The Circle

by Peter Lovesey

  Silence dropped like dead leaves in November.

  Maurice said, 'Thank you, Naomi. You're never shy of giving an opinion.'

  'Shouldn't the minutes say "the late Mr Blacker"?' the man next to Naomi said.

  'That is a point,' Maurice the chair said. He took an even longer pause this time. 'Did everyone hear the tragic news of Edgar Blacker?' Turning to Bob, he said, 'Mr Blacker was a publisher by profession, so we invited him to speak to us. He died in a fire at his cottage the next night.'

  Thinking he'd better show respect, Bob shook his head and said, 'Dreadful.'

  'You don't have to go overboard,' the outspoken woman called Naomi said. 'It's not as if he was one of us. Quite the reverse. He raised the hopes of certain people around this table, making it sound an easy matter to get published. It wasn't what you hear on writers' courses. It was irresponsible. They're beginners.'

  'Except Maurice,' Miss Snow said. 'He's publishing Maurice's book.'

  'Was,' Maurice said.

  Miss Snow reddened. 'Oh. I hadn't thought. What a blow. I'm so sorry. You'll place it with some other publisher, I'm certain.'

  'No question,' an overweight man said in a strong, deep voice. 'The cream always rises to the top.' A faint smile hovered around his lips, undermining the compliment.

  'Anything else about the minutes?' the chairman said, not wanting to dwell on his personal misfortune. 'In that case, let's move on. Successes. Do we have any successes to report since the last meeting?'

  A hand went up. 'A letter in The Lady.'

  'Splendid! Well done, Jessie,' the chairman said, and there were murmurs of congratulation all round. 'Did they pay?'

  'Twenty-five pounds.'Jessie, a compact, elderly woman in a purple twinset, modestly dipped her head.

  'Are you going to read it out?'

  'I'd rather not, if you don't mind. It's personal.'

  Personal, in a magazine selling in thousands? Bob thought. These people are priceless.

  'Yes,' Maurice said, with a raised finger, 'and it's the personal touch that gets the attention of an editor. Write from the heart, and you'll succeed. Any other successes?'

  The man with the hairpiece said, 'My gardening column in the parish magazine, if you can call that a success.'

  'Of course it's a success, Basil,' Miss Snow said. 'Everything in print is a success.'

  'It's about runner beans this month.'

  That was it for the successes. They went on to discuss the next item on the agenda: opportunities. Good psychology on someone's part. Leaflets about poetry competitions for cash prizes were handed round. Bob doubted if his rhyming would qualify.

  'The report from the chair is next. I don't have much to report,' Maurice said. 'We've been thinking about the programme for the next six months. We can afford another speaker, I think.'

  'Get someone better than Blacker, then. He was a conman,' the man with the sonorous voice said on a rising note. A Welshman, Bob decided.

  Basil, the gardening expert, said, 'That isn't very kind. He's only just died.'

  'Doesn't mean we have to praise up his talk. I agree with Naomi. It was crap. He spent most of the time talking up his tinpot publishing business and the rest of it telling some of us we could make a fortune.'

  'He offered to come back.'

  'For another fat fee.'

  'Not at all. I'm sure he meant to come for nothing. He saw the potential here. Publishers need writers, you know. We're the creators.'

  'The talent,' Jessie the success said.

  Bob looked around at the assembled talent. To their credit some of them were grinning. Thomasine winked.

  'I wouldn't mind hearing from a literary agent,' said a woman who had been silent up to now.

  'Wouldn't we all?' Thomasine said.

  'I meant as a speaker.'

  'Dagmar, my dear, that's an excellent suggestion,' Maurice said. There was skill as well as tact in his handling of the meeting. 'But it isn't easy to get an agent to come along. We tried before.'

  'Can't blame them,' Thomasine said. 'They know they'd leave here with a sackful of scripts. The Bournemouth circle had an editor from Mills and Boon.'

  'Waste of time,' the Welshman said. 'How many of us write romance? Two, at a pinch.'

  'What's your suggestion, then?'

  'Me. I'd save the money and organise an outing.'

  'Where to?'

  'We could visit Kipling's place, Bateman's.'

