‘She was strangled, Mr Carson.’
Edinburgh, 1998
Lewis wasn’t sure when the absurd idea had taken such hold of him, but now that it was fixed in his mind, he was unable to dissuade himself from it.
A biography, a complete retrospective of his life and work, to be published in his seventieth year.
It had been three weeks since he first met Barbara in the café. He couldn’t claim to admire her, nor was he very familiar with her work at the Herald. In truth, he disliked her very much and suspected that she didn’t particularly like him. Perversely, it was this that made her, to his mind, an ideal candidate to write his biography. There had been any number of sycophants throughout his career who had approached him with the idea, but back then, in the bloom of youth and critical success, he had found the very thought repulsive. And yet now it consumed him. It was the only rebuff he could muster against his own frailty, his last remaining defence against Ken’s cancer or Ann’s dementia – the idea that he had any remaining control over his work, or body, even. He had certainly felt himself less grounded, less present in the here and now since he had passed out in the Lothian Road café. To have it written now seemed suddenly imperative, an urge he could not suppress. Seeing Ken had only reinforced his growing desire to have his story set in stone: fixed, verified and narrated by himself. They were old men, he mused – soon it would be too late, and his past would be exposed to the masses, laid bare for the picking, his life stolen to fill the pages of someone else’s success.
No. Better that he shape that narrative. Better that Barbara be the one to do it. She was a vulture, he thought. Left to her own devices, she would clatter into his past with her ridiculous plastic bangles and plug the gaps, the ambiguities, with her own malicious agenda and fancies. But to collaborate with her – yes, he thought, it would stroke that ego. She would ask difficult questions, but while it was on his terms, she could not go off-script. This was his story. And he was certain she would leap at the chance to write it.
He glanced at the clock above the wall. Ten minutes before she was due to arrive. He drummed his fingers on the stacks of paperwork he had amassed in preparation for their meeting: old reviews, early proofs of his novels with annotated remarks from his editors, letters to Ken. The jewel was at the top of the pile – the typed original of Victory Lap. He had carefully added his own notes in the margins two weeks ago with his old fountain pen. He wondered if the ink was too obviously bright, too black, then dismissed the thought as paranoia.
Only Ken knew.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Sarah was standing in the doorway, a duster in her hand, hair piled on top of her head.
‘My imminent demise. Are you wearing dungarees?’ he asked, smiling at her. She looked down at herself self-consciously.
‘Overalls,’ she replied. ‘I need them, clearing up your grime.’
He looked down at the desk in surprise, ran a finger along the clean, varnished mahogany. When he looked up, confused, she was grinning.
‘You’re making fun of me,’ he said.
‘As is my wont,’ she finished for him. She walked over to the desk and idly lifted some of the papers. ‘For Barbara?’ she asked. He nodded, watching her face. She didn’t seem to be surprised or annoyed.
‘She’ll be here very soon,’ he said, glancing anxiously at the clock. But Sarah had spotted the copy of Victory Lap, her eyes widening as she lifted the first page.
‘You’re really going to speak to her about it?’
He studied her face for a moment and wondered at the hurt there. She was in her forties now, small lines beginning to appear across her forehead and at the edges of her eyes. Divorced, of all the ridiculous things his little girl could be.
‘Yes,’ he said, simply.
Oh, yes, he realised – there was hurt there.
She smoothed the paper back into place and bit her lip. ‘Would you like me to sit in while you speak with her?’
He hesitated. She brushed a small tear from her eyelash, and he thought he might hate himself.
‘Ken’s coming,’ he said.
‘Good. He’ll make sure she behaves herself.’
They laughed a bit at this. She stood and stared at him for a moment, her face composed, eyes a little pink. She nodded again.
‘I’m glad you’re talking about it to someone,’ she said.
He reached over and patted her hand. She gulped, shook her hand free and rubbed at her eyes.
‘Sarah,’ he said, and then the doorbell rang.
