The Awful Truth About the Herbert Quarry Affair

by Marco Ocram

  I wondered if that included Jackson Pollock.

  “I have never heard anything so incredible. Is there a chance you might have preserved one of her works which you could show me?”

  The Professor smiled before pressing a button on a pad set into the gleaming tropical hardwood of his expensive expansive desk. At the far end of his vast study, a door opened. The Professor motioned to me to follow him. After negotiating a labyrinth of corridors, we entered a cool, dark space in which our footsteps echoed. The Professor raised the lights to reveal we were in a huge gallery, the largest I had ever seen.

  “Gosh,” I said, “there must be hundreds of pictures.”

  “Three thousand, two hundred and eighty-five,” he corrected.

  “That’s amazing. Which of them is by Marcia?”

  “They all are.”

  LESSON ELEVEN

  ‘Tell me, Herbert. Are there any other tricks hacks use in writing their trashy bestsellers?’

  ‘There are many, Marco. The cliffhanger, the change in point of view, the flashback; these are all commonplace gimmicks.’

  ‘Are some gimmicks gimmickier than others, Herbert?’

  ‘Indeed, Marco. A gimmick much favored by the true hack is to end a chapter prematurely on an unexpected announcement, only to start the next chapter on the exact same announcement.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In which the Professor is revealed to be no friend of Herbert Quarry.

  “They all are.”

  The Professor's dumbfounding statement echoed in my head. Here in the cavernous gallery was every one of the artworks produced by Marcia Delgado during her incarceration.

  The Professor's august tones interrupted my stupefied thoughts.

  “The works, although different in so many ways, share two common characteristics. Focus upon them.”

  I did. The first shared characteristic was obvious from a distant sweeping glance—every one of the works was a view through a window. The window in each picture was different from that in the next. Some of the artworks were views through modern panoramic windows; some were through ancient stone-framed windows of castles or temples; in others the windows were Tudor, or Victorian, or Jacobean, or of some western log cabin, or a Chang dynasty temple—there was no end to the variety of the windows. In some works, the view through the window was the dominant one; in others, the foreground was dominant, and the view through the window was secondary. Some were views looking out through the window; others were from the outside looking in. In some the window was central and prominent, in others small and peripheral. In some the window appeared full-on; in others the view was obliquely through the window to one side. What I am trying to say is that collectively the works of the mad woman depicted every conceivable type of window in every conceivable way, encompassing an incomprehensible spread of imagery.

  It was only after I had taken in the first shared characteristic, and analysed it to some extent, that I began to see the second. At first, I saw it in a general way—it was a man; a man always appeared in the views through the windows, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, sometimes alone, sometimes with others, sometimes clothed, sometimes naked, sometimes foregrounded, sometimes distant; the different representations of the man were almost as varied as the representations of the windows, except for one remarkable shared quality: they were all Herbert Quarry.

  At first, I could not believe my eyes. Surely some of the paintings would not show Herbert through a window. But as I paced along the endless walls of the gigantic gallery—as I saw more and more of the infinitely varying artworks—so the truth became inescapable. Marcia had completely and utterly obsessed over the act of depicting Herbert through a window.

  I barely managed to express the confused state of my overwhelmed mind: “What... what could it possibly mean?”

  “Is it not obvious?” asked the Professor, almost as mystified by my lack of understanding as I was about the contents of his astonishing gallery.

  “Certainly not. Please spare me and the readers the agony of my working it out for myself, which could spill over several chapters.”

  “Think, man. What does the window do to the figure seen within it?”

  “It... it...” The enormity of what I was about to say almost prevented me from saying it… “It frames him.”

  “Exactly. It frames him. There you have the continually repeated unconscious story of Marcia's artistic endeavors: I don't care how long it takes, but one way or another I am going to frame Herbert Quarry.”

  My heart almost beat itself out of my anorak, such was the emotional impact of the Professor's words. Here, then, was the key to unlock Herbert's prison cell. I must get back to Clarkesville at once and alert the bumbling law and order officials. I thanked the Professor profusely and raced back to the airport just in time to catch a flight from Nassau to Clarkesville.

  As the powerful airplane crossed mile after mile of the eastern seaboard, doubt ousted triumph from my mind. The Professor was world-renowned as a man of unmatched intellectual powers, yet he had willingly spared the time to see me and led me straight to a compelling conclusion. Was it possible he had manipulated me, just as, perhaps, he might have manipulated Marcia? Could the 3,285 artworks be an elaborate and painstakingly laid trail of diverting evidence, designed to lead investigators to the same conclusion I, with the Professor's help, had reached myself? Might the Professor have laid the trail for his own mysterious purposes? He had access to Marcia, and enormous powers of influence. Perhaps she had been his unwitting puppet. I realized there was one question I still needed the Professor to answer, so no sooner had the plane landed than I tore across the apron of Clarkesville County International Airport and boarded the companion shuttle just leaving for Nassau.

  The Professor must have been surprised to see me so soon, but he clearly had enormous powers of self-possession, for he showed no emotion when I resumed my seat in his huge study.

