Written Off

by Paul Carroll

  Now he became aware of a barely perceptible balm promising a hint of reprieve to his body and mind – moisture and, gloriously, cool air. He was outside. But it still wasn’t enough to extinguish the flames licking away at his tired and weary bones. He needed an ocean to stem this fever; all of the rivers in the world to conjoin and pour down on his suffering. Blindly, he pressed on. A succession of thoughts flashed into his mind, each struggling for domination over the others.

  Then, salvation. An abatement of the storm. He felt as if he’d been pulled from the furnace by a master blacksmith and plunged into a tub of cooling water. So violent was the contrast of elements he imagined there must be column of steam rising a mile above him. Only now could he let go and allow himself to drift within this healing haven of peace. The competing images in his head now took on a clearer, if somewhat chaotic, form: A woman asking him if he was all right. A wild west prospector panning for gold. A schoolmaster in mortar and gown flexing his bamboo cane. The government front bench laughing, laughing, laughing. A serious young man writing, writing, writing.

  Slowly, but surely, he could feel the heat leaving him; now he could abandon himself without any further anxiety or fear. A smile played on his lips as he recalled a line – ‘Those are pearls that were his eyes’. Yes, now he remembered.

  Alyson Hummer glanced at the bedside clock as she manoeuvred on to all fours. She and Dylan had been sharing each other’s intimate company and bodily fluids for over three hours now. He certainly had some stamina, she thought. She was exhausted. He was funny too – he’d sung She’s Electric to her when she’d roused him for the third time, and he was a most considerate lover, not at all like some of the young men she’d had before. At 3.30am, as he shuddered to a climax for the fourth time, she thought it was probably about time they knocked it on the head. She had to catch her morning train back to Bristol and pick up the kids – she daren’t leave them with Alison any longer than they’d agreed.

  ‘Time to go, lover,’ she said to Dylan after he’d got his breath back. ‘Isn’t there a rule about not bringing fellow students back to your room, anyway?’

  ‘Too late to expel us now,’ replied Dylan. ‘Speaking of rules, are you sure I can’t have a fag?’

  Dylan was gasping, but Alyson had been steadfast in stopping him lighting up in her room. She had some standards after all. ‘You can have one when you get outside,’ she said. ‘You’ve earned one, I reckon, but not in here.’

  Dylan smiled. He wasn’t complaining. It had been a long day. Never mind the conference and all his adventures, he’d just completed the equivalent of the Ironman course, plus his hangover wasn’t going to wait until morning to remind him he had company on his trip back to Manchester.

  He started to pull on his clothes. ‘Might see you at breakfast,’ he said.

  ‘Yes – that would be good,’ Alyson replied. Both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  Dressed, he gave her a chaste peck on the cheek and casually offered his hand up in a goodbye wave.

  As the door clicked behind him, Alyson lay on the bed and gleefully waved her little fists in the air. A very unexpected bonus and a great way of rounding off her conference. She should write about her escapade – there was plenty of material there. She thought back to what she’d told Alison – how she wanted to go mainstream and become a ‘serious’ author. Well, bugger that. If she’d learned anything this weekend it was ‘stick to your knitting’. She reached over for her iPhone and began to tap some bulletpoints into her notes app while they were still fresh in her mind: Ad man and Eve. Column inches. Multiple insertions. Double spread. Male order. She could definitely do something with that. She put the phone down to go to sleep, but 30 seconds later picked it up again. She’d had another idea: Rock ‘n’ Roll Star. Roll With It. Cigarettes & Alcohol. Acquiesce. Definitely Maybe. Then it struck her. Yes, Wonderball would do very nicely.

  At the bottom of the stairwell Dylan was drawing on his first nicotine for some hours. It tasted divine. It had been some night. He thought of Alyson’s face illuminated in the bedside lamp as he bade her farewell. How, once the heat of passion had diminished, she’d looked plain and ordinary again. He took another deep pull on his cigarette. Funny how that always happens, he mused. For the past three hours he’d been locked in a fight to the finish with Kylie Minogue and then Dame Edna had somehow reappeared and taken her place. Still, Alyson could teach some of the younger girls he knew a thing or two. She might not know her Christian Louboutins from her Manolo Blahniks, but she could shag for England. Yes, he was very glad he’d joined the ranks of the literary elite. It had been well worth it. He flicked his cigarette end into the bushes and set off across the square to find his room for an all too short sleep.

  The rain had long stopped and the air was cool. Large puddles from the storm still dotted the piazza and he took care to step around them. As he neared the rotunda he caught sight of a dark shape floating in the water on the edge of the ornamental lake. The flickering overhead sodium light made it difficult to pick out the silhouette and he stepped closer for a better look. As he peered at the unmoving form the buzzing of the damaged light fitting seemed to get louder, as if he was being attacked by a swarm of hornets. Finally, his focus adjusted sufficiently to discern a naked corpse floating face-down in the water.

