Nanowrimo Winner

But there’s more, there’s more…

18. Witnesses

My mother found Stilin’s manuscript. I don’t know how much she read, but she was unbelievably angry.

“… and Stilin of all people!” she shouted, waving her glasses at me, always a very bad sign; “You would ask Stilin? I don’t know how you could bear to be in the same room with him. Like some horrid corpse; like being in the catacombs with dead people. He makes my flesh creep. Lucia, I know I kept things from you, but would you rather trust Stilin? Are you mad?”

“How dare you?” I shouted back, “Do I read your letters? Do I search through your things? Well, do I?”

“I’m your mother,” she said, “Lucia, I’m worried about you. Don’t you understand?”

The truth is, in the tiny flat we now inhabited, nothing could possibly be kept private. I went out and sat on a wall overlooking a vast, oily puddle between three of the blocks. When I was calm again, I could see that there was a grain of sense in what she said. I knew Stilin was a liar; by his own account he had lied all his life. I could not rely on his version. There must be other people I could talk to.

For some reason the person who came to mind was the person I must now think of as my half-sister, Felicia Pertari. She was a little older than me, she had always known where she stood in relation to my father – our father. Perhaps she would have a better perspective. The idea of meeting her was fascinating and frightening at the same time. I resented the position she seemed to hold as my father’s favourite, and yet at the same time I could not help nurturing a small hope that she would be my ally, that if I explained to her what was going on she would somehow make everything go right again. But how could I contact her? I spent hours wondering whether I could somehow get access to my father’s address book or whether I could pluck up enough courage to ask him – or even my mother. Then I found that she was listed in the phone book.

Dialling the number was terrifying, but luckily she answered at once, and when I told her who I was, she knew about me. She knew who I was, she wasn’t all that surprised to get a call from me; my father – our father – had often talked about me, she said. I had half-expected to astonish her, but she did not seem in the least surprised..

“Sweetie!” she said, “You want to come and see me? Of course, I’d love to meet you. Tomorrow afternoon? Come round to my place – do you know where it is?”

I did know: it was in one of the new luxury blocks down by the river. I can’t say it is a beautiful building – somehow we seem to have lost the art of making buildings that look good, instead of simply robust – but inside it was spacious, with high ceilings, and carpet everywhere as though it were an hotel. I took the lift to the top floor, stepped out into a little ante-room (not a corridor; there were other doors, but no other apartments), and there was Felicia’s apartment: number one. At that point I think I would have lost my nerve and gone away again, but she opened it herself without my knocking.

Meeting her was the strangest thing that had ever happened to me. Her face had something familiar about it – it wasn’t exactly that she looked like my father, or like me, though I suppose she did, apart from the pointy little nose which must have been her mother’s, and the blonde hair which had nothing to do with heredity. It was more that when I looked at her I could see that she looked somehow like a member of my family, like someone I vaguely knew already but had forgotten about. She looked no older than me, an impression reinforced by the gum she was chewing. I had somehow expected her to look slightly vulgar, but she wore a well-cut blouse and skirt; simple clothes but expensive quality and showing off a good taste I rather resented. I couldn’t afford such good taste. We hugged enthusiastically. To my surprise she was a couple of inches shorter than me.

Inside, in a huge room with a magnificent view of the meandering Indumina I was taken aback to find a small boy, about four years old, and a uniformed nanny – a stocky, square-shouldered figure.

“Say hello, Grigori,” said Felicia to the boy, “This is your Aunty Lucia.”

“Hello,” he muttered, twisting a small toy in his hands – I think it was a vehicle of some kind, “Look, it doesn’t work.”

“Nanny Van Velzen, will you take him for his walk now?” asked Felicia firmly, ignoring Grigori’s toy problem. The business of putting on coats and preparing for the walk took some time, but eventually Felicia and I were left alone with a cup of tea. She placed her chewing gum in a saucer of its own.

“Is tea alright?” she said, solicitously, “Or would you like something stronger?”

“Tea is fine.” I said, “Look – Felicia – I came to see you because, well, several reasons, but… You know, until, well, quite recently – it’s embarrassing, but I didn’t even know my, our father… I didn’t know he had more than one family… You see I went to see Lucas Stilin…”

“Stilin?” she exclaimed, “You went to see him? That was brave. I shouldn’t like to be alone with Stilin. Such a horrible man. What was it Daddy said? ‘Really, you know, Felicia, working with that man all the time, I should ask for some kind of bonus, don’t you think? He’s like Goebbels without the gemütlichkeit.’”

It was so strange and disturbing to hear her reporting my father’s words, and in a passable imitation of his voice.

“Stilin told me some dreadful things,” I said, annoyed by how childish I suddenly sounded. Then, worse still, I began to cry.

She sat down beside me and put her arm around me.

“Bastards!” she said, with sincerity.

Who knows what she meant: people like Stilin, people like our father, men in general; it didn’t really matter. In cold fact we were the bastards; but just then it seemed the most perfect expression of sympathy.

I told her all the dreadful sex things Stilin had related to me. She listened calmly, attentively; but somehow under her gaze the terrible stories began to seem ridiculous. She began smiling cautiously; she chuckled at the joke about Jakoubian’s mother that I had found so horrifying.

“Really that is most absurd,” she said when I had finished, but not unkindly.

“So you don’t think it’s true?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that!”

She took out a new piece of gum as though to assist her thought processes. “I don’t think it can all be true though, do you? I must say I don’t think Daddy would have accepted Mrs Faratrin in exchange for Georgia. It’s not much of a deal. Do you know Mrs Faratrin? She has big, sticking-out rabbit’s teeth.”

She chewed for a moment or two.

“Then again, so has Georgia,” she conceded. “But all the same – absurd! I can quite well believe, though, that Mrs Faratrin might have had a go at Daddy and then made up some fantastic excuse.”

“Had a go at him? Really?”

“Yes, of course. You see, sweetie, you have to make some allowance for Daddy being our Alpha Male, you know? Famous, rich, powerful, and still quite handsome – yes I know he could afford to lose a bit of weight, I always tell him, but still. All the other men admire him, they’re afraid of him. That’s attractive, don’t you think? He’s the Top Man. Most of the women of Mrs Faratrin’s age in this town would drop their knickers like a shot if they thought there was any chance. The other thing honestly is, poor Daddy, I mean he had my mother, and your mother, and Esmeralda to keep happy – how many women can the poor man deal with?”

“He, he told me he hadn’t slept with Esmeralda for years.”

“Well that’s a fib,” said Felicia decidedly, “He has to perform his duties once a month, on the last Friday. Check with the diary secretary if you don’t believe me.”

She saw my face and giggled.

“No, of course he hasn’t got ‘Service Esmeralda’ in his diary, I mean the secretary can tell you that he is always busy on the last Friday evening of the month and cannot be out of Sescastri at any cost. It’s true. Everyone knows about it. Poor Daddy. He told me it was like when I was young and had to brush my hair – you know, one hundred strokes before you can go to sleep?” She laughed delightedly, and I smiled politely, although the idea of my father sharing jokes about his sex life with her was not very pleasant to me, and the clear evidence that he had lied to at least one of us was not welcome, either.

“But all the other… mistresses? The junior Minister of Trade…?”

She shook her head dismissively.

“Those were all just little flings, not ongoing, you know? You have to remember how generous Daddy is. Some secretary sleeps with him at a conference, and she’s set up for life, even if they never get together again. No: Esmeralda, my mother, your mother: those are the only serious ones. Don’t worry about the rest.”

I told her about the other things Stilin had told me, about our father’s terrible treachery and lack of principle, but her interest receded immediately.

“Oh, politics,” she said, “Uh, yeah.”

She listened courteously as I explained it all, but offered no comment.

“I wouldn’t know about all that,” she said, without concealing a small yawn, “Look the thing is, Lucia, with Daddy being what he is all sorts of dreadful things are said about him. I’m sure you’ll hear many more. You must just ask yourself: is this really what Daddy would have done? We know he may be a little naughty in small ways, but he’s a good man. He’s done so much for our country, and he had so many enemies, you know, horrible people. He wouldn’t do anything really nasty. Just remember that when you hear terrible things. Don’t listen. Come and tell me about it if you’re upset, I’m always here, you can always come to me, really.”

“Felicia,” I said, “Please promise me you won’t repeat any of this. I don’t want anyone to get in trouble, not even Stilin.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” she said frankly, “All that political stuff – I’ve forgotten it already. I might have a little joke with Daddy about Jakoubian’s mother if that’s alright? No? Don’t worry, sweetie, I wouldn’t really. You can trust me. I’m your sister, after all.”

She reached out and stroked my cheek.

“Gosh, you’re so cute!” she said in English, and then, lapsing into Dubitanian, “I always wanted a little sister. I’m so glad.”

On the way out, I saw she had a framed copy of the famous poster: my father at the May Day parade. Only his head and shoulders are visible; he is laughing jovially and is just a little dishevelled. Felicia was right, he was handsome; square-shouldered, masculine, his eyes deep and thoughtful. On his shoulders, the delighted little girl has her fist raised triumphantly in the air. Behind them in huge letters are the words “Seize the Future!”

It was her. The little girl was her. I had always thought it was me that rode on his shoulders at the May Day parade, but there was no doubt; now I had met Felicia I could even recognise her features in the poster. It was a shock for me; it hit me in the stomach as hard as any of the other, far more serious revelations I had suffered recently. I tried not to show it; I hope I didn’t seem subdued as we kissed and parted on the doorstep.

It was obvious that talking to Felicia about my father’s alleged treachery would get me nowhere; even if I could get her to pay proper attention, she wouldn’t know any more about it than I did. I now resolved, therefore, to speak to one of the survivors of the Twenty. I did not expect them to be as open as Felicia, but surely their responses would tell me something, if I asked the right questions.

