Ghostwritten

by David Mitchell

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” I said, sipping my tea with a cocked little finger, “but I couldn’t help noticing the title of your book.” Her eyes were calm, and faintly pleased—good. “It looks engrossing. Is there a connection with alternative healing? That’s my field, you see.”

  “Is that a fact, now?” Nice voice, rusky with sprinkled sugar. She was amused by my come-on and faintly flattered but not going to show it—too much. “Dwight Silverwind is one of the leading authorities on out-of-body experiences, or spiritwalking, as the Navaho Indians call it. Dwight’s a very special friend of mine. He’s my Life Coach. Look. This is Dwight.” On the inside cover of the jacket was a wispy white smiling man with preposterous braces. A Yank, at fifty paces. “In this book, Dwight describes transcending the limits of the corporeal body.”

  “Oh. Is it easy?” Probably easier than transcending his dress sense.

  “No. It requires a lot of mental training, to unknot and cast free the moorings that society uses to tie us down to its own reality conceits. Also, it depends on the individual’s alpha emanations. I’m quite high alpha, you’re more gamma.”

  “Beg pardon?” I detected large deposits of vanity. Vanity is the softest of bedrocks to sink shafts into.

  “I could tell when you sat down. Your emanations are more gamma than alpha.”

  “You tell without a urine sample?” I almost said “sperm sample,” but chickened out.

  She acted a laugh. This was going well. “I’m Nancy Yoakam. Holistic therapist. Here’s my card.” And here was Nancy Yoakam’s hand, lingering on my side of the table.

  “I’m Marco. I like your name, if I may say so. You should be from Nashville.”

  “I’m from Glastonbury. You know. King Arthur and the rock festival. Very pleased to meet you, Marco.” Gaze into my eyes.… You are sinking into a deeeeep sleeeeeep. Okay. But I’m a bit too old for her to be adopting that children’s TV presenter voice. She probably thinks I’m younger, most women do. That’s not vanity, it’s having Latin American genes in the pool. “You see, I’m a person watcher. I like to sit and read people. To trained eyes, humans transmit their innermost secrets. I see your fingers are ringless—tell me Marco, is there no special somebody in your life?”

  Direct. “A girlfriend, you mean?”

  “Yes, let’s suppose I do mean a girlfriend.”

  “I see several women concurrently.”

  Taking me in her stride. Eyebrow theatrically arched. Nancy did not get sprung from the Lego box yesterday. “Oh, how nice for you. A Juan Quixote. Doesn’t that get rather complicated?”

  “Well, it would do, but I always tell a woman when I first meet her that I see other women too. Like I’m telling you now. So if they don’t want to handle that, they can stop before they start. I don’t lie to people.”

  Nancy Yoakam put down Dwight Silverwind, still open but face down, and thumbed her lips coquettishly. “If you ask me, that’s a very sophisticated way of luring women.”

  “I don’t mean it to be. Why do you say so?”

  “It sends out a challenge: ‘You could be the one to change me, you could be the one to make me believe in love again.’ Dwight calls it the ‘Bird with the Broken Wing Syndrome.’ ”

  Iannos brought me my tea, and tutted at me like a wily peasant. I thanked him and ignored him.

  “Never thought of that. Maybe you’re right, Nancy.” Always a pleasure to discover insight in a vacuum. “I don’t not believe in love. I just think it follows its own rather perverse rules of conduct, which I cannot fathom. Actually, I’ve been in love twice, which I think is rather a lot. Excuse me if I devour this falafel, would you? I’m ravenous.”

  “Go ahead. Why do you think we met today, Marco? Why you, why here, why now? Would you like to hear what I think it was?”

  “Blind chance?”

  “When we say chance, we mean ’emanations.’ Dwight would say that your gamma was drawn to my alpha. The north magnetic pole is drawn to the south in an identical way.”

