Verbatim

by Andrew Hill

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by

  The Book Guild Ltd

  9 Priory Business Park

  Wistow Road, Kibworth

  Leicestershire, LE8 0RX

  Freephone: 0800 999 2982

  www.bookguild.co.uk

  Email: info@bookguild.co.uk

  Twitter: @bookguild

  Copyright © 2019 Andrew Hill

  The right of Andrew Hill to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead.

  ISBN 978 1913208 349

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  To my future wife,

  whoever she may be.

  Contents

  Part One

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  Part Two

  1

  2

  3

  Part Three

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  Part One

  1

  Sometimes it’s just plain obvious skulduggery has been employed; Tuesday, 14th September 1988 at eleven twenty-three in the morning was one such moment.

  Phil Johnson headed his own publishing house, Johnson Books. Phil regarded pride a sin, something ingrained into him as a child but was proud of his accomplishment, and why not, after leaving school with no academic qualifications and acquiring his first job as a tea boy for a small local publisher.

  First-time novelists were Johnson Books’ speciality; a refreshing concept. With 103 titles to its name, Johnson Books was not housed in a plush part of London’s West End as you might think. Clerkenwell was the location, very near to where Oliver Twist first encounters Mr Brownlow and realises that Fagin may not be quite such a kindly gentleman.

  But the story I am about to relate is not one telling of the appalling conditions lived by millions in a far off era, it is a story of our own period, a time that is supposed to be more civilised, a claim that can hardly be justified when considering the terrible never-ending conflicts we humans have created. There are no Fagins in this tale, turning lost, abandoned or orphaned children into criminals who will finally come to grief upon the gallows while society looks on blaming only the victims. We have two people separately trying to find a niche for themselves, to live out their days in as much comfort as can reasonably be expected among the lonely lives led by so many now the extended family has turned into a broken mass of single units, human units, alone, confronting the big world. It is the strangest story I have ever encountered with no understandable answer.

  Johnson Books’ home was a relic of a past industrial nation. No, I’m being a little unfair, the building had been regenerated to a high level reflected in the rent not being that much less than the West End, but was much more to Phil’s liking than a modern architectural entity, a satisfying consolation.

  Phil was just arriving, a little later than usual, but still found a moment to look at the board indicating the companies occupying the building, ‘Charlton and Partners Architects’, ‘Ayscough Ravenspurn Watkin Chartered Accountants’, ‘Zenith Actors’ Management’ and ‘Johnson Books’, as always generating a feeling of pride tempered by a little guilt.

  Phil was in keep-fit mode and strode up the stairs rather than using the lift to reach a large open-plan area with a dozen or so desks, his own self-contained office was at the far end.

  He walked past a young redhead, “Good morning, Alice,” this was Alice Lincoln, Phil’s secretary.

  “Good morning, Mr Johnson.”

  It did not go unnoticed by Miss Lincoln that Phil was slightly out of breath. She knew this craze wouldn’t last. Once he’d disappeared into his own office, Alice smiled to herself as well she might, she’s a far better athlete than most and would easily beat the majority of men in a mass marathon.

  How many manuscripts had been pitched at Johnson Books and rejected he didn’t know, it must be in the thousands. The seemingly bottomless waste bin has produced yet more this Tuesday morning but one of them might be something special. Almost everyone seems to think a novel is inside them waiting to be released. Perhaps there is, but Phil would say, ‘Inside them is the best place for it’. Which is probably right.

  A team of readers at Phil’s disposal send reports on each one; if the reader wasn’t gripped by the end of the first chapter it’s returned with no report and a recommendation to reject the volume.

  Dead Letter Perfect was on the top of the manuscripts placed on Phil’s desk by Alice that Tuesday morning.

  “An odd title,” thought Phil.

  It was written, or so the title page announced, by someone calling herself ‘Verity Faithful’.

  “I bet that’s not her real name,” he thought. “She’ll be neither truthful nor faithful.” Phil was in one of his more cynical moods that day but whether she was Verity Faithful by nature as well as by name was not Phil’s concern; could she write a good yarn and hold a reader?

  Occasionally something will attract Phil’s attention and he may take a look at it himself before sending it to one of his team. It could be an intriguing title, such as we have here, or a clever opening sentence. Phil’s even received novels with illustrations, something that rarely happens these days. Once there appeared on top of the day’s books a manuscript of one hundred short stories all exactly 1001 words long, that book is now among the 103. Sometimes he received a novel with the same title as another. Nothing wrong with that; there’s no copyright on titles, though there are laws against ‘passing off’. Plots can once in a while be very similar which makes for a suspicion of plagiarism. It’s hard to be sure, people often come up with similar ideas.

