Verbatim

by Andrew Hill

  Grant explained he had obtained a potential publisher and was working on revisions.

  “I’m glad you seem to have calmed down from your visit here,” said Phil.

  “Yes, I should have been more professional, I’m sorry. It’s imperative that I speak to this Verity woman we have to get this matter sorted out. If my book, and it is my book, is published and she gets to read it then what? She could claim it as hers and sue me.”

  Phil had to admit that Grant was being sensible about things but was still reluctant to give out the information he sought.

  “I understand your difficulty, Mr Webster. But all addresses are given to me in strictest confidence.”

  “The least you can do is contact her and explain to her what’s happened.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  And with that the conversation was concluded by Phil replacing his handset firmly. Phil sat for a moment and contemplated what he had said. Questions passed through his mind – if Webster finds her address maybe he’ll do something silly. Perhaps what Phil should have done was to call them in at different times and get the full story from each; he should act as a mediator.

  “All was not yet lost,” he thought. “Perhaps that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Oh what the hell,” Phil spoke aloud without realising quite how ‘aloud’ and with the door slightly ajar, Alice Lincoln could hear everything.

  “Perhaps all is lost. There’s nothing I can do about it now. What will be, will be.” and with that Phil Johnson was to leave the story and lives of Carol and Grant forever.

  2

  Grant was busy in the bar when, as if ordained, a familiar female appeared. Three of them in fact, including Verity-cum-Carol. The excuse for this informal gathering was Carol’s successful meeting with Alan Fielding, she, along with her two friends, were having a little celebration. Would Grant have the nerve to confront them and if so what would he say?

  Grant summoned the courage and approached them looking straight at Carol.

  “I have something to say to you,” The young man’s voice betrayed this was no chat-up line.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve just written a novel haven’t you?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Under the name of Verity Faithful.”

  This surprised Carol who insisted on knowing how he knew.

  “It’s no matter how I know. I can tell you everything about it. The characters, the plot, everything because I wrote that novel.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Grant’s voice was raised, some customers were beginning to look around to investigate the commotion.

  “I wrote a novel, you have illegally obtained a copy and claim you’ve written it yourself.”

  Carol stood, her voice now becoming raised: “Are you barmy or what?” Her friend intervened in an attempt to calm things down.

  “Let’s go,” said the other.

  The manager came up and asked what the problem was.

  “This woman has stolen my property.”

  “He’s stark staring.”

  The manager tried to pacify both Grant and Carol but the three women decided it was time to go. Grant had now incurred the wrath of his employer who told him to go home and not come back: “I can’t have my staff going around accusing customers of theft.”

  “Not all of them, just her.”

  “Get out.”

  That encounter with Carol never took place, it was what Grant feared would happen if he confronted her so he said nothing and carried on with his job; he didn’t even know for sure that she was Verity Faithful.

  He could go straight up to her and ask that very question directly, if she said ‘no’ then that would be an end of it. But there was always the possibility that she’d deny being her even if she was, though she might give herself away, lying when you’ve been caught out isn’t that easy.

  Grant took every opportunity to get closer to the women’s table trying to hear some part of their conversation. But whenever he managed to get close enough they were talking about something else such as working in a magistrates’ court with no mention of the novel’s title, plot or author’s pseudonym. Although he couldn’t confirm she was Verity Faithful, Grant had gleaned one piece of information and that was her name was Carol. Grant now knew that someone who worked in a local magistrates’ court was called Carol and had written a novel. There was a third thing he already knew; there was a magistrates’ court only a short walk from the pub. Grant concluded that because it’s a Saturday night they probably hadn’t come from work meaning Carol almost certainly lived locally.

  That Saturday night passed, Grant didn’t speak to Carol. We know what they say about procrastination being the thief of time but, as Hamlet was to discover, its consequences can be far worse than merely time stealing. The three women went the whole evening without any of them noticing that the young barman was trying to eavesdrop. Carol had always been a little cagey about telling anyone, even her closest friends, about the plot of the novel or its title. She’d used a different title when first starting to write it only deciding upon the present one a few days before sending it off to the first publisher. Her friends didn’t even know it was called Dead Letter Perfect.

  * * *

  A couple of Sundays later, Grant’s shift behind the bar was over and he’d taken a wonder down to the West End. When passing a café in a turning off Shaftesbury Avenue he happened to glance in and there she was, the mysterious Carol. Grant walked past, stopped, then before turning and walking past once more, hesitated, turned and walked into the café to purchase a coffee. He didn’t really want one, he’d just had one in another café nearby but he couldn’t pass up this opportunity. The café was quite busy and when he looked around for a seat, the only one available was at the same table as his target. Under these circumstances he had the perfect excuse for sitting by her and need have no concerns.

  “You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?”

  “No,” she replied.

