FRAUD Read online

  “How are you coping with Darren away?” asked Alistair Milner.

  “All right thank you, Alistair.”

  His boss seemed in a rather jovial mood that morning, which emboldened Dominic to ask his opinion of the sample. “I was going to put it in the rejection bin but when I read on a bit I thought it seemed quite promising.”

  Alistair spent a few moments casting his eyes over the first page. His face formed into a frown. “Dominic, this is rubbish. Why are you wasting my time on this?”

  “Well I, I quite liked it. I feel the author is strongly influenced by Robbe-Grillet who’s a hero of mine.”

  “Who?”

  “Robbe-Grillet, the French ‘chosiste’.”

  “Dominic, this woman has spent the entire first page of her novel describing a garden gate. One lives in hope that it’s the gate of one of the principal characters but it’s still an extremely boring gate. This sort of opening might have been all right for George Eliot or the Bronte s, but this is the twenty-first century we’re living in! Now please. If you want a career in publishing you must develop some critical faculties!”

  Dominic had felt his insides coiling up with fury and humiliation as his boss had been talking. He seethed with fury all the way home and shut himself in his room to avoid having to be civil to the people with whom he was forced to share a kitchen. He could barely bring himself to get up in the morning and seethed with fury all the way in to work. And, for want of anyone else to take his fury out on, he took it out on the poor old unsolicited authors. Sod it! If everyone wanted him to read at the speed of light and leave all discrimination at the door then that’s what he’d do – it hardly mattered since he'd soon be on the dole anyway. Darren had said you could tell if an author could write from the first paragraph. Dominic decided you could tell from the first sentence. From the first word. Manuscript after manuscript flew from the slush pile to the rejection bin in record time.

  With the office under so much pressure, his new approach won him the approval of everyone, even Sonia. “We’ve made an editor of you at last!” smiled Jim, and even Alistair apologised for having been a little harsh. Darren tottered back to work – minus his gall bladder – and was delighted at how his protégé had shaped up in his absence. Dominic grew happier in his job, a happiness tainted only by nagging guilt about the rejected authors.

  Basking in the new glow of approval, he found himself wondering if the moment was ripe to put into effect what had been his purpose all along in seeking a job in publishing – to show his own work to someone with influence and get his writing career off the ground. “It’s all about who you know in this life,” his father had often remarked, sagely. “It doesn’t matter what you know, it’s who you know!” Well, he knew Alistair and that would surely give him the edge on all those other faceless authors whose efforts he tossed in the rejection bin every day. He reckoned a good time to give it to him would be late on Friday afternoon when he always seemed to be in a good mood. With any luck, he might start reading it over the weekend.

  On Thursday evening he took down from on top of the wardrobe in his room two massive folders – Part One and Part Two of That Little Tent of Blue – the title taken from the line ‘That little tent of blue which prisoners called the sky’ from The Ballad of Reading Gaol. He sat down on his bed, hoisted Part One onto his lap, caressed it lovingly, then opened it at random and started to read. Throughout most of his teens this novel had been his friend, his sanctuary, sometimes his tormentor, always his companion. He had started it in his fifteenth year as little more than a series of pensées, employing a technique so free it was almost stream of consciousness. Later, under the influence of the many authors he admired – Lawrence, Joyce and Salinger in particular – it had transformed itself into a work of fiction. Its youthful hero had suffered all the traumas of his own young life – his profound sense of the futility of all existence, of the infinite black void which is the universe, of the absence of any God other than those men fashion, for whatever reason, in their own hearts. He had spoken fearlessly of the curse of his artistic gift (his hero was also a budding author) and the profound sense of isolation from his fellow man to which it condemned him. He spoke of loneliness, of fear, of the confusion of being out of touch with one’s true self, of feeling like a stranger in one’s own skin. He had once shown it to a girl he loved called Marianne in the hope that it might encourage her to sleep with him, and she had pronounced (after reading seven pages) that it was ‘quite good but could do with a bit of humour’. That had been the end of that brief affair and the one time he had contemplated suicide. But he had kept on going, and now, as he gently fondled page four hundred and forty-seven, he felt that maybe, at last, the baby he had born so long in his creative womb was about to emerge into the light of day.

  During tea break on Friday afternoon, he knocked on Alistair’s office door, having noticed his mood warming up in anticipation of a weekend’s golf. His boss called out “Come!” – his customary way of summoning lesser mortals into the inner sanctum. Dominic, suddenly afflicted with nerves, entered, explaining falteringly that the manuscript he held in his hands was his own novel (even though, strictly speaking, it was only half of it) and wondered if he could possibly see his way to having a look at it some time.

  Alistair reached up from his desk with an avuncular smile and took it from him. “So this is your ‘magnus opus’?” he said, giving the beautifully printed, comb-bound manuscript a friendly pat.

  “I’m afraid so!”

  “I like the title. Good old Oscar!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, leave it with me, old man. I promise I’ll give it my full undivided attention.”