  Phil placed Dead Letter Perfect neatly on a pile for one of his regular panel revealing the second manuscript of the day showing its title as Dead Letter Perfect. It took a moment to clear his mind of confusion.

  “This is going to be one of those days.”

  Is it a duplicate? Phil double checked to see but the second tome was by Grant Webster. Different name, different address, different phone number, same title. Phil read the first paragraph but thought, no, I’ll leave it to the reader. He was about to do the same with the other copy but was overcome by curiosity and started to read the first paragraph. He was now reading exactly what he’d previously read – verbatim – thinking he’d picked up the wrong one Phil placed it down and took up the other and began reading both opening paragraphs; they were exactly the same – verbatim. He read on; the first pages were the same. Passages picked at random were the same. It was not long before Phil formed the obvious opinion that they were identical. Different name, different address, different phone number, same novel!

  Phil considered there were only three possible explanations for this state of affairs; one of the two authors had plagiarised the other’s work, the same person had sent in the novel twice under separate names, or they’d both copied the work of a third author.

  W
hy would anyone steal a novel in that way? It would be very hard to get away with but some people will try anything once without considering the consequences. It’s one thing discovering a secretly written manuscript by a recently deceased writer, changing it here and there and claiming it as your own work, you may get away with that and it has most certainly happened from time to time. Perhaps that’s what happened; they both know the same deceased author and have independently stolen the work.

  “There’s no point in speculating,” thought Phil, “What’s it to me? The only thing for certain is these two different people did not write the exact same novel, did they?”

  What next to do? The simplest thing would be to return both manuscripts from whence they came with a standard rejection letter. Phil was about to do this when a second thought came to mind: “Why not send them back to the wrong author? Send Webster’s to Faithful and Faithful’s to Webster.” But when they spot the swap, who knows what they might do. An interesting problem don’t you think? Phil could be sure that some fraud was in play involving theft of copyright. Perhaps the matter should be reported to the police or at the very least try to establish it really was two people and, if both claimed the other to be the plagiarist, leave it to be sorted out between themselves.

  The rest of the day went well but the problem of the verbatim novels didn’t leave Phil’s mind. Some shady plan was being implemented for sure, but what? And for what purpose? Just what are the chances of two people unwittingly writing identical books? It must be all the stars in the universe to one against. That’s why Phil was sticking to the underhand plot theory: There can be no real doubt, he believed one of them wrote it and the other pinched it, Lock, stock and smoking copyright.

  Phil went through to his secretary taking with him both manuscripts and gave her instructions to send them back to where they came from with a standard rejection letter. Phil returned to his private office in the belief that his role in the whole affair was at an end. And so it might have been had the usually efficient Miss Lincoln not made a serious blunder by carelessly doing the very thing that Phil had contemplated but rejected.

  * * *

  It was around nine thirty in the morning. Carol was not there to hear the post arriving; a single large brown envelope with the very postage stamps she’d placed on it with her own handwriting showing the address of Verity Faithful.

  Verity Faithful was the pseudonym of the twenty-five year old Carol Green who once had aspirations to become an actress but never really possessed the courage, if courage it be, to give up a steady income and pursue such a dubious career. So the acting profession has been denied the opportunity of embracing the talents of Carol Green, such as they are. As the adage goes: ‘If you want to be an actor then don’t bother, if you need to be one then nothing will ever stop you.’ Perhaps Carol only wanted to be one. It matters little. The civil service was enjoying her abilities and our first-time novelist had already departed to the local magistrates’ court to enjoy the trials of a court usher’s life. If the writing ambitions of this particular civil servant were no more successful than were the acting ones then maybe she’ll train as a lawyer. The thought had crossed her mind on several occasions. Perhaps the final rejection letter from Johnson Books will be the spur to greater things.

  Petty thievery, a drunk and disorderly, driving without insurance were among the cases to be heard in the court where Carol worked. Ushers rarely have the time to sit in court as the cases progress, their services are required for more than one court at a time and when not in any court, they would be needed in the back office to deal with correspondence and phone calls, all in all it could be a busy time but once the courts began to adjourn for the day at around three thirty to four o’clock things would slow down and Carol’s thoughts could once again return to the novel, “How many publishers do you write to before giving up,” she thought; a good question faced by many a novice novelist.

  At around lunchtime on the same day the internal phone rang, Phil Johnson reached over and answered it.

  “Yes Alice?”

  “I have a man at reception who insists on seeing you.” Phil enquired as to this man’s purpose. “He refuses to say. I did tell him you don’t normally see people without an appointment but he won’t go away.”

  “He has a name I take it?”

  “Grant Webster,” came the secretary’s answer.

