Shakespeare 2012 - Part III

by Cathal McCarron

  Hermione stood next to Will to check the page out. “This frenzy is gonna be fun. It’s already on all the TV channels, and every radio channel.”

  “And all over the internet, ” Will added. “We’ve got our exposure.”

  “Look! It’s Rumpold,” Hermione announced pointing to the TV. She turned up the volume.

  Mr Rumpold was being interviewed for a news report outside the Central College of Speech and Drama. A large mob of journalists, cameramen, and photographers jostled for position near him. He was wearing a new pink bow tie and a beige waistcoat.“News as exciting as this requires special haste. Distinguished experts have been sent high resolution scans of the manuscript. We will convene here this weekend to discuss the issue of authenticity.”

  An interviewer called out, “Is it genuinely by Shakespeare? There are allegations the language is too modern.”

  “The play has snippets of unmistakeably modern words. But in my considered view, it is undeniably Shakespeare. It’s a mystery, as if he was alive amongst us.”

  Another interviewer managed to get his question heard during a short battle for vocal dominance. “Could it be a forgery?”

  Rumpold shook his head. “Perhaps it is possible, but some things cannot be forged. Even a master forger couldn’t reproduce Shakespeare’s characteristic poetic traces. Thank you gentlemen.” Rumpold turned around and walked up the steps into the college reception.

  Will jumped up and touched the college entrance shown on the TV screen. “There’s Camilla!”

  “You’ve done it Will,” Leon said. “You’ve got your play out there.”

  “So what’s next then?” Hermione asked.

  Leon answered. “Once the play is confirmed as authentic there’ll be demands for it to be put into a production.”

  “And in the Globe,” Will added.

  “Exactly,” Leon agreed. “And Mr Rumpold and I will run it.”

  Chapter 40

  Tony Jones had spent most of the morning looking longingly at photos of the Lamborghini he had ordered and paid for the day before. It was his greatest impulse purchase. He wouldn’t receive it until December, which was good in one respect as it would give him time to buy a garage for it. He felt like a child impatiently counting down to Christmas Day. The weeks could not pass fast enough. The Lennon trade had been even more successful than Jones had imagined, earning the company over two hundred million pounds profit. Venison had been so impressed with the outcome, he had secretly broken the company’s strict remuneration policy and rewarded Jones with a 0.25% commission. Jones had made it. He was officially a rich man. And now he wanted more.

  Venison and Emerald entered his office. This time, Jones felt absolutely at ease with their unannounced entry. He didn’t bother hiding the sports car on his computer screen. He didn’t feel any burst of nervousness.

  “Tony!” Venison said. “Our hero! The Lennon trade was a masterpiece. Your judgement was flawless.”

  “Thank you, John! I knew I could do it.”

  “Congratulations, Tony,” Emerald said. “I wasn’t convinced initially, but your instinct yet again has been uncanny.”

  “Thank you, Rob.”

  “So Tony,” Venison’s tone lowered suddenly. “We like to see our most successful traders continually rewarded and suitably challenged.” It appeared that Jones’s congratulations had been brief. “We think you’re now ready for your biggest challenge yet. Think you can handle it?”

  The success of the Lennon trade had boosted Jones’s confidence in his judgements immensely. “Of course.”

  “This one,” Emerald said, “is not just the biggest trade we’ve ever done. It’s the biggest speculative trade ever done.” He paused to let Jones ponder the significance of the revelation. Jones felt himself bite down on the end of the baited hook Emerald was dangling. He shifted forward on his chair, intrigued, his mind trying to recall what the previous biggest trade had been. He couldn’t remember, but he knew that he was being invited into the inner sanctum. Emerald continued. “It’s going to cause major political and social upheaval.” He looked out of the window. “Are you comfortable with that, Tony?”

  Jones was hopelessly caught by the suspense and the possibilities. “Absolutely, Rob. I’m here to make money, not morals.”

  “Even if it caused others to lose everything they had?” Venison asked. “Would you ruin others’ Christmas to have a bigger turkey yourself?”

  “It’s a dog eat turkey world, John. I’m with the dogs.”

  “Excellent analogy,” Venison said. “What we are planning is majorly ... ah ... sensitive.”

  “And majorly hush,” Emerald chipped in.

  “I’m trustworthy,” Jones said, trying to sound convincing.

  “We know. Rob, care to explain to our dynamic young starlet what we’re planning.”

  “Certainly, John. Tony, stand up please.”

  Jones stood up from his chair.

  “Over here please,” Emerald ordered. Jones positioned himself beside Emerald at the window.

  “What is that building down there?”

  “That’s the Royal Bank of Wales.”

  “Correct. We are going to wipe it out.”

  Jones looked down at the bank. “Going to wipe it out?”

  “We are going to cause a bank run on the Royal Bank of Wales.”

  “Ah.” A bank run? This was going to be huge. Jones was Welsh, proudly so, but the bank had minimal connection to the principality these days. It was just a brand, Jones argued, it could have been the Bank of Timbuktu. He remembered that Hermione and Paulina had their accounts with the Bank of Wales, but he pushed the thought out of his mind. “When?”