  Dominic told himself not to get his hopes up. But he couldn’t help it. Throughout that weekend, he constantly caught himself thinking, ‘Maybe he’s opening it at this very moment. Maybe he’s ensconced in his armchair, drinking it in.’ He was counting the minutes until Monday morning, he was imagining the scene: Alistair calling him into his office, his words: ‘Dominic, I’m absolutely bowled over! This is one of the most intense, passionate pieces of writing I’ve ever read in my life! So much pain! It brought tears to my eyes! I had no idea we had a writer of this calibre in our midst!’ He even dared wonder if his novel might prove to be the 'major commercial success' that was going to save the company from ruin.

  Monday morning came and Alistair said nothing. From time to time during the day, as he swept through the office, Dominic would glance up from his desk and catch his eye, smiling enigmatically, and Alistair would glance back with a puzzled expression. By Wednesday he was becoming increasingly mystified, not to say a little annoyed, by the enigmatic smiles and finally asked, “Dominic, is everything all right?”

  “Yes, yes, fine thank you, Alistair. I just wondered… whether you’d had a chance to look at my manuscript yet.”

  “Oh yes! No, I’m sorry, I should have said. All hell broke loose at home last weekend. Family, you know. But I will read it this weekend. I promise. Cross my heart.”

  Overhearing the conversation, Darren cast his colleague a weary, knowing smile which was nonetheless tinged with compassion. He had once written a novel himself.

  Dominic did not spend that weekend in the agony of anticipation that he had spent the last. More a state of cautious optimism. Alistair, after all, was a busy man. He might find the time to read it, he might not. It was nothing personal.

  Another Monday morning came. Nothing happened. But then, just after lunch, Alistair asked him to come into his office. He obeyed, his heart pounding. It was only a few short steps and yet, to him, it was like crossing into another dimension. Alistair’s office, to Dominic, was like a chapel, a place imbued with a quasi-religious aura – the aura of hope.

  “Shut the door, old man.”

  He did so, then turned to face his boss, who was already seated. He noticed his manuscript lying on his desk. He took the seat opposite him.

  “Well, I had a loo
k at your novel over the weekend and I must say I was amazed. An incredible amount of work has gone into it.”

  “Yes!” Dominic laughed.

  “I can’t pretend I’ve read it all, but I’ve read enough to see that you definitely have the potential to become a writer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t publish one day.”

  “You mean... publish this novel?”

  “Well, maybe not this novel, but I don’t think the experience of writing it will have been wasted at all. It reminds me of a novel I once wrote when I was living in Morocco as a young man.” He stretched back in his chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head, a remote, wistful smile transforming his face. “I was going through my Jack Kerouac phase – I think everyone does, don’t you? I felt I had a lot of stuff I needed to get out of my system before settling down to a career as a writer. Not that I ever did settle down to a career as a writer. I didn’t really have the application, sadly.”

  Dominic, his facial muscles bolted into a fascinated smile, was inwardly seething. He didn’t want to talk about Alistair, he wanted to talk about himself. His mouth already sour with the taste of disappointment, he said, “Do you think you could give me a few pointers on how to make my work more publishable?”

  His boss seemed relieved that the conversation had moved on to generalities. His hands came down to form a little spire in front of his chin as though he were praying. He patted his fingertips together a few times.

  “The most important attribute of a successful writer, Dominic, is respect for your reader, whoever he or she might be. In the first few paragraphs you have to persuade your reader to be as interested in what you have to say as you are yourself. And what that means in your case is that you have to become much tighter, more economical, punchier. Hack away that forest of adjectives and let the words breathe! Untangle the syntax and let your writing follow your natural rhythms of speech. And you have to work some sort of story into your novel. Even if you’re expounding what you perceive to be deep philosophical truths, or deep psychological insights, you still have to hang it around a good yarn. Hardy never forgot that. Conrad never forgot that. Look to the greats, Dominic! And read plenty of good twentieth century writers too. Evelyn Waugh, for example. He never wasted a word.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, Alistair,” he stammered. “That’s, really useful advice.”

  Dominic carried That Little Tent of Blue – which suddenly weighed a ton – back to his desk. He knew emotion would come in its time, but at that moment he felt only stunned, as though he had been struck a glancing blow by an express train. Darren cast him the look of a kindly elder brother. “If you want to pop out for a fag or something, I can hold the fort.”

  “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Well, if it’s any comfort, I know what you’re going through, mate. I’ve been there myself.”

  It wasn’t any comfort. Dominic snatched a manuscript from the pile on his desk and started to read, though he could barely focus on the words. He dragged the back of his hand across his face, sniffing deafeningly. “What the fuck is this?”

  Darren looked up in surprise. Without waiting for a reply, Dominic slung the pages aside and scrawled ‘SR’ on the slip. Then he added, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘This is the biggest load of shit I’ve ever read in my life, ARSEHOLE!!!’ Not that Sonia would include that addition to the rejection letter, sadly.

  On the way home, he stopped at the Spar on the corner near his room and bought a packet of cigarettes and a bottle of whisky. They would be his companions through what promised to be a long, dark night of the soul. Far into the small hours he sat in his little armchair, smoking and drinking and thinking in front of his one bar electric fire. What was the point? What the hell was the point? If the work into which, over eight long painful years, he had poured so much love, so much passion, so much agonising honesty, so much of himself was not going to make the grade – even when he was on the inside of the publishing business – what hope was there for his writing career?

