by Paul Carroll
Chapman had had enough of this. He nodded violently in Suzie’s direction, pointed at Reardon and then drew his finger across his throat in a slitting motion. She continued to study the light fitting on the wall behind him.
‘But what about this lot?’ Reardon continued, gesturing to the organiser’s table. ‘Can they make you a better writer?’ At this, Dylan turned to Eric. ‘He seems to be perking up a bit now.’ Eric didn’t disagree.
‘Do you know what The California Dream is? I’ll give you a clue – it’s nothing to do with the Beach Boys. It comes from the gold rushes of the 19th century when many speculators headed west, thinking that hard work and good luck could be rewarded with a new beginning. All they had to do was strike gold. Few did of course, but that didn’t stop the dreamers.’ Reardon seemed to grow as he uttered his words. The bumbling, shrunken figure of a few minutes ago had been replaced by an authoritative, magisterial presence the audience couldn’t tear their eyes from. ‘And who, do you think, made the most money from these speculators? Let me tell you. The men selling the shovels, pans and pickaxes to these dreamers with the cheery exhortation that, “tomorrow, my friend, you will strike it rich”. Not unlike, of course, this very writing weekend that you have all paid so handsomely to attend.’
At this, Chapman stood up. This had to stop, and if it fell to him then so be it. But he didn’t get very far. Alerted by the movement, Reardon pointed directly at Chapman. ‘You, sit down. I’m coming to you.’ Chapman meekly did as he was instructed. A dazzling flash of lightning outside the open windows momentarily illuminated the room and cast an eerie aura around Reardon. ‘This mountebank, this hustler, is the man selling you the tools – everything you’ve ever dreamed of to get you an agent and get you published. He can’t lose. If you strike gold, he’ll claim the credit. If you don’t, then you were looking in the wrong place.’ Suzie had to stop herself breaking into spontaneous applause. ‘And of course, he’s not the only one looking to make a fast buck out of your dreams. What about our publisher over there? Diamond Lil, running the local saloon. As for him, my so-called agent, he’s just pimping the best talent for the cathouse.’ This time there was more laughter, particularly from Dylan and Eric’s table. Emily and Hugo remained looking at each other, mainly so they didn’t have to look at anyone else.
‘And have you ever really considered what this dream of being published entails? To have an agent, and a publisher, and to make a living out of writing? So you can end up, what? Like me? Well, be careful what you wish for is my advice.’
Reardon imagined that he’d left his body and was viewing the speaker with as much scrutiny as the audience. While he continued to bear the extremities of the confusion, exhaustion and anguish weighing down on the author, his proxy was making a good fist of taking the listeners into his confidence.
‘Now, I said I’d return to you,’ he said as he pointed menacingly at Chapman. The entrepreneur remained rooted to the spot, unable to resist the onslaught, incapable of flight. ‘He would contend that one of the most compelling arguments for buying his shovels and picks is that he’s already struck gold himself. He’s had a book published so it follows that, if you buy from him, you’ll get lucky, too.’ On Eric’s table seven people guessed simultaneously where Reardon was heading. ‘Well, you know what? It turns out that our Mr Hall has been somewhat economical with the truth. Remember his book, A Poisoned Memory and a Twisted Heart?’ A terror-struck Chapman, anticipating the axe that was about to fall, didn’t bother to correct him on the mispronounced title. ‘Turns out he didn’t even write it.’ An exclamation of disbelief swept up from the floor. Chapman could only look at Suzie in horror. Suzie, as dumbstruck as her boss at the revelation, wondered how the hell Reardon had unearthed this most classified of secrets. But casting doubt on Chapman’s penmanship could only be validated by naming the real author. Reardon swung his finger in Suzie’s direction. ‘There’s the real author. He only stole her gold nugget, didn’t he?’
