pronounces Axel Hardwick, astrophysics postgrad, corduroy-clad, hair short, black and curly, real name Alan not Axel, but he thinks Axel makes him sound more Guns N’ Roses. Axel looks at us as if we’re the ones who haven’t bothered turning up. “Some shrinkage is inevitable as the dead wood drops out, but a head count of six, at this point in the term, is frankly dismal.” There’s a beery racket booming up the stairs from the main bar below and my mind sort of floats off, and I wonder if I’d have met more people if I’d joined the Photography Society in Freshers’ Week instead of the Paranormal Society, like I meant to. But then I wouldn’t have met Todd. Todd Cosgrove, second-year maths, a shyish elfish guy, black coat, white T-shirt, maroon jeans, camel boots, vice president of ParaSoc, fan of the Smiths. Across the table from me, Todd sips his Newcastle Brown Ale. His mad, quiffy hair’s brown, too, brown like strong stewed tea before you add the milk. Todd lives with his parents here in town but he’s not creepy or helpless, he’s bright and kind and strong, so there’s probably a good reason why he still lives at home.
