The Last Book. A Thriller

by Michael Collins

  ‘Argon does some good as well you know,’ he said.

  Sarah felt her teeth grinding.

  ‘Sure, like you plough millions into health care so your faithful smokers can live just a tad longer and quadruple your investment, build high-tech mobile hospitals for war zones so you can patch up the damage from your own weapons, provide sub-standard pharmaceuticals to the desperate masses … Anything else you want to impress me with before I leave?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t presume to,’ Nathan said with a concerned smile. ‘You clearly have very strong opinions about our activities. But is it so inconceivable that we want to do something for altruistic reasons every once in a while? Listen, we’re willing to pay a ghostwriter two point five million to write Corsfield’s last book, just so his world readership doesn’t miss out. We’re paying a further two point five on completion, with a five mil bonus if it’s done within three months. That’s a total of ten million dollars.’

  Ethan watched Sarah’s eyes widen with disbelief and ploughed on.

  ‘And we’re looking for no advertising or promotional angles, and no press. Nobody will know it was us and we don’t benefit in any way. It’s between us, Corsfield and the ghost, and that’s it.

  Ethan paused to let his facts sink in.

  ‘We want you to write the book. Will you do it?’

  ‘Why me?’ Sarah asked. ‘There are plenty of ghosts out there you could approach with much higher profiles than mine. It can easily be done in three months so it’s an obscene amount of money to pay someone to write something that’s a guaranteed best-seller, although I suppose it’s nothing to you people.’

  ‘May I be completely honest with you?’

  ‘Can you be?’ Sarah shot back, making him smile.

  She laughed. Despite the evil machinations of his company, she liked this Ethan Cross. Dressed immaculately in Armani, and wearing it with a relaxed, almost cheeky style, he appeared totally at ease with her. It impressed her that he treated the wait staff with such utter respect too. Sarah had done her fair share of table service through her financially tough college days and knew how it felt to be treated like a fellow human being rather than the doormat. That sort of person wasn’t usually a prick.

  Right now he looked concerned.

  ‘You are allowed to eat,’ he said.

  Sarah looked at her plate. Today wasn’t the day for a lobster and caviar frittata.

  ‘How about some Turkish toast and the wildest Seville orange marmalade you’ll ever taste in your life? It’s my favorite,’ Ethan said, giving their waiter a discreet nod.

  ‘That’s amazing, me too,’ Sarah said. ‘Not zillion dollar an ounce marmalade of course, but I love the way toasted Turkish contrasts with the bittersweet. Any chance of unsalted butter too?’

  ‘That’s precisely what I’ve ordered,’ Ethan laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  ‘So,’ Sarah said later as they allowed their plates to be taken, ‘you know I won’t be doing this, but why me?’

  They’d eaten in companionable silence, broken only by sighs of satisfaction as the pile of toast and exquisitely tasting conserve was demolished. She’d watched him eat with pleasure, closing his eyes momentarily as he gave each bite appropriate reverence before chewing—just as she always did.

  ‘Sarah,’ Ethan said, sitting forward, seemingly unconcerned by the rebuff, ‘you know more about writing styles than I ever will, but am I right in saying that every writer has a definite style that, unless they’re specifically setting out to change it, is almost a hallmark?’

  Sarah nodded.

  ‘That’s true. Some exceptional writers can change their styles with some books to the point where the average reader could assume that each one is written by a different author. You know, a writer like Philip Roth, for example.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you do? Change styles with each book.’

  Sarah thought for a moment.

  ‘Yes, but not to the same degree. The first job of every ghostwriter is to find their client’s voice—to express things in the same way they do. Obviously that has inherent difficulties when the client is, shall we say, verbally challenged.’

  ‘Stupid?’

  ‘No, not always. A lack of education or the inability to speak well doesn’t make someone stupid, although people often jump to that conclusion. In that situation you have to write on their behalf and write as they would if they could. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious that they haven’t written it?’