  “On the 21st December 2012,” Emerald answered. Just before Christmas, Jones thought. These guys were merciless. He found an entire new level of respect for them.

  “We’ll make billions,” Venison continued. “However ...” Venison put his hand on Jones’s shoulder. “However, there will be major social and political payback. Are you comfortable with that, Tony?”

  Jones was already spending his commission. A new yacht at St Katherine’s Dock would impress the girls. Maybe an apartment in the Shard. “Like memory foam on a water mattress, John.”

  “Excellent,” Venison said, squeezing Jones’s shoulder.

  Chapter 41

  Camilla had never had a day at work like it. Her phone had almost not stopped ringing all day. As soon as she had taken and directed one call, another had come through. The vast majority had been for Mr Rumpold, from journalists, academics, or cranks, but the college had told her to redirect the calls to any available lecturer or tutor. The college’s management wanted to generate as much positive publicity for the drama school as possible. She flicked on the TV and caught the lead bulletin about the new Shakespeare play. When the interview with Mr Rumpold was broadcast she squealed when she saw herself at the entrance to the college.

  “Flori, come quick! I’m on telly!”

  Florizel ran in from his bedroom. “Where are you?”

  “At the door to the college, see?”

  “Cooool!”

  The doorbell rang. Neither of them moved, too engrossed in Camilla’s appearance in the news report. The bell rang again just as the news switched back to the studio. “Answer that for me please, Flori, love.”

  Will entered the lounge seconds later. Camilla stood up and gave him a kiss and hug. “Hello you.”

  “How was your day at college, my rose?” Will asked her, wrapping his arm over her shoulders.

  “Jeez, busiest day ever.”

  “Yeah? What’s going on down there?”

  “You ain’t heard? The whole country is going crazy for this new Shakespeare play Leon found.”

  There had been a five-page spread in the Evening Standard about the new play. The front-page headline had taken up half the page. Camilla had heard dozens of people chatting about the play on the bus and tube after work.

&nbs
p; “A new Shakespeare play? And Leon found it?” Will asked, sounding vaguely disinterested. “Gosh.” He picked up one of Camilla’s showbiz gossip magazines from a stack beside the sofa.

  Will’s apparent lack of curiosity in their friend’s amazing new discovery stunned Camilla. She sensed something unsaid was lingering behind Will’s curt dismissal of the topic. “He hasn’t told you? He found it at his great aunt’s place and brought it in for Mr Rumpold to check out. The international media have been staking out college all day. And the phone just rang and rang for hours. I’m all talked out.” She slumped back onto the sofa with a long sigh.

  “It seems to be a big event,” he said blandly, flicking through the magazine.

  “Something’s been bugging me about it all day though,” Camilla said. “There’s something, I dunno, really suspicious about the whole situation. Like how did Leon suddenly just discover a new Shakespeare play out of the blue?”

  Billy didn’t respond. He placed the magazine on the floor, and looked at the TV. Camilla lifted his hand. Was there was an unexpressed worry in his silence? “Are you ok, Billy?” He seemed distant.

  Billy adjusted himself to face her. “Camilla, my sweet. You have too much grace to be lied to.”

  “Lied to? What do you mean? Is something wrong?”

  “Well, nothing is wrong. But ... I have a secret, a big, important secret.”

  Camilla tried to read Billy’s face; she could see something was pressing on his mind but couldn’t judge its seriousness. “A secret?”

  “Leon knows it. It’s only fair you should know too.” He looked towards his legs as if he were trying to find the courage.

  “Are you married? I knew it.”

  “Married? Yes, but I’m not with my wife. We’re ... separated. But that isn’t my secret.”

  “Are you seeing another woman? Cos I don’t do that open thing.” Camilla had dated some men who had revealed they really wanted to add her to their mini harem. Camilla was a committed monogamist. If Billy was seeing someone else, he was gone.

  “No, no. Listen.” Billy paused again.

  “Ok. I’m listening.”

  “I need to tell you who I am.”

  “You’re not Billy?” Was he just another lying bloke who created fake identities to string numerous women along? Did he have several phones and email addresses to keep his identities secret? Camilla was intrigued, but a bad feeling was welling up inside her.

  “No, I am. Well, my name is William. But it’s my surname you need to know. It’s not Wavearrow ...”

  So he was an identity fraud then. Camilla dropped Billy’s hand. She glanced up at the TV. Trying to hide her looming disappointment with a throwaway joke she asked, ”It’s not Shakespeare is it?” She gave a short, bitter, sarcastic laugh.

  Will’s eyes flashed open momentarily as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. “Yes, yes, it is. Why do you laugh?”

  “What?”

  “Camilla, darling, look at me. This is going to sound crazy, but I need you to believe me for it is the truth.” Billy took hold of both of her hands. “I am William Shakespeare.”

  It was all a joke, then, Camilla thought. She looked for signs of a smile in Billy’s eyes, but there wasn’t one.

  “I am the playwright. That is my play that Mr Rumpold is investigating. I wrote it and gave it to Leon to give to Rumpold.”