Unfortunately, there were not that many to choose from any more: a lot of them died in the war or soon afterwards, and many more had gone since then. Of those that I knew were still alive, Hofstadt lived in Livorin and never came to Sescastri; Tabula had returned to Aldershot and Ventarin to New York. My best hope seemed to be D’Issigny, the former anarchist, recently retired from his Ministerial career but still living in Sescastri. He was not listed in the phone book, but as it happened I thought I knew where he lived. A few years ago my father had given me a lift down into the centre of town, and D’Issigny was with him: we had dropped him off, I recalled, at a block only a few streets away. I took a chance and got the bus back to our old neighbourhood; once there I could walk to D’Issigny’s block, if he still lived in the same place.

Inside, the concierge looked at me suspiciously.

“I have come to see Comrade D’Issigny.” I said, trying to sound authoritative. Reluctantly the concierge picked up the phone; it seemed that I was at least in the right place and that D’Issigny was at home.

“He says he’s not expecting anyone,” said the concierge, holding his hand over the phone, “Who are you and what do you want?”

“I’m Lucia Fabrin,” I said, and added, with a strong sense of being back in the playground, “I’m the daughter of Comrade Larvartin.”

The concierge paused for a full five seconds over this, and then spoke on the phone again.

“He says to go straight up. Floor ten, flat 7.” He pointed to the lifts.

D’Issigny’s flat was built to exactly the same plan as the one my mother and I had previously lived in , which was oddly disorientating; far less luxurious than Felicia’s place, and simply furnished, but an enviable dwelling none the less. D’Issigny was a small thin man with pure white hair and a fastidiously trimmed beard and moustache; he bowed and kissed my hand ceremoniously.

He took me into a small study and sat behind a polished wooden desk – clearly an antique; French, I thought. No refreshments were offered.

“Now then,” he said briskly, “What can I do for the daughter of our beloved Leader?”

“Comrade D’Issigny,” I said, “I have been working on a little memoir of my father’s life. Nothing scholarly, you understand, just a little personal thing. I’ve spoken to a number of people and I thought you might be able to help correct some of the facts that have been passed on to me.”

“What facts?”

“Well… For example, I have heard that my father actually visited Dacsvillin only briefly during the siege.”

“False,” said D’Issigny, “First there, last to leave. He actually drafted the Hoffmann Declaration, long before the rest of us arrived. It was your father’s energy and foresight throughout the siege that led to his being recognised as the real leader of the Left in this country.”

“But wasn’t the Hoffmann Declaration written in German?”

D’Issigny flapped his right hand disdainfully.

“Don’t know – I didn’t arrive until later. I imagine it was translated. The point is, your father was the hero of that episode. The supplies he brought in with him were crucial; we should have had to give in without them.”

I noted silently that my father must have been foresighted indeed if he had brought in supplies before the Hoffmann Declaration was drafted, long before anyone realised that there would be a siege.

“Look,” said D’Issigny, “I can give you a bit of help here. I have an account of your father’s career which covers all this ground… Let me see…”

He rummaged in one of the desk drawers and took out a book which he handed to me.

“It’s all in there,” he said, “You’re welcome to keep it if it will help at all.”

It was, of course, ‘Marki Larvartin: Father of his Country!’ by V.I.Mischkoff.

I feigned pleasure and gratitude as best I could and D’Issigny seemed to relax a little.

“One other thing I’d like to check,” I said, cunningly, “I’ve been told that my father sometimes lacked resolution.”

“Nonsense. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well,” I said nervously, and decided to gamble “One person told me that when the Russians caught Obertin, my father lost his nerve and asked them not to execute him.”

“Who told you that?”

“I haven’t got my notes here… I think it might have been Controller Ursin. He said my father agreed to the execution but lacked the resolution to see it through.”

“Hah. Well, that’s utter nonsense. False.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is. I don’t know what Ursin thinks he knows about it, anyway: he wasn’t even there.”

There was a short, pregnant silence.

“Your father had a stronger stomach than any of us,” said D’Issigny, admiringly. “Some of the Russians wanted to keep Obertin alive. Your father said that after the revolution decadents like him could be reformed, but in wartime they had to take the shortest way. It wasn’t a pretty sight, what a machine gun at close range does to a human body, but your father never flinched. Never. I can assure you of that.”

I tried to look calm, happy.

“That boy who tried to assassinate my father, was he really Obertin’s son…?”

“No, no, that’s garbled, don’t you see? There was a group of Royalist terrorists for a while who called themselves the Sons of Obertin. Didn’t last long.” D’Issigny grinned for the first time, “Obviously not his real sons.”

“Weren’t they?”

“Well hardly. Obertin was as queer as a three-bit note. That was the point. That was why he got the machine gun. The old Archbishop, you know, Forobdin, he used to say, what was it, Julio, he used to say, I understand that this homosexuality is in your nature, but do you have to express it quite so strenuously?”

He paused again and I could see he was suddenly regretting everything he had just said.

“I think it would be better if you didn’t quote any of that, though,” he said, “In time of war, you know… these things don’t always get taken in their right context… and now I’m afraid I must end the conversation. I have to go to a meeting. Miss Fabrin, excuse me, I hope the book is useful… stick to what it says, it’s all there. I endorse it unreservedly.”

I found myself on the street outside again in no time. I was a little worried that D’Issigny would ring my father and tell him about the conversation, but I thought that fear of revealing his own indiscretion about Obertin would probably stop him from doing that.

What a horrid revelation, and what a vile man! Lucas Stilin didn’t seem so bad to me now; he was honest with me, at least. I was convinced now that everything he had told me was the truth. When I got home I took out the memoir again.

49,538 – and the weekend ahead of me! It’s in the bag. Unfortunately the story isn’t finished.

9. The Freeing of Twentyland

Now at last Twentyland seemed to stand on the shores of a sea of freedom and happiness, but instead a grey era began. Elections were held, but on the Soviet model: although there were in theory three parties – the Communist Party, the Peasants’ Party, and the Dubitanian Social Democrats – there was only one list of candidates. My father found himself prevented from standing or campaigning in his own interest. Tretchin the puppet was instead made Prime Minster, under the close supervision of the Russians. My father was offered a largely honorary post as the President of the Council of Twenty, the largely decorative body which in principle advised on matters of constitutional or national import – it consisted of survivors of the original Twenty with some new nominees to make up the score. He bore this for a while with good patience, and then one day he called all the leading officials and party members together and had a quiet conversation.

After that, the Russians found that they were being politely ignored. Everyone listened to them with great, perhaps even exaggerated respect, but took no notice at all of anything they said. There was no defiance, and no outward rebellion; but everything the Russians initiated or sponsored seemed to run into difficulty and delay. This might have been the result of chaotic incompetence and mismanagement – there was plenty of that – but at the same time a number of policies the Russians actively opposed seemed to be in the process of effective implementation. There was a de facto deregulation of trade in food: the introduction of Russian into the school curriculum stalled and went into reverse After a while, Colonel Ostrovsky raised the matter with my father.

“You know,” said my father, “These matters are really outside my remit, Comrade: I have no executive powers. It seems to me you are concerned with the implementation of policy here, not a matter of national ideology. You should address your concerns to Comrade Tretchin – I should not like him to get the impression I was going behind his back.”

“Of course, of course,” said Ostrovsky, “But you see, Comrade Larvartin, I feel that this is not simply a matter of implementation: on the contrary, it seems as if a different set of policies is in effect being promulgated. Don’t you feel that there is a gap between the line we discussed in the Council of Twenty and what is actually happening in Twentyland? Do you feel that the country is actually responding to the advice it is being given?”

“I should be very sorry if you felt in any way that your advice was not valued, Comrade Ostrovsky,” he said, smiling, “But you must appreciate that the citizens and administrators of Twentyland have to take account of local conditions in a way which our valiant allies may not always understand.”

Ostrovsky pursed his lips for a moment.

“Let me be clear about this, comrade,” he said, “I am being advised that there is an orchestrated policy at work here, a policy, not of non-co-operation, not of national deviation exactly, I cannot say that, but let us say of incomplete realisation of the practical consequences of our joint commitment to the international brotherhood of socialist states. I don’t say that is in fact the case, but it’s suggested by the advice I am receiving. Now you must remember that your country was greatly helped to establish itself in freedom and democracy by the friendly support which Comrade Stalin gave to the heroes of Twentyland. If it should appear that certain elements – perhaps even certain high-ranking elements – did not altogether reciprocate that friendly support, well, then it might become necessary for us to consider whether the Twentyland regime would benefit from certain changes. You know, comrade, that certain countries, when liberated from Nazi tyranny, proved to need more direct help than others. If it were thought that Twentyland needed it, there can be no doubt that my superiors would be ready to provide very direct help. Very direct indeed, let there be no doubt of that., It can scarcely be thought that we should allow ourselves to be held back by lack of support from any group or individual, however popular.”

“You seem so tense, Ostrovsky,” my father replied, “I think you need a break. You should spend some time with your family. At home.”

Under my father’s guidance the Council of Twenty remained loyal supporters of Soviet foreign policy, of Cominform and the other institutions, and generally did nothing that the Russians could take real exception to. But Twentyland continued to steer its own course which quietly diverged in small ways from the prescribed model. Red Army soldiers began to receive small gifts from Twentylanders, always accompanied by a card which thanked them for their fraternal assistance, and wished them well on their return to their homeland.

