Nanowrimo Winner

[Total word count: 26,185]

Kevin Johnson, it turns out, is a total bastard. Ever since our little chat, he’s been using the prospect of me going in for the Manager interview to extort unreasonable amounts of work out of me. He asked me to do his time-sheet yesterday, which I assumed was a joke, but it became clear that it wasn’t. Unfortunately, I don’t believe he’s lying about the interview: I’ve had some other little hints, including a kind of hint from John Sopert the Director. So I just have to grin and bear it for the moment.

Sitting there running through the figures I suddenly had this brilliant idea: why not use Excel as a literary medium? You see, the whole idea of hypertext to begin with was that people could produce texts that weren’t linear any more, that branched off in all directions: but that never really happened – all we got was links.

But if you put text and pictures into a big Excel spreadsheet, you could make it really three-dimensional. People would read one passage, and then they could scroll down, scroll across, move to the next sheet, follow a link or an instruction, go to a cell reference, whatever. Eventually they would read more or les the same story, but there would be lots of ways of getting it, and different people would read slightly different versions. When you talked to someone about the story, you’d never be sure that you’d actually read the same bits. Some bits could be hidden, like in a game, and you could have progress to other levels for a kind of macroscopic control…

“Alright there, Fletch?” Kevin Johnson asked, breaking in on my train of thought, “Penny for them?”

About six o’clock yesterday he came in and dumped this huge set of proofs on my desk.

“We don’t usually do proof-reading, Kevin,” I reminded him.

“I know, sorry, but this is a real emergency. They’ve got to be cleared tonight.”

“The other thing is, proof –reading is really a two-person job, you know?” I said, hopelessly. “One to read it out, one to correct?”

“Sure,” he replied, “But a man of your cal-aye-ber is worth two ordinary people, aren’t you?” He stopped smiling. “You don’t have to, Fletch,” he said, “But I would be very grateful, if you could.”

I hate proof-reading, and I am no good at it. I begin to read the text instead of checking it: I skip ahead without thinking; I mark the wrong bit and have to correct my corrections.

“Get it couriered over when you’ve finished,” said Kevin, breezily, “Or take it yourself in a taxi if you like. You know where they are. So long as they get it before nine this evening, it should be fine.”

And with that he had dumped the proofs and gone home. It had taken me until half-past eight.
Obviously this kind of thing is making it difficult for me to spend any time on Wenham, and although I’ve progressed a bit in the last few days I’m still lagging behind: not much over 16,000 words when I should by now be well over 20.000.

Last night I took the corrected proofs over myself, and after I’d delivered them, I dropped in on Geoff, whose flat was not far away.

“Come in,” he said, “I’ve got something to show you.”

He has one of those special stands for his PC and printer – I hate those things myself – and up on the shelf was a pile of A4.

“That’s what twenty-five thousand words looks like, mate,” he said, “I though you’d like the chance of seeing it because you’re not likely to get that far yourself, are you?”

“Jeez,” I replied “You’re printing it all out? Whatever for?” But I had a fair idea it was entirely for my benefit. There’s no denying, gentle reader, that it was a little dispiriting to see all those words actually lying there on the shelf. I moved closer and squinted at the top sheet.

“No reading!” said Geoff, “Hands off!”

The top sheet was almost blank anyway – just the title and Geoff’s name and address. The title was ‘Captain Simon’s Rose’ , which was reasonable enough, but seemed strange. It seemed strange that Geoff should actually have been able to come up with a completely original story out of his own head: he’d never betrayed even the slightest signs of creativity or imagination before. But there it was: clear evidence that the manuscript contained actual characters and even a plot of some kind.

“Come on,” I said, “I want to read about all these heaving bosoms. I am right in thinking there are heaving bosoms in it, aren’t I?”

“Oh yes,” said Geoff unexpectedly, “Plenty of those. But you’re not reading about them. You won’t let me read yours, will you?”

“No,” I admitted, “Though if you read my blog, you’ll know how things are going and you can even see a few little extracts.”

“Oh no,” said Geoff, “I’m not sad enough to start reading people’s blogs, least of all one about you. Let’s stick with the no-reading system. By the way…”

“Yes?”

He put on a condescending leer.

“I know you’re a bit behind, what with actually having to work a bit and so on. I feel a bit guilty about putting extra pressure on. I just thought I’d say, if you want to chuck it in now, I’ll let you off the bottle of Cristal. Just so long as we’re absolutely clear that I won, that I am the better writer, and that in spite of all your arty-farty stuff you can’t cut it when the chips are down, of course.”

I thought about it. I wasn’t quite sure what Geoff thought he was doing, but this was clearly some kind of reverse psychology thing. Only if it was, that meant that by offering me a chance to pull out he was trying to make me keep on with Nanowrimo. Which was odd. Or perhaps it was a double bluff. Or maybe he’d just lost track of his inverted psychology.

