Verbatim

by Andrew Hill

  But he can’t get it out of his head. “I must have written it, I must have written it,” he repeats to himself over and over. These words would repeat themselves in his mind for hours on end. Even at work they would be chanting away at him while he was serving customers and calculating the cost and change. Occasionally he would say them aloud, not so as everyone could hear, but people began to notice he was muttering to himself a lot of the time.

  Once away from work and in one of his more lucid moments, Grant thought the best thing to do was to ask her the direct question but he knows he wouldn’t have the courage. He would have to do it at arm’s length and the best way would be to write her a letter.

  Dear Miss Green or is it Miss Faithful,

  May I first apologise if I have written to completely the wrong person. I have reason to believe that you have completed a novel called Dead Letter Perfect. I would appreciate it if you could contact me soonest as there is something I want to discuss with you concerning it.

  He signed it and was about to put it into an envelope when a second thought presented itself. Grant re-typed the letter and signed it once more, this time using a false name.

  That simple inoffensive letter lay on the table for nearly a week before he summoned up the courage to post it. Would it be better to mail it or take it round to the address and deliver it himself? He ponders for a while and decides on the latter.

  Grant’s left hand pushed up the flap on Carol’s letter box while his right hand, grasping the letter, pushed it through but when it came to the point of letting it drop down the other side he didn’t have the courage and withdrew it.

  A week later Grant finally posted it by first class post.

  He waited and waited but days then weeks passed, there was no response. Every time the postman delivered something he would eagerly look through to see if it could be from her but it never was.

  “She must have read the damn thing by now surely. Unless it never got there. That must be it, it never got there.” He would have to right a second letter.

  Carol did not read the letter; it didn’t arrive, the Royal Mail has let him down. Will Carol ever see the letter? Would it turn up many years later? Was it delivered to the wrong Carol Green? There must be many of them. Was it stuck behind a radiator in a sorting office somewhere awaiting discovery after twenty years? Perhaps one day we’ll find out.

  For Grant it was back to square one.

  The turmoil in his life was affecting his work, which had not escaped the notice of the squat little man who was the manager of the pub where Grant worked. He, Grant that is, would frequently be late for his shift. Even when he was there it was a much more quiet and morose Grant Webster. This was beginning to be a matter of concern to the landlord because of the negative effect it can have on his customers, and some of his regulars had observed the change in him.

  Once more Grant waited for Carol to appear from the magistrates’ court and once more followed her home at a discreet distance. Why do this? He knew where she lived! Perhaps it was because she may have moved and he could follow her to her new address. But I’m rationalising the irrational. Grant had started to behave irrationally; following her for no good reason. Then he’d think once more he’d written the novel earlier under the name Verity Faithful. He thought he may have submitted it twice, equally without logic.

  There are so many things wrong with that notion; how came the book to be submitted when it was? There were no blank months in his life when he might have written it and the novel contains references to things that couldn’t have been earlier, the name of the Prime Minister for example. But even if we could speak directly to Grant he wouldn’t listen. I accuse him of rationalising the irrational but aren’t I doing the same thing? The idea that they had both written the same novel is utterly insane, isn’t it? But what of Carol, she seems to think she’s written it but how could she if Grant had?

  Could the supernatural account for it? It’s hard to believe. Are Grant and Carol distant cousins without knowing it? Perhaps a long dead relative had dictated the novel to them both. Let’s return to sensible reasoning shall we? If I’m not careful I’ll start to go a little crazy myself. But it’s hard to find a rational explanation to return to. What could it possibly be?

  I think for the time being we should stick to the story and not confuse ourselves by thinking too deeply; so far as we know they both claim to have written the same novel and that’s an end of it.

  * * *

  Grant failed to turn up for work the following day. Grant never turned up for work again. It came as no surprise to Malcolm Little, the landlord of the once very busy Anchor and Crown pub in Islington, which even back in the 80s was starting to acquire a run-down look. Gone are the days when a crowd would be singing ‘Knees up Mother Brown’ on a Saturday night. When he looked around at his clientele it was hard to find someone under sixty. Malcolm, himself over seventy, had also seen better days, while Grant’s days were to deteriorate.

  3

  Grant now lived out his days wandering the streets. It may be sunny, it may be cold, it may be wet or dry. It made little difference to Grant who, although not realising it, was in deep psychological trouble. I have already alluded to Grant’s mental state and it could only take one incident to bring about a regression to his childhood psychological difficulties. That incident has occurred with Carol unwittingly being the central figure. Every day he waited outside the court for a glimpse of ‘her’, every lunchtime he walked past the court over and over again to see if ‘she’ would appear.

  On a weekend, Grant would present himself on the other side of the road where Carol lived, a convenient public bench afforded him a good view of her front door. He would sometimes sit there for hours in all weathers. And why not, there was nowhere else for him to go. Once in a while Carol would appear from her flat or from the courthouse. He’d follow her.