My mother, in relating her stories, always represented my father’s handling of these matters as uniquely skilful, but for once I don’t agree. I hardly think his policy could have succeeded if Twentyland had been of strategic importance, or otherwise of special value to the Soviet authorities. Our armed forces were still far too weak to offer the slightest deterrent to the Russians had direct intervention been undertaken. I’m afraid the plain truth is that we simply weren’t important enough for the Russians to bother too much about us. My father, if my mother is to be believed, also played an extremely dangerous game of counter-espionage, trying to arouse Stalin’s suspicions of the leading Russian officers. I could never get any details of this, but it seems to me an uncharacteristically devious strategy; one which could very easily have backfired, or perhaps on the other hand have caused the disgrace or death of essentially blameless men like Ostrovsky, who were basically well-disposed towards my father and went along with him to some degree.

It goes without saying that in Mischkoff’s account there was never the slightest divergence of view between my father and the Russian authorities; indeed, in his biography my father appears almost servile in his closeness to Comrade Stalin. Mischkoff relates an entirely fictitious episode in which my father is supposed to have reminded Tretchin of the fine example of resolution shown by the Russian leader and thereby persuaded him to continue with a programme of agricultural reform and collectivisation.

It is true, however, that before too long Stalin withdrew his troops from Twentyland. It seems that Ostrovsky complained of my father’s uncooperative behaviour: Stalin, however, remembered my father as a hero of patriotic resistance during the war, and reacted badly. He suspected that my father was, as he felt himself to be, surrounded by potential traitors: instead of supplying the additional authority Ostrovsky was seeking, he summarily ordered him to withdraw. When Stalin died and Khrushchev took power, Twentylanders feared for a while that the Russians might return, but they never did, and if anything Khrushchev seemed even more well-disposed towards my father than Stalin had been . At last, at last, we were masters of our own destiny.

26,273 words.

The official Nanowrimo counter puts the word count at 53,782, a bit more than I thought based on WordPress totals (but I’m not arguing).

Back with further comment in due course. I’ve done a handy pdf version of the whole thing, to make it easier to read (in the unlikely event that anyone should want to).

[Final Total Word Count: 53,547]

The end is nigh, gentle reader. It’s nearly over. It seems hard to believe, but less than 500 words now stand between us and the summit: Nanowrimo!

It’s been tough along the way, I acknowledge. The rest of my life has taken a number of knocks while I’ve been closeted with the laptop. But I’ve grown, gentle reader, I’ve learned to value my own qualities, and I’ve learnt that I must take charge of my own life. A new life and a better, more mature Faletcher lie ahead.

And you know, I’m actually quite pleased with Wenham, too. It’s going to need a lot of revision, obviously, and probably some expansion. Not to mention some editing. It pains me to think of cutting it back down to about 30,000 words, but it’s going to have to be done before I start adding again. So there’s a long way to go, but let me be quite honest and open; I really don’t see why, at the end of it, there shouldn’t be a half-decent, perhaps even a viable book come out of it. Don’t worry, I’m not back on the Booker prize tack, and I realise it may just be the euphoria of completion that’s speaking here, but at the end of the day, when all’s said and done, taking everything into account… why the hell not?

I rang Julie earlier on and told her that within about an hour, all being well, the thing would be done, and asked her to come over and celebrate. So now, gentle reader, the last little insertion into the text…

…is done. No, I’m not going to give you a sample of it this time. It’s a kind of inverted Hardy passage where I go on soppily about how in spite of the dullness of the landscape round about Wenham, there’s a property in the soil that brings good out of bad, and how the three years of blight fertilise the land for the seven years of plenty that follow. Alright, it might be a bit out of key with some of the other stuff, but I’m determined to put a bit of optimistic uplift in, and not merely because I’ve developed this superstitious fear about the story having some kind of ghastly influence over me. I’m free of it now, anyway.

Right on cue, Julie rang the doorbell – I told her she should use her key – and came in.

“So it’s really finished?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s it. Well, I have to upload the stuff and get it counted officially, but the writing is done.”

“Congratulations!” she said, and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m really impressed with your determination.”

“Have a seat,” I said, “I’ll open the champagne.”

“Wait a minute,” she said solemnly, “Come and sit down. We need a talk first.”

Clearly I had to sign up to a few basic protocols before anything as frivolous as champagne intervened.

“I didn’t want to go through this while you were still doing your writing thing,” she said, “It didn’t seem fair. But now we have to get on the level.”

She took a deep breath.

“First, I slept with Geoff.”

“Geoff? What? Geoff? Geoff Browne? You slept with Geoff?”

“Yes, Geoff. Oh come on, don’t look like that. Is Geoff so awful? He’s supposed to be your friend.”

“Yes, he is, isn’t he? I don’t…Is this… is this sort of in revenge for the Mouse?”

“No – it happened before that.”

“Before? But why didn’t you say… Oh, is this why you didn’t give me much of a hard time? But you were definitely post-Maureen, right?”

“Look, the details don’t matter. If you must know, it was only about three times.”

“About three times… My God, you’re Mercedes, aren’t you? Mercedes, the reliable, comfortable ride…”

“There is no Mercedes, John,” she responded irritably, “That was just some bizarre idea of Geoff’s, supposed to help keep you from noticing anything, or something.. I told him I didn’t like it.”

“You went to the Miramar and had breakfast with him, though, didn’t you?”

“What has breakfast got to do with it?” she exclaimed.

“OK, OK. I don’t care about the breakfasts. I’d rather you admitted to the breakfasts and denied the sex, to be perfectly honest.”

“Look, I’m sorry.”

“Jesus,” I said, “And the reason he wanted me to carry on with Nanowrimo was so I wouldn’t be spending any time with you…”

“No, you’re being totally paranoid.” she said.

“My God,” I said, unable to help myself, “You told me there were heaving bosoms. I just didn’t realise it was yours we were talking about.”

That did not go down very well, gentle reader. So at last I shut up.

“The second thing is,” she said grimly, “you and I are splitting up. Look, I’m not, you know, in a relationship with Geoff. I probably won’t see him any more. That’s not what it was about. The thing with Geoff, well… it was partly, I don’t know how to explain it, just a way of persuading myself that my life needed moving on – can you understand that?”

Yes, I understand that alright. It’s the new double standard. If I play away, it’s a contemptible betrayal and shows my piggish male nature; if you play away, it’s a deeply felt emotional exploration of personal potential, something in fact, which I could learn valuable life lessons from if only I could rise above myself sufficiently to contemplate it with the required reverence. That’s it, isn’t it?

“Yes,” I said, “I think I sort of do. So I’m what you’re moving on from, is that right?”

“I really thought we might salvage it,” she said. “Until the other day. It was that rose in the bottle that did it, made me realise it was basically no good.”

“The rose? But that was meant to be apologetic, a tender gesture, a friendly joke. I meant it to be nice.”

“I’m sorry, but it looked sarcastic to me, and it still does. I can’t help forgetting the bottle, for God’s sake. But you couldn’t lay off the smartarse stuff, could you? You couldn’t just leave it.”

There were tears in my eyes, but I had to think clearly. I knew a lot might depend on what I said. Obviously the situation was not retrievable here and now. Things had to play themselves out, this was not a conversation which could be turned away from its planned destination. If I protested, if I got angry, above all if I said anything else that could possibly, in any way at all, be construed as smartarse stuff, I would just destroy the last remaining long-term chances. Instead, a little late in the day, I had to do my best not to slam any more doors, and leave the way back as open as I could.

“I’ll only say this once,” I said, in a slightly strange voice, I noticed, “But I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything. This is a mistake. I love you.”

I think it had some impact, possibly left some trace. We sat in silence for a minute.

“Alright, well I’m going now,” she said at last, “We can speak again later if you want to, but you must accept that I’m not going to, you know, have a row about it, or a detailed post mortem, or a shouting match. And of course, there’ll be some things to sort out, stuff to move. See you.”

“Goodbye.” I said.

So here we are, gentle reader. At the end, it’s just you and me after all. We can have a glass of champagne – Geoff’s Cristal in fact, though he never actually paid for it. Or perhaps it’s best to leave the bottle standing there in the middle of the table forever. Like Miss Havisham’s cake. The weird thing is that as I sit here the thought that comes to mind is: Lady Jane Pimsey must be laughing her head off at this one.

Still we made it, didn’t we? The summit of Nanowrimo. Shake hands, gentle reader – maybe a little farewell hug? Thank you. It’s cold up here, and a trifle lonely, but you can see a lot of things you couldn’t see from down there. Was it worth it all? I lost a month of my life; what I would have called my best friend; the chance of promotion; my job, a substantial chunk of my sanity; and finally my girlfriend.

But Nanowrimo came through. It delivered as promised. Because look what I have got. Fifty thousand words of unpublishable crap.

[Total Word Count: 52,106 !]

“I gave him that spreadsheet.”

“You what?”

“I gave him that spreadsheet. Only he asked for it again, and you never got me another copy, so I had to find my copy and give him it.” said Katie, resentfully.

“Did you delete the sheet with the story on?”

“No. I can’t start mucking about with documents – I just used it the way you sent it to me.”

“Actually I didn’t send it to you. You took it out of my sent mail.”

“Well, whatever. He’s got it now, anyway.”

I moaned and clutched my head, and she turned away.

“Katie, wait. Has he actually read it?”

“I don’t know. It’s in his reading folder.”

“Could you go back and delete the second sheet? Could you? You know it’ll only annoy him. I’m not just asking to save my own skin. Alright, mainly to save my own skin. But not just.”

“No, if he thought I was editing stuff he’d asked for, he wouldn’t like it. He gets really upset if he thinks people are trying to manipulate him. It’s your own fault – you promised you’d get me the original version, didn’t you?”

“If I get you another copy of the proper one now, immediately, could you swap them – I mean before he reads them?”

“I don’t know whether I can. He might have read it already. Well, I might be able to, I suppose. But you’ll have to be really quick. He’s going to start looking at his stuff any time now.”

