The Paper Cell
Louise Hutcheson has a PhD in Scottish Literature from the University of Glasgow. She is a freelance editor of fiction, and this is her first book.
The Paper Cell is the first in an occasional series of quality crime novellas: the Contraband Pocket Crime Collection.
Contents
The Paper Cell
Prologue
I
II
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Prologue
London, 1953
Two days before her death, Fran Watson paid him a visit at the office of Hobbs publishing house in Peckham.
The hemline of her brown skirt had dropped, and she picked at its frayed edges with nails that were raw and bitten. Her hair had frizzed in the humid air outside, and her plain, freckled face was glum.
She looked up only briefly before returning her gaze to her too-old skirt.
Lewis shifted behind his desk, aiming to look uncomfortable and achieving it. He affected a grimace as her eyes flitted up, then down. It was a pleasing dynamic, he thought. Though she had arrived when he was at the height of a bad temper, her obvious defects made him feel rather good about himself by comparison. He became aware of his finger tapping merrily on the desk and stilled himself. She had asked him a question, but he had not answered, deciding that his deliberate silence was eloquent enough in itself.
Finally, she nodded. ‘I see. Well, you’ve been very candid, Mr Carson.’ She stood abruptly, pushing aside a strand of hair that had escaped from behind her ear. ‘Thank you for your time. I’ll see myself out.’
‘Miss Watson.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘Thank you for approaching Hobbs. We do hope you find a more suitable publisher for your story.’ A barely-there emphasis on that last word.
Lewis experienced a moment of deep satisfaction as she slammed the door. He sat for a while, enjoying the quiet. Eventually his gaze fell upon the manuscript, still sitting in the middle of the desk.
Infinite Eden
by F. Watson
He had not even read it. That is how cruel he was. But for the next two hours, he pored over its pages – once, twice, three times – returning compulsively again and again to the first page with a growing sense of horror.
The editorial team left the offices at seven, but he remained at his desk. At 9.47pm, he switched on the desk lamp and read the manuscript one last time.
He thought about her thick ankles and the dull sheen of sweat on her upper lip, the threadbare patches on her cardigan and how the clasp on her bag didn’t latch properly. Shit. She was brilliant. Her work was brilliant.
Two days later, on a warm Wednesday morning, they would find her body in some shrubbery on Peckham Rye Common. She had been strangled.
I
Edinburgh, 1998
It seemed sudden at the time, but looking back, he realised that the end of his career had crept up insidiously. Throughout his life, he had enjoyed plotting out the narrative of his success by assigning significance to small events, meetings, choices such as these. Later, he couldn’t help but do the same for his failures. He thought it might have begun on the day he met the journalist.
It was 1998, and he was sixty-seven years old.
In the library on George IV Bridge, Lewis fingered the spine of the book, admiring the series of cracks that ran its length, and eased it off the shelf. The last date stamp read ‘12 June, 1998’, which prompted a smile. Caroline, his third novel, still being read by –
He paused to take stock of his fellow library patrons. An old woman, bent almost to the waist, reading the daily papers with her hat and anorak still on. Two students browsing the travel section. A bored clerk. The clerk glanced up at him, and Lewis slid the book back onto the shelf.
He worried for a moment that his more recent novels were absent before comforting himself with the thought that they were out on loan. His gaze was drawn to a free-
standing display, on which someone had stuck a ‘Scottish Fiction’ sign onto a large, crudely painted Saltire flag. This caused him to smirk, but he decided it was better than a thistle. He sighed when he saw that they had placed a second edition of Caroline next to Kelman’s Booker-winning novel. Taped to the shelf below the books was a card that read simply ‘controversial literature’.
The silence of the library was broken as a troop of toddlers marched hand-in-hand through the front doors, shepherded by three young women wearing matching yellow t-shirts. A nursery outing, he presumed. The clerk sighed as the chain of children broke apart, running in various directions, their excited voices pitched at a level that would have earned him and his classmates a cuff on the ear, back in the day. Back in the day, he scolded himself. How clichéd. The old woman pulled her trolley tight against her hip as if afraid one of the children would make off with it. She shook her head and sought his eye, seeking an ally. He did not want to be complicit, and instead turned a brief smile towards one of the young chaperones, who ignored him. Chastened, he turned his attention back the main fiction shelf.