  Dwight was beginning to piss me off. I sat down because my mate Iannos offered me a free falafel. I sat where I did because there was nowhere else to sit. If Nancy Yoakam had been a bloke I would have been halfway to the door already. She had an interesting mind—possibly—but all this New Age tosh was daubed over it. However, there was a free shag on my dick’s radar, so I stayed and sat through “How Crystal Healing Can Change Your Life.” Amethyst is good for depression. Nancy’s best friends were minerals. By the time I got her phone number I was no longer even interested in phoning her.

  What’s wrong with me?

  When I was a kid and every female an unexplored continent, my heart would gasp in the wind and all colors held new truths.

  Now look at me. I shag women like I wash my shirts. More often, some weeks.

  Marco at sixteen and Marco at thirty are as different as Tierra del Fuego and Kennington.

  No good, Marco my boy, no good at all. If you think about it too much you’re lost.

  • • •

  Poppy and I had an argument a few weeks ago, which she ended by saying, “You know, Marco, you’re not stupid, but for someone so intelligent you can be pretty goddamned blind.”

  I’d had no idea whatsoever how to respond, so I made some stupid joke. I forget what.

  Time to head back.

  I live in The New Moon. My pad is an attic conversion on the top floor of the pub. It’s easy to find—if the weather’s good go to St. Katherine’s Docks and keep walking along the river, or just get any bus bound for the Isle of Dogs, and get off at the university. The pub’s almost next door to Wapping tube station. I wound up there quite by accident, of course. The Music of Chance had a gig there last winter. One of our occasional guest vocalists, Sally Leggs, introduced me to Ed and Sylv, who run the place. The gig went down well, Sally being a kind of local celebrity, and when we were chatting afterwards Ed mentioned they were looking for a lodger again.

  “What happened to the last one?” I asked. “Did a runner?”

  “No,” said Sylv, “you may as well know now. It happened almost twelve months ago. It was in the papers and we were on the News at Ten. Terrorists were using an old forgotten air-raid shelter under our beer cellar as a bomb factory. One night there was an accident, and about five bombs blew up simultaneously. Right under where you’re sitting. Hence the refit, and the name change. Used to be The Old Moon.”

  I almost giggled. But I could tell by everyone’s faces that every word was true.

  “Fuck,” I said, feeling ashamed, “that’s bad luck.”

  People stared inwards.

  “Still,” I blundered on the way I do, “something that freaky isn’t likely to happen for another couple of centuries, is it?”

  Bigmouth strikes again.

  Saturday is market day in Old Moon Road, so The New Moon was packed wall to wall with noise, smoke, grumbling, bags of vegetables, and antiques. Moya was playing darts with her new boy-friend, a squaddie called Ryan. Moya and I had done the wild thing one scratchy night. It hadn’t been such a good idea.

  Sylv was doing her shift with Derek, the part-timer. “Marco, a man called Digger was on the phone asking for you earlier. I gave him your number upstairs.”

  Oh, no. “Really? What did he want?” As if I didn’t know.

  “Wouldn’t say. But I think it’s just as well his name isn’t Slasher.”

  Sylv is not a very well woman. Her eyelids are raw pink and on her worst days they’re red and cracked. One of the regulars, Mrs. Entwhistle, told me that Sylv had lost the baby she was carrying on the night of the bomb. How do people pull themselves through things like that? I go to pieces just opening my credit card bills. But people do survive, all around us. The world runs on strangers coping. And Sylv’s been smiling a bit more recently. If that had happened to me, I’d have to sell up—if I had anything to sell up—and go and live in County Cork. But Sylv’s family owned The Old Moon for generations and so she’s staying
put in The New Moon. When there are a lot of customers I lend a hand, especially if I’m a little behind on the rent.

  There are four flights of stairs between the bar and my room. It’s a stiff climb, and the stairwell can be quite spooky at night, and sometimes in the daytime, too. The building goes back centuries. From my window there’s a fine view over the Thames, as it curves around towards Greenwich and becomes an estuary. Upstream you can see Tower Bridge. It was a clear evening, and I could see streetlights coming on as far away as Denmark Hill and Dulwich.

  If I did