Eric thought Reardon might be stretching this particular metaphor by now but nevertheless felt a surge of pride in his new friend’s denunciation of this literary hijack. Dylan started to boo as if he was at a pantomime and a few of the other delegates began to join in. On the top table Suzie weighed up the unintended consequences of letting Reardon run wild and came up with a snap verdict that it couldn’t possibly have gone any better. Not only was Chapman disgraced, her creation, at last, had been rightfully recognised. But, again, how did Reardon know? The man at the lectern wasn’t finished though. He held up his hand for silence. ‘Why would an author, having written a novel, give it up and let someone else pretend they’d written it?’ It’s a question this particular audience had never really considered before. ‘We shouldn’t be surprised what an infatuated woman will do to ingratiate herself with the object of her affections, especially if that man is a self-centred, domineering, user. This woman deserves our sympathy on a number of levels.’ Then, as if he’d just remembered something important, he added, ‘Oh, but don’t mention any of this to Mr Hall’s wife – I wouldn’t want to get him into trouble.’ A number of heads in the audience could be seen shaking their heads in disapproval, accompanied by a low murmur of condemnation for their host.
Chapman had to do something. He made to stand up and address the audience, to implement an impromptu rescue plan. A voice rang from the crowd, ‘Sit down. He’s not finished yet.’ Dylan could always be counted upon to put the boot in when someone was on the floor.
But Reardon was almost finished, in every way. He felt his out of body version rejoin its twin with a shudder and a jolt. He buckled slightly, only the lectern momentarily bearing his weight. But he was determined to share one last thought with the audience. ‘You want some advice? I’ll give you some advice.’ With all the effort his voice had reduced to a rasp, but he persevered. ‘You can’t move for literary quotes in this place, but I’ll pass on the only one you’ll ever need.’ He was struggling for breath, but he wasn’t going to quit now. ‘This author published only one book in her life. But what a book. This is what Harper Lee has to say on writing.’ He raised his face to the audience, closed his eyes against the blinding spotlight, and recited from memory as if his life depended on it: ‘“Any writer worth his salt writes to please himself. It’s a self-exploratory operation that is endless. An exorcism of not necessarily his demon, but of his divine discontent.” There. It’s that simple,’ he said. ‘Please yourself.’
A vacuum of silence gripped the room. No one knew whether to applaud or not. Then Eric stood, and put his hands together as enthusiastically as if he were at a school play. The rest of the table rose to join him. And then the rest of the tables rose to join them. Reardon released his grasp from the lectern and staggered back, just managing to stay on his feet. He stood forlornly in the middle of the podium, a lonely, frail and lost figure. On seeing his distress, Alyson made a beeline for the stage and gently wrapped her arm around his shoulders, ushering him on to a chair. Dylan rushed up behind her carrying a glass of water.
On cue, the charged air outside finally cracked and the rain began to fall to earth as surely as if Noah had just hammered the final nail into the Ark.
In the confusion, Chapman picked up the microphone. ‘Thank you, everybody, for joining us tonight. If you’d like to make your way through to the bar, it will be open for another hour.’ It was as if he’d just finished calling the bingo. With that, he quickly scuttled out of the door.
Hugo suggested to Emily they exited the room as quickly as their host. Emily had other ideas. ‘We can’t leave, Hugo. Reardon doesn’t look at all well. We should make sure he’s all right.’
Generosity of spirit was the last thing on Hugo’s mind. ‘Make sure he’s all right? If I go over there I’ll kick his head in for him.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Hugo. He’s over-wrought. He’s clearly been through a lot.’
‘He’s been thro
ugh a lot of wine, more likely. He’s as pissed as a penguin.’
Emily, a better student of the human condition than Hugo, knew he was wrong. ‘No. He was having some kind of breakdown. We have to help.’
‘After a car crash like that I’m not going anywhere near him. I’m finished with him.’
‘Don’t be horrible. You can’t abandon him.’
‘If I recall, Emily, it was you that abandoned him first. I’m just catching up.’ And with that, Hugo strode off, pushing his way through the crowd of delegates blocking his way to the exit.
