, where he leant against the wall, breathing in fresh air, desperate to get the fusty smell of Oxford from his nose.

‘Bollocks to rustication,’ he muttered to himself as he lit a cigarette, sheltering in a stone archway.

He blew the smoke up towards the grey sky. Since he had been inside, it had started raining. A thin, chilling drizzle that was soaking straight through his Savile Row suit.

A cyclist, his college scarf flying behind him, rode through a big puddle, splashing Miles’ trousers, the damp fabric sticking to his legs like cold jelly.

‘This place is a shit-hole,’ he observed. ‘A fucking shit-hole.’

He turned and walked back up the high street. Oxford was over for Miles. It was time to get to where he belonged.