  “I forgot to ask,” I said. “Exactly why were you in Clarkesville when Marcia was imprisoned? After all, you are a man with many international priorities. I cannot imagine you would have been in that quiet backwater without some special reason.”

  My question triggered the first signs of unease, and possibly anger, in the intellectual's granite countenance.

  “Well, it is a matter of public record, so I suppose you would find out eventually. I was there to face trial.”

  “You?” The astonished ejaculation burst from my lips. “But for what possible charge?”

  “Libel.” Bitterness distorted his voice and face, as if the memory of the charges still evoked some powerful resentment.

  “But who could possibly make such an accusation against Professor Sushing, the world-renowned beacon of objectivity?”

  The Professor turned his penetrating gaze fully upon me before announcing his staggering answer.

  “Herbert Quarry.”

  LESSON TWELVE

  ‘Herbert, does it matter how I number my chapters? I heard an author achieved rave reviews for a book by numbering his chapters in reverse. Should I do that?’

  ‘No, Marco, that was an unimaginative gimmick even in its day, and is now old hat. A great postmodernist author will realize that the identifiers traditionally given to chapters, namely the integers starting at one, are entirely redundant.’

  ‘No, Herbert. I cannot agree with you. The chapter number tells the reader where the chapter fits in the book.’

  ‘You are not thinking like a great postmodernist author, Marco.’

  ‘How should I think, then, Herbert?’

  ‘The number of the chapter is of no practical use. The book is bound, so the relative position of a chapter is fixed whether it is numbered or not. The great postmodernist author will abandon chapter numbers, and instead name his chapters in a manner signifying irony or a transcendent existential perspective of unparalleled breadth.’

  ‘Can you say that last bit again more s
lowly, Herbert?’

  CHAPTER HOLD THE MAYO

  In which Marco’s agent makes a figurative appearance, and the seed of a misunderstanding is sown.

  With the Professor's astonishing admission ringing in my ears, I returned to the airport to catch the returning shuttle to Clarkesville. I slept throughout the flight, thereby sparing the readers the tedium of the thunderstorms, sick pilots, iced wings, engine fires, UFO encounters, loose tarantulas and countless other instances of melodramatic nonsense I might have written had I stayed awake.

  After collecting my handsome leatherbound trunk from the first-class luggage carousel, I was queueing for customs checks when Doris Day began to beltout the chorus of Que Sera Sera. She was just about to sing it for the fourth time, when the looks from the other passengers told me it was my phone and not theirs playing the cheery tune. I stopped whistling along with it and took the call. It was Barney, the literary agent I shared with Herbert.

  “Hey, Kid, your mom says you’re down in Clarkesville, digging around to find the truth about Quarry.”

  “Hi, Barney. Yes, I’m there now and I’m determined to expose the truth. I’m writing it all up as I go. The world needs to know what’s been going on down here.”

  “That’s brilliant, kiddo. Could be just the breakthrough we need for that first novel we want you to write. Amazing. New York’s on fire to know what’s really happened with Herbert. I can tell you this, Markie baby—if you can winkle out the truth, with all the juicy bits, mind, I’ll get us the biggest book deal ever. The publishers will be gagging for it, Markie, gagging. And listen—I got Adaora Eze lined up to see you.”

  “Wow!” Adaora Eze was the society editor at the New York Times.

  “Wow indeed, Kiddo. And guess what—she used to date Herbert, so she can’t wait to get the lowdown. When do you think you can get back here?”

  “Just a minute.” I had to drop my phone while I unlocked my trunk for the customs officer to rummage through all the spare underwear my mom always makes me pack. “I’m not sure yet, Barney.”

  “Well don’t make it too long—we’ve got a book to sell.”

  We said our goodbyes and killed the call. That was handy. If Barney could use his influence to sell the story, then maybe I could kill two birds with one clichéd stone, clearing Herbert in a book that broke the mold of literature. Speaking of which…

  I nodded my thanks to the poor customs officer and found my way out of ‘Arrivals’ deep in thought. I needed to find more about the court case between Herbert and Professor Sushing. Perhaps some detail in the court’s archives would give me a new insight into what to write next. Accordingly, I retrieved my black Range Rover from the VIP parking lot and drove straight to City Hall, leaving a message for Como, en route, asking him to meet me there.

  The aforementioned building was the sole example of classical architecture in Clarkesville. Raised on an immense pediment of finest Portland cement, its massive portico was supported on slender columns topped with capitals of every classical order, including Doric, Ionic, Iconic and Ironic. The stone had been carried by specially hired dumptrucks from a quarry blasted into the side of Mount Clarke, almost eight miles away. Radiocarbon dating proved the building to be at least thirty-five years old. The bonds issued by the City Fathers to pay for the work were guaranteed to be redeemable at twice face value by 2146. The City Mothers had embroidered a memorial quilt, made with scraps of the stonemasons’ overalls, which now hung proudly in the council chamber. The City Cousins had donated a tasteless plaque, which was kept in storage and leant against the wall of the building whenever they visited.