On the left of Caroline was a sorry-looking edition of Camus’ The Stranger. It wasn’t bad company to keep, he supposed. On its right was – fuck. Victory Lap by Lewis Carson, unnoticed in his first scan of the shelf. He snatched the book from its place and rifled through its pages. It was the 1974 twentieth anniversary edition, a black-and-white photograph of his own face smiling out from the cover flap. He thumbed to the back and read the blurb.
In 1950s London, the young widow of a disgraced soldier struggles with sexual, political and social exclusion. A tragic meditation on post-war attitudes towards love and heroism, Victory Lap has established itself as one of the classics of the twentieth century. This beautiful anniversary edition features a new foreword by the author and an introduction by James O’Hare.
‘Uncompromising and elegant in its execution, devastating in its impact.’ THE TIMES
The book felt heavy as he replaced it on the shelf. It had been – what? – ten, fifteen years since he last held a copy in his hand. He leaned against the shelving and ran fingers through thin hair. Moisture broke above his lip, and a sense of compulsive, intense distaste filled his mouth.
‘Dad?’
His gaze swung upwards to where his daughter’s concerned face hovered. She deposited her own stack of books onto the carpet and placed a hand across his brow.
‘Don’t fuss,’ he muttered, waving her away. ‘I was just feeling a bit warm.’
A glance at her face told him she didn’t believe him. She had spotted the pretty edition of Victory Lap, not quite flush with the rest of the books on the shelf. She pursed her lips and nudged it back in place.
‘Perhaps we should rearrange with Barbara. Get you back home?’
He waved a hand dismissively and bent down to retrieve her books. An Indian cookbook, two antiques guides and a crime novel. ‘Don’t be daft. I was only tired.’
She merely shrugged and steered him towards the clerk, who had been watching his episode with open curiosity.
‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ Sarah pressed. The clerk continued to eye him as she stamped Sarah’s books, her mouth an ignorant-looking small ‘o’ amongst otherwise flat, dull features. Lewis glowered back at her, his annoyance only intensified by Sarah’s tutting at his elbow.
‘Yes, yes, please stop fussing.’ He shook her hand off his elbow, which provoked a raised eyebrow from the clerk. Sarah caught her eye, and they both sighed.
‘Artistic temperament,’ she smiled, a joke at his expense.
The clerk nodded, as though she knew all too well. Lewis’s patience for it
all had long since dissipated. When finally it was finished, he moved towards the exit with an old man’s relief.
6
The journalist was already waiting in the café when they arrived. She was perhaps forty, all bright prints and clattering plastic jewellery as she stood to shake his hand. Her hair was a brassy blonde, a bright, fluffy halo framing a round, cheerful face. He instantly disliked her.
‘Mr Carson. I’m Barbara.’ She had a limp grip but compensated by bringing her left hand up to clasp his palm between her two. It was a curiously intimate gesture, and he was glad when she released him.
Sarah moved to slide his jacket from his shoulders but he shrugged her off. She either didn’t care or didn’t realise he was aware of her eye-rolling – an unattractive, smug habit he wished she would cease – but she at least allowed him to settle himself. Barbara eyed them as Sarah ascertained he would like a black coffee, no sugar, her gaze drinking in what he thought was a fairly standard exchange.
‘Please call me Lewis,’ he said, offering a smile.
Barbara nodded cheerfully. She waited until Sarah had disappeared to the counter before pulling a dictaphone out of a pink leather handbag. She raised an eyebrow in his direction, a silent query of consent. He nodded.
‘I’m so pleased to finally meet you, Lewis. Really.’
He didn’t respond. She cleared her throat, and he enjoyed a moment of strained silence.
‘Yes. So, as I mentioned in our emails, our chat today will form the bulk of a 2,000-word feature on you for this Sunday’s Arts page. Any questions before we start, or shall I crack on?’ She smiled brightly, her briskness and efficiency at odds with her jamboree appearance.