As soon as she had gone I started frantically searching. I usually accumulate dozens of copies of any given document, as I get re-copied into different circulations. I ransacked my own emails and files, but I just didn’t have it. Not a sniff. With insane, self-destructive tidiness I’d even cleaned out my sent mail, gentle reader. I checked the circulation of the original, which was still on a forwarded email in the depths of my inbox. Only about six people had it, one of whom was John Sopert himself (no point in asking Katie to retrieve it though); one was Kevin, still away, and one was me. One of the others was from a research organisation who would probably try to charge me for an additional copy, and one was in hospital with a broken leg. The other, my last best hope, was Bill. My old friend the headless troll. Clearly it was my day today.

I hurried up one floor to the land of the faded blue cubicles – I lived in the sea of green. By great good fortune Bill was in place, staring myopically at a turgid-looking document on his screen as if hoping it would speak to him.

“Bill,” I said, without ceremony, “Have you still got that spreadsheet on the Multistode spend? You know the one.”

“Hmm? Hello young man. What do you want?” He looked up unsmilingly and raised one condescending eyebrow.

“You remember the spreadsheet with advertising spend we discussed the other week? Have you still got it? Could you send me a copy?”

“The Multistode? I thought that was finished with. OK. I’ve probably still got it somewhere. Not sure where. I’ll have a look when I’ve finished this and send it on if you like. What do you want it for, anyway? Didn’t you keep it yourself?”

“No, that’s the problem. The thing is, Bill,” I gripped the edge of his cubicle. “I gave John Sopert a messed-up copy and now I need to get the correct one before he sees it, or he’ll have my proverbials for garters, you know? I sort of need it now. I’d be very grateful. Please, if you would.”

“Oh.” he said, looking me up and down. “I see. Got ourselves in bother again, have we? Honestly John, and I’m not being in any way personal here, but honestly you want to get a grip of this sort of thing, mate. One of these days…” He paused for a moment’s reflection. He enjoyed making me wait, but finally some last shred of decency came out; or perhaps he decided that in the long run giving me the thing would piss on my chips in some deeper and more effective way than withholding it. Or perhaps he thought John Sopert would in some way blame him if he didn’t provide a copy. In any case, he sat forward with a sigh. “Let’s have a look then… Oh yes. Here it is. There. Sent. Happy bunnies again?”

“Thanks Bill.” I said, fervently.

“Good luck.” he said, and then, with all the scorn his tiny twisted body could hold: “Mr Minimus…”

I ran back to my own desk, checked the spreadsheet. I wouldn’t by any means have put it past Bill to have somehow sabotaged it, but he hadn’t, and it hadn’t somehow acquired a copy of the extra sheet through evil magic. It was OK. I emailed it off to Katie. Then I ran back along the corridor to the little anteroom she occupied.

“Have you got it?” I asked, “Can you replace the other one?”

“No,” she said, “It’s no good. Too late. And you got me in trouble, didn’t you?”

“I what?”

“See, after I spoke to you I thought perhaps I was being a bit mean. So I thought I’d help you out. I deleted the second sheet. But then he comes out and he says that’s not the one he wanted. He says he wanted the one with the fictional material. It turns out he did read it the first time even though he had the plumbing problem. He says it takes more than water through the drawing room ceiling to stop him reading his papers. So there was actually no point in bothering about it anyway. It was too late in any case. But now he thinks I’m trying to pull some sort of fast one, or that I don’t know what I’m doing. All through trying to help you out.”

I had a vision of Mrs Sopert frantically moving buckets and attempting to shore up the house while her husband sat gravely immersed in his business circulars, lifting his eyes only to suggest fondly but firmly that all the noise wasn’t helping his concentration very much darling?

“Thanks for trying.” I said, hopelessly.

I set off back to my cubicle, feeling numb. I was doomed, doomed. There was no getting around it. I didn’t know in what form the storm would break over my head, or when, but clearly it was only a matter of time now. In fact, I hadn’t long to wait at all: before I had quite reached the illusory security of my cubicle, a heavy hand descended on my shoulder. I very nearly squealed in fear, I was so tense.

“John? Come with me a moment, would you?” It was Sopert himself, and his tone dispelled any idea that he was going to congratulate me on a brilliant bit of writing, or ask where he could sign up for Nanowrimo. I trailed behind him the long and weary way back to his office.

“Right, John: I’m guessing you know that this is about the spreadsheet you sent me inadvertently, ending with, er, internet fictional material,” he said once he’d settled himself. “Now you may be wondering why I didn’t speak to you sooner. The fact is, I’ve been talking to our HR people. If their advice to me had been slightly different, John, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, and you’d be clearing your desk. Understand? And don’t think that scenario has altogether gone, John, because in my mind it hasn’t. It’s still very much a possibility.”

“However, the HR people tell me that since the material in question is not explicitly pornographic, does not appear to breach commercial confidentiality, and is not offensive hate speech or unacceptable in other ways, it is technically not in breach of our Acceptable Use policy, and is not therefore a disciplinary matter in those respects. They suggested instead that the waste of company time and resources implied by this – material – is instead a management issue.”

“You see,” I began.

“No, you wait a minute,” he interrupted, “You listen to me. What makes this very much worse in my eyes, John, is that this misdemeanour is internet-related. The text here includes a web-site address, and I am forced to conclude that it was your intention that this, er, material of yours was to be uploaded to a chat room. I’d like to know exactly what – ahuh! – you thought you were doing.”

I breathed in and out. It was time to put aside all dignity and decency and grovel.

“I’d like to make a clean breast of this, John,” I began, “To begin with, I must confess I’ve been going through a difficult time with my girlfriend.”

“Ahuh?”

“One of the problems is that, well, she’s a very creative person, whereas I’m sort of totally focussed on work and my career you know? I had to sort of show that I had a creative side too. So I’m afraid I started writing this, er, short story. She sort of insisted. It was her idea, really. I mean totally.”

“But it took me an awfully long time, and I hated it really. I had promised I’d finish it, so I had to, but I really just wanted to be done with it. Well, the other day, when I was reviewing the spreadsheet, in my lunchtime of course, I just thought, I can’t concentrate properly for worrying about this wretched story. Julie’s not going to be happy unless I finish it. So I thought, why don’t I take ten minutes, get the whole thing out of my system and be done with it? Then I can really get into the analysis of these figures. I realise now it was stupid, and I really regret it, but I’ve learned from the experience. I was sort of under pressure, you see. It really won’t happen again.”

“And what about the, the chat-room?”

“Oh, that address isn’t a chat-room. It’s a site about publishing stories. I wanted to show it to Julie, my girlfriend, to er, to show how hopeless, how pointless and stupid it all was. I’m just sorry that in a vulnerable moment., I let myself be led astray in the first place.”

“Ahuh. Well, I’m glad at least that you’ve chosen to be honest. I think I understand the position. You can’t afford this kind of thing, John, I hope you realise that. I’m surprised that you’d let yourself be led astray like this. I’m very disappointed. But I think I understand, at least. Now I’ve spoken to a couple of people about you – it’s a shame Kevin isn’t here but I know his views – and a pretty consistent view emerges. You’re a talented young man, but there’s a problem of attitude. One of your senior colleagues said to me that you were very clever, but he didn’t quite know whether you had taken on board the positive culture we like to foster at Behemoth: the ethos of Total Improvement. I need to make a decision here. We’re a civilised organisation. People values are very much part of our vision. So I’m not going to sack you. But my expectation is that you will want to look for other opportunities over the next few months. Let me make myself clear. You need to be working for someone else by 1 April. I’m not going to spell it out any more than that – just don’t be here, alright? If you are – well, let’s not explore that. Now you can go. And it’s none of my business, but if I were you, well – I’d get myself a new girlfriend, to be quite honest.”

I stood up and turned to go.

“Oh: since you were looking at the Multistode spend, what do you make of it?” he asked.

This was bizarre. As if we were straight back to normal. A wild hope that this was just a test, that I hadn’t been irrevocably fired, sprang up in my mind, matched at once by a desire to tell the conceited old fool where to put his Multistode. No, no: play it cool. Cool. I couldn’t remember anything about the figures. For the moment I couldn’t even remember who Multistode were.

“There are several aspects, really…” I began, limply.

“Ahuh?”

“But in the end if you were to sum it up as a headline it would be, er” – fingers tightly crossed – “Slide Of Distribution; Outturn Falling Fast.”

“Muh?” he raised an eyebrow, “Slide of distribution?”

“Basically A Slide To A Reduced Distribution.”

“Well,” he said impatiently, “You’re right about that, anyway. As far as it goes. Thank you.”

So much for that, gentle reader. As I collapsed back into my cubicle, I was actually trembling. My reserves of nervous energy were at a low ebb, and as the last trickle was diverted to essential life support functions my self-esteem shields flickered and went out. The warm duvet of ego-protecting delusion which we all normally carry round with us fell away from me and I had a rare and painful moment of self-knowledge. I was contemptible, without dignity or decency. Servile attempts to lie and divert the blame to others while trying to convince myself there was something ironically witty about it, that was me. Attempts to blame Julie, who had displayed such patience, who had given me opportunities to be a better person, all spurned in favour of febrile showing off.

Those acronyms – acrostics? – initialisms? -were a pretty crap thing to have done. Childish rudeness, cringingly concealed, and, the characteristic Faletcher icing on the cake, a footling attempt to make myself feel clever. Sopert could sack me, but he couldn’t humiliate me: no, I did that to myself. I had two choices there. I could have frankly told him to piss off, or I could have risen above it and behaved with calm indifference. But I couldn’t do the former for fear of being thrown out before I had a new job, and I couldn’t do the latter, full stop. That’s the kind of thing you have to be a man to do, my son, and I failed; I failed in myself, of my own doing. I can’t do that man stuff, gentle reader. You’re just going to have to call me Peter Pan. Ah. Did you notice the self-esteem coming back on line?