  “What? You’re William Shakespeare? Yeah right.”

  Billy looked intensely at Camilla but didn’t say anything. His face was unreadable to her, but he looked serious. This was a new side of his character to Camilla, the ability to hold a grim expression when talking nonsense. Camilla waited for a punch line, or wisecrack to break the silence. Billy just sat and stared with the same graven expression. Was Billy actually trying to be serious?

  “What? You’re serious? You’re Shakespeare?“

  Billy nodded.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t either. It was a miracle, on the summer solstice. A midsummer night dream come real. I was transported, apparently teleported is the word, from 1612 to 2012. Hermione thinks it was to do with the collective human consciousness. The Mayans’ prophecies. I don’t know how, but I am here, it’s real. I am William Shakespeare.”

  2012. The Mayans. Collective consciousness. Hermione had explained the 2012 phenomenon to Camilla a few months ago and Camilla had humoured her. She was open-minded about alternative theories, and enjoyed reading some trashy new-agey fiction. But what Billy was suggesting was absurd. Nevertheless he looked absolutely serious.

  “You’re really trying to be serious?”

  Billy nodded.

  Camilla tried to make sense of Billy’s revelation. She felt his resoluteness begin to overcome her scepticism. He looked and sounded perfectly serious. She didn’t believe he was some deluded space cadet. He was too wise, too self-assured. But he genuinely thought he was William Shakespeare. From 1612. Was it possible? Camilla’s head was drifting. Time travel? That would explain how Leon of all people had suddenly discovered a long lost Shakespeare play. And Mr Rumpold was unshakeably convinced it was genuine. Could Hermione have been right? Was Billy really Shakespeare? She remembered their conversation about Shakespeare on their first date. She had said she didn’t get Shakespeare and Billy had looked hurt.

  “I don’t know what to think, or what to say.”

  Billy’s face took on a pleading expression. His voice sounded supplicating. “Say that you believe me. Say that nothing has changed for us. Say that you won’t tell anyone. Including Mr Rumpold.”

  Seeing the desperation in his eyes, hearing his sincerity in plea, believing she was sensing the truth, Camilla’s scepticism evaporated. “I believe you,” she said solemnly, honestly. “And I won’t tell Rumpold. Nothing has changed for us – except now you’re William Shakespeare,” she whispered with a devilish grin.

  Will’s expression remained grave. “And I have to go back. To 1612.”

  Camilla’s smile broke. “You want to go back?” She felt as if her heart had dropped through the floor. “You don’t want to stay here, stay now, with me?”

  Will’s face softened, then looked pained. “Our time together is more precious to me than any gold, any thing. But I don’t belong in this era. I have to get back.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  Will pulled Camilla into an embrace. “Oh my sweet, you would not like my London.” He hugged Camilla tight, and whispered into her ear. “Mud, filth, toilet filth, everywhere on the street.”

  “Toilet filth? Eeuugh!” Camilla screeched, pushing herself back from Will.

  Will’s eyes closed and his face scrunched up with mock disgust. “Thrown out of buildings with buckets!”

  “Eeuugh!”

  “No electricity! Rotten food! Strange language! More violence! No comfort!”

  Camilla pulled Will back into a hug and held him. “Sounds like Scotland.”

  Chapter 42

  Rumpold had enjoyed all the attention.

  There had been massive demand to attend the symposium. Rumpold had cherry-picked the academics he most respected and whom he considered were best capable of quickly resolving the question of authenticity. Dozens of his former colleagues and adversaries had resurfaced requesting admittance only to be rejected. He invited university professors, the editors of journals dedicated to Shakespeare studies, historians who specialised in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and others whose insights he valued. He didn’t want agreement, he wanted to establish the truth. Almost all of the invitees expressed deep doubt before arriving for the symposium. Rumpold welcomed this, realising that if these specialists agreed with him that the manuscript was genuine, then it would be as close to an irrefutable conclusion as could be imagined.

  Each delegate had had three days to study high-resolution scans of the entire manuscript. They had travelled to London from all over the UK and the world on Friday. The formal symposium
had run from Saturday and Sunday, with breakout groups to discuss various aspects of the document.

  On Sunday evening, after two days of intense discussion, Rumpold prepared himself to face the press conference. He checked the time on his pocket watch then returned it to his waistcoat pocket. He put on his jacket and exited his office with a printout of the statement he planned to read to the assembled media.

  He entered the theatre where the media had gathered with the four other symposium delegates he had asked to accompany him to the news conference. A trestle table was on the stage with jugs of water, five glasses, and a colourful hedgehog of microphones of TV channels from around the world. Five chairs were behind the table. A buzz passed across the audience of journalists as the five delegates crossed to the stage. Cameras began flashing.

  Rumpold led the delegation up the steps from the floor to the stage. He settled himself into his chair and poured a glass of water. When the five delegates had settled, Rumpold welcomed the press pack to the news conference. He pointed at a journalist from the BBC he recognised in the front row of seats on the floor.

  “So what was the conclusion of the symposium? Is the manuscript a genuine new Shakespeare play?”

  ###

  END OF PART III

  ###

  Cathal