She laughed in a stuttering sort of way. ‘Your guests,’ she said, leaving him to stare at the papers on the desk.
You’re a bastard, Lewis Carson.
He listened to her trot down the stairs and open the door, the deep bass of Ken’s voice overriding the softer tones of Barbara’s. She laughed at something Ken said, and Lewis winced.
They appeared in the doorway together several minutes later, her arm linked through Ken’s. Lewis, somewhat consternated, wondered for a moment how and when they had become such fast friends before realising that Barbara was supporting him. The walk upstairs had left him breathless, and his gait was laboured – indeed, it was more of a shuffle, really. Barbara caught his eye as she eased Ken into the chair. She looked rather grave, a sharp contrast to her bold outfit.
Her satin blouse was very low-cut and a rather violent shade of turquoise. A large, gaudy necklace rested against her cleavage. He thought about their meeting in the café and decided it might be an act of defiance. Perhaps she wasn’t as feeble or stupid as he thought. Good.
‘Maybe we could relocate to the ground floor next time?’ Barbara said, nodding meaningfully at Ken.
‘No need!’ Ken asserted, the words carried by a wheeze.
Barbara shrugged and took the chair next to him. An uncomfortable silence followed, and Lewis realised she expected him to take the lead. He was momentarily surprised and made a show of shuffling his papers before clearing his throat and addressing them.
‘Thank you both for coming,’ he offered, feeling lame.
Now that Barbara was sitting in front of him, her gaze taking in the room around her, he was anxious. She had the appearance of a Christmas bauble, her blonde hair and colourful shirt a bright, tacky spectacle against the otherwise sombre browns and greens of the study. She smiled at him, aware of his gaze, and it occurred to him that most people found Christmas baubles to be cheery, attractive things.
‘So where do you want to start, Lewis?’ she asked. She bent down to fish out her dictaphone and pen and paper from her bag. Ken watched her with some interest.
‘Right at the beginning,’ Lewis said.
Ken’s head swivelled round to face him. ‘Your bonny Edinburgh childhood?’ he snorted, amused.
‘No. With Victory Lap – right at the beginning.’
He was rewarded by two surprised stares. Recovering quickly, Barbara switched on the recorder and accepted the manuscript Lewis proffered her. Her gaze was greedy as she drank in the first page. Her attention diverted, Lewis took a moment to meet Ken’s eye. He looked pallid, and perhaps confused. Lewis tried to somehow telegraph to him that it was fine, but Ken merely sighed and averted his gaze.
‘Start from the beginning, then,’ Barbara said, flashing him a dazzling smile.
His anxiety dissipated and he decided he had done the right thing. Barbara would remain onside.
‘Well, the beginning is difficult to pinpoint,’ he said, throwing a quick look at Ken.
‘No, it’s not,’ Ken interjected. ‘It started with a girl.’
Barbara grinned, Lewis frowned. He and Ken stared levelly at one another.
‘With Ann, of course,’ Barbara filled in.
Lewis broke off his mute stare and nodded gratefully.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I suppose you could say thin
gs changed when I met Ann.’
‘Behind every good man…’ Barbara trailed off, a small smile on her lips as she scribbled some notes.
Ken appeared unruffled and smirked at him over Barbara’s bent head.
‘I’m here to fill in all the gaps he can’t remember,’ he said to her. ‘Lewis always did have his own interpretation of the truth.’ Sensing some tension, Barbara’s head rose and she stared at them both.
‘It’s good that you’re here,’ she said, cautiously. ‘You’ve been alongside Lewis throughout his entire career, and that insight is something I want to harness. But first let’s have Lewis tell it as he remembers things.’
Again, she had surprised him. He smiled at her, while Ken nodded perfunctorily. Lewis had evidently underestimated his ire at not being kept in the loop. He wondered if including Ken had been a mistake. He had assumed he would act as an ally in this, keeping him on-track. No matter. Ken could be petulant, but he would hide the truth, to save his own skin if nothing else.