There were some other things to worry about now, of course. It might actually be a good thing to leave Behemoth; it doesn’t look good to hang around too long in one job. But I’d need luck. Any prospective employer would get suspicious at any sign of haste. They might pick up some problematic vibe. For that matter, Behemoth might give me a rubbish reference. I don’t think it would be the Sopert way to give me a really bad one, but a bit of studied restraint, or one allusion to how I hadn’t quite achieved perfect harmony with the local corporate culture and I’d be doomed. Any mention of internet activity would be equally damning. I should, in fact delete this blog altogether now.

OK, gentle reader, I’m still here. I’m not giving up. This is the lesson of Nanowrimo, I’m discovering: as in novelising, so in real life: it takes effort, but you can write your own story. I mean to do so. This is my blog, and whether or not I am to be the hero of it, I’m damn well going to be the author. As I took control of Wenham, so I shall take control of my own life. Well done, me.

[Total Word Count: 49,479]

“Good morning!” said Julie, “Sleep alright?”

I gradually resumed consciousness and pieced together the essential memories I needed for a coherent answer,

“Yeah, not too bad, considering,” I answered, levering myself up off the couch.

“There’s coffee if you want it. I’m off in about ten minutes. OK?” she glanced sideways “What’s that?” she asked, staring at the table.

The wine bottle still stood there, gentle reader, but in it was a single red rose.

“It’s just a rose.” I said, “Well, I say ‘just’, but I had to ransack about twelve gardens last night to find it. Your neighbours are probably going to think the Yeti’s moved into the neighbourhood.”

She clicked her tongue, shook her head, and left.

I felt pretty good that day, in spite of a relative lack of sleep. I was back in control. But there was an unwelcome task ahead of me, and as the evening approached my spirits began to droop again.

It was only as I picked up the phone that I realised there was another difficulty. I still had no idea what Mouse’s actual name was. But I wanted to speak to her. I didn’t want just to avoid answering the phone for the next month. Never mind, with any luck, she’d answer the phone herself.

“Hello?” said a voice, uninformatively. I wasn’t even completely sure it wasn’t her, but I didn’t think so.

“Hi!” I said. What now? “Er, this is John…”

“Hello! Did you want to speak to Phillipa?”

Phillipa! Aha! My strategy was succeeding.

“Yes please.”

“She’s not here any more, I’m afraid.”

“Not there?”

“No, she moved out.”

“She moved out? Surely not? When was this?”

“Oh, last February, She went back to Shropshire. Haven’t got a phone number, but I think we’ve got an address if that’s any use.”

“No, no thanks, that’s…OK.”

“Sorry. Bye!”

So much for that. I replaced the phone in confusion. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

Luckily Mouse took matters into her own hands and rang me about ten minutes later.

“Was that you speaking to Anna just now?” she asked, “Why did you ask for Phillipa?”

“I didn’t, I didn’t. Don’t forget… I still don’t actually know your name.”

“It’s Cecilia.”

“Thanks. Hello, Cecilia.”

“Hello. How are you?”

“I was wondering… Could we meet in the pub again, tonight?”

“Oh, I should think so! Same one, about seven?”

“Yes, that’s great.” I said, wondering immediately why I thought so.

After that conversation, I sat in front of the laptop for forty minutes, but it was no good. I actually began to revise the last section I’d written, which is a bad sign. You don’t revise. Don’t revise. Don’t.

As I approached the pub, I felt really sick, and it was worse when I saw Mouse sitting there, happy, waving at me. I liked her. She was nice. I wanted to be friendly. I didn’t want to upset her. Or was it vanity to think she’d be upset?

I got drinks and sat down.

“I just… I wanted to say…” I began.

She understood instantly, without a coherent sentence being spoken. She went stiff: I could see whole structures of assumptions and hopes turn instantly to choking dust inside her. A look came over her face, a look of fury, a look I hadn’t seen since I had suggested her story was like one of Catherine Cookson’s.

“You don’t want to see me.” she said, coldly.

“I feel like a total bastard…”

“You are a total bastard.”

“Uh, yeah. Well. I’m sorry. You’re great, but you know, I’m sort of in a relationship.”

“Oh yes. Like it says on your stupid blog. Good luck to you. You do realise she’s just about to dump you?”

“Oh, look… Don’t let’s do this. Don’t…”

“I felt sorry for you, but it’ll serve you right. Oh, what’s the point?” she stood up.

“Mouse,” I said, “Don’t…”

“Cecilia!” she hissed, and left. I sat back and sipped sadly at my pint. I didn’t really know how I could have handled things any better. Apart from not sleeping with her in the first place, obviously.

And then she was back again, angrier than ever.

“And you know what?” she said, “You know what? Your story is crap. It’s crap. It’s full of clichés, the characters are corny and flat, the plot doesn’t make sense; there are no clues… it’s full of irrelevant digressions, all the characters sound like you – you pompous git – it’s all dialogue with no description, the motives don’t ring true, the chronology is contradictory, and the names of characters change half-way through…the names are all stupid as well… your MC is a boring male fantasy…”

The spirit of Nanowrimo rose strongly in me.

“Yes,” I said, conclusively, “All of that is true. But none of it matters, because you know what? It is fifty thousand words long.”

“To think I said I liked it!” she hissed, “To think I actually listened to your ideas!”

“Look,” I said, “Let’s not do it like this. I understand why you’re angry, but let’s not make a meal of it. I tell you what. Just hit me, OK? Get it over with.” I held out my cheek as if for a slap, but much to my surprise she punched me, and gentle reader, she got some surprising force behind it for such a slightly-built person.

“Ow, shit!” I said, involuntarily. It hurt like hell, really, far worse than I’d bargained for. But I think it did relieve her feelings for a moment. She sort of pursed her lips in a job-well-done sort of way.

Everyone in the pub was looking at us now, and the landlord was putting down the glass he had been polishing as if he might just come over.

“Sorry,” she said, insincerely, “But you deserved it.” She stalked out quickly.

“Sorry!” I said to the bar at large, “Sorry! You know… sorry!”

You know, gentle reader, I’m a reasonable sort of bloke. I’m ready to accept the karmic harvest of my personal turpitude. But really, you know? I take up a friendly offer, I politely decline anything more: in this day and age, gentle reader, is that grounds for outrage? Just asking.

Anyway, I stayed where I was for a while, under the landlord’s beady eye, just finishing my drink, giving Cecilia plenty of time, if she were so inclined, to pop back and point out that my poetic imagery was rubbish, or my use of metaphor and simile was weak.

It was fairly clear to me that I wouldn’t be served another drink in this establishment this evening, and that in fact I had probably overstayed my welcome already. I had the strong impression that the landlord thought it was better to let me leave quietly than throw me out, but that if it came to it, he was by no means averse in principle to the latter alternative. But I rather felt the need of one more drink. I went outside and phoned Geoff on the off-chance. He was slow to answer.

“Fancy a pint?” I asked, when he did, “I’ve had a difficult session here.”

“Difficult session?” he answered angrily, “Oh, you’re having difficult sessions, are you?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh nothing. Sorry. I can’t come out. Er… she’s here.”

For a moment my confused brain conjured an image of Cecilia giving Geoff a thorough briefing on my failure to exploit to the full the resources offered by litotes and zeugma.

“Who, Mercedes?” Even in my depressed state, my interest in Geoff’s obliging girlfriend was soon reawakened.

Geoff grunted irritably.

“She’s been here for two hours already. She wants me to listen. She says she wants advice, but I’m not allowed to say a word. Between you and me, I think the only way through, the only way my ears can cope, is for me to get totally rat-arsed again, the way I was the first time.”

“The first time?”

“The first time she unloaded all her damn issues about… oh you know. Oh fuck, look John, I really can’t talk like this, with her upstairs. It’s just mad. I’m sorry. Really. I’ve got to go. Sorry, mate. Really. Bye.”

O, the mutability of human fate, gentle reader. One minute a man is enjoying an uncomplicated regime of sex and cooked breakfasts, the next his happiness is dashed and he finds himself being required to spend his evenings listening sympathetically to a range of female relationship problems. I mean, isn’t God supposed to be a man? I couldn’t help feeling though, that in a limited way Geoff was getting what he deserved for falsely representing himself as a good listener, a reckless step which is all too easily taken in the early stages of a relationship.

I walked home contemplatively and plonked myself in front of the laptop. I really need to press on here – there’s a definite possibility that I can finish ahead of schedule, before the actual last day of the month – and wouldn’t that be great? But in spite of myself, I can’t help thinking about what Mouse said.

Are the names of my characters stupid? OK, Fidgett is a fairly whimsical name for the Earl’s family. But what Mouse, OK Cecilia, probably doesn’t realise is that I stole the name from Osbert Lancaster. It’s the name of the aristocratic family in Drayneflete. Surely no-one – no-one who’s read James Knox’s book, at any rate – is going to tell me they think Osbert Lancaster is stupid?

OK, the clues are a bit deficient. They don’t really amount to a knock-down case. Mind you, Agatha Christie’s clues weren’t all that good. She was a devil for the late revelation which solves the case and which the reader hadn’t been given a hint about. So I understand. To be honest, I’ve never actually read any Agatha Christie.

Wenham makes sense to you, doesn’t it, gentle reader? Oh, I forgot. You haven’t actually read it. Only the bits I’ve quoted. You know there’s lots of other stuff in it, all good stuff? And you’ve read enough to know it makes sense, haven’t you?

“What you have to remember, you see,“ said Lady Jane as they sped towards London, “Is that we’re not in a detective story. In those things, it always happens that the case produced by the detective is enough to secure a conviction; or the guilty parties confess, faced with the overwhelming evidence, or they kill themselves. So everything is wrapped up neatly; they never end up knowing who it is but unable to get a guilty verdict.”

