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　DREAD
　
　THERE　IS　NO　delight　the　equal　of　dread。　If　it　were　possible　to　sit；　invisible；　between　two　people　on　any　train；　in　any　waiting　room　or　office；　the　conversation　overheard　would　time　and　again　circle　on　that　subject。　Certainly　the　debate　might　appear　to　be　about　something　entirely　different；　the　state　of　the　nation；　idle　chat　about　death　on　the　roads；　the　rising　price　of　dental　care；　but　strip　away　the　metaphor；　the　innuendo；　and　there；　nestling　at　the　heart　of　the　discourse；　is　dread。　While　the　nature　of　God；　and　the　possibility　of　eternal　life　go　undiscussed；　we　happily　chew　over　the　minutiae　of　misery。　The　syndrome　recognizes　no　boundaries；　in　bath…house　and　seminar…room　alike；　the　same　ritual　is　repeated。　With　the　inevitability　of　a　tongue　returning　to　probe　a　painful　tooth；　we　e　back　and　back　and　back　again　to　our　fears；　sitting　to　talk　them　over　with　the　eagerness　of　a　hungry　man　before　a　full　and　steaming　plate。
　
　While　he　was　still　at　university；　and　afraid　to　speak；　Stephen　Grace　was　taught　to　speak　of　why　he　was　afraid。　In　fact　not　simply　to　talk　about　it；　but　to　analyze　and　dissect　his　every　nerve　ending；　looking　for　tiny　terrors。
　In　this　investigation；　he　had　a　teacher：　Quaid。
　It　was　an　age　of　gurus；　it　was　their　season。　In　universities　up　and　down　England　young　men　and　women　were　looking　east　and　west　for　people　to　follow　like　lambs；　Steve　Grace　was　just　one　of　many。　It　was　his　bad　luck　that　Quaid　was　the　Messiah　he　found。
　They'd　met　in　the　Student　mon　Room。
　'The　name's　Quaid；'　said　the　man　at　Steve's　elbow　at　the　bar。
　'Oh。'
　'You're　…？'
　'Steve　Grace。'
　'Yes。　You're　in　the　Ethics　class；　right？'
　'Right。'
　'I　don't　see　you　in　any　of　the　other　Philosophy　seminars　or　lectures。'
　'It's　my　extra　subject　for　the　year。　I'm　on　the　English　Literature　course。　I　just　couldn't　bear　the　idea　of　a　year　in　the　Old　Norse　classes。'
　'So　you　plumped　for　Ethics。'
　'Yes。'
　Quaid　ordered　a　double　brandy。　He　didn't　look　that　well　off；　and　a　double　brandy　would　have　just　about　crippled　Steve's　finances　for　the　next　week。　Quaid　downed　it　quickly；　and　ordered　another。
　'What　are　you　having？'
　Steve　was　nursing　half　a　pint　of　luke…warm　lager；　determined　to　make　it　last　an　hour。
　'Nothing　for　me。'
　'Yes　you　will。'
　'I'm　fine。'
　'Another　brandy　and　a　pint　of　lager　for　my　friend。'
　Steve　didn't　resist　Quaid's　generosity。　A　pint　and　a　half　of　lager　in　his　unfed　system　would　help　no　end　in　dulling　the　tedium　of　his　oning　seminars　on　'Charles　Dickens　as　a　Social　Analyst'。　He　yawned　just　to　think　of　it。
　'Somebody　ought　to　write　a　thesis　on　drinking　as　a　social　activity。'
　Quaid　studied　his　brandy　a　moment；　then　downed　it。
　'Or　as　oblivion；'　he　said。
　Steve　looked　at　the　man。　Perhaps　five　years　older　than　Steve's　twenty。　The　mixture　of　clothes　he　wore　was　confusing。　Tattered　running　shoes；　cords；　a　grey…white　shirt　that　had　seen　better　days：　and　over　it　a　very　expensive　black　leather　jacket　that　hung　badly　on　his　tall；　thin　frame。　The　face　was　long　and　unremarkable；　the　eyes　milky…blue；　and　so　pale　that　the　colour　seemed　to　seep　into　the　whites；　leaving　just　the　pin…pricks　of　his　irises　visible　behind　his　heavy　glasses。　Lips　full；　like　a　Jagger；　but　pale；　dry　and　un…sensual。　Hair；　a　dirty　blond。