  Then, for the first time since he was thirteen years old, he burst into tears.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE FAMOUS MR HAVERS

  Anne and Ted had just settled down to supper on trays in front of Eastenders when the telephone rang.

  “Perfect timing,” sighed Anne.

  “Just leave it.”

  “No, I’d better get it. It might be one of the children.”

  She went out into the hall to answer it and returned a few moments later. “It’s for you. Someone called Nicola.”

  Ted’s reflex reaction was a studied look of bewilderment. “Nicola? I don’t know anyone called Nicola.”

  “Well she seems to know you.”

  He set aside his tray and went out to where the receiver was lying waiting for him on the little hall table. He closed the living-room door and took a moment to compose himself. It was five months since he had emailed Nicola his novel, five months during which he had checked his mailbox every morning in the hope that there might be something from her. It had never occurred to him that she would phone. He snatched up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Is that you Ted?”

  “Nicola! Hi! You got my email then?”

  “Yeah, sorry I didn’t get back sooner. Life’s been totally crazy. But I’ve finally got round to reading your novel. I think it’s brilliant!”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, it had me in tears – I mean, like, literally. I guess it touched one or two raw spots. I couldn’t believe a guy of your age could get right inside the head of a teenage girl like that. And it’s so funny. It’d be a real tragedy if it doesn’t get published.”

  “Well, I’m… overwhelmed.”

  “That guy who wrote you that letter, I don’t know what his problem was but he was talking out of his arse. For Christ sake, Ted, just keep at it. It’s an amazing book! Although the title’s pants.”

  “Oh. I thought ‘The Tyranny of Love’ was rather a good title.”

  “Yeah, for some slushy old forties romance. This book needs something strong and modern and gutsy. Maybe just a single word. Like ‘Loss’. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? People losing people. ‘The Tyranny of Love’ is meaningless anyway. People aren’t tyrannical towards people they love.”

  “They are. But it’s not really about that anyway. It’s about the emotion of love itself being tyrannical – when it subjugates people, when it makes them vulnerable.”

  “Yeah, okay. But I still don’t like it.”

  “Look, Nicola, I really appreciate your input. Why don’t you do some work on it? I’m sure with your background you could bring something fresh to it. I could even pay you. Not much, I’m afraid, but something. It might help you out.”

  “I’d love to, especially if you pay me. But it hardly needs any work. Maybe just the odd tweak here and there.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just being nice?”

  “Nice? Give me a break, Ted! I told you I’m a bitch and I meant it!”

  He smiled at the recollection of their first inauspicious meeting at the Queen's. “So, how’s it going?”

  “Okay. I’ve got this job in a bistro. I’m being even more charming to the customers than I was at the Queen’s.”

  “Any progress on the acting front?”

  “Nah. I’ve had one or two auditions but nothing yet. There’s the possibility of a new agent, but I’m not sure if I’ll follow it up. I did get a commercial for disposable nappies where I had to pretend to be this baby’s mother and smile and kiss its tummy and shit. The real mother was going mental outside the studio in case I dropped the fucking thing.”

  “Well, it’s a start, anyway. Have you got somewhere to live?”

  “No, I’m crashing with friends. Look, I’ve got to go, I'm running out of call time. I’ll email you, yeah? And don’t get discouraged with the novel. It’s great!”

/>   “Nicola…” But the line was dead.

  Ted thoughtfully replaced the receiver then, after a moment’s hesitation, re-entered the drawing room. Anne was engrossed in a violent row between Peggy Mitchell and her son Phil over the fate of the Vic – the family pub.

  “I hope your supper's not cold,” she remarked distantly.

  “It doesn't matter.”

  “So who on earth was that?”

  “Oh, just a girl who worked briefly at the Queen’s. Quite a bright girl, actually – an Edinburgh graduate. She wants to be an actress. I got talking to her a while back and she expressed an interest in reading ‘Tyranny’. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  They continued watching television in silence, but later, during the weather forecast, Anne said, “That girl who phoned earlier. It wasn’t Nicola Pearson, was it? She was at Edinburgh. And she wanted to be an actress.”

  Ted turned and stared at her. “I’m not sure what her surname is. How do you know her, anyway?”

  “I don’t, but I knew her mother slightly from the Horticultural Society. Rather an odd woman. I didn’t care for her to be honest. Terribly pretty and not a hair out of place but completely artificial. I think she’d been some sort of actress or dancer herself before she got married. From what I gathered Nicola was the daughter from hell – sex, drugs, you name it. And she had mental problems.”

  “What kind of mental problems?”

  “I don’t know. Her mother was always rather cagey about her. A bit of an embarrassment. The son, on the other hand, she couldn’t stop talking about.”

  “It doesn’t sound like the same girl.”

  Later, after Anne had gone to bed, Ted started re-reading The Tyranny of Love. He read far into the night and continued reading for the whole of the following day. He and Anne had an early supper that evening and watched some television and then he excused himself and went back to his study to carry on reading. He finished at about midnight and stared into space for twenty minutes, thinking.