“It was a complex case, granted. If this is a story we’re living in,” said Lady Jane, darkly, “there’s been more than one person who thought they were the author. More than one who thought they could dictate the course of events. But they miscalculated. You know, Charlie, I’m not a big believer in traditional resolutions, and I don’t always see a need for the actual killer to be brought to book…”

Oh no, look, this is somehow drifting away again. The story’s over, complete. We’re not looking for another twist. We’re just bulking out the word count. Is that OK with you, Lady Jane? You know, gentle reader, I was a bit worried when Charlie started getting into my dreams, but at least it wasn’t her. Maybe it serves me right for imagining a character who is more clear-sighted and intelligent than I am. I’ve got Sherlock Holmes syndrome – you know how Holmes was basically sharper and more resourceful than Conan Doyle his creator, and hence wouldn’t allow himself to be killed off, even when Doyle, in desperation, threw him over the Reichenbach falls. That’s not happening here, Lady Jane – sorry. I know she’s trying to mess me up. She doesn’t like the happy ending – that sort of thing is not to her taste. Tough luck.

No: I am master here, and I decree that there will be no more negative reflections. It’s still partly a superstitious thing I admit – I half-believe that what I’m writing is influencing my real life somehow. If things are bad in Wenham, they turn bad with me, and vice versa. I know that’s a bit mad. Put it down to a month of continual creative and emotional stress, gentle reader. But that’s only half of it. The other half is a new kind of ethical commitment. An author has a kind of responsibility to his characters, don’t you think? Or am I just losing it?

[Total Word Count: 47,221]

“He didn’t read it,” said Katie, looming up suddenly over my shoulder.

“Uh, whah?”

“He didn’t read the spreadsheet with the story in,” she explained, “You were really lucky. Only normally he reads everything. But apparently last night he had a leaking pipe in his roof, and spent hours trying to get it patched up. He only read about half of his papers. I took it out again this morning, so you’re alright.”

Can this be true? Is everything beginning to come up roses? Steely self-control now.

“Oh, that’s great,” I said, temperately, “It would only have annoyed him. Thanks for that.”

“Have you got the proper version?”

“The wha?”

“The proper version, without the story? You said you would dig it out for me.”

“Oh yeah. I think I deleted it, You could just delete the second sheet off the other one, the one with the story.”

“Oh, sorry, I don’t know where I put it. Could you send it to me again?”

“I deleted… Yeah, no, I’ll dig out a proper copy and send it to you. OK?”

“OK then. Cheers!”

“Cheers, Katie.”

I can’t believe the magic of the re-write! As soon as I deleted those fateful words ‘The End’, and added an upbeat epilogue, my real life immediately started going right again. After she’d gone, I solemnly stood up in my little cubicle and began to sing.

“Zip-a-de-doo-dah! Zip-a dee-ay! Mah oh ma-ah, what a wonderful day! Plenny of sunshine, heading mah way…”

“Shut the fuck up.” said Martin next door.

I shut up – I didn’t want anyone taking an interest in why I was so happy. But in my heart, gentle reader, the choir and congregation of Wenham were singing.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread,
Are big with mercy, and shall break,
In blessings on your head.

Oh yeah.

I had a surprising amount of stuff to catch up with that day: it’s amazing what can build up during a day of total inertia. But I worked with a will, and hurried home eagerly. There was time to draft a few extra words.

“What’s going on, Charlie?”

“Sorry,” she said, “but that’s what they’re saying in the village. There’s actually more talk about that one prospective birth than all four Fidgett deaths, if you ask me…”

Christ, she may look like Diana Rigg, but that woman really is a cow. She’s got a mind of her own, somehow; I’m almost ashamed to have created her. I deleted the last bit – she can keep her village gossip to herself. I am in charge now, gentle reader, and all shall be sweetness and light, in Wenham as in reality. No further shadows will fall across my manuscript or for that matter, my life. I saved and switched off.

I debated whether I should take flowers to Julie this time. Like I said before, it seems a weak, hackneyed gesture, but I was once told very firmly by Julie that weak and hackneyed gestures are better than none. In the end, I stopped off at the hospital and got some. You can always buy flowers at a hospital.

It seemed as if it were a long time since I had waited in the lift lobby of Julie’s block: I almost felt nostalgic. There was a slightly awkward moment when she opened the door and we both wondered whether I was going to try to kiss her, but we were soon sitting down with a glass of prosecco.

“Damn,” I said, “I could have brought the Nanowrimo bottle of Cristal if I’d thought.

She looked at me quizzically.

“I’m glad you didn’t.” she said.

The place was a tip: two weeks’ worth of newspapers and magazines everywhere and pairs of shoes under every chair. My experienced eye could tell that Julie had had a quick last-minute clean-up, but to most people it would not have been obvious: Julie’s clean-ups usually consisted of arranging the rubbish more artistically. She actually had a stack of banana peels and used coffee filters sitting on the kitchen counter.

Leaving stuff on the floor is the key, gentle reader. If you’re not a tidy person, your desk and table may get a bit out of control from time to time. Your real problems only begin when you start to use the floor as a storage space. It may not seem much to begin with – just leave a few papers on the carpet by the side of the desk until you’ve got space – but more dumps become established, they sprawl and spread, and before you know where you are, you’re having to pick your way across the room, stepping over used take-away containers and dirty plates, unwashed clothes and unemptied carrier bags, in order to reach the only small spot on the sofa which isn’t piled up with tissue boxes and piles of washing.

OK, Julie’s place is not like that, but I’ve seen the early symptoms. As we sat down to dinner, I tactfully shuffled the pair of shoes under my chair to one side. I quite liked the messiness really; it had the sort of endearing quality which women on detergent ads are so struck by when their small sons turn up at the door covered in mud. Know what I mean?

“I’ve never understood this novel-writing business,” Julie confessed, when we had made the first inroads into our whitebait, “Perhaps that’s why I’ve been a bit impatient at times. I mean, not many people feel they could write a great symphony. Not many people feel a frustrated urge to turn out a great painting. Yet half the world seems to think they’re potential Charles Dickenses. What is it about novels?”

“I think they look easy,” I admitted, “We all write. Not many of us draw, and hardly anyone writes music. OK, we don’t write novels, or even fiction, but you know, we write complicated stuff all the time: we feel we have the basic skills in a way we don’t when it comes to painting or music. It’s the same with singing, probably – too many people feel they can do it.”

“There might be something in that,” she granted, “But why do people even want to? Surely people realise that they’re not going to win the Nobel prize?”

“I don’t think so, any more than people realise it’s too late for them to be Elvis. Hope springs eternal. But there are deeper motives, you know, wanting to create something instead of just absorbing, having something you want to express: I don’t know. Why does anybody want to do anything?”

I thought about it for a bit and something else occurred to me.

“The Nanowrimo thing, though, that’s like a game. I mean, it’s like you set out to complete fifty levels of some game; it sort of gets compulsive. You think you’ll just get to the big boss battle at the end of the level, and then you think you’ll just have a little look at the next bit. But above all, once you’ve made some real progress, you can’t bear to throw it away. You’re hooked, until you can see that screen at the end.”

“I don’t really know what you’re talking about,” said Julie, “You mean you’ve become like one of those people who get up and leave a restaurant half-way through a meal, or wake up at two in the morning, in order to go and play, what is it? World of Lovecraft or something? The people who play until their eyes bleed?”

“Not exactly,” I replied, “But I like the sound of World of Lovecraft.”

As the meal wore on – and it was a good one, helped out somewhat by Julie having bought most of it in prepared form from Marks and Spencer, not that she’s really a bad cook – things kind of settled back towards normality and the initial tension drained away.

As we sat on the sofa with brandy, Julie put on a more serious expression.

“This Mouse,” she asked, “It wasn’t serious at all? Please be honest. If you think we should…”

“No, no, really: I was just pissed and depressed. I mean, she’s nice, but… I was stupid. Oh by the way. Why did you sort of laugh when I first told you?”

She blushed.

“Well,” she said, without meeting my eye, “To be honest, it made me think of that book, you know? Los Angeles Without A Map? Where our hero reads about this man who has been arrested for groping one of the characters in Disneyland, and he thinks: surely this is the nadir of sexual desperation, to assault Minnie Mouse? Alright, not fair, but it was what just came to mind. Sorry.”

“That must be one of your books,” I said; actually, I thought I did remember it.

“We’ll need to talk about it all if we’re going to sort things out. But not now. Not while the curse of Nanowrimo is still in the air.”

“Yeah, I was beginning to think of it as a kind of curse,” I confessed.

“By the way, just in case you were wondering, you’re on the sofa tonight. If you’re staying. Sorry.”

I didn’t mind. I took it for granted that there was going to be period of political re-education, a time of penitence. The least I could expect, and probably more than I deserved.

“Would it… would it be OK if I just did a few hundred words?” I asked.

She sort of hesitated, and for a moment I thought I’d made a ghastly false move.

“Yes, of course. I’m going to bed, anyway. Goodnight.” She gave me a chaste peck on the forehead.

I sat down at the little desk, and with a sigh took out the old lap-top. I had very nearly decided to leave the damn thing behind, so as not to muck up the atmosphere of reconciliation, but the trouble is, missing the 50,000 narrowly would be really stupid – far worse than missing by a mile, or never really getting started. I had reached the point where I was actually slightly ahead of target, a really good place to be at this stage of the game, not something to throw away lightly. I found it difficult to concentrate at first, but then I hit on the idea of a passage early on where D.I. Cuffley makes a first appearance, behaves like a pompous idiot, and generally gets off on the wrong foot.

“May I ask, young lady, by what authority you are conducting this investigation? Are you a police officer?”

“I think that would be much more suitable than what you’re doing, if you don’t mind my saying so.” he said. “ A nice piece about furniture.”