　Quaid；　Steve　decided；　could　have　passed　for　a　Dutch　dope…pusher。
　He　wore　no　badges。　They　were　the　mon　currency　of　a　student's　obsessions；　and　Quaid　looked　naked　without　something　to　imply　how　he　took　his　pleasures。　Was　he　a　gay；　feminist；　save…the…whale　campaigner；　or　a　fascist　vegetarian？　What　was　he　into；　for　God's　sake？
　'You　should　have　been　doing　Old　Norse；'　said　Quaid。
　'Why？'
　'They　don't　even　bother　to　mark　the　papers　on　that　course；'　said　Quaid。
　Steve　hadn't　heard　about　this。　Quaid　droned　on。
　'They　just　throw　them　all　up　into　the　air。　Face　up；　an　A。　Face　down；　a　B。'
　Oh；　it　was　a　joke。　Quaid　was　being　witty。　Steve　attemp…ted　a　laugh；　but　Quaid's　face　remained　unmoved　by　his　own　attempt　at　humour。
　'You　should　be　in　Old　Norse；'　he　said　again。　'Who　needs　Bishop　Berkeley　anyhow。　Or　Plato。　Or　…'
　'Or？'
　'It's　all　shit。'
　'Yes。'
　'I've　watched　you；　in　the　Philosophy　Class　…'Steve　began　to　wonder　about　Quaid。
　'…　You　never　take　notes　do　you？'　'No。'
　'I　thought　you　were　either　sublimely　confident；　or　you　simply　couldn't　care　less。'
　'Neither。　I'm　just　pletely　lost。'
　Quaid　grunted；　and　pulled　out　a　pack　of　cheap　cigarettes。　Again；　that　was　not　the　done　thing。　You　either　smoked　Gauloises；　Camel　or　nothing　at　all。

　'It's　not　true　philosophy　they　teach　you　here；'　said　Quaid；　with　unmistakable　contempt。
　'Oh？'
　'We　get　spoon…fed　a　bit　of　Plato；　or　a　bit　of　Bentham　…no　real　analysis。　It's　got　all　the　right　markings　of　course。　It　looks　like　the　beast：　it　even　smells　a　bit　like　the　beast　to　the　uninitiated。'
　〃What　beast？'
　'Philosophy。　True　Philosophy。　It's　a　beast；　Stephen。　Don't　you　think？'
　'I　hadn't　…'
　'It's　wild。　It　bites。'
　
　He　grinned；　suddenly　vulpine。　'Yes。　It　bites；'　he　replied。　Oh；　that　pleased　him。　Again；　for　luck：　'Bites。'
　Stephen　nodded。　The　metaphor　was　beyond　him。　'I　think　we　should　feel　mauled　by　our　subject。'　Quaid
　was　warming　to　the　whole　subject　of　mutilation　by　education。　'We　should　be　frightened　to　juggle　the　ideas　we　should　talk　about。'
　Why？'
　'Because　if　we　were　philosophers　worth　we　wouldn't　be　exchanging　academic　pleasantries。　We　wouldn't　be　talking　semantics；　using　linguistic　trickery　to　cover　the　real　concerns。'
　'What　would　we　be　doing？'
　Steve　was　beginning　to　feel　like　Quaid's　straight　man。　except　that　Quaid　wasn't　in　a　joking　mood。　His　face　was　set：　his　pinprick　irises　had　closed　down　to　tiny　dots
　　We　should　be　walking　close　to　the　beast；　Steve；　don't　you　think？　Reaching　out　to　stroke　it；　pet　it；　milk　it…'
　　'What　。　。　。　er　。　。　。　what　is　the　beast？'
　Quaid　was　clearly　a　little　exasperated　by　the　pragmatism　of　the　enquiry。
　'It's　the　subject　of　any　worthwhile　philosophy；　Stephen。　it's　the　things　we　fear；　because　we　don't　understand　them。　it's　the　dark　behind　the　door。'
