Just as he was leaving, I asked Daniel if he had a recent photograph of his wife. He slipped one out of his pocket. He studied it for a moment before handing it over. As I stood examining it after he left, Jeff peered over my shoulder.
'Cor,' he said, 'she's a bit of a ride. What makes you think she's in Australia?'
It turned into a long, tedious afternoon, and by the end of it I decided I didn't much care whether Mrs Trevor was ever found, blank cheque or not. All the talk of international travel, and police, and Interpol – well, it was outside of my comfort zone. I thought Daniel Trevor's money might be better spent printing posters or splashing her face over a milk carton. Every time the shop door opened and a customer came in, he tutted, and that put me on edge. He was telling me about the books she had been selling in Frankfurt, and the artists she got on best with at the retreat, but I was drifting. I was thinking about the tube of fluorescent light on the ceiling above me, and how insects ever got inside it, and why, and if they realised what they'd done or even thought much about anything at all. I had new stock to check and old stock to shift. I wanted to ask how good his printer was because I'd been thinking about publishing a limited edition by a long-neglected local writer, but I didn't get the chance because he was wittering away about his poor motherless kids. The more I heard, the more I was convinced that Frankfurt had nothing to do with it, that his wife had made her position clear, that she had run off with a poet, she wasn't coming home and she didn't much like her kids, who sounded like whiny brats.
When I walked him to the door I assured him that I would get straight on to the case, but instead I opened a Twix and thought some more about interior lighting.
10
Mystery writers toil away in an ill-rewarded and critically ignored genre that only very rarely throws up someone worthy of the bestseller list or literary acclaim, and even more infrequently, both. Ian 'Rebus' Rankin famously wrote a dozen novels before becoming an overnight sensation. So, given that they often have to scrape by on a pittance, it is particularly galling to them when someone like Brendan Coyle comes along and chalks up the kind of sales they would kill for. And yet might. Galling because Brendan was already a much-garlanded author of literary fiction when he decided to write crime under a pseudonym before being 'accidentally' unmasked. He gives the impression that it is just something he dashes off while waiting for divine inspiration to strike his real work. In reality he contributes nothing new to the genre and instead merely rehashes some of its worst clichés. Yet he sells and sells and the critics adore him. He is a vain, boorish snob, and sometimes I wonder why I ever bothered inviting him to teach a monthly creative writing class in No Alibis.
Then I remember that it's because he does it for nothing and that I also sell a lot of books off the back of his visits. The only reason he does it for free is that I convinced him that he should be giving something back to 'his' people, and he was sucker enough to fall for it. I like to think that every minute he spends talking twaddle in No Alibis is one minute fewer spent trying to write crime, which is a blessing for us all.
His creative writing classes are artfully constructed exercises in the massaging of his own ego. When he chooses examples of fine writing with which to illustrate his thoughts, he chooses his own. When his students hesitantly read from their work, he yawns and fidgets. When he does deign to offer advice, it is usually either irrelevant or impenetrable, or both. It is therefore rather surprising to observe how much his students love him, and staggering to have to admit that his class is oversubscribed. One day I will certainly stab him with a letter-opener. But in the meantime I must acknowledge a debt of gratitude – his name was enough to finally entice my jewellery girl into the store.
It happened on the Saturday morning after the lunchtime when I agreed to take on what would become known as The Case of the Dancing Jews and the interminable afternoon when I decided that what would become known as The Case of the Dancing Jews would actually be too much trouble. Of course I would give it a few weeks before I let him know. I might even cash a very small blank cheque to cover the stress of deciding not to investigate what would become known as The Case of the Dancing Jews; one must put one's mental health first. Leather trousers and graffiti, yes. Damaged pottery and wayward dogs, yes. Missing persons and Interpol, no.