Suzie was still seated, picking through the wreckage of the past half-hour. She knew Reardon hadn’t looked in shape to present a speech and she should have stopped him. However, her primary motive – to embarrass Chapman and The Write Stuff – had been too strong. She’d guessed that Reardon was tipsy and would be a poor speaker, a bumbler who’d irritate the hell out of her perfectionist boss, but in her wildest imagination she couldn’t have prefigured what actually took place. How had Reardon even known about the book and their affair? She was, of course, red-faced over the second of those revelations, but at least she was now free of the vice of secrecy Chapman had clamped around her. It had been ugly, yes, but now everybody knew what an imposter and a bastard Chapman Hall was. As satisfying as that was she realised the truth had come at a cost and that their guest speaker had been forced to foot the bill. She went over to assist the makeshift medical detail attending him.
‘How is he?’ she asked, as if he wasn’t there.
Reardon had a cold-compress draped over his forehead, fashioned by Alyson from a napkin dunked in an ice bucket. ‘Poor man,’ she replied, ‘He’s all done in. Too much excitement.’
‘Has he been drinking?’ Suzie said, sotto voce. Then realising that the question sounded like an accusation, quickly added, ‘It’s very hot, that’s all.’
‘He’d had a couple of drinks, but not enough to fell him like that,’ said Dylan, who was fanning the author with a towel. ‘He was on great form one minute, and then the next … whoosh.’ He rotated his finger over his head like a helicopter. Reardon was oblivious.
‘Could he be on meds?’ Alyson said. ‘He went very quickly.’
‘Well I didn’t like to say anything, but I thought he looked a bit, you know, when he arrived,’ ventured Suzie.
Dylan wasn’t having that. ‘“A bit you know”? Rubbish. He was in high spirits, that’s all. Anyway, I bet you’ve not had a speech like that before at one of these conferences.’
Suzie’s expression didn’t suggest she was going to contradict him. ‘Look, do you think we should get him to bed?’
‘Good idea,’ Dylan agreed. ‘Can you two give me a hand?’
‘I’ll get his bag and key and show you where his room is,’ said Suzie.
‘He’ll be right as rain after a good night’s kip,’ Alyson ventured – she considered herself somewhat of an authority on sleeping it off. ‘Come on Reardon, love. You’ve got an appointment with the land of nod.’
As they helped him to stand up, Reardon was trying to speak. ‘Please yourself,’ he mumbled.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The bar was fuller than on the Friday evening – delegates didn’t want to go to bed while there was so much excitement to discuss. However, there were few agents, editors or organisers to be seen. Eric found himself alone, propping up the bar, wondering when Dylan and Alyson were coming back. He sipped his whisky and tried to make sense of the day. So much had taken place in such a short time.
Two women of a certain age, finally giving up on seeing Chapman in the bar, passed Eric on their way to the exit. ‘Disgraceful. Should be strung up. No wonder he’s been dropped by his publisher if that’s how he carries on.’
Had it all been a waste of time? Not only the conference, but writing a book? What was he going to tell Victoria about it all? The upshot was that he wasn’t going to get a publishing deal. That much was clear – with Scrub Me at least. He clinked the ice around the bottom of his glass. Well, he’d laid that ghost if nothing else. That was something. No, that was a very big thing.
He’d also made peace, of sorts, with Dylan, and could drop his ill-advised Human Resources complaint. That was an unexpected bonus of coming to Lancaster. And Dylan had been brilliant, sticking up for him with Hugo Lockwood. He smiled. Yes, that had been a highlight.
Best of all though was spending the afternoon and evening with his literary hero – how incredible had that been? He hoped Reardon would be OK – he was very concerned about him. Maybe he shouldn’t have been drinking before his speech but they could hardly have told him to stop, could they? Besides, he’d not drunk that much. What had made him go off like that? It was like somebody flicked a switch – one minute he was having a ball, the next it was like his batteries had run out.
He tuned in on two men, about his age, queuing for drinks lower down the bar. ‘The dirty old bastard,’ one guffawed to the other. ‘You wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. You would though, wouldn’t you?’
The other nodded enthusiastically. ‘You’d have thought if that was the deal he should have been writing a book for her to put her name on.’ They went back to their table carrying a tray of drinks, trailing dirty laughs in their wake.
What a speech though, Eric thought. He’d been convinced Reardon was going to dry, or worse, be hauled off. It had been touch and go. God, he’d given it to them with both barrels when he’d got going. Chapman being outed – all of that was down to Dylan. Bloody hell, Dylan, how do you do it? Hugo would remember the conference too, that was for sure. Good – he deserved everything he got.