  'Been there.'

  'Not with a bunch of writers, you haven't. We could use it as a topic, something to write about.'

  'I'd rather like to visit the Jane Austen house at Chawton,' Miss Snow said.

  'Each to his own, my dear. Personally, I've had it up to here with rich young men pursued by virgins on the make. If the rest of you want to go to Chawton, fine. "Ship me somewhere east of Suez.'"

  'What?'

  'A quote. I was quoting Kipling.'

  'What about our youngest member?' Maurice the chair said. 'Do you have a preference, Sharon?'

  'Wouldn't he love to know? Dirty old man,' the Welshman murmured.

  The blonde shook her head. She had spent the entire time scribbling on a pad. Bob had assumed she was writing, but now she'd moved her arm he could see that all she'd produced was a page of doodles.

  Maurice decided on a show of hands and the circle agreed that a visit to Bateman's would be arranged later in the year. If it was successful, he added with diplomacy, they might try the Jane Austen house the following year.

  'So we come to the exciting part of the evening, our work in progress.' Maurice turned to Bob and almost brought on a seizure - but only to explain, 'We usually take it in turns to say where we are with our writing. If possible, we read something aloud and invite comments. Honest comment, no holds barred.'

  'Cliche.'

  'What?'

  The man with the bow tie said, 'No holds barred. It's a cliche.'

  With restraint, Maurice said, 'Would you care to suggest an alternative, Anton?'

  'You said it already. "Honest comment."'

  'Thank you for that.' It was spoken in a tone that drained it of gratitude. 'Perhaps, Anton, you would like to open the batting.'

  'Cliche.'

  Everyone except Anton smiled.

  Anton said, 'Since the last meeting, I have not done any writing owing to pressure of work.'

  Someone murmured, 'Cliche.'

  'If you like I could give you ten or twenty minutes on the curse of the cliche in modern English.'

  'Another time, perhaps. I happen to know there are members bursting to read out their latest work and I think they should have their opportunity. How about you, Zach?'

  To Bob's right there was a movement. The young man with the earring had sunk low in his chair during the early part of the meeting and seemed to be falling asleep. He braced himself, reached into his rucksack and took out a thick, dog-eared sheaf and placed it on the table. So this was Zach. Without any preamble he began to read with extraordinary intensity. 'Gripping the great, razor-sharp, double-bladed axe forged in fire by the ironmaster of Avalon, Madrigor the fearless strode across the narrow causeway that led to the ancient castle on the mount, ignoring the savage east wind fanning his black velvet cloak and the icy sea-spray whipping his leathery calves. He had one objective and that was to vanquish the stinking hordes within and recover the mazarin stone of his ancestor, Godfric, and put its magical powers to noble employment, arming him for the ordeals to come. Not even the massed ranks of the Querulinda would stand in his way now. He was transformed, invincible, super-strong. His green eyes gleamed and his teeth flashed in the glow of the setting sun. If the gods were with him he would prevail over his enemies. True, the opposition were vastly better equipped than he with their vats of boiling oil and their flaming arrows. What did it matter, the terrifying din they made by beating on their shields and chanting war-songs? The archers stared down gimlet-eyed from the battlements, crossbows at the ready, impatient for him to co
me within range. They were dressed in chainmail and helmets. Madrigor spurned even a shield, relying on his agility, his innate sense of timing, to avoid whatever the enemy cast in his direction. Within himself, he relished the challenge . . .'

  While the tide of words poured over them, Bob glanced around the table. Not everyone was listening. Opposite him, Thomasine rolled her eyes upwards and gave a slight smile. The owner of the bow tie was looking at a competition leaflet. Two, at least, were rehearsing for their turns, scanning their scripts, their lips moving. Maurice leaned back and checked his watch.

  I'm having a ball, Bob thought. This is like nothing else, this bunch of strange people united only by their desire to write. I can't wait to hear what each of them will read out. What sort of book has the chairman written and almost got into print? The doodling blonde? Thomasine, with the twinkle in her eye?