During Brendan Coyle's creative writing class I sit on a stool behind the cash desk. When he mentions a book, I pick it up and show it around to try to encourage a sale. I feel a little like a game-show hostess. I was doing this before some fifteen eager students when the door opened and an elfin figure entered. I did not recognise her at first because she was wearing the woollen equivalent of a leather flying cap, pulled down low on her brow and with the equivalent of its leather side straps shadowing most of her face. But then when she pulled it off, and smiled apologetically at Brendan, I realised with a sudden flush to my cheeks, and chest, and arms, and feet, that it was her, my love from the jewellery store.
'Sorry I'm late,' she said. 'Watch stopped.'
Not an awfully good advertisement for the jewellery store, but a splendid opportunity for me, because Brendan shook his head and told her he was sorry too, because the class was already full and perhaps she could put her name down on the waiting list; even before the disappointment could register on her face I was able to saddle up and ride over the brow of the hill.
'No, no, no, not at all,' I said. 'As it happens, we have one place left.'
'No we don't,' said Brendan.
'Yes we do,' I said.
'You told me we were oversubscribed,' said Brendan.
'I lied.'
He gave me a quizzical look. 'Well, that's refreshing honesty.' I looked at the girl. She smiled at me. Brendan looked at me, smiling at the girl, smiling back at me. I looked at him. He nodded. The quizzical look changed to one of understanding. Without knowing any of the background – the countless hours spent watching the jewellery store for some sign of her, following her – Brendan knew. And in that moment I also knew that he would do his utmost to ruin my chances with her. He would seek to charm her himself. And if he could not have her, then he would destroy her. That was the way of him.
He immediately ordered her to the Writer's Stool.
I was helpless to intervene.
Brendan teaches that while not everyone can become a great writer, you can train yourself to think like one. Or more importantly, he can teach you. To this end he encourages his students to take turns sitting in 'the Writer's Stool' – a bar stool in any other world – which he sets in the window of the shop. He then briefly interviews its occupant, usually seeking to embarrass him or her in some way, before turning the stool to face the street outside for what he likes to call 'the Writer's Challenge'. I have allowed him to get away with this in the past because neither the class nor his students mean anything to me, they are but a means to a paperback sale. But this was different. I was in love. He was approaching this new challenge with relish, swaggering with the guile of a bestselling author; she was an innocent aspirant, caught in the tractor beam of his celebrity. But what if she fell for his charm and intelligence and he swept her away from me? Or worse, what if he used her, abused her, then dashed her on the rocks of his rampant ego, hooking her like a fish and then throwing her back, still a fish, but a fish with a big hook through her cheek?
It started innocuously enough.
'Name?'
'Alison,' she said.
'Tell us a little about yourself, Alison.'
'I work in the jewellery shop across the road.'
'And how tedious is that?'
'Not at all, I love it.'
'And yet you seek fulfilment here.'
'No, just looking for some writing tips.'
'Tips?'
Brendan raised his eyebrows. The rest of the class grinned like idiots. None of them would become writers. Some of them were barely readers.
'So what do you like to write, Alison? I believe that fledgling writers should write about
what they know. Do you write about jewellery, Alison? Perhaps, given our surroundings, the theft of jewellery, or the jealousy it so often inspires, or perhaps the turmoil of the master jeweller losing his sight? Note the keywords.'
There were nods from the class. Those were definite story possibilities.
'No,' said Alison. 'I don't even like writing that much.'
This drew ooohs and aaahs. Brendan adopted a look of fake bewilderment. He was enjoying this.
'You don't even . . .'
'I draw comics. The drawing isn't a problem, but my scripts are no great shakes, that's why I'm looking for—'
'Comics?' Brendan nodded to himself, as if giving her predicament due consideration, but when he looked at the other students I could see that his mouth was ever so slightly curled up into a sly smirk, and they returned it to him in spades. They worshipped him. I was in her corner, of course. I understood exactly where she was coming from. Comics, along with mystery fiction, exist in a literary ghetto, and in a much worse part of it at that. Unheralded. Unrewarded. But the great thing is, most of their creators don't care. Still, I felt for her. Brendan and his acolytes were awash with condescension, yet they were sitting in my mystery store, taking advantage of my largesse, belittling my invited guest and future bride. I seethed. I would have intervened, I would have led him from the shop by his ear and hurled him on to the pavement outside and turfed his gang of no-hopers out after him, but that would have affected sales, and you can't afford to be overly sensitive in this business. Besides, as it turned out, Alison was well capable of taking care of herself.