Standard stuff, really, bit of a cliché even, but then those are the easiest to write. After about an hour, I saved and switched off. Julie had switched off most of the lights and cleared the table. Except for the wine bottle. The wine bottle. The wine bottle.

Faletcher’s eyes bugged out of his head as if he was about to undergo explosive decompression in a vacuum. As he sat in the tiny chair, he seemed to age visibly, and to feel the sudden onset of some serious degenerative disease, affecting his co-ordination and his breathing. His face went pale, and then at once went red. With a low moan, he stood up in a twisted, half-hunched posture, staring at the bottle fixedly. Small spasms ran through his frame, and he made a strangled noise like the kind of thing Dr Jekyll might have come out with while trying desperately not to turn into Mr Hyde. He limped towards the table like Quasimodo, and then, suddenly, the conflict seemed to resolve itself. He straightened, paused for a moment as if gathering his breath, picked up his jacket from the peg in the hall, opened the door softly and slid out into the night.

[Total Word Count: 44,871]

I arrived early at Behemoth in a state of turmoil. I got as far as sitting at my desk and then a kind of paralysis hit me. My brain, reserving only those basic functions necessary for life support, had diverted its resources into running a single sentence through my mind over and over again.

Oh God.

“You alright?”

It was fat Katie, the stupidest of Behemoth’s generally rather superior secretaries, but unfortunately the one who worked for the Director.

“Uh? Oh, yeah. Yeah. In a brown study, you know?”

“What?”

“Yes, I’m OK.”

“Only, I just wanted to check it was alright.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“No, I mean the spreadsheet.”

“The…?”

“The spreadsheet. Was it alright?”

A horrid, impossible speculation entered my mind.

“Which spreadsheet, Katie?”

“That one I took. Oh, you don’t know, do you? Sorry. No, you see John was asking if we had a copy of the ad spend figures, and I knew you’d had it, so I came over and you weren’t here, but your computer was still on, so I had a look and I took it. Is that alright?”

“Which spreadsheet? Not the… ASP raw data breakdown? The Multistode figures?”

“Yeah, that was the one I think.”

“But I deleted that one the other day.”

“Yeah, but I looked in your sent mail and you’d sent it to yourself, so I forwarded it to John. The thing is, when I printed it for John, there was all this writing. See, I always check ‘print whole workbook’, ‘coz sometimes people put stuff on other sheets.”

This is the woman who can’t be bothered to look in her own mailbox, but invariably asks to be sent stuff again. But suddenly, on this one occasion, she comes over, hacks into my computer, looks at sent mail, and finds the one deadly needle in the haystack, and takes care that every bit of it gets printed. Evil is not just a metaphor, gentle reader.

“That wasn’t really the right one, Katie – have you still got it?”

“Oh yes, I’ve still got it. Do you want me to send it back to you?”

“No, just delete that one and I’ll dig out the right version for you. Good job you asked me. You know it’s a bit out of order, really, forwarding other people’s sent mail.”

“Yeah, sorry. I thought there was something wrong with it, cause there was all this stuff like a story. When I printed it off, I looked at it, and I thought, he’s not going to want this, is he? He just wants the front bit with the figures.”

“That’s right.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell him.”

“You don’t need to tell him., do you?”

“Oh, yeah, ’cause in the end I thought better give him the lot, and if doesn’t want it he can ignore it. So it was in his overnight papers yesterday. But don’t worry. I’ll tell him that bit wasn’t supposed to be in it. What was it, anyway?”

I groaned.

“It was nothing, Katie, but if you get a chance to take it out without raising the subject, I think that would be good. It’ll just annoy him if he reads it.”

“Oh,” she said, with relish, “He’ll have read it. He reads everything. Sorry.”

She smiled broadly and half-turned to go.

“Have I got you in trouble?” she asked, cheerily.

There was just nothing I could do. Well, one thing. I logged in and started anonymising the blog, something I should have done long ago. Names and details were changed. It’s not likely that John Sopert is going to Google his own name the way Kevin did – Sopert probably thinks Google is a famous Russian author – but you never know. Any kind of Internet stuff is going to be far, far worse than mucking about writing a novel in a spreadsheet.

That’s it. All names, all recognisable details in this blog have been changed. It took hours. The problem for me is that you, gentle reader, still remember all that stuff, don’t you? I know you wouldn’t give me away, but it still makes me uneasy, and it’s going to sort of disrupt your reading pleasure if you have no idea who is who any more. I think I’m going to have to make use of a little-used authorial privilege and zap your memory, sort of like Men in Black. I can do that. Oh yes. Here… can you feel a little itch behind your left ear? That’s me popping in and changing your memories to match my re-write.

It’s done. Now you think my name has always been ‘John Faletcher’. You think my best friend’s name has always been Geoff, and that he was always a management consultant. So far as you know, my girlfriend was never a blonde called Mel. Kevin Johnson was never a skinny little bloke called Howard Cohen (Actually, gentle reader, that’s not his real name either.) I never worked for anyone but Behemoth, and the Director’s name was never… anything but John Sopert. If there are uncorrected inconsistencies left in my account, I’m sorry, but not being spotted is top priority. I hope you understand.

Too little, too late. But it might help. Not with the actual problem, of course – writing a novel in my lunch hour is not going to go down well anyway – but all I can do about that is hang on and hope that somehow it blows over.

I would have expected a crisis like this to paralyse me with worry, but the thing is, I’ve already been paralysed with worry for entirely different reasons. What am I going to do, gentle reader? I think I have to tell Julie about last night. No, it’s not stupid: don’t raise your eyebrows like that. I may be a pompous, lazy bastard, but I am honest. I don’t want to cheat. Think how much worse it will be if she finds out for herself, and let’s face it, with my luck and skill, she’s bound to. Oh. come on, let’s do it. Let’s make the appointment with the dentist. Let’s arrange to lance the boil. Let’s face it, this bloody morning isn’t getting any worse, whatever happens.

I pick up the phone and key the number.

“Julie?”

“John?” she doesn’t sound annoyed, just mildly surprised. I cannot deal with this over the phone, of course.

“Julie, look, I need to see you. Just half an hour? Can I come over?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I just want to… I need to… There’s…”

“You’ve done something. Is it to do with bottles? What have you done? Tell me.”

“No, no. Just let’s have a chat later, OK?”

“No, I’m not doing that. Just tell me what you’ve done.”

“Alright, look, I didn’t want to do this on the phone, but… Do you remember Miss Mouse?”

“No. What are you talking about?”

“Oh fuck, look never mind, let’s just leave it for now. I’ll speak to you later.”

“No, no. Who is she?”

“She’s one of the Nanowrimo people. Remember? She had, uh, my laptop.”

“And?”

“Well, and I slept with her last night.”

A silence. Then, weirdly, she laughed, in an unhappy way.

“Well,” she said, “That’s about it then, isn’t it? That was all we needed to round things off.”

“No, no, please. It was just a stupid thing, It’s nothing. I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again. I just…”

“What? Wanted to boast about it? Wanted to upset me at work? Wanted to get in before she rings me herself? What?”

“No… I’m sorry Julie. Please forgive me. Can I see you?”

“You know, John, you really are a bastard. You didn’t have to ring me up at work with this. Actually, to be frank, I don’t know why you told me at all, unless this is some weird way of dumping me.”

“Oh no, look…”

“Look, I’ve got to go. Don’t ring me again. I’ll ring you. Tonight. If you actually want me to?”

“Yes, of course, but look…”

She rang off.

Made the right decision there, eh? Smooth or what?

I sat staring at the elderly monitor on my desk for the rest of the day, not doing anything, not even reading emails. Nothing happened. No call, no summons from Sopert. I went home.

I’m not a superstitious person, gentle reader, but as I sit here with the completed text of Wenham before me (40,252 words – I’m that close), I cannot help feeling that I brought this on myself by the perverse magic of writing. Above all, I wrote the end first: I actually wrote ‘The End’: in some strange way, that turned this whole thing into a kind of curse. By writing a downbeat story, I have somehow given a downbeat turn to my life. Don’t you think? How else can you explain it, then? Don’t look at me like that! If I sound a bit mad, gentle reader, just bear with me. I think I can do something about it.

Epilogue

“Yus, milady” said Charlie, and smiled. She smiled back unreservedly, and wagged one finger at him.

Then I solemnly deleted the words “The End”, though of course it still is the end, but not really the end any more. I’m sorry, I’m babbling. 40,469 words: that’s it for today, I’m afraid.

I sat back and looked around my lonely flat. By now every surface was clear and disinfected and the only piece of mess not neatly arranged in a tidy container was me.

The doorbell made me jump violently. I got up and opened the door, and it was Julie. She didn’t smile at me, but she was here, at least.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“You’ve got a key, actually,” I reminded her – it was meant to sound better than it did. She came in and sat down on one side of the table. As though programmed, I sat down opposite.

“John,” she said, in a business-like way, “This mouse person. Is it serious? Are you seeing her?”

“No, I told you.” I said, “I went out to one of their sort of writing things, and I drank a lot, and I was just stupid. It’ll never happen again.”

“Cause, you know, I’m not saying, but I would understand, if you seriously wanted to sort of move on?”

“No, no. No. No. It’s not like that.”

“Okay, well look. I’ve been thinking, and I think I haven’t really been fair to you.”

No? This is not what I was expecting, gentle reader.

“I haven’t been very patient really, and maybe a bit mean. I don’t mean everything is alright, but I’m not going to have a row with you now.”

Not now.

“What I suggest is that we stick to the plan of getting through the Nanoo thing, only I’m going to try to be nicer about it. Then when it’s over, we’re going to have to get straight about some things. There’ll be… Well, there’ll be some difficult things to say. Things you won’t like, you understand?”

I nodded emphatically like a toy dog. I really want to hear those things I won’t like.

