Free Gospel by Wilton Barnhardt Page A

talkin’ aboot.” Duncan suddenly patted Lucy on the knee. “Whadya say, pet? Fancy a kebab?”
    Lucy was having trouble deciphering Geordie: he wants a bob? Which is some kind of coin, right? She reached into her suit jacket and produced a pound coin.
    â€œChampion! Let’s set out then…”
    Lucy was led from the tavern, up the narrow alley and into Radcliffe Square, which had been her main landmark. The scenery took a moment to settle when she looked at it—she was really hammered. The dome of the Radcliffe Camera and the spires of All Souls were surreal in a bluish light from the moon; there were millions of stars. She really ought to get to bed. Go back to the guest room and drink five glasses of water, take some aspirin.
    â€œYou’re the first American I think I’ve ever talked to. I don’t even like your bloody country. Not one decent band anymore.”
    â€œWho do you like?” asked Lucy, stung at having her country abused.
    Duncan named half a dozen one-indie-hit wonders and Lucy lamely said she’d heard of a few of the bands but didn’t know them well. Her last British record purchase was a Phil Collins cassette.
    â€œWell, you can have him.”
    Lucy appraised Duncan out of the corner of her eye. You suppose this guy likes her? Lucy thought it over. A little short for her, a bit rough looking. But suddenly the idea of a rough boyfriend from the mean northern streets appealed; those late-movie British black-and-white ’50s Kitchen Sink films starring Laurence Harvey replayed in her head. But she’d just met him! Well, she’d have to say no, cute accent or not. Well, why would she have to say no, come to think of it.
    â€œSaw you talking to those wankers,” he said, meaning Ursula and her friends. “God, I despise Braithwaite. Sodding snob-collection of public school gits…”
    Lucy asked, if he disliked Oxford so much, why he was here.
    â€œMaths. And they give me money to come, so I couldn’t say nah. Fuckin’ boring subject. Can’t help it that I’m good at it, now can I? Better keep me voice down,” he added, as some rowdy young men passed by across the street, “if I don’t want me head kicked in.”
    Lucy deciphered as they walked. “There are students who’d beat you up just for how you talk?”
    â€œNo, the townies. Pulverize any bloke from outa toown, they will. Beat up the students. Not that ya blame ’em there. Not that ya blame ’em at all. We’re a-taking our life in our hands coming out now; England’s played Sweden tonight, qualifying round.”
    â€œSoccer?” Lucy guessed.
    â€œAye, football.” Duncan surveyed the city streets, dead from pub-closing time after eleven. “Ah, shouldna worried. Closed down like a friggin’ typical tomb, Oxford is.” He scanned the High Street. “Now the van is usually here.”
    They decided to try St. Aldate’s Street in front of Christ Church College, imperious as a prison, heavily presiding in the spotlights.
    â€œBut mostly,” Duncan rambled on, “Oxford’s fuckin’ boring. Ah, if ye’re like Ursula in the Tessa the Bloody Cow set and made of fuckin’ dosh, it’s allreeght for ya, otherwise this town’s got fuck-all for titillation.”
    They spotted the van: AHMED’S DONER KEBAB.
    Lucy approached the simple vending truck with its giant slab of lamb meat on a vertical spit. There was a line of three people waiting—a skinhead, a drunken damned-looking young man sniveling sadly in a stained tux, a pink-faced burly guy in a sweatshirt blazoned with the Guinness logo. All drunk. What an odd collection of humanity is Oxford, thought Lucy. Duncan guided her through the kebab-ordering process. Ahmed himself, a friendly Pakistani with bad skin, parted a pita bread and filled it with salad, tomatoes, onions, hot sauce, ground cheese, and some