  ‘Of course, and that’s why some clients prefer that the ghost is either up front as a co-author or clearly thanked in the acknowledgements. The favourite give-away is something like “my heartfelt gratitude to so-and-so, without you this book would never have been written”, and so on.’

  Ethan smiled.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen plenty of over-the-top acknowledgements. Now I understand why they’re there. What about the clients who want the public to believe it’s their own stuff?’

  ‘That’s fair enough too. They’ve paid for the service and if the book has been ghosted well, it should sound just like them. In other words, it’s their words,’ she replied with a smile.

  ‘Aah,’ Ethan said, ‘except for the characteristic inflections left in the text by the ghostly presence?’

  Sarah frowned and then laughed.

  ‘Surely you’re not trying to tell me I was chosen because my style is something like Corsfield’s? Even if there was the remotest possibility, there’s no way you could find that out. And I’m not sure if I feel flattered either.’

  Ethan smiled.

  ‘We couldn’t find it out Sarah, but Redray Seven could.’

  Sarah was floored. She’d heard of the supercomputer, Redray Seven, everyone had. It had been developed at a cost of millions and was used to assemble and analyse genetic mapping. It was available for hire—at a phenomenal cost.

  ‘How did you …no, don’t answer that.’

  ‘I won’t Sarah, not now anyway. Suffice to say that when we had every contemporary novel analyzed and then made discreet enquiries using large amounts of cash as incentives, some of your clients were happy to divulge who’d done the actual writing. When your style of writing kept coming up as consistently similar to Zachary Corsfield’s, even though the subject matters are worlds apart, we knew we had a winner. That’s why we’re approaching you first. All you have to do now is read the first two books and then write the third.’

  ‘You seem so sure of my reading tastes. What makes you think I’ve read them, and know that I can’t write like that, whatever your supercomputer thinks?’

  For a brief moment, Sarah thought she saw a flash of uncertainty in Ethan’s eyes, or was it irritation? It happened too quickly and she couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was, he recovered himself quickly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, shrugging, ‘of course we don’t have any idea of your reading habits. I just assumed after meeting you today that you would be into something like Smiley or Mantel.’

  Sarah kept her expression neutral. This cool, good looking devil had just dropped the names of two of her favorite authors. Something spooky about all this was making her feel uneasy. It was all too pleasant. Either they were very much in tune with each other, or he’d just overplayed his hand. It was time to leave.

  ‘Thanks for the lovely brunch, Ethan,’ she said, feeling his eyes on her as she picked up her purse. Looking up and seeing the disappointment in his face, she decided to be honest. ‘I think you know my answer is still no. I just can’t bring myself to help a company like yours, even if its intentions are good-hearted, although that’s something I still find hard to believe.’

  ‘Well, thank you Sarah,’ Ethan said, standing up with her and taking her hand. ‘This has been one of my best client meetings despite its lack of success. Will you promise me to have a little think about it over the next few days and, even if the answer’s still no, perhaps we could have dinner together. It would be
great to find out what else we have in common, apart from marmalade,’ he added, mischievously.

  Sarah laughed, turning to leave.

  ‘Maybe, maybe, by the way, how did you know I’d written Expendable?’

  Ethan’s hand faltered momentarily as it reached for the check. If Sarah hadn’t been watching closely, she would have missed it. When he looked up, his expression was guileless.

  ‘Sarah,’ he said, ‘you have no idea how powerful this supercomputer is. Ask it the right questions …’

  As she crossed Fifth Avenue, Sarah glanced back at the Peninsula. It was Ethan’s knowledge of Expendable that was making her feel edgy. Her client for that book had been totally paranoid about her part in its writing process and the confidentiality agreement she’d signed, apart from having no witnesses, was ridiculously watertight. He’d even paid her up-front in cash which came in handy at the time. For him, the book had been all about kudos. He was also dripping with wealth and Sarah knew that no financial incentive on earth would have tempted him to divulge her name, let alone the fact that his book had been ghostwritten. Ethan Cross was lying.