Brendan returned his attention to the pretty girl on the bar stool. He gave an overdramatic sigh. 'I suppose we must change with the times, and there is certainly a growing critical acceptance of the graphic novel as a legitimate—'
'Comics,' said Alison.
'Excuse me?'
'Not graphic novels. Comics. I draw comics. And write them. Badly.'
'Well, comics, then. And you write them badly. So let's see if we can fix you.' He abruptly clapped his hands together. 'Turn the Writer's Stool to face the street,' he instructed. 'This is an exercise I put all of my students through; some pass with flying colours, some fail miserably.' He surveyed his class. Several heads were bowed in shame. 'Alison,' he continued, 'you, we, have something in our heads called a writer's muscle, and if you don't use it, it gets loose and flabby. This exercise is designed to pump it back up into shape. Are you with me? Are you ready to pump your writer's muscle?'
Alison nodded warily, and then turned her chair to face a Botanic Avenue busy with Saturday morning shoppers.
'Okay – these are the rules. As soon as I say go, you must describe every man, woman, child or dog who passes this window. You must tell me what they look like, where they might be going, what they might be thinking. The key to this is speed, you cannot miss anyone out. They might come one at a time, they might come in groups. You must not even think about what you're saying, you let the muscle do the work. Do you understand?'
'Yes, of course.'
'Okay, then . . . go!' He clapped his hands again. I leaned forward. Everyone leaned forward.
Alison opened her mouth.
'Faster!' Brendan cried.
'I see . . .'
'Faster!' Brendan cried again.
'Man in the leather jacket . . . there's tattoos under there . . . he's going to his mum's . . . woman with the tartan trolley, it's full of cat food . . . skinhead kid off shoplifting . . .'
'Clichés! Flex the muscle!'
'Teenager in love for the first time, he's gay . . . man with a cap, you never see caps these days, he yearns for times gone . . .'
'Yearn! Good word!
'. . . man with a briefcase, what's he doing with it on a Saturday? He's told his wife he has to work but he's having an affair, he's going to meet her in the . . . boy on a bicycle, but he's forgotten his lock, trying to decide whether it's safe to . . . masked gunmen going into my jewellery shop . . .'
Everyone's head jerked to the right of the window.
'Gotcha!' said Alison.
Nobody dared smile.
'This isn't a game!' Brendan thundered.
'I thought it was a—'
'Three strikes and you're out, go again!'
It was getting busier outside.
'Man . . . woman . . . knew each other as kids but he's lost his hair and she can't help looking at it . . . cool dude, male model material, knows it . . . get out of my way, get out of my way, I'm king of the sidewalk . . .'
'American slang, twice, lazy, second strike!'
'Lottery ticket, but hole in trousers, this is his last chance, he'll commit suicide if he doesn't . . . old friends meet, she's afraid to ask if she's pregnant in case she's just fat . . . that's a poor excuse for a dog . . . don't see many black faces in Belfast . . . don't drop litter, you wouldn't do it at home . . . yes he would . . . sunglasses, cloudy day, she has a migraine but has to deliver . . . hat box, daughter getting married . . . cripple trying to cross the . . .'
'Three strikes and you're out!' Brendan turned from her and addressed the rest of the class. 'As we have learned in previous weeks, the secret is not allowing yourself to—'
'Excuse me?' It was Alison cutting in, her body still facing the window but turning her head back. 'Why am I out?'
Brendan smiled indulgently. 'Where do you want me to start? Undisciplined language, alliteration, propagation of social stereotypes . . .'
'Stereo what?'
'Cripple. You can't call someone a cripple.'
'Why not?'
'It is politically incorrect and it's socially unacceptable.'
'To call someone a crip?'
