The Writer

by RB Banfield

“She’s a real person, this granddaughter. Everyone up there’s still talking about her even though she hasn’t been there for a while. She lives here in the city and I’m trying to track her down. Not having much luck there.”

  “You’re telling me this Max Marshall has a real person as his main character? I thought you just said it wasn’t real.”

  “Fiction,” said Benny.

  “The story isn’t real but the people in it are,” said Dan.

  “Non-fiction fiction,” said Benny.

  “Shut up,” Dun said to Benny without looking at him. “Tell you what, Dan; check out exactly how much of it is real and how much isn’t. If there’s real people amongst all that poetry then I want to know who and what they’re doing there. If not, then I think we can pull the plug on it.”

  “Pull the plug?” Dan asked, shocked at the thought.

  “Unless you find anything we can actually use in the book,” said Dun, not knowing why that would upset him, “I think you’re done on this one.”

  “He was lying to me, I know that much.”

  “Who was? Marshall? How do you know?”

  “His left eye was twitching. No, Dun, honestly, something wasn’t right with him. And if anything in his book is real I’m going to nail him to the floor with it.”

  “Dan, you think everyone’s lying to you, don’t you.”

  “Everyone lies to us,” said Benny.

  “Just concentrate on the book, said Dun, ignoring Benny, “before calling any of the fictional characters in for questioning. Real people, okay?”

  Dan rubbed his eyes before he settled back into his reading. The chat with Dun had come too early, before he had settled on a conclusion, and it put him off his rhythm. Yes, some was real and some was fiction. He knew the boarding house in Max’s story was a real place and called Trent House, and he also knew that a woman from the city named Sophie had recently stayed there. He could feel that much more was real too.

  The phone was sitting right there and he knew he could get some answers with one call. He looked up the number for Trent House and called and asked the owner about her granddaughter. As much as Dan tried, he could not convince Susan Tyle that his questions were official police business. The only way to do it was to go back.

  Sam knew that Dan was sneaking secret food stashes into the house. Under the bed on his side (for night snacking), up in the top kitchen shelf behind the good plates, under the seat of his easy chair (that was his favourite), inside a locked safe under the wood pile, and in a little nook behind the bathtub. She suspected he had other places but she was yet to find them. It was always a giveaway when he would emerge from a room emitting satisfied sighs. Food must be in there somewhere.

  She knew that he would eat more than usual when his job started to get the better of him. While she didn’t want to be a controlling type of wife, she was worried about it. He was on his own diet plan, which was entirely up to him to watch his food intake, and he had made promise after promise that he would not go too far. But there again were the warning signs; suddenly happy for no reason, or agitated and restless. It was one of those rare cases that he would want to talk about over dinner, and no matter where their conversation went he would bring it back there again.

  Sam didn’t know anything about Gendry. Aside from a couple of brief ventures out of the city when she was in High School, she had no interest in going near such a place again. From what Dan described, it sounded like the last place she would want to go if she did want to leave the city. Although the thought did amuse her, that if they did live there then he would probably eat all of Sal’s food and put her out of business.

  “There’s something strange about this one,” Dan said from their lounge computer. “I can’t put my finger on it. I’ve gone through this book three times now and I can’t get to the bottom of it. Probably one of those things that’s obvious, right out in the open, and the more you look into it the further you get away from the answer.”

  He was printing out Max’s story and giving each page a quick re-read, highlighting the interesting parts. He had three marker pens; green for good, red for bad and blue for uncertain. An orange one would have been better but blue was good enough. He wanted to know exactly which people were real and which weren’t. The blue was used so much that it was starting to run dry.

  “Danny, I’ve been meaning to talk about your diet,” said Sam. Seeing she had his attention she muted the television. One of her favourite reality shows was on but this was important enough to miss part of it. Dan never bothered with the shows, saying he preferred his reality to be realistic.

  “Not now, if you don’t mind,” said Dan, knowing why she was saying that. “Not with this.”

  “We agreed we’d discuss your diet when you put more weight on. Are you working on a big case? I thought you were still doing the Gendry one.”

  “It’s still the Gendry one, but it’s like no other I’ve ever been involved with. It’s more than some backward town. Now I’ve got this writer, and he lives here in the city, and he’s written all about the case.”

  “How is that unusual?”

  “It’s unusual if he wrote it before the crime happened. Sam, I hate to admit it, but I’m starting to wonder if this is not something supernatural. The more I look at it, the more weird it gets.”

  “Supernatural how?”

  “It’s just that I saw one of this guy Marshall’s books, and it was all about ghosts or something. And now we get this prediction-thing happening.”

  “What are you saying?” she asked with a light laugh. “You think he’s psychic? I thought you didn’t believe in psychics. If I recall rightly, you said they’re all con artists.”

  “I did and I don’t. I’ve come across a few in my work and I know they’re all kooks. But how else do I explain this?”