　Steve　thought　of　a　door。　Thought　of　the　dark。　He　began　to　see　what　Quaid　was　driving　at　in　his　labyrinthine　fashion。　Philosophy　was　a　way　to　talk　about　fear。
　'We　should　discuss　what's　intimate　to　our　psyches；'　said　Quaid。　'If　we　don't。。　。　we　risk。。。'
　Quaid's　loquaciousness　deserted　him　suddenly。
　
　〃What？'
　Quaid　was　staring　at　his　empty　brandy　glass；　seeming　to　will　it　to　be　full　again。
　'Want　another？'　said　Steve；　praying　that　the　answer　would　be　no。
　'What　do　we　risk？'　Quaid　repeated　the　question。　'Well；　I　think　if　we　don't　go　out　and　find　the　beast　…'
　Steve　could　see　the　punchline　ing。
　'…　sooner　or　later　the　beast　will　e　and　find　us。'
　
　There　is　no　delight　the　equal　of　dread。　As　long　as　it's　someone　else's。
　
　Casually；　in　the　following　week　or　two；　Steve　made　some　enquiries　about　the　curious　Mr　Quaid。
　Nobody　knew　his　first　name。
　Nobody　was　certain　of　his　age；　but　one　of　the　secretaries　thought　he　was　over　thirty；　which　came　as　a　surprise。
　His　parents；　Cheryl　had　heard　him　say；　were　dead。　Killed；　the　thought。

　That　appeared　to　be　the　sum　of　human　knowledge　where　Quaid　was　concerned。
　'I　owe　you　a　drink；'　said　Steve；　touching　Quaid　on　the　shoulder。
　He　looked　as　though　he'd　been　bitten。
　'Brandy？'
　'Thank　you。'　Steve　ordered　the　drinks。　'Did　I　startle　you？'　'I　was　thinking。'
　'No　philosopher　should　be　without　one。'
　'One　what？'
　　'Brain。'
　They　fell　to　talking。　Steve　didn't　know　why　he'd　approached　Quaid　again。　The　man　was　ten　years　his　senior　and　in　a　different　intellectual　league。　He　probably　intimidated　Steve；　if　he　was　to　be　honest　about　it。　Quaid's　relentless　talk　of　beasts　confused　him。　Yet　he　wanted　more　of　the　same：　more　metaphors：　more　of　that　humourless　voice　telling　him　how　useless　the　tutors　were；　how　weak　the　students。
　In　Quaid's　world　there　were　no　certainties。　He　had　no　secular　gurus　and　certainly　no　religion。　He　seemed　incapable　of　viewing　any　system；　whether　it　was　political　or　philosophical；　without　cynicism。
　Though　he　seldom　laughed　out　loud；　Steve　knew　there　was　a　bitter　humour　in　his　vision　of　the　world。　People　were　lambs　and　sheep；　all　looking　for　shepherds。　Of　course　these　shepherds　were　fictions；　in　Quaid's　opinion。　All　that　existed；　in　the　darkness　outside　the　sheep…fold　were　the　fears　that　fixed　on　the　innocent　mutton：　waiting；　patient　as　stone；　for　their　moment。
　Everything　was　to　be　doubted；　but　the　fact　that　dread　existed。
　Quaid's　intellectual　arrogance　was　exhilarating。　Steve　soon　came　to　love　the　iconoclastic　ease　with　which　he　demolished　belief　after　belief。　Sometimes　it　was　painful　when　Quaid　formulated　a　water…tight　argument　against　one　of　Steve's　dogma。　But　after　a　few　weeks；　even　the　sound　of　the　demolition　seemed　to　excite。　Quaid　was　clearing　the　undergrowth；　felling　the　trees；　razing　the　stubble。　Steve　felt　free。
　Nation；　family；　Church；　law。　All　ash。　All　useless。　All　cheats；　and　chains　and　suffocation。
　There　was　only　dread。
　
　'I　fear；　you　fear；　we　fear；'　Quaid　was　fond　of　saying。　'He；　she　or　it　fears。　There's　no　conscious　thing　on　the　face　of　the　world　that　doesn't　know　dread　more　intimately　than　i