No, all told, he’d learned an awful lot over the weekend, if he thought about it. Only not what he’d expected to discover.
There was still no sign of Dylan or Alyson, and he had no inclination whatsoever to seek out Bronte or Con. ‘Sod this’ he thought, and drained his whisky. Sod the rest of the conference, too. Tomorrow he’d make his goodbyes and get off home early. Maybe he could take Victoria and the kids out to Mobberley for a pub lunch. That would be nice.
‘Proper stair rods. We’re all gonna drown.’ Dylan was eyeing the torrential downpour as he and Alyson emerged from the student block where they’d just put Reardon to bed. Rather, they’d helped him on to the bed, removing his shoes, jacket and tie, and placed a glass of water on his bedside table. At Alyson’s suggestion Dylan had turned the author on to his side – ‘just in case’ – and left the bathroom light on so he wouldn’t be confused if he woke in the night. On letting them into Reardon’s room Suzie had disappeared, taking the large golf umbrella she’d held over the heads on the way over – now they faced a drenching as the downpour showed no signs of abating.
‘It’s bouncing,’ said Alyson with delight as the torrents of water overwhelmed the swollen storm drains and backed up to flood the concrete quad.
‘Make a run for it?’
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she said and tore off towards the ornamental lake on the other side of the campus square, squealing at the top of her voice.
Abandoning himself to the elements, Dylan launched after her. As he neared the small rotunda on the edge of the lake he threw himself feet first into a huge puddle and hydroplaned the last five yards towards her. The resulting huge sheet of water almost knocked her off her feet. Alyson screamed with laughter. They were both soaked to the skin. ‘I’m going to get you back for that,’ she warned.
‘Come on then,’ said Dylan, playfully squaring up.
‘When you least expect it,’ she teased, and ran off into the square again. As she windmilled through the rain she looked like a young girl on her first Club 18-30 holiday. She turned to face Dylan and started to gyrate as if she were auditioning for a low-budget pop video. Then, in a tuneless voice she started chuntering on about him coming under her umbrella-la-la-la-la, topped off
with what he took to be a chorus of eh, eh, eh, eh. Her singing was so tuneless it took Dylan some seconds to recognise she was channelling her inner-Rihanna. He ran to join her in the bump and grind choreography – any stragglers from the bar would have been most taken aback at the unexpected sight, even on this night of surprises. As Dylan accompanied her eh, eh, eh, ehs he couldn’t help but notice how different Alyson looked from earlier in the day. Then she’d looked old and frumpish – nothing special at all. Now her hair was plastered all over her face and she should have looked like a drowned rat but, to Dylan, it was as if Salome had opted to enter a wet t-shirt competition. He stopped dancing to take in the glorious and wondrously beguiling sight. Spotting her opportunity, Alyson kicked out furiously sending cascades of water into his face. Before he could retaliate she took off again, back towards the rotunda. Wiping the water from his eyes, Dylan pursued her, bringing her to the ground with a deft rugby tackle. They rolled on the surface like escaped submariners, clutching at each other to stay afloat.
Dylan spoke first. ‘I needed that to cool down.’
‘Me too’ replied Alyson. ‘I’m all wet now though.’
‘We’ll have to do something about that,’ said Dylan, with a glint in his eye.
Alyson innocently cocked her head to one side. ‘I’ve got plenty of towels in my room,’ she said.
‘As long as they’re fluffy,’ replied Dylan. ‘Sounds like just the job.’
All around him, there was darkness. He extended his hand in front of his face, but came into contact with… nothing. He was smouldering like the Vietnamese jungle after a napalm attack. He ripped his clothes off, but it made no difference. His body seemed to be burning at a temperature that would have tested the Space Shuttle’s heat shield on re-entry. He needed to douse the flames and find respite; he had to quell the inferno and alleviate the pain. Haphazardly, he drove forward, nothing to bar his way. But where was he going? He didn’t know but that wasn’t important – it was what he was getting away from that counted.