“Very humorous. Oh, very funny, Sir!” I exclaimed in my Greenstreet voice, though to be honest I wasn’t anything like as sure as I sounded.

“OK,” he said, “It’s fine with me. Have a seat.”

I sat down on the small black leather sofa. Geoff had a small new flat, but he had furnished it rather well by buying up the stuff from the show flat. Somehow, builders of these tiny flats manage to get furniture which looks normal but is 20 to 25 per cent smaller. The rooms all look a good size as a result, until you actually start using them: one ordinary sofa would have filled this room, with no space for anything else. By shrewdly obtaining the stuff from the original show flat, Geoff had saved himself a lot of grief and money and ensured his flat looked good, even if you did still have a noticeable tendency to knock things with your elbows due to there being less room than you expected.

“You know,” said Geoff, “I’m actually enjoying this. Not just the pleasure of winning: I’m surprised to find I actually enjoy the process of writing. It’s a nice way to relax at the end of the day, knowing whatever rubbish you spew onto the paper is going to be OK.”

“You’ve never been very interested in literature before,” I said, “I always had the impression you thought it was a bit gay, to be honest. You don’t read fiction, do you?”

“Oh, not much,” confessed Geoff, “I read that Simon King book a while ago. And someone gave me Kane and Abel for Christmas. Funnily enough, I think it helps, though. If I’d read a lot of books, I’d be thinking, you know, is this as good as Simon King; is it as good as Harry Potter? As it is, I’m not bothered.”

“Maureen reads a bit, doesn’t she? Don’t you ever read hers?”

Geoff looked serious. He sighed gustily and hung his head for a moment.

“Actually, John, Maureen and I have sort of broken up.” he confessed.

“My God, why didn’t you say something? When?”

“Oh, a week or so ago. Actually, do you remember that night when we first talked about the Nanowrimo thing? We’d just had a confrontation. I thought she was sort of going to blurt it all out, but she didn’t in the end. We had one last conversation after that, and that was it.”

“What happened, then?”

“Well,” he looked cagey for a moment, “To be honest, she sort of caught me in flagrante.”

“In flagrante? I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard anybody actually say that. In flagrante delicto. Have you been using a thesaurus? Sorry, carry on.”

“Do you want another beer?” asked Geoff. I paused for a moment, balancing the obvious need for another beer in the circumstances against the terrible gnat’s piss lager which was all Geoff kept in his flat for some peculiar reason.

“OK,” I said, “I’ll just nip down to the loo while you’re getting it.”

When we were settled again, Geoff seemed to have lost the thread.

“So?” I demanded, “You were in flagrante delicto?”

“The truth is, John, I’ve been seeing someone else off and on for about six weeks now. Still am.”

“Anyone I know?”

“No, no. It’s, er, it’s somebody from work.”

“My God,” I said, “You total bastard. It’s a senior partner isn’t it?”

“What?” said Geoff, looking sincerely pained, “A senior partner? There are only about two that are female – and have you seen them? I’d rather screw a horse. Actually, one of them might be a horse. Part horse, anyway. No, for Christ’s sake. She’s a cleaner, actually.”

“A cleaner?”

“Yes. Her name is Mercedes. See, she always used to come in and empty the waste paper basket, and we’d sort of say hello and smile and everything. I noticed her, of course, you know, noticed she was a cut above the dumpy old cow who used to do it, but nothing more than that. Then one lunchtime we had the Crickson’s do.”

“Crickson’s?”

“Yes. They’re the disc people. Look, that doesn’t matter, the point is on one of those dos you get seriously bladdered. It’s a requirement. The afternoon is a write-off. But for some reason I left my briefcase in the office, so instead of wandering down to Waterloo, I had to roll back into the office. It was after seven by then, and as I sat at my desk, still wearing my coat, in comes Mercedes to do the bins. Well, somehow, instead of just saying good evening, all this stuff sort of came out. I started talking about my problems, you know, how life seemed to be flowing past me, about my father, you know, and uncle Eric at sea, all that.”

I had no idea who Uncle Eric might be, and I was surprised to hear that Geoff felt life was flowing past him, but I didn’t want to interrupt at this point, so I kept quiet.

“Well. Somehow this turned into a proper heart-to heart. At some point she started telling me about her life, you know, and I sort of got tired and just sat there listening. So it wasn’t just me ranting on. She explained about the, you know, problems she was having: I nodded and looked concerned and all that. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before, so sudden, you know? Next day, I was back in the office as usual, thinking nothing of it, really: bit of a hangover, but that was OK, you know it was in the line of duty or whatever. I got through the day OK, and around seven, in comes Mercedes again. But something is different. I say hello in the good old style, but she comes in, gently strokes my forehead with a smile, leans down and kisses me. I think the truth is, John, to be honest, sometimes I’m a hell of a lot nicer and a hell of a lot better as a listener when I’m totally pissed. That’s the only way I can explain it. Anyway, things just went on from there, really.”