Lewis nodded his assent, his eyes fixed on the oversized roses that dotted her cheap blouse. She cleared her throat again and adjusted the blouse’s neckline. She thought he was staring at her chest, he realised. He smiled at her, pleased by the pink flush in her cheeks. He had no interest in her pendulous breasts, but that she was discomfited satisfied his sudden urge to wrong-foot her.
‘The piece will be a complete retrospective.’ She ducked her head to catch his eye. He waited a beat before pulling his gaze up to meet hers. Her cheeks remained pink, and he saw her self-consciously pluck at the deep V-line of the blouse once more.
‘Prompted by what?’ he asked, steepling his fingers under his chin.
‘Prompted?’ she parroted back, nonplussed.
‘A retrospective is usually prompted by a milestone in one’s career. Or by one’s death. Neither apply in my case,’ he said.
Her expression cleared. ‘This is the first interview you’ve agreed to for over eleven years,’ she said, smiling. ‘And as you’re not just peddling your latest publication–’ at this she jostled his elbow, as though she had made some excellent joke, ‘it seemed an obvious approach.’
Satisfied with herself, she switched on the dictaphone and placed it carefully on the table between them. She lined up her coffee cup and saucer, sat back and surveyed their setup with a smile. She reminded him of a toddler, he realised, stacking her bright bricks and quite convinced of her own cleverness.
‘You haven’t been writing for the paper for very long, have you?’ he asked, though he wasn’t at all interested in her career.
She looked up to catch his eye, unsure if his tone suggested something she ought to be offended by. He smiled at her, and she tapped the recorder with a long, painted nail, still unsure.
‘No, not for the Herald.’ She pulled her shoulders back, asserting herself. He deliberately dropped his gaze back down to her neckline. ‘But I was on the features desk of the Evening Times for seven years prior to that,’ she said, her hand fluttering to her cleavage. He smiled.
‘I thought we’d start by talking about Ann Barbour,’ she said then, catching him off guard.
‘About Ann?’ he repeated, rattled. His eyes refocused on her face, and she smiled sweetly. It occurred to him that she was sharper than he had given her credit for.
‘Why would you want to discuss Mum?’ Sarah interjected, having appeared at his elbow with two steaming cups and a large slab of cake.
Barbara’s brow creased, irritated by her reappearance. She directed her response to Lewis, ignoring his daughter. He was quite certain Sarah had just rolled her eyes again.
‘Your ex-wife recently spoke to an arts website about her early career, as well as yours,’ she said. There was something like a hungry gleam in her eye, and Lewis felt himself tense. ‘She spoke quite candidly about your relationship at that time.’
Lewis swallowed. ‘I haven’t had the pleasure of reading it.’
Sarah snorted into her coffee mug. She took a sip and clattered the mug down on the table, sloshing mahogany liquid precariously close to the recorder. Barbara reached out and adjusted its placement.
‘I’ve read it,’ Sarah said, levelling her gaze at Barbara. ‘Mum gets confused sometimes, you know. People put words in her mouth and she agrees with it because she’s not sure if they’re right or not.’
‘It was a very good, insightful article,’ Barbara responded, not at all cowed.
‘Yes, well truth and good reading don’t necessarily go hand in hand,’ Lewis said.
Sarah nodded and folded her arms across her body. She was upset, he realised.
‘Ann was diagnosed with early-onset dementia some years ago,’ he said, patting Sarah’s knee as he did so.
She looked down at his hand.
Barbara flushed. ‘There were rumours, of course,’ she said, flashing what might have been an apologetic look in Sarah’s direction.
Sarah sniffed and shifted her leg so that Lewis’s hand fell away. She would not be his ally in this, he thought.
‘I haven’t read Ann’s article and I don’t care to discuss it, or her,’ he said.
Barbara pursed her lips, and to his left, Sarah relaxed her pose.
‘Of course.’ Barbara’s head bobbed. She tapped her fingernail against the edge of the recorder, regrouping her thoughts. She looked briefly at a set of scribbled notes and nodded to herself.