  '. . . the salt of his own sweat stinging his lips, he hauled himself higher up the rock face without heeding the damage to his bare hands. Another stream of boiling oil hit the outcrop above him and splashed, sizzling behind him. He swayed to one side to avoid a flaming arrow. Having got this far, almost to the great granite wall of the citadel itself, he knew with glorious certainty that the gods had chosen to favour him this day. Without their aid, he would assuredly have been struck down before getting so far. The encroaching darkness, evening's gift to the oppressed, would help him now. He still had to scale the bare wall and surmount the bastion . . .'

  Maurice the. chair said, 'Perhaps at this point—'

  But the torrent couldn't be halted in mid-flow. '. . . above which his enemy waited to engage him.'

  'Thank you, Zach.'

  'Lanterns had been lit along the parapet.'

  'I'm interrupting you there because we could run out of time. Speaking for myself, I wish we could go on. You've reached an enthralling part of the story.'

  Zach's lips were still moving, though his voice had tailed off.

  Maurice said, 'Anyone care to comment?'

  'I couldn't take much more of it,' the outspoken woman said. She had deep-set, dark eyes that looked as if they could see right through you.

  'I'm not sure if that counts as constructive criticism, Naomi.'

  'No, I mean I'm not used to such excitement. I was there with him, climbing the castle walls. It's a tour de force.'

  'Really? There's a tribute, Zach.'

  The Welshman said, 'You could, perhaps, get him over the rocks and up the wall a little quicker. We all know he's going to sock it to the opposition.'

  'Tudor, that's not the point,' Thomasine said. 'Zach is writing long. It's fantasy. They're big books. A fantasy writer can't get away with under six hundred pages.'

  'There's more if you want,' Zach said, brandishing unread pages like banknotes.

  'Unfortunately,' Maurice said, 'we'll have to deny ourselves until next time.'

  'I'll be into another chapter by then.'

  'Excellent. We can't wait. Thomasine, let's change the mood with something from you, shall we?'

  'I can't compete with what we've just heard.'

  'We're not in competition. Never were.'

  'All right. I've written another erotic poem.'

  There was a noticeable raising of the attention level.

  'Good on you, Tommy, girl,' Tudor the Welshman said.

  She took a small, black notebook from her bag. 'It's called "A Night with Rudolf".' She cleared her throat and began to read.

  'Covent Garden, Nureyev alone upon the stage,

  The music of Le Corsair rising to a great crescendo,

  And I know, I know, I know, this is the one, the solo,

  The thing he does so well, the reason I am here,

  Two months' wages, a small fortune, my holiday in France,

  For a seat in the stalls, front row. Close-up view

  Of those stallion haunches in all their muscularity stretching the tights,

  Gold tights, gold, gleaming, steaming, straining tights.

  I watch him circle the stage with leaps as enormous

  As the music, giving me sensations I should not have in a public place.

  I cannot shift my eyes from his bulging masculinity. Wondering, wishing,

  Dreaming, thrilled by the music and the man, in my memory I will hold

  This experience for ever.'

  'Oh, my word!' Miss Snow said. 'I'm all of a quiver.'

  Anton was frowning. 'Was that erotic?'

  Tudor said, 'If it was, it went over my head.'

  'You men,' Miss Snow said. 'You have no subtlety. If it isn't in four-letter words, you don't respond at all.'

  'I loved it,' Maurice said. 'Straight into our next anthology, if I have anything to do with it. Personally I never understood the appeal of Nureyev, but you've just opened my eyes, Tommy. Very telling, that stallion reference. What was it? "Haunches in all their masculinity"?'

  'Muscularity.'

  'Right. What a striking image. I would almost say rampant.'

  'Whoa, boy,' Tudor said.

  'I mean it. She promised us an erotic poem, and she delivered.'

  'Don't. I'm getting embarrassed,' Thomasine said.

  'This might be the right moment to have our break, then. Did anyone put the kettle on?'

  It was good to stretch the haunches, muscular or flabby. Bob hadn't appreciated how tense he had got climbing up the castle wall and leaping around the Covent Garden stage. No one else seemed to know what to say to Thomasine after her reading, so he went over. 'That was high-tone. If the rest of this mob are up to your standard, I'm leaving right now.'