  This was a surprise to Phil who thought for a moment and told his secretary to ask Mr Webster to wait a few minutes and he’ll see him. A few minutes passed with Phil wondering how Mr Webster could have found out about the duplicate novel, assuming he has, and how to approach the problem; he rang through to his secretary and said, “Tell Mr Grant I don’t see people without an appointment. Tell him I don’t give feedback on rejected novels.” Phil heard his secretary pass on the information to Webster and also heard Webster’s response loud and clear and in no time at all Phil’s office door opened.

  In strode a six-footer, slim, in his late twenties, and quite good looking thought Phil who remained seated quite intentionally as Webster slammed the door behind him before walking boldly and briskly to the desk. He waited for no pleasantries and offered none. Towering over the sitting Phil, the tall grim-faced man stared down and Phil stared back. Both knew why he was here. Webster broke the uneasy silence and came straight to the point.

  “About my novel,” Webster’s voice betrayed a middle-class background or maybe he just learned to speak that way in adult life.

  “Did I reject it?”

  “You did and very quickly.”

  “I don’t usually give my reasons or give feedback.”

  Webster threw the manuscript on to Phil’s desk, “This is not the one I sent you.”

  “I’m sorry,” replied Phil, “My secretary must have made a mistake.”

  Phil looked at it: “It says ‘Verity Faithful’, is that not you?”

  “Do I look as though I’m called Verity?” Webster’s stern face and voice embraced a large hint of sarcasm.

  “Some people, Mr Webster, in fact quite a lot in this business use pseudonyms and often names of the opposite sex.”

  Grant Webster realised he was in the wrong and offered a half-hearted apology.

  “Sit down, Mr Webster.”

  Grant looked around and saw an armchair which he promptly sat in without moving it closer to Phil, he wanted to maintain his distance and said nothing while waiting for Phil to speak.

  “Now, Mr Webster, perhaps you’d like to tell me your problem.”

  There is no need for me to go though the problem again as you’ve already been fully apprised of it. Grant wanted an explanation.

  “How do you expect me to explain it? I did certainly receive two manuscripts of a novel of the same title. That happens surprisingly often but when I looked more closely at them I realised it was two copies of the same novel submitted, apparently, by two different people.”

  “And what did you do about it?”

  “It also happens quite often that one person sends in a manuscript twice under different names, I assumed that someone may have done just that but you say this was not so.”

  “It is most certainly not.” said Webster, maintaining his menacing countenance.

  Phil remained calm, showing no sign of acquiescing but instead continued, “It seems someone calling herself…”

  “Or himself,” interrupted Webster.

  “…Verity Faithful has plagiarised your work. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “You can give me her…”

  “Or his.”

  “ …address. She presumably sent it on a separate sheet of paper as per your instructions.”

  “I have her address on file, but it’s confidential and I cannot divulge it to you.”

  “Rubbish,” Webster insisted, and told him his work and his copyright have been stolen, under
the circumstances he’s entitled to know the address of the thief.

  “She, assuming it is a woman, could say precisely the same thing about you and if she asks me for your address she’ll get the same response. If your property has been stolen I suggest that you go to the police. I will, naturally, co-operate with them fully.” Phil’s voice had now become more assertive and Webster remained silent for a moment or two before continuing in a calmer vein.

  “I’ll do that,” Grant Webster picked up his manuscript, “My prime evidence.” and stormed out of the room, the door slammed behind him. A huge sigh of relief was expelled in Phil’s office.

  * * *

  We now know Grant’s initial attitude towards the affair but what of Carol’s, I mean Verity’s? No, let’s call her Carol, it is her real name when all said and done. Carol was in and out of courtrooms all day and gave only the occasional thought to Dead Letter Perfect. She arrived home at around six thirty in the evening still blissfully unaware the large buff envelope lying on her floor was even there, let alone that it contained the manuscript of another.

  Carol’s home was a flat over a small shop which had seen a change of occupancy from a family with a reasonable income to a run-down occupancy of individual temporary souls. She closed the front door behind her and there on the floor was the envelope which had been waiting patiently for her return. She picked it up and carried it upstairs to her first-floor flat. The manuscript came back so quickly from Johnson Books it could only be a rejection without them even bothering to read it.

  With little enthusiasm and no more than slight curiosity Carol opened the envelope, took out the letter and, crucially, left the manuscript inside. The letter was a familiar one to Carol; she had seen it many times before from many publishers, Johnson Books was no different; thanks but no thanks.

  “At least the others kept it long enough to have read it before returning it,” she thought. Carol took it to her bedroom and placed it on a shelf with other similar sized envelopes also containing rejected manuscripts. How long it be will before she discovers the switch, I don’t know. Perhaps years, perhaps never if she throws that copy away, it had been through the post several times and no longer looked as professionally presentable as it once did. Before placing it on the shelf, Carol wrote the title ‘Dead Letter Perfect’, on the front.