'Yes. And that's even worse. Please vacate the Writer's Stool. Perhaps someone else would care to . . . ?'
Every single hand shot up. I had watched them all at it in the preceding weeks, and none of them were in Alison's league. At least she'd made a stab at humour. And now she wasn't moving. She sat where she was, staring out of the window.
'Alison. Vacate the stool.'
She shook her head. 'That's not fair. You asked me to describe what I saw. I saw a cripple. I am demonstrating a rich use of language.'
Brendan raised an eyebrow. 'What would you know about . . . a mere comic . . .' He stopped himself. 'You've had your turn, now vacate the stool. Perhaps after class we can grab a coffee and I can explain to you the rights and wrongs of calling someone a—'
'Cripple,' Alison snapped. 'He's in a wheelchair. He can't walk.' She manoeuvred the bar stool round until she was facing Brendan and the rest of the class. 'He is crippled by injury. He worked in the Harland and Wolff shipyard for thirty-five years, labouring in the shadow of the mighty twin cranes of Samson and Goliath. On the very day the shipyard closed for good, leaving behind only inherited memories of the Titanic, they were shifting abandoned girders and one fell on him, fracturing his spine. He spent eight months in hospital, determined to walk again, but ultimately could not. He has battled to reconcile himself to his fate. He never refers to himself as disabled, or wheelchair-bound; he calls himself a cripple because it is a crippling injury, not only to his body, but to his mind. His brain is crippled by the realisation that he will not ever walk again, his emotions are crippled because he cannot adequately explain how he feels to his wife, because he does not have the vocabulary for it, and she does not have the patience to allow him to develop it. She has worked hard all of her life, always with the prospect of one day being able to retire and enjoy her few remaining years with her husband, but now he is exactly what she says he is, to herself, to her friends when she's been drinking, he's a fucking cripple and he can't get it up any more and she'll be damned if she's going to settle for that, she'll—'
'Enough.'
Alison stopped. Brendan stood before her. The class sat, mesmerised. I leant on the counter, in awe.
'You cannot say cripple. Now for the last time, get off the stool.'
Their ey
es locked.
I had sweat on my brow.
'Cripple,' said Alison. 'Cripple, cripple, cripple.'
'That's it,' Brendan hissed and pointed to the door. 'Get out of my class!' he bellowed. 'I give my time for nothing, you know! I give back. I share and pass on my knowledge. All I ask in return is that I'm treated with some modicum of respect.'
Alison lifted her woollen flying cap from her lap and pulled it firmly down over her ears before slipping off the stool. She crossed to the door and opened it. She hesitated, looked across at me for too brief a moment, then fixed her attention on Brendan.
'If you ask me,' she said, raising her right hand, 'it's not the fucking writing muscle you need to be concentrating on.'
And then she made the universal sign for wanking, before smiling pleasantly and exiting, leaving No Alibis a wiser, richer place than before.
11
Brendan Coyle wasn't used to anything less than complete deference. He got over the initial shock of Alison's performance and miming exit, but he remained agitated for the rest of the class, and afterwards he was still something of a sweating, palpitating wreck, at least until I caved in and subdued him with a cheap bottle of white I'd been presented with as a thank-you gift from one of my cases, but which I hadn't yet dared open. Anything with the word Tesco and/or WeightWatchers on the label should be viewed with some suspicion. Wishing to steer the conversation away from Alison – I was still in a bit of a state myself, because I had at last met her, and spoken to her, and done her a favour, and she'd given me a look of gratitude, and the last thing she'd done before giving Brendan the internationally accepted hand signal for wanking was to match eyes with me and I knew that meant something and I wasn't about to stand there in my own shop and listen to the woman I loved being repeatedly denigrated by a man who knew nothing about crime fiction yet was still acclaimed as a master of it – I instead turned to the only thing we had in common, which was books, but even that was a dead end of disparate interests until I happened to mention that I'd had the owner of Belfast Books in the shop recently, pleading for help to find his missing wife.
Mystery Man Page 5