  At that moment, the subject of Sarah’s ruminations was still sitting at the restaurant table. As he reached for his smartcom he was thinking that, all things considered, the meeting with Sarah had gone rather well.

  *

  Sarah had to stop herself from thumping on Nan’s door when she heard it click gently as she passed by—silly woman. What she found when she reached her own floor made her wish she’d hammered on Nan’s until she’d invited her in for a cup of coffee. In fact, she wished she’d not come home at all—stayed out, got smashed, gone to Florida—anything.

  A man and woman, both in their thirties, were standing outside her apartment and looked startled when she came up behind them. They’d obviously just arrived and were still grinding cigarettes out on the hallway’s polished tiles.

  Sarah looked down at the black marks on the floor and then at them, not trying hard to hide her distaste. The male was overweight and sweating in a thick jacket. The woman, in a black trouser suit that had seen better days, spoke first.

  ‘We’d like to search your apartment Mrs Marsden,’ she said in a flat, no-nonsense tone.

  ‘Would you?’ Sarah said, stuffing her shaking hands into her coat pockets. ‘And it’s Ms Marsden to you, whoever you are.’

  ‘We’re the police Ms Marsden,’ the male said, nastily, ‘and we have a warrant to search your place for drugs.’

  As the blood pounded in her head, Sarah was aware of police badges and a folded piece of paper being waved in front of her but it was all too fast for her to focus on them.

  ‘Would you like to open the door, or would you prefer we break it down?’ the female officer said.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ Sarah muttered, scrabbling for her keys. Pulling them out of her purse they slipped from her fingers, landing on the tiles with a clatter. Smiling, the female cop shoved them with her toe until they were rolling through the black ash from their butts. Bending to pick them up, she was caught completely off-balance when a large, meaty hand enveloped the back of her neck and sent her sprawling. She felt a sob rise in throat.

  ‘Oh, dear, let me help you Ms Marsden,’ the female said, hauling her roughly to her feet. ‘Now get that fucking door open.’

  Sarah stood in the hall shaking as the two cops disappeared into her apartment. This was a nightmare and she needed to pull herself together. She remembered being last night’s news item, wondering if the police had dug up that bloody ancient drugs bust and decided to have another go. But why? As the hammering in her chest slowed, her fright was replaced by anger. For fuck’s sake, her transgression back then had been minor. She’d received what amounted to a slap on the wrist from the judge, no conviction was recorded and she was advised to find some new friends—something she happily did.

  She heard a crash.

  ‘What the hell …?’

  Sarah stamped through to her bedroom where she could hear laughter, catching the big brute rifling through her underwear with his sweaty hands. He didn’t turn a hair as she stalked in, just held up a pair of lace pants.

  ‘Like to see you in these, doll,’ he said, smirking at his partner.

  Sarah crossed the room and snatched them from his hand.

  ‘I want to see that warrant,’ she shouted, looking around at her clothes scattered across the floor.

  The man turned, his left hand moving in a blur grasped her throat and slammed her against the wall. Sarah felt the air whoosh from her body.

  ‘Shaddup Ms fucking Marsden,’ he said, pushing his face into hers. The hot stink of stale garlic and cigarettes made her gag. Suddenly, she gasped. The bastard had his other hand under her skirt and was shoving his fingers into the waistband of her pants. Shuddering with revulsion she looked over the man’s shoulder, somehow expecting some help from the female cop. She was shocked to see the woman just standing there, hands on hips and grinning. As she felt clammy fingers exploring her pubic area, she summoned the last of her strength and spat. The man laughed—a thick, mucous-laden wheeze, as her spittle dribbled ineffectively down her own chin. She felt the grip on her throat tightening and the room starting to darken—she knew she was going.

  Coughing and dry retching, she tried to sit up. Her throat was on fire. A pair of scuffed and dirty brown shoes swam into view. With dismay she recognized them—they belonged to the cop. He was still here, but she was still alive, for now anyway. Slowly she raised her eyes. Holding a lit cigarette, the cop was sitting on the end of her bed watching her. His dark piggy eyes bored into her face. She tried to speak and couldn’t.