  It was five minutes past one on a Thursday afternoon, Grant had walked past the court on the opposite side of the road forty-two times. Yes, I mean forty-two. He’d counted them! On the forty-third pass out came Carol with Joanna. Grant followed the two women who walked along talking while Grant walked behind trying to listen. He increased his speed until he was just a pace or two behind. The two women went into a clothes shop. I could make some attempt to describe this shop but I’d only be describing what you have seen a million times before. At least I noticed that was a ‘women’s’ clothes shop which was more than can be said for Grant who followed them, not something he would have ordinarily done – going into a women’s clothes shop but, as I have just said, Grant hadn’t even noticed it was one. He tried to ignore them and looked instead at the garments on display while listening intensely. But all they spoke about was work, they complained about their manager. But there was no mention of Carol’s novel until her friend suddenly said:

  “Course you’ll be leaving once you’re a famous novelist.”

  Grant paid double attention, there was no mention of the title, plot or characters and, crucially, no mention of the name ‘Verity Faithful’. Joanna purchased a jumper and the two young ladies departed with Grant following at close quarters. Joanna spoke quietly to Carol, Grant was unable to hear what it was but a few moments later they upped their pace, Grant upped his pace he was determined to stop them and confront Carol. Once at an arm’s length he reached out but a sudden and perhaps irrational fear intervened and he withdrew his arm. Carol and Joanna noticed nothing and were soon back at the magistrates’ court. Grant walked on. He knew she wouldn’t come out again until around five o’clock so there was little point in hanging around. But he’d be back. Had Joanna noticed they were being followed? Was that what she said quietly to Carol? After all, young women can’t be lax about apparently being followed by ‘strange’ men, and Grant had let himself go in recent times but he didn’t look all that ‘strange’; seeing a dirty, seemingly homeless person on the streets of London w
as becoming more and more common in the late 1980s.

  Five minutes to five, Grant was back and could be seen walking past the court once again on the opposite side of the road. If anyone was looking that is.

  From an upper room in the court building Joanna was doing just that – looking, and could see Grant, she followed him with her eyes walking about a hundred yards up the road, turning around, walking back and continuing on past the court for about another hundred yards and turning again. This manoeuvre would go on and on. Although our secret observer had seen him behind the bar in the pub she didn’t recognise him. She knew that this man, whoever he was, was wasting his time if he was following Carol because she’d already left work earlier than usual. But was Carol the object of his desires? Perhaps she, herself was the object; a disturbing moment for the observer.

  “After all,” she thought, “there are some strange and disturbed men around.”

  Standing there patiently looking out of the window, time was laying heavy, ten past, quarter past, twenty past, eventually reaching quarter to six. Grant finally kept on walking after the mandatory one hundred yards instead of turning around. Carol’s friend picked up her belongings from her desk and left the building looking carefully around in case this tramp-like character changed his mind and came back.

  Every time Joanna went to work she looked for that shabby man who never seemed to follow her, which was a relief but he was always outside the court on the other side of the road whenever she arrived or left. Joanna was determined to go up to him one day and challenge him. Joanna was not the only person to have noticed.

  “Have you seen that scruffy urchin?”

  “What scruffy urchin.”

  “That one who’s always outside.”

  “Oh, I know the one you mean.”

  “Why is he always there?”

  “Don’t know.”

  This was typical of a conversation that could be heard in the tea room.

  “He stays on the public pavement so no one can do anything about it.”

  “Maybe, but it’s not right.”

  Grant tended to look scruffier and scruffier and less kempt which did not go unnoticed by Joanna and, although he didn’t quite look like a tramp or vagrant, it seemed to her he was heading in that direction.

  How right she was. Since no longer being able to cope with the demands of his job or any other job Grant had no income. No income meant rent was hard to find and he’d been turned out of his flat. The streets of London were now his home.

  Have you ever spent a night on the streets of London? I have, but only with a friend when we decided to stay up and walk around in the West End until day break. That was, of course, not what I meant when asking the question. Grant had been lying in a shop doorway when day finally broke. Summer was now turning into autumn and this night had been cold and uncomfortable with little sleep. ‘No money, No home, Please Help’ was written on a card next to him with a cardboard box to place money in. Was anything in it? Yes there was but only enough for a cup of tea, but what the heck, it’s better than nothing. He could wait a little longer and an hour passed. The sun was well up and just 25p more had been added to the meagre kitty. He stood, gathered his things, especially the price of a cup of tea, and started walking. It matters little which direction. Grant had nowhere to go.

  He sat down near Waterloo station and for the first time since childhood – cried. Crying is not something grown men do very much and many think it a sign of weakness. Men, women, children and babies cry for the same reason; they are unable to cope, crying is the ultimate response when you just don’t know what to do. The older you become the more you can cope. For a few moments Grant was unable to cope with what his life had become or what the future may hold ‘And her tears ‘flowed like wine’, as the song title goes but this time they were his tears and it’s all the fault of that thieving Verity woman, so Grant believed. Passers-by didn’t seem to notice or if they did they certainly didn’t care. The tears didn’t last long before Grant was able to stabilise his mind and think a little more positively. The climax of his depression had past and he made his way to a converted caravan and managed a cup of tea courtesy of those few strangers who’d at least given him some small change.