  My phone buzzed to say Como was running ten minutes late. Not wishing to bore you to death by hanging about waiting for him, I followed the signs to the Court Archives. I pushed through an imposing set of ornate mahogany doors, along a filthy corridor in which the tenants of the public housing projects waited to argue about their rent arrears, up five sets of stairs, through the workshops in which the ceremonial regalia of the council members were maintained, down five flights of stairs, back through the imposing mahogany doors and over to a small hatch near the main entrance, above which was a sign reading ‘Court Archives Department, Knock Here for Enquiries,’ and below which was a sign reading ‘Closed Indefinitely Owing to Industrial Action.’

  As I had done to Como’s car just seven chapters ago, I smote the hatch with my fist in a hackneyed gesture betokening impatience, anger, frustration and an inability to write anything more original. There was I, on the cusp, perhaps, of some dramatic revelation, and my breakneck narrative pace was being undermined by some petty dispute between the council and its court archivists. I’m not sure undermining is the right metaphor, if I’m honest, but let’s not forget the point of all this—we’re hardly going to break the mold of literature if we keep stopping to think of the right words. Anyway, back to breakneck narrative pace…

  I turned to see Como run up the main steps two at a time, the tails of his ultra-cool overcoat flaring behind in the wind of his passage. I switched to slowmotion for our reunion. We floated toward each other across the busy foyer, stride by stride, while emotional background music underlined the significance of the moment. Here we were, the crime-fighting duo, reunited in an unbreakable bond of mutual respect and common purpose. My arms opened in greeting as Como spoke…

  “What the fuck d’you think you’re doing, Writer? Next time you decide to leave the country, you tell me first. I almost had a warrant out.”

  I aborted the man-hug I’d planned.

  “A warrant! Christ, Como, what happened to working in partnership to get concrete evidence?”

  “You fucking off to the Bahamas at zero notice—that’s what.”

  “Como,” I said, drawing myself up to my full height, at which my eyes were nearly level with his collar button, “the word partnership implies some degree of independence. It is not a synonym for any of the words bondage, subjugation, thrall, slavery, vassalage, serfdom and so on. If we are to be partners, we must operate in a framework of unquestioned mutual trust.”

  “It’s easy for you to say, Writer, but it’s me who’ll have Chief McGee’s boot up my ass if you turn out to be Quarry’s accomplice.”

  “Then the sooner we disprove the possibility, the better. Speaking of which, what did you find at police HQ about the impact wound on Lola’s head?” I asked in an attempt to regain the initiative—not a very successful attempt, as it turned out.

  “Nothing. You sure you didn’t make up all that shit about a blow to the skull? Anyway, what were you up to in the Bahamas?”

  I told Como about Sushing’s court case, the amazing collection of paintings and the theory about Marcia Delgado framing Herbert, hoping he wouldn’t find them even less believable than the blow to Lola’s skull.

  “That’s why I came to City Hall—to look at the court records.”

  “You should have told me, Writer: I could have saved you the wasted trip.”

  “You mean you knew about the Court Archives Department being closed indefinitely on account of a petty industrial relations dispute?”

  “No, I mean I knew about the trial. I was there.”

  LESSON THIRTEEN

  ‘Tell me, Herbert, aside from extreme productivity, is there any other attribute a publisher might hope to see in a prospective bestselling author?’

  ‘Why yes, Marco, there is one: versatility.’

  ‘What do you mean by versatility, Herbert?’

  ‘Bestsellers must fall into established categories of subject matter, known as genres, otherwise the staff at the bookshops cannot work out where to place them on the shelves. A versatile writer can produce content for any genre. That is important to the publishers, Marco, for if one genre becomes unpopular, their stellar writers can shift their output to another.’

  ‘I see. What is an example of the more commercial genres, Herbert?’

  ‘A good example, perhaps, is the courtro
om drama, as popularized by authors John Turow and Scott Grisham, whose many works, such as Grisham's 'The Formula,' all share similar plots, characters, socioeconomic settings, and so on. You are more likely to be picked up by a publisher if you demonstrate an ability to churn out thousands of words in a variety of genres.’

  ‘I see.’

  CHAPTER LOSING THE WILL TO LIVE

  In which Marco proves his versatility.

  “No, there doesn’t seem to be anything here either.”

  We were back at Herbert’s house, looking for old newspaper articles or diary entries about the court case, after Como confessed he could hardly remember anything about it. It was nearly ten years ago was his excuse.

  “Let’s admit defeat, Writer, and go for some lunch—I’m wasting away.”

  I was about to make some sarcastic comment about how Como did indeed seem to be wasting all the way from four hundred pounds to three hundred and ninety-nine pounds fifteen ounces, when I had a brilliant idea.

  “Gorging yourself with food can wait, Como. I have just remembered I have an international reputation as a hypnotist. With your permission, I will simply put you into a deep trance from which you will be able to recall the events of the trial in vivid and compelling detail.”

  Como rested on a divan in Herbert's study and watched a watch I was dangling until he fell into a deep hypnotic coma.

  “Tell me about the court case,” I prompted.