  “Wouldn’t it help you solve your case if he actually was psychic?” She saw he was considering that, so she added, “You know, I think you need to take a break. I know you’re eating a lot more lately, and we both know it’s because the case is getting to you. If it’ll help, I’ll give the book a read through, see if I can see anything psychic in it. See if I get any weird vibes.”

  “Sure, have a go, see what you think. Don’t go changing anything; leave it as it is. I know you like to correct everything as you go. This could be evidence. I’ve printed it off so I can refer to it when I get there. The highlighted stuff is mine, so don’t change any of that either.”

  “What? When you get where? Are you going somewhere?”

  “I have to give Gendry another visit.”

  “Are you serious? Didn’t you just go up there? I thought you hated it.”

  “You’re welcome to come along.”

  “As much as I love you,” she said as she turned her TV show back on, “you know that’s not going to happen.”

  He watched her relax back into her chair and resume with her show. It was said in jest, they both knew that, but secretly he wished that yes, she would accompany him to that place and quell his growing fears. Such fears were unknown to him. The very fact that he felt them at all made him more nervous. He wondered if he should just straight-out ask her to go with him, but when he saw her laughing over one of the contestants falling off a log and into muddy water, he realised that maybe she was better not going. He then felt better after he returned to the computer and dug out that half-muffin that he had kept hidden in his trouser pocket since mid-afternoon. He knew that she never thought of checking the clothes he was wearing, and he could carry a good dozen muffins or pastries at any one time. In two bites it was gone.

  Dan stopped at a roadside coffee place and took all of the pages in with him. Three cups later he was part of a group of four, including two overweight tattoo-covered truckers, discussing the possibility of Max’s story being true. The locals knew Gendry better than Dan and he busily made notes of what they said. The boarding house sounded accurate, they said, and the writer was probably there recently. Sal’s
was a well known stopping place for the truckers, and they knew some of the locals like Elbow and Two-Tooth. When Dan made it back to his car to resume his journey it was early afternoon and he faced a night drive to get back home. The three bags of fruit pies were finished within the next hour.

  His stomach was crying when he drove into town and he had no doubt in his mind that he was going to clean out whatever Sal was going to serve him for his dinner. But first things first, he resolved, and he almost ran up the steps into Trent House. He used far too much force to ring the dainty little bell on the counter and then started to walk through to the next room to see if he could find anyone. Susan was walking down the stairs when she saw him and she greeted him politely.

  “Dan Ironwright,” he introduced, “up from the city. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”

  “Indeed, we did,” Susan said with a polite smile as she slowly made her way around the counter. “I’m only too pleased to help with your investigations. How long will you be staying?”

  “Hopefully no more than a couple of hours,” he said as he looked at the rough collection of papers that were Max’s story. Now mostly out of order, they all had notes scribbled over both sides.

  “Oh, you are not after a room? From your call I thought you were saying you had a lead in your case and wanted to meet some of Gendry’s folk.”

  “That I do.”

  “I had my twin boys fix up my main guestroom; new towels and such. Are you sure you don’t need to stay at least overnight?”

  Dan sorted through the papers on the counter, to Susan’s confusion. “The twins, that would be Kerry and Jerry?”

  “Do you know them? Are they in trouble? What have they done now? They have a habit of causing trouble like you wouldn’t believe, but I assure you they haven’t got a malicious bone between them.”

  “And you have a daughter, Rebecca?”

  “How would you have known that? Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

  “And a granddaughter, Sophie?”

  “My first daughter, from my first marriage, died when she was young, but she gave us our lovely Sophie. May I ask you what this is about?”

  “Certainly you can. Have you recently had a boarder by the name of Craigfield?”

  “I can tell you without looking at my book, the answer is no. I have never heard of anyone with that name, I’m sorry.”

  “Mind if I take a look at that guestbook?”

  “Actually, there’s no need. We seldom have guests. It’s coming up to a year since our last. There are no recent names there.”

  “What is real and what is not …” Dan said to himself as a couple of pages dropped to the floor. He felt a very strong sense of hunger, almost like a kick to his side.

  “Pardon?”

  “No matter. Sophie is the one I have the most interest in seeing. She’s not still here, by any chance?”

  “I can take you to see her now if you wish.”

  “She is actually here?” he asked, far more amazed than he should have been.

  “She’s helping in the kitchen, last I saw of her. If you don’t mind my asking, this is official police business?”

  “This is part of a homicide investigation, yes ma’am.”

  Susan was shocked to hear that and she became subdued as she took Dan through to the kitchen. Sophie was helping Simona prepare vegetables and they were both startled to see Susan bringing in a stranger. The smell of the cooking food hit Dan like a smack to the head. Sophie was nothing at all like what he was expecting, being very short and with dark features, not the way he had pictured her when reading Max’s story.

  “Sophie, my name is Dan Ironwright,” he introduced as he showed her his badge, “and I am from the city homicide.” He had trouble putting his badge away while still holding onto the pages. He could not take his eyes off a pot of the sweetest smelling soup he had ever encountered, and wondered if they would mind if he grabbed a spoon and took a taste.