The atmosphere was heavy – hostile, even, as the silence between them lengthened. It was episodes like this that had earned Lewis a reputation amongst journalists. Being a notoriously difficult interview subject wasn’t an image he liked to cultivate, and he was annoyed that she had so quickly fallen into the same pattern as her predecessors. He remained very still, wishing to break the silence but unsure how to do so. When he eventually reached out to take a sip of his coffee, Barbara seemed to rally herself.
‘Let’s move on,’ she said, fixing a smile to her face. ‘We’ll start at the logical place – your first novel.’
Sarah stiffened visibly by his side. He set the coffee mug back on its saucer, despising the slight tremor in his hand. So much for their truce, he mused. It had lasted mere seconds.
‘Dad doesn’t discuss Victory Lap any more,’ Sarah said. ‘And I think you know that full well.’
Yes, he thought, she’s right. Not for many years. And everyone knew. Everyone knew not to try, not to sour the atmosphere. ‘Prickly’ is how he’d been described by some; ‘downright aggressive’ by others who persisted with their questions. Everyone knew.
Barbara ignored Sarah’s comment and instead stared at Lewis. A bead of moisture ran down the back of his neck. The steamed windows of the café suddenly seemed oppressive, and the smell of damp wool made his nostrils flare. A child wailed from a table nearby, throwing a teaspoon to the floor with a clatter.
‘Come on, Lewis – let’s be blunt. Something made you accept my interview request. Something made you break a decade’s silence. This was never going to be just another interview. What did you expect? Another banal, respectful puff piece that skirts carefully around your temper? It’s not what I came for, and I suspect it’s not what you want either.’
&n
bsp; He stared back at her, unprepared for her candidness.
‘You were briefed on this. What did you expect?’ Sarah’s voice was hard, and Barbara tutted.
It was too much for Sarah. She leaned across the table, her finger raised, about to jab against Barbara’s breastbone. Lewis grabbed her hand, his breath shallow, and moved to stand. He was disgusted when his knee trembled and gave out beneath him. He lurched back into the chair.
‘Dad,’ Sarah said, leaping forward to support his arm.
‘I don’t…’ His breath huffed out, constricted, and he patted at his chest.
‘Dad, are you all right? Dad? Dad?’ Sarah came to kneel in front of him, her eyes darting between him and the barista at the counter, who was staring stupidly, a shaker with cinnamon dusting on its head hanging forgotten in his hand.
‘Call an ambulance!’ Sarah ordered.
He was wheezing – too hot, too tight to breathe. He patted his chest and felt his eyes roll upwards towards the ceiling.
‘Can I help?’ Barbara’s round face hovered above him, a vague blonde haze, her facial features blurring into a bland, sallow melt. She squeezed his shoulder.
‘Leave him,’ Sarah spat.
He couldn’t see her any more, his head lolling on the back of the chair and his eyes gazing near-sightlessly up at Barbara’s hazy features.
‘I can’t breathe,’ he whispered, and Barbara’s face mercifully disappeared into darkness.
London, 1953
Frederick Hobbs leant back in his chair and draped one slim ankle over the other, a pair of snow-white socks appearing in the gap between leather shoe and brown trouser leg. He assessed Lewis over the rim of thin, gold spectacles. Lewis met his gaze levelly.
‘Remind me where you completed your degree, Lewis?’
‘Edinburgh University, sir. English and History.’
Hobbs nodded and glanced back at the paperwork in his left hand. Lewis was almost certain it was the enquiry letter he had submitted to the publishing house last year, two months after he had graduated and moved to London. Frederick Hobbs II – great-grandson of Lawrence Hobbs (founder of Hobbs Books), not yet thirty years old, heir to the Hobbs fortune and a pompous shit who’d failed out of Cambridge before Daddy stepped in and gave him a job in the family business – was casting a dismissive eye over Lewis’s greatest achievements. Lewis shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a move he regretted when Hobbs cast him a bemused glance. He stilled, reassuring himself that what Hobbs read was impressive. First Class degree, editor-in-chief of The Student newspaper for two years, a handful of essays published across minor magazines and journals.
The Paper Cell Page 1