‘As I was saying,’ he broke the pause, ‘I suppose things did change when I met Ann. We met through Ken, actually. He had put together a very small group of writers. He had an eye, I think. Certainly both Ann and I went on to enjoy some success. Arthur…’ He trailed off, frowning. It struck him that he had no idea what had become of Arthur. Ken shifted in his seat, his sullenness replaced by an alert interest.
‘That’s right – Arthur,’ he said, smiling to himself. ‘He was dreadful.’ They shared a bemused grin, and Lewis was glad the tension had resolved itself so easily.
‘This would be…Arthur Clarke?’ Barbara asked.
They both looked at her in mild surprise.
‘I wrote about Victory Lap for my Master’s thesis,’ she said. ‘I’ve done my research.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Lewis replied, flattered. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure and she leaned forward eagerly.
‘Oh, yes. It always fascinated me, how much your writing changed after the first novel. It was the only novel you ever wrote in the first person, the only one featuring a female narrator. Your rejection of it later in your career…’ She trailed off, perhaps worried that she had said too much. Reading no anger in his stare, she ploughed on. ‘What was it that caused you to create that distance, creatively and personally, from Victory Lap?’
Ken was watching him. Lewis scratched at his jaw as though mulling her question over. In reality, he was biding his time lest his rehearsed answer seem unnatural.
‘It’s an excellent question, and you’re certainly not the first person to ask it,’ he said, smiling. ‘I wrote Victory Lap when I was very young. I was in love, I was naïve, unschooled. It brought me great success, and for a while I was purely grateful for it. But with each new book, my reviews would always track back to it: how they compared to one another, favourably or otherwise, and other nonsenses about its enduring influence, whatever that was. It seemed that no matter how much hard work or how much sweat I put into a new book, Victory Lap would always overshadow it.’ He paused, swallowed as he realised he wasn’t sure where to go next. ‘I resented it – it was a rash idea that held my name hostage to it.’
‘A rash idea?’
She was too quick, had pounced on his stumbled phrasing. He cursed himself. It was not what he had meant to say. He cleared his throat and met Ken’s eye briefly.
‘By which I mean…it was too raw, perhaps? With my later books, I would slavishly plot and plan them, sometimes for many, many months before I started writing. Victory Lap was more…rushed. A bit teenaged, if you like. Hot-headed. As I was! I didn’t want that short period of my life to define the rest of my career.’
‘His poor fans. Not very grateful, eh?’ Ken said, nudging Barbara’s arm and rolling his eyes.
She did not answer, too busy writing a note to notice.
Again, Lewis met Ken’s gaze above her bent head. Ken nodded at him. Good job, he seemed to say.
London, 1953
Freddie paced back and forth in his office, a pair of braces swinging loosely against his trouser legs, his hair an erratic mess. Lewis was seated in a chair at the other side of the desk, trying to smooth the wrinkles out of his shirt and resolutely avoiding looking at him.
They were the only remaining members of staff in the office. When the police had left Freddie and he had announced the news, two secretarial staff had broken down in tears, and Nicholas Black had vomited into a waste paper basket, prompting him to send the entire workforce home. Lewis had arrived just over an hour later, ushered through the locked door by an ashen-faced Freddie.
He was quite furious, unable to look at Freddie nor ask him – again – what had happened the night before. He concentrated first on his shirt, then began examining a ragged nail. He thought about his last visit to the office and frowned to himself. His life had become more complicated that day.
He was aware from the flicker of movement in his peripheral vision that Freddie had begun to pause his pacing for brief junctures and appeared to be watching him. He suddenly recalled the way in which he and Cathy would force their childhood secrets from one another – a petty, prolonged game, amplified by malevolent stares. One could never break the silence first: to ask what the secret was would be pleading and pathetic, to reveal it without first lording it over the other, feeble. They would spend seemingly endless hours prowling restlessly around one another, desperate to speak but too proud to break the vow of silence. Cathy was always the first to concede.