“Are you sure you’re happy with this? Alright. Now look. You said you wanted to celebrate. Come over tomorrow. I’ll cook something. Is that OK? You can… you can bring your laptop if you like. It’s OK.”

She swallowed. There was a tear in her eye. Mine too.

“Thanks, Julie,” I said huskily, “You’re wonderful. I don’t deserve it. Thank you.”

I stood up and moved clumsily round the table towards her, but she stood up too and backed away.

“Not now,” she said, “Not today. But I’ll see you tomorrow?”

[Total Word Count: 42,609]

It’s finished. It really is finished. Wenham, I mean. The story is told. I knew it was going to happen, and now it has. All the sections of text can be bolted together, and the thing can go down the slipway now. Whether it’s any good is another question, but it’s incontrovertibly finished. It just isn’t 50,000 words long.

I sit here at the trusty old laptop and time passes. As I sit here the end of November is actually getting closer all the time. I can almost feel it breathing down my neck. There’s an inflatable snowman outside the motorbike shop. This morning, there was actual snow. December is standing over me the way a curious Tyrannosaur stands over a little fluffy white bunny. I look around the flat, but there is nothing to distract me. In Julie’s absence the place is becoming tidier all the time, and pretty well everything has been cleaned at least once within the last twenty-four hours. Many small objects have actually been sterilised.

“Detective work just does involve a lot of waiting, Charlie.” said Lady Jane, “Here, have a magazine. This story about the Morris 1000 is rather clever. It’s a sort of updated version of one in Boccaccio: actually there’s the same story in Apuleius or somebody…”

Oh God. I’m getting so desperate now that for a few minutes I seriously considered resurrecting the idea that Wenham is a story being told on an intergalactic spaceship. It may come to that. You remember that bit about the Danes? That’s back in. It may be guff, but it’s words, gentle reader, it’s all more words.

I hauled out the corpse of the old book earlier on, the proto-Wenham, my earlier attempt at the same story, just to see if there was anything in it I could salvage. Not words, not words, just ideas. But it’s hopeless. Everything that happened in that version has already happened in this one, sometimes twice, in flashback, and in slow motion. I’m stuck trying to find places for random interpolations.

While she was waiting, Lady Jane studied the bookshelves, often a source of information about the personality of their owner. ‘Sacred Hunger’ by Barry Unsworth: she remembered that one – a Booker prize winner? Through a strange combination of circumstances, a group of slaves and mutineers take over a ship and establish an idealistic multicultural society…Hmm, Gore Vidal, ‘Civilisation’…that’s the one where the unfortunate Cyrus Spitama, grandson of Zoroaster, gets sent on epic journeys to China, India, and Greece. I wonder if I can remember the details?

Ach. It’s the old problem – if it were really just words, any words, it wouldn’t be so bad, but somehow I can’t quite bring myself to stuff the thing full of completely irrelevant rubbish. That’s not the point.

The phone rings, and I snatch it up immediately.

“Hi!” says Tom’s voice.

“Ah, Tom,” I reply wearily, “I’ve really got to write, mate. I really have this time. You know?”

“Oh sure,” he says, unworried, “Nobody wants to come out any more. Either they’ve given up and just want to forget the whole thing, or they’re still desperately struggling to stay in with a chance. What’s your word count now?”

“Nearly 40,000,” I reply, “On paper, I’m almost back on target; it really ought to be possible now. But I’ve run out of story.”

“OK. Well I’ll be in the Angel if you think your creative juices could do with a top-up. I’m still stalled, by the way.”

“Bad luck,” I say, “I’ll give you a ring in December, anyway, if we don’t see each other.”

I spend half an hour putting in the text of two more hymns which the villagers sing in the final episode which I’ve already written. Then I save, switch off, get my coat, and head outside.

I feel a burden of guilt as I trudge down the street. What I ought to do is just sit there day and night until another ten thousand words is on paper, and then I’d be free of the damn thing. I suspect now that part of my own motivation in taking on Nanowrimo was just the desire to be rid once and for all of any idea that it was somehow my duty to try and write a novel. It certainly feels now as if I just need to be shot of the thing, and never write another non-factual word in my life.

There has certainly been a big falling-off in the sociability of the ’wrimo folk. When I arrive I think I must have misunderstood; but in the end I spot Tom sitting in solitary splendour with a pint of Guinness in front of him. He seems unworried, and greets me with his usual warmth.

“How many people does it take to write a Nanowrimo novel?” he asks.

“I don’t know: how many people does it take to write a Nanowrimo novel?” I ask.

“You mean you had help?” he asks with mock horror.

“Very good, yeah,” I say without enthusiasm. “Actually, that would be good, wouldn’t it? I mean, if you could write me a couple of episodes to insert into Wenham, I could easily do you a couple of chapters for Snarking Asshats. See I’m, not dictating, but one of your people lives in Delhi, and every day his lunch is delivered to him by one of those special carriers that take home-made stuff out to the people in offices…”

Tom has covered his ears.

“Not listening! Not listening!” he repeats.

“Well, you could take the idea,” I point out.

“No, I don’t want to be helped. As the man said, I can cope with the despair: it’s the hope that kills me.”

“Who was that? Housman?”

“John Cleese.”

“Of course, of course. Same again?”

As the evening wore on, we managed to stop talking about Nanowrimo. I think I was telling Tom all about The Golden Ass in quite unnecessary detail when Miss Mouse suddenly appeared, and it was actually a bit of a wrench to spool back to the burdens of the literary life.

“Are you OK?” she asked, in a tone which made it clear she was keeping up with the blog, and put one small mouse-like hand on my shoulder.

“Fine,” I said, “And you?”

“25,000!” she said, triumphantly, “Of course, it’s not nearly enough, but it’s a big improvement. I’m not giving up yet. Could I… I know this is awful, but would you mind if I read you a short section, just to see if it sounds alright?”

She read us an episode set during the war- and it’s only as I write this I realise I’m not sure whether it was supposed to be WWI or WWII. Our heroine has been stood up and is in tears in Pall Mall, beginning to attract the haughty stares of passing nobs. Suddenly, who should appear but Jimmy, the young boy she wrestled with when small, the bolshy trade unionist who has now somehow attained the rank of Captain and is in full uniform. He offers her his shoulder and a handkerchief, and takes her off to a magnificent dance, where he behaves impeccably, speaking in a fake upper-class accent which is probably meant to be satirical but has the staff fawning and the chinless aristocrats around them gazing fondly at this sturdy specimen of British manhood.

Our heroine is emotionally vulnerable after the upsets of the earlier part of the evening, and this strange new personality – Jimmy, but Jimmy with polished manners and a commission – is deeply appealing to her. They have a wonderful evening which concludes in Jimmy’s hotel room, and I’m assuming this is the occasion when the feckless artist son is initiated.

The following morning she discovers that Jimmy is AWOL and has merely borrowed a captain’s uniform; however, after a breakneck journey he returns to barracks just in time, where he can resume his post as a private in the catering corps without being court-martialled. It’s only later, as a sergeant, that he attains military renown by fending off a detachment of Germans while armed only with a spatula and a potato peeler.

It’s not bad, actually, though it’s not really my kind of thing.

“You two never let people see any of your stuff,” she complains. Tom merely flaps one hand dismissively.

“I haven’t got anything new,” I say, “I’ve run out of inspiration. The story’s finished, but I need another ten thousand words. I think I might have to introduce another murderee, though that would really mess things up”

“Only another ten thousand? You’re doing really well. What about your MC having a Proustian moment, you know, a long passage about a biscuit? Or why don’t you put an epilogue on the end?”

I swallow a snide remark about that being the best place to put an epilogue, and consider the idea. There’s something to it, you know, gentle reader.

“It’s quite a handy thing,” she says, “You can just ramble on about what happened to all sorts of minor characters after the main action, and it doesn’t matter if the threads don’t hang together. And you can make it as short or as long as you like.”

“Yes,” I say, warming to the idea, “Yes.”

It is quite late by the time we all leave, and Tom disappears with a wave.

“Thanks for the suggestion,” I say, “That’s the second time you’ve given me a bit of help.”

She looks me in the eye and smiles.

“Would you… would you like to come back for a coffee?” she asks.

“I’d love to, but I’d better not,” I reply, falling readily into the well-worn script. She looks a bit vulnerable. I smile back at her, feeling like a bit of a bastard for some reason.

“Goodnight,” I say, and give her a grateful peck on the cheek.

Early the following morning, while it’s still dark, I wake from a dream I can’t quite remember with a slight headache, not a bad one considering. Perhaps in some curious way it is partly attributable to the strange decision I made last night to switch from bitter to red wine half-way through the evening. At the time it was supposed to stop me getting a hangover, though I can’t quite recall the rationale now. I stare through the darkness at the ceiling, waiting for my brain to sort itself out. Writing of any kind is surely going to be difficult today, as is work, and I briefly entertain the idea of phoning in sick. It’s comfortable here in bed, in that ideal state where you are neither fully awake nor properly asleep, though that is gradually being changed by a growing need to pee, probably the reason I am waking up so early.. This at least I can deal with. I roll out of bed in practised style and head for the bathroom and the World Service, my faithful nocturnal companion. It’s only now I realise that I don’t know where the bathroom is, or the bedroom door. My flat has changed in the night (you’re way ahead of me, aren’t you , gentle reader?). All at once some memory module coughs into reluctant life in the centre of my brain and I remember.

Picture if you can, and if you can bear to, the figure of John Faletcher in mid-shuffle, naked, his buttocks silvered by the moonlight still streaming through the window, his head twisted back over his shoulder in an uncomfortable way, his face contorted in surprise, his lips parted to emit a soft, low groan of shock, disbelief, remorse, and belief, his eyes fixed on the figure of Miss Mouse sleeping peacefully under her duvet behind him.