  SIXTEEN MONTHS LATER

  Eric was nervous – as anybody would be at their first-ever book launch. Around him there was a whirligig of excitement as glasses were chinked, air kisses mwah’ed, and hugs exchanged. So this was what it felt like. He clutched his paperback copy of Scrub Me Till I Shine in the Dark and wondered at what time the official business would start.

  Julia spotted him and came straight over. ‘Eric, it’s brilliant to see you.’

  ‘There’s a couple of us down from Manchester – safety in numbers, eh?’ he replied jovially. He hesitated. Should he? ‘This probably isn’t the best time but I’ve got a present for you.’ He sheepishly offered up to her the copy of his novel.

  ‘Oh, you got it published after all? How brilliant.’

  ‘Well, no point in leaving it in a drawer, so I bit the bullet.’

  ‘I hope you’ve signed it for me,’ said Julia as she flicked through the pages to the front of the book.

  ‘I did, yes. I hope you’re going to do the same for me?’

  ‘Promise. You’ll be first,’ said Julia.

  ‘I really like the cover and the displays for it,’ Eric ventured. ‘That “Dr Who meets Shirley Holmes” is a really good line.’

  ‘It was Dylan who came up with that, you know. Once it lodged in my brain I just couldn’t shake it.’

  ‘Really? He told me he had but I didn’t believe him.’

  ‘I’m glad you two are friends now. I didn’t think that was on the cards. Or you self-publishing your book for that matter.’

  ‘Well, never say never and all that.’

  Emily Chatterton rushed over to join them. ‘Five minutes, Julia, and then we’ll start. Oh, hello…’ She couldn’t remember Eric’s name but knew she’d seen his face somewhere before.

  ‘Eric. Blair. I was at The Write Stuff Conference the year before last.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Hard to forget,’ Emily said, pulling a slight face. ‘Still, I’ll be eternally grateful for that weekend or I would never have discovered The Pendulum Swings – or Julia of course.’

  Dylan appeared carrying four glasses of wine. He’d got himself and Eric two each, and now offered one to Julia and Emily as if that had been the order all along. Both declined.

  ‘Ah, your unofficial agent, Julia,’ joked the editor. ‘It really was kind of him to bring Pendulum to Lancaster for you when you were ill.’

  Dylan, Eric and Julia all exchanged conspiratorial glances.

  ‘Did you go again, for last year’s conference?’ Eric asked Emily.

 
‘Oh, yes. Having found Julia there we wouldn’t dare miss another.’

  Surprised that the conference was still being held, Dylan enquired, ‘Was it as busy as the year before?’

  ‘Busy? It was heaving. They had their best attendance ever according to Chapman Hall.’

  ‘And did Hugo Lockwood turn out again?’ Eric wanted to know.

  ‘Oh – he’s far too important these days,’ Emily replied. ‘Reardon’s books have been doing a bomb since his unfortunate drowning and Hugo has been mad busy as a result. Still, he’s not complaining – he won the literary agent of the year award on the back of it.’ Emily didn’t think it appropriate to inform them that sales of Reardon’s back catalogue had also spiked Franklin & Pope’s profits in the past year. For the same reason, she didn’t think to mention the killing they’d made on releasing Original Motion after she’d hastily re-signed her former client in a pre-emptive handshake deal with Hugo on the train back from Lancaster.

  She looked at her watch. ‘Well, this is it, Julia. Time to unleash your literary masterpiece on the book-buying public.’

  As the two women made their way to the front of the bookstore Dylan looked at his friend. ‘It could be you up there next time, Eric. Are you going to write any more?’

  Eric smiled. ‘Remember that piece of advice Reardon passed on? “Any writer worth his salt writes to please himself”. Well, if I do ever write another, next time I’ll know who I’m doing it for.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I’d like to thank the following people for their help and support in easing Written Off to publication: Mark Beaumont of Dinosaur for cover design and marketing support; Chris Stamp for illustrations; Glenn Jones of Home Design for the www.paulcarrollink.co.uk website; Gio di Cosmo of Brazen PR for social media expertise; Nathalie Bagnall, Catherine Barrett, Patrick Carroll, Liam Ferguson, Brendan Gore, David Hargreaves, Peter Jones, John Kelly, David Lomax, Gerry McLaughlin, Charles Rose and Nina Webb for first draft feedback and comments. Especial thanks to David Lomax and Patrick Carroll for their eagle-eyed assistance at, respectively, MS and proof stages.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Paul Carroll has been drawn to ink and the written word for as long as he can remember. Born and raised in Leeds, Paul studied English at the University of Manchester and went on to form his own PR consultancy, Communique, which he ran for many years. Nowadays Paul concentrates on his writing. His first novel, A Matter of Life and Death, was published by Matador in 2012.