  Sophie turned pale. “It’s not about someone I know, is it? Who is it?”

  “Come, Simona, let’s give them some privacy,” said Susan and they left the kitchen.

  “Someone you know?” asked Dan, putting the pages on one of the few spaces available on the table. He wondered if he should ask first before trying some of that soup or just go ahead and find a spoon for himself.

  “Yes, someone I know. Has someone I know died? I assume you’re here to tell me someone I know has been murdered. Who is it? Not Clarke? Or Nancy? Please, not Nancy?”

  “No, it’s not like that at all.”

  “Okay,” she said without really believing him. “Then what is it about?”

  “Actually it’s a little difficult to explain. Have you heard of Max Marshall, a writer from the city?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “This is not easy for me to describe, but it seems he has been writing about this town. More specifically, about your family. Even more specifically, about you.”

  “Writing what about me?” she asked slowly.

  “You’re his main character, in a book he’s written,” he said as he pointed to the crumbled collection of pages. “This is a copy. The original’s tucked away in his computer.”

  “I’m a main character in a book? What kind of book?”

  “I don’t know exactly; some sort of novel. Melodrama, really. Not my style. Actually, I prefer movies. But this is one book I can’t wait for the movie to come out.”

  “What was your name again? Dan? Well, Dan, this must be some sort of joke. Are you a real police officer?”

  “I assure you I didn’t travel all the way up here on account of a joke.”

  “You have it wrong. I’m writing his story. Did the twins send you some of my pages?”

  “Say what? I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “I said, I am writing his story and he, Max Marshall, is the main character of my book.”

  Dan looked at her and then the soup. He had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Okay, let’s start this over,” he said as he tried to put the food out of his mind. “The investigation concerns the Longbottom murder. Since it is still an ongoing case, anything out of the ordinary will be looked at. This is no time for flippancy.”

  “There is nothing flippant about what I am telling you, Dan,” she replied sternly. “The fact of the matter is it is not Max who is writing about me, I am writing about him. How did you know about that? I haven’t shown anyone my pages.”

  “How much have you written?” he asked, humouring her. As far as he could tell, she was confessing her guilt.

  “That’s easy. I can show you.”

  She left the kitchen and at first Dan didn’t know if he should follow. He saw a spoon sitting by itself and he began to reach for it but he stopped himself, and then almost bumped into Simona who knew what he was up to and gave him a nasty glare. When he left the kitchen Sophie was already going up the stairs, stepping heavily on the creaking steps. When he got to her room she had already collected some of her most recent pages, together with what was being kept in a small shoebox.

  “I will have this photocopied,” Dan said when she handed it all to him.

  “Just take it all,” she said as she folded her arms. “I have no further interest in it. Especially if I’m going to be questioned about it like this.”

  “No, I have no need to confiscate your property. I’ll get it copied and the original returned. And if I may ask, how is it you know Max, exactly?”

  “I never said I knew him.”

  “But you know enough to write about him.”

  “He’s a character I invented. And how do you know about that?”

  “He’s a real person. He lives in the city. I’ve met him. You expect me to believe you plucked his name out of the thin air?”

  “Where else do you get names from? The phonebook?”

  “Why are you writing about him, specifically?”

  “Why write anything?”

  “No, seri
ously, Sophie. Why are you writing about Max Marshall?”

  “I’m just using a name. It’s all fiction. If it’ll help, I’ll change his name in the next draft. Something less controversial.”

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re using his name.”

  “Do you know how hard it is to think up new names?”

  “That’s the only reason?”

  “Read what I’ve written and you’ll see it isn’t anything to get worked up about. As if I’m that good a writer.”

  He looked at the shoebox and realised that she may be telling him the truth. And it was a truth he did not want to face.

  “Have you read any of Marshall’s books?”

  “I don’t know he had any books, since I didn’t know he was a real person. Honestly, it’s not that rare a name. There’s probably many Max Marshalls in the world. I vaguely remember some golfer named that.”

  “What about Anger Angel? Heard of that?”

  “What? What-angel? Is that a name of a book? I don’t know what to think about this. You say he’s written about me? What is it, can you tell me? It is true, he has really written about me? How could that be possible? Do you think he’s been following me? Why would he do that? I’m finding this a little difficult to take.”

  “Do you know anything about psychics?”

  “I don’t know anything about any psychics. Why ask me that?”

  “This is a very unusual case.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Detective, all I have done wrong, is write something using his name, and I’m sorry if it’s caused confusion. I didn’t know that was a crime, and if it was I would have called him Bruce Balderdash or something.”

  Dan took a breath and realised that he was rushing it. Here was this Sophie telling him that she was doing the same as Max, writing about him, when he was writing about her. This would take time to figure out, and certainly not while standing in a hallway holding an old shoebox with pain in his stomach.

  “The only crime in writing is bad writing, I guess,” she added.

  “I will get these originals back to you as soon as I can,” he said formally. “Is this your present address?”