“What? What? So, every night you’ve been shagging her across the desk?”

“No, no. You’re so crude, sometimes, Faletcher. In the evenings, she has to empty the bins. She’s always busy. No, what gradually became the routine was that she would come round here about six in the morning, and after a post-coital cup of tea, we’d go out to the greasy spoon on the corner for breakfast. It’s kind of the reverse of the usual deal where you have dinner first, you know.”

“My God!” I exclaimed.

“I tell you what, though, John,” said Geoff, earnestly, “I’m sorry, but it’s been marvellous. It makes far more sense this way. I mean usually, you drag around town, drink a load of wine and stuff, and by the time you’re in bed, in the small hours, you’re virtually knackered. This way, you wake up, full of energy and expectation, enjoy an interlude of athletic and intense shagging, quick shower, and off for the full English breakfast. If there’s a better way to set you up for the day, I don’t know what it is. And then you’ve got the evenings to yourself.”

“Except you hadn’t, had you?.”

“Exactly. I was still seeing Maureen. I managed to keep the system in balance somehow for about a fortnight or so, but it couldn’t last. Eventually Maureen came over to give me some shirts one morning, and saw me and Mercedes walking out the door hand in hand. Lucky it worked out that way, really, half an hour earlier and she would have arrived in the middle of the morning session.”

“While you were in flagrante. Flagrante delicto”

“Yes. And I can tell you it is pretty damn flagrante.”

“You’re still seeing – Mercedes, then?”

“Oh yes. Yes indeed.”

I sat back and thought for a moment.

“You know Geoff, in all honesty I have to grudgingly admit that in all sorts of ways I’ve been underestimating you. I have to say I’m looking at you here with considerably increased respect, you total, total bastard.”

A tinny little tune began to play somewhere downstairs.

“God, that’s my phone,” said Geoff, “ I thought I put it on answer. Excuse me.”

He stood up and hurried down the stairs to where his mobile phone was ringing in his coat pocket. He had put it on answer, gentle reader, but I had turned it back off when I went down for a pee, and it was I who had dialled his number from the mobe in my pocket. As soon as he left the room, I leapt on the pile of manuscript by Geoff’s PC.

Now of course, I can’t remember the exact words, but it was pretty much like the following.

Prithee then, Sir, what shall your pleasure be?
My pleasure, young wnech, you would know my pleasure? Well that were a tale indeed.
But prithee, Sir, what would you drink? A firkin of our good ale, perchance?
A firkin, indeed, a good firkin is what was on my mind, in good sooth.
Captain, for shame.
No, not for shame, my buxom poppet, It won’t be a shame if I have my way.
The wench drew back in seeming modesty and yet it seemed not that she was really all that displeased, the way she giggled and everything.

Now I could hear Geoff’s voice sounding faintly through my phone.

“Hello?” he said.

Suddenly Captain Simon stiffened. A man had entered the tavern through the door and he was staring at him as if he were some kind of a ghost. He had a black moustache.
Mordred! exclaimed the Captain.
Hello there my young buck said the stranger and twirled his moustache with a devil-may-care mien.
Captain Simon sprang to his feet and put his hand to the handle of his sword.
He twirled his moustache once more and gently eased his weapon from its sheath at his flank.
Oh Captain, Captain, what is it? cried the wench but he paid her no heed.
Draw, Sir! he said, Draw, I say!
Draw, damn you Sir!
I say draw, Sir, an you be a gentleman!

I grabbed the phone and tried to keep reading at the same time.

“Hello, is that Mr Brownie?” I said, in a strangled falsetto.

“Browne.”

“Hello, Mr Brownie, I have important news for you, but first I must ask: are you the home-owner?”

Draw for you, knave I don't think I’m not doing that no I’ll call my man to deal with your impertinence I fancy. He said with haughty mien.
Draw or by God I’ll prick you where you stand, poultroon.

“Yes,” said Geoff, “Well, leasehold, but it’s like nine hundred years, you know?”

“Mr Brownie,” I said – you know, it’s surprisingly difficult to make up a convincing spiel while reading something completely different at the same time “What would you say if I told you I could save you five hundred pounds every month. Would you want to know how, Mr Brownie?”

Stand still you caitiff rogue.

“No thank you, I’m not interested.” responded Geoff in characteristically dull style. I could hear that he was already coming back upstairs, so with a final glance at the masterpiece of literature, I leapt back to the sofa.