  ‘Don’t bother, bitch,’ the man said. ‘See this?’

  Sarah looked at the paper twist that had appeared in one hand.

  ‘Well, do I need to massage your neck a bit more? Nod if you know what this is.’

  Sarah nodded.

  ‘That’s right, Brownsville trash would know about this alright, a nice little serving of smack, skag, junk—whatever. Found it hidden in your pants, well not me, ’course. I’m not allowed to go poking around sweet-smelling, better-than-Brownsville pussy. That’s this here lady officer’s job.’

  Sarah heard a chuckle from the woman, but didn’t take her eyes off the twist. Fear gripped her intestines. She’d never see her children again.

  ‘That’s not mine. I’ve never used the stuff,’ she managed.

  The man lifted the twist to his nostrils and sniffed.

  ‘Aah, lady,’ he said, quietly, ‘this is definitely yours. It’s got your DNA all over it, I made sure of that.’

  ‘You can’t use it as evidence,’ Sarah said, trying desperately not to howl, ‘it was obtained illegally.’

  Sarah flinched back against the wall as the man lunged down at her, spilling ash onto the carpet.

  ‘Evidence? Who said anything about evidence? This doesn’t have to go to court. We just have to leak the facts to the right people and you’re fucked—your career, your home, your children—all gone.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Sarah looked up as the woman squatted beside her.

  ‘Well, how about your civic duty?’ she said.

  ‘What do mean?’ Sarah said, suspiciously, her recent meeting with Ethan Cross springing to mind. No, he wouldn’t dare. But Argon—they had the money and money meant connections.

  At first, what the woman said next didn’t make any sense.

  ‘Just stay away from the niggers in your old home town,’ she replied, almost pleasantly. ‘Is that too much to ask?’

  She looked at both cops in turn as they stared at her, waiting. She shook her head, quizzically, still completely confused.

  Sarah recoiled from the man’s breath as he leaned in to her.

  ‘See, giving upstart black folks like that Bambi boy ideas above their place don’t work. They end up getting hurt real bad and the local police benevolent fund suffers something terrible.’

  It had been
less than twenty four hours since she’d stumbled into Brownsville and yet it seemed like weeks ago. She remembered the boy’s cheeky grin. His intelligence, hope even.

  ‘Bambi? What’s happened to him?’

  The woman patted her knee.

  ‘Now don’t you go worryin’ about things that don’t concern you. Makin’ promises to street shit gets it trodden on, and we all ends up scraping it off our shoes.’

  ‘What did you do …is he …?’

  Sarah shut her mouth quickly and both cops nodded. The man sniffed at the twist once more and then tossed it into her lap.

  ‘I think we’ve got an understanding here,’ he said, standing. He pulled the woman cop to her feet. ‘And there’s plenty more where that came from,’ he added, dropping his cigarette into a crystal glass on her bedside table.

  By the time the door slammed shut, Sarah was sobbing.

  The Boy

  The boy stared over Manhattan and sighed. The three-bedroom apartment Kralinsky had helped him find and buy was perfect. His age had meant some paperwork shuffling, where, once again, his former teacher came to the rescue.

  He wondered about Jilly. She would probably be home, fed some suitable lies and feeling disappointed in him. He could think of nothing to do about it, except to call Annette’s bluff, and he wasn’t sure that would work. She was too bitter, and if she learned of his wealth it may tip her completely over the edge. Kralinsky had promised to make some discreet enquiries which eased his mind a little.

  Kralinsky, what an incredible man he’d turned out to be. It struck him that the man could easily have frittered the money away, or stolen it. Instead, he’d kept meticulous records, accounting for every cent spent. And to keep an office for him—well it was Kralinsky’s now, and with the scope of his future plans, he’d need it.

  The boy smiled to himself as he recalled when he’d dropped the bombshell on his former teacher.

  They were at the boardroom table where Kralinsky had insisted on showing him printouts of the various investments and assets of his company. Cups and take-away food containers littered the polished timber. It had been a marathon.