He reminded himself that he was no longer a child and forced himself to look up. Freddie stopped pacing and stared back at him, his skin pale and waxy.
‘Will you please explain to me what happened last night?’ he asked, and he was glad there was no rebuke in his voice.
Freddie exhaled slowly before sitting down and resting his head in his hands. When he spoke, he spoke to the desk.
‘She drank an extravagant amount of wine,’ he said. ‘Spoke endlessly about absolute garbage. I honestly thought we had been worrying for nothing. She didn’t mention you at all, seemed perfectly happy to be out and seen with me.’
‘And?’
‘And then we left the restaurant. I made to leave, and suddenly she seemed very sober. She was…malicious.’ He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘Threatened to tell my father, tell everyone.’
‘And you left it at that?’ Lewis felt how useless the lie was as soon as it left his tongue.
Freddie shook his head. He opened the desk drawer and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. He put two in his mouth and bent his head to light them before handing one to Lewis. His throat felt tight and he didn’t want it, but he took it and let it rest idly in his hand.
Freddie took a deep drag before continuing. ‘I convinced her to let me walk her back to her flat. Made allusions to making it worth her while.’
‘You were going to buy her off?’
‘If I had to.’ Freddie blew a plume of smoke out the side of his mouth and looked gravely across the desk at him.
‘Lewis, I’m getting married next month,’ he said, his tone very even.
Lewis laughed. When Freddie continued to stare at him, his expression tinged with pity, the laugh died in his throat.
‘You’re getting married next month,’ he repeated, and marvelled at how calm he sounded.
Freddie stubbed the cigarette out and leaned back in his chair. He folded one knee over the other, smart white socks appearing in the gap below his trouser leg, and Lewis was reminded horribly of the day he had been promoted.
‘Her name is Janine,’ Freddie said. ‘She’s a very nice girl.’
‘Well, yes. I can see now why you were so concerned,’ Lewis replied lightly, falsely.
‘Don’t be childish,’ Freddie snapped. ‘Did you expect us to live out our days in queer bliss? I was engaged long before I met you, and fucking you wasn’t going
to change that.’
Lewis felt himself blanch, sickened. ‘I suppose not,’ he said, appalled at the weakness of his voice. For a moment, Freddie appeared chastened. He made as if to stand, but the hateful glare Lewis directed at him made him pause.
‘I didn’t mean to be so blunt,’ he said.
‘Tell me about Julie,’ Lewis responded, scrubbing his face with his palms.
Freddie stared at him for a moment. ‘She wanted too much. More than I could feasibly promise,’ he said, his voice low.
‘Did you plan it? Did you think about doing it before you got to her flat?’
‘No!’ His voice was harsh and he jabbed a finger on the desk. ‘She wouldn’t… She wouldn’t…’
‘Wouldn’t what, dammit?’
‘She wouldn’t shut her mouth,’ he snarled, spittle landing on the desk between them. He let out a rasping sob. ‘I was…livid. I just wanted her to shut up. I didn’t… I didn’t realise what I’d done until she stopped struggling.’
Lewis stood abruptly. Freddie gaped at him in surprise, his face pale.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, frantically.
‘Anywhere but here,’ Lewis said, and made sure he did not slam the door on his way out.
6
He found himself walking across the road to the King’s Head, unable to face going home. The possibility of meeting Mrs Bell on the stairs was too high, while the thought of his room, messy and stale, seemed too confining.
He entered the pub, bought a bottle of wine and retreated to the darkest corner he could find. He felt calm, serene even.
Freddie was getting married. Freddie was a murderer.
It was a curious thing, to be able to identify the precise moment he stopped loving Freddie. Or at least stopped falling in love him. Lewis wasn’t quite sure what normal people considered love, or the appropriate length of time to decide one was feeling it. All he knew was that it was gone. Whatever it was that made it near impossible to drag his eyes from Freddie, that made his pulse quicken when he touched him, was gone.
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