  * * *

  For Carol matters couldn’t be better, she’d had several discussions with Fielding Novels and it now seems as though Dead Letter Perfect will be published and she was getting more and more exited and a little nervous. After all these months she still hadn’t looked at the manuscript so unhelpfully returned by Phil Johnson’s secretary. Will she ever? And what of Grant’s letter? Will it ever reach her door mat? Not that it matters, he can’t be reached at the address he gave.

  Grant was finding it ever more difficult to keep his sanity as well as his physical health. An unseasonal cold spell was giving a forewarning of the winter to come and had left him desperate.

  Why didn’t he go home? He hadn’t been in touch with his family now for several months. Surely they must be getting worried.

  Three old men, homeless, drinking cans of beer, were sitting around a fire started by one of them in an old drum. A much younger man approached and sat near the heat. The other men said nothing. The younger man just warmed himself. A few minutes passed, it may have been much longer for the younger man’s mind seemed empty, indeed it was empty, he was conscious and yet not so at the same time. Sounds of traffic passing were meaningless sounds to him; he could both hear and not hear them at the same moment.

  “Move on,” a stern male voice spoke out. The young man heard it but there was no reaction. The words were repeated, “Move on.” The young man came out of his semi-trance state, looked over in the direction of the voice and saw a middle-aged police sergeant with a much younger constable. The three old men had collected their things, in so far as they had any, and were on their way to another barrel on another piece of open ground. Grant did the same, though he walked off in the opposite direction.

  The two policemen saw to it that the fire was properly out and carried on with their duties.

  * * *

  Winter was now well in and it was a cold evening. Grant had to find somewhere warm. He entered a large department store but was soon ejected. With no money, Grant sat down outside the store with his cap lying at his feet by his homeless-penniless sign and little difference it made. People were so used to beggars on London’s streets they scarcely noticed.

  Tempting though it had sometimes been, Grant had managed to keep away from crime. No, that’s not quite true. A few days earlier he’d seen a first floor window open. It was not a difficult climb up to the window which Grant was able to fully open and scramble through entering the building at around 11pm. It was an office in a small warehouse which some careless employee had left vulnerable. That night Grant at least kept warmer.

  Another cold night, the young man was hungry and broke. Warmth and food were a desperate necessity. He walked along five or six streets pushing on every front door to see if it was locked and examined every accessible window cursing his luck that everyone these days was so conscientious, especially at night. But his luck was to change that night. One person had been a little thoughtless and our young man was able to see, even in the dark, a window pane was cracked with a small hole at the edge. The lesson to learn here is to always repair a broken window as soon as you can. This window was at the rear of the house. Taking a filthy unlaundered germ-ridden handkerchief, the only one he had, the young man took hold of the glass and tried pulling it off. It was trickier than you might think. It finally broke with a cracking sound resonating for all in the neighbourhood to hear. The young man froze, no lights came on, it seemed that no one heard the window breaking. Grant kept at his task carefully placing each piece of glass on the ground until one slipped from his grasp and fell crashing, once more it seemed loud enough to wake the dead. The dead weren’t awakened but one neighbour was. Gra
nt hurried behind the back garden shed treading on a number of unsuspecting flowers when a light from next-door illuminated the rear of the house, an upper window opened. After a moment a middle-aged man poked his head through and looked around, after seeing nothing the head retreated, the window closed. A few moments later the light was extinguished. The young man presumed the police had not been summoned as the light would have remained on while the call was in progress. Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness Grant immerged from behind the shed and climbed into the house through the window taking extreme care not to cut himself on the damaged glass lingering dangerously around the edges of the frame.

  A blast of warm air from the central heating hit Grant as he landed on the kitchen floor. For a moment he stood there and appreciated the first real warmth he’d felt for a long time and was completely oblivious to the possibility that someone was in the house. In a moment or two Grant returned to his senses and presumed no one was in, if there was surely they would have been awakened by the noise as was the neighbour. The first objective was to find a quick way out in case it was needed; he went over to the kitchen door which led out into the garden, turned the latch key to the unlocked position and slightly opened it to ensure that he could do so. Grant had fulfilled the need for warmth, now came the search for food. Ironically for a cold night he went straight for the fridge where he found and soon devoured two pork pies. If only he had the nerve to stick around and cook a meal, a feast would have been available but rather than risk it he took a plastic carrier bag lying on the kitchen table and filled it with various items of food mainly pre-cooked from the fridge and elsewhere.

  Grant was not in the ordinary sense a thief but things were desperate and he took it upon himself to search for money. There were lots of pockets to rummage through along with other things, biscuit tins that may contain money.