  'Don't be daft. We're all beginners. You hear what someone else has done and it sounds kind of special because it's different from your own stuff. I bet you've got something really brilliant tucked away in a drawer at home.'

  He was about to turn this into a joke about drawers, but decided against it. He was the newcomer. 'Can we light up in here?'

  'The corridor. Wouldn't say no to one myself after opening up like that. Worse than a striptease.'

  After they'd both taken their first drag he said, 'Will they all read to us?'

  'About half of them. Sometimes the excuses are more inventive than the stuff anyone has written. Maurice is very good at helping the timid ones pluck up the necessary. You're not timid, are you?'

  'Just ask me to read and see the state of me.'

  'You'll get over it.' She gave him a sudden nudge. 'Hello. Looks as if you're not the only new boy.'

  Two hunks in leathers and jeans edged past and into the meeting room. They were given the welcome treatment by Maurice.

  'Young and beefy,' Thomasine said. 'Nice for our Sharon. Nice for all us girls.'

  To Bob's eye, they didn't look like creative writers. He watched from the doorway. Maurice had gone through his welcoming spiel and it hadn't impressed. The newcomers were doing the talking. Maurice made a sweeping movement with his hand as if to show they'd got something wrong.

  'They're cops,' Bob said.

  'How do you know?'

  'Something about the way they're talking to him. And they work in pairs.'

  'What would they want with Maurice?'

  'You'll have to ask him, but I don't think you'll get the chance.' One of them had grasped Maurice's arm just above the elbow.

  Maurice turned and spoke to the little woman called Dagmar.

  'Our vice-chair,' Thomasine said. 'He's asking her to take over. He's leaving us.'

  She was right. They steered Maurice through the door. It seemed to be voluntary, even though his face was ashen.

  Thomasine went straight over to Dagmar. 'What was that about, Dag? What's going on?'

  'I've no idea. Maurice asked me to take over after the break.'

  Tudor said, 'I heard it all. They're CID. They want to question him about the death of Edgar Blacker.'

  3

  know no person so perfectly disagreeable and even dangerous as an author.

  King William IV, quoted by Ph
ilip Ziegler in King William TV (1971)

  The members of the circle had clustered around Dagmar.

  She said, 'Maurice is no killer. He's got nothing to do with it.'

  'How do you know?'

  Miss Snow said, 'Oh, come on, Tudor! Edgar Blacker was publishing his book.'

  This could have got nasty, but Thomasine steered them in a more positive direction. 'What are we going to do?'

  'He asked me to take the chair for the rest of this evening,' Dagmar said.

  'We can't go on as if nothing's happened, reading out our work. It won't be the same at all.'

  'I second that,' Anton, the cliche-spotter, said. 'It would be unseemly.'

  Basil said, 'Why don't we adjourn to the bar and talk things over in a more relaxed atmosphere?'

  'Good thinking.'

  Jessie, the writer of the letter in The Lady, announced that she didn't wish to be seen in a bar and was leaving, but the rest, including Bob, reconvened around two tables. An awkward situation was averted when Basil suggested it was too large a round for anyone to fund, so they bought their own.

  'We've got to speak up for Maurice,' Miss Snow said when they were all around the tables again. 'We can't have our chair arrested and do nothing about it.'

  'He was not arrested,' Anton said.

  'Of course he was arrested if they took him away by force.'

  'He went of his own volition.'

  'They had him by the arm.'

  'They didn't caution him. If they arrest a person, they have to issue an official caution.'

  Dagmar said, 'Anton is right. Maurice agreed to go with them.'

  Tudor said in an ominous tone, 'We don't know what's behind this. They must have some good reason for taking him in.'

  'These days there's enormous pressure to make a quick arrest,' Thomasine said.

  Anton said with a click of the tongue, 'He was not arrested.'

  'It's a technicality, Anton. They can still charge him.'

  Zach said to Thomasine, 'You think they're fitting him up?'

  'Who knows? We know he's a good man, but do they?'

  'We know sod all, my dear,' Tudor said, continuing to stir things up. 'He's a friend to us, but that doesn't make him safe in the eyes of the law. In my short life I've had a few bombshells from my friends. What do any of us know about him? Is he married?' He looked around for the answer.