  Grant sat for a moment or two, his intended approach may not be a sensible one. So tried another tack.

  “I’ve seen you before.”

  Grant told her about seeing her in the pub where he worked.

  “I thought I recognised you when I saw you come in,” said Carol.

  “Likewise.”

  A moment’s silence which Grant used to think of how best to obtain the information he sought.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m in the civil service.”

  “So you run the country.”

  “I’m not that high up.”

  “Which department?”

  Carol told him what you and he already know so I won’t repeat it here but she said much more, which Grant found very interesting having no experience of courts in any capacity at all. Carol reminded him that courts are open to the public, he can go at any time.

  “Perhaps I will.”

  The conversation switched to Grant’s career, insofar as he had one. A point which Grant made clear: “Working behind a bar is just to tide me over.”

  Carol asked what he really wants to do.

  “Writer.”

  “What sort, a journalist?”

  “Novelist.”

  Carol suggested that he should get on with it: “It’s the best way to learn. It doesn’t matter whether it’s any good or not. Just do it.”

  “I have.”

  “Any success?”

  “I’ve completed one novel.”

  “What’s it about?”

  Grant thought hard on how to respond to that one. He didn’t yet know if she was Verity. If she wasn’t there’d be no reaction but if she was there could be hell to pay and a blazing row in the middle of a busy West End café. Grant was about to tell
all but instead:

  “I don’t like to tell people what it’s about.”

  “You think I might steal your idea?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I don’t blame you, I’m the same.”

  Grant was pleased with this comment, it seemed as though he’d finally managed to bring the conversation around to her.

  “What do you mean, ‘the same’?”

  “I write too,” said Carol, “and I’ve also finished my first novel.”

  “And you wouldn’t want anyone to steal it and claim it for themselves.”

  She shook her head.

  “What would you do,” he went on, “if you found out the someone else claimed to have written your novel absolutely word for word.”

  “I don’t really know, it’s so unlikely that I’d probably say they’d stolen it.”

  “So you haven’t told anyone about it.”

  Carol went on to explain that although she’s told some of the her close friends about it she’s said nothing of the plot, characters or title.

  As the conversation wore on Grant became less and less concerned about whether Carol had stolen his novel and more and more interested in her. In any event he still couldn’t figure out how she could possibly have copied his work.

  Grant asked, “I wrote my novel in longhand and typed it into my computer myself. No one else had access to it. Do you think anyone could have stolen it?”

  “There is a way.”

  This surprised Grant, it was a mystery to him and he said so.

  “An inside job,” she explained.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You will.” She went on to ask if he could be absolutely certain that no one else could have accessed his computer.

  “Do you live alone?”

  “At present, yes.”

  “Did you live alone when you were writing the novel?”

  “No, I had a girlfriend living with me.”

  “Was it an acrimonious split?”

  Grant was unhappy about going into details and contented himself with confirming that it was.

  “Perhaps she copied it then.”

  “I didn’t say any one copied it, I was merely asking a question.”

  “But she could have copied it, in answer to your question. Did you have password protection?”

  “I did then.”

  “Sensible, but maybe she could have found it out.” Carol went on to explain another possibility that if the novel had been submitted to a publisher or an agent then someone there could have copied it.

  “Not if the publisher was going to publish it,” said Grant.

  “But what if not? Someone who worked there may know the reasons why and could copy it and make the rewrites themselves.”

  Grant had to concede this point to himself except, of course, that no changes had been made, the other novel was his novel verbatim. Even so, it could be as Carol said.

  During their conversation, Grant began to look at Carol differently, seeing not a potential plagiarist and copyright thief but a rather pleasant looking woman with shoulder length dark brown hair and big brown eyes, an attractive slightly wide looking mouth; she was no conventional belle and would win no beauty contests but he found her attractive. Her accent wasn’t quite so easy to figure out. It sounded Lancashire but just occasionally there was an Irish sounding vowel. Perhaps one of her parents was Irish or maybe she lived there as a child for some years.

  “Will I see you in the pub tonight?” said Grant.

  “Maybe,” she replied, “maybe.”

  And with that she carefully placed her things in her handbag and left the premises. Poking out of the top of that very bag was what looked like a typewritten manuscript but Grant had no real chance of seeing its title as the script was contained in a large brown envelope torn at the top.

  * * *

  Carol did not work for a publisher, so that approach was ruled out. Or was it? If Carol knew someone who did work for a publisher the two could have connived to get the work published under a pseudonym. But if that was true would she have suggested the possibility? I doubt it. “But I still don’t know if she is Verity Faithful. Why the hell didn’t I ask her if she’d written it under a pseudonym?”

  Carol still had no idea that her novel also seems to have been copied. No such thoughts entered her head. Instead she found herself thinking about the rather handsome young man she’d been speaking to and whether she should venture to the pub that night.

  Entering a public bar on her own was not something Carol often did. A man on his own was fine but in the 80s a woman on her own ‘must’ be a tart on the make and men would react accordingly. If Grant was working behind the bar all evening then it would hardly count as a date. At least she knew where to find him.

  That night Grant arrived at his place of work at the appointed time, it was no surprise that Carol wasn’t there, it was rather early so he carried on with his job and kept an eye on the door. The first hour passed by, then the second and third. It became clearer and clearer there would be no Carol that Sunday evening. Eleven o’clock arrived and a disappointed Grant made his way home.

  The week progressed with no sign of Carol, Grant was beginning to feel that he’d missed his chance; not for the first time. He couldn’t quite bring himself to believe she really had copied his novel because he couldn’t see how she could have and maybe he was being influenced by the feelings he was beginning to have for her. But he still couldn’t be sure.

  Carol was busy labouring away at the suggestions made by Fielding Novels. I can’t help wondering whether the changes each are making are also the same – verbatim. Surely that would be too much.

  Carol was undeterred by any knowledge of a duplicate novel and was not distracted from her revisions which were coming on fine, better than ever she thought. In part this was why she hadn’t been to see Grant. Grant, however, still disturbed by the very existence of a duplicate novel was in trouble. He could not summon up the enthusiasm to carry out the revisions; his version of the novel was stagnating.

  Was there any way of finding out without directly confronting Carol? Various approaches came to mind. He could contact Johnson Books again, maybe Phil had had a change of heart. He could even break into the offices to look for evidence but Grant would never have the nerve to do such a thing. “I could go to the police, after all the crime of theft had been committed. The police could force Johnson to give me the name and address of the other author. But if I do that she could say I was the thief and I can’t prove otherwise.”

  Perhaps he could hire a private detective or go and see a solicitor. In the end he decided to do none of these things but instead to try and get on with his revisions and when the music started to play he’d just have to face it.

  What are the odds against it actually happening? Grant went through all the calculations Phil Johnson went through and more, coming up with odds against that are mind bogglingly high. Grant put away his calculator and went out for a walk.

  * * *

  A week or so passed, Carol had finished most of her revisions and checked them to make sure she hadn’t accidentally placed a character in two different places at once, an easy mistake to make, and was now ready to send the manuscript off to Fielding Novels which she did that evening after returning from work. Grant took longer but a few days after he also sent off his revisions. Neither of the publishers know they may publish the same novel.

  Carol had not been back to the pub, which was a great disappointment to Grant but he feels sure he should pursue her if only to find out whether she was indeed Verity Faithful.

  It was Grant’s day off, he hung around the entrance of the local magistrates’ court but, as the staff left the trials of their work, there was of no sign of Carol. Several days passed and still there was no sign of her but he did se
e, coming out the door, the two friends of hers. He followed them close enough to hear their conversation just in case they mention Carol but they didn’t.

  It was happenstance; almost two weeks later he saw a familiar face in the street and quickly crossed the road to follow her. She walked around for ten minutes then turned and approached the front door of, what Grant presumed was, the house where she lived. His suspicion was confirmed; Carol took the front door key from her handbag and opened the door. Grant boldly strode up to that same door and read the names on the bell-pushes. There was only one Carol; Carol Green. Now Grant had two additional pieces of information, her address and surname.

  He raised his hand towards the doorbell but hesitated and rested the second finger of his right hand against the bell push. Taking a deep breath he pushed the button. After a few moments Carol opened the front door to find no one there. Grant had done a runner.

  Time went by and Grant heard nothing from his potential publishers. Could it be that they don’t like his revisions? Have they changed their minds about the quality of the original novel? Worst of all have they now received Verity Faithful’s version. What will they think if that lands on their desk?

  Grant began to think that he must have made a big mistake. People’s minds play tricks. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. As unlikely as it sounded maybe he did use ‘Verity Faithful’ as a pseudonym and did send a second copy to Johnson Books and had now completely forgotten he ever did it. Was that really any less likely than two people actually writing the same novel by coincidence.

  “That must be it,” thought Grant. “There is no other person involved, I am Verity Faithful. If I am her surely there must be evidence of it somewhere in my flat or on my computer.”

  Grant went over to his computer and started a search for Verity Faithful but his search returned no results. He scoured everywhere in his flat for any evidence, anything at all containing a reference to that name and might indicate that he’d used it. But there was nothing; there was nothing to find. We know that he didn’t submit the title to Johnson Books twice. We know Carol Green is Verity Faithful but Grant doesn’t. Nevertheless, he was coming to believe that he was Verity Faithful and that was a dangerous path to tread. Grant can think of no gaps in his life. Did he have an accident which had left him without any memory of the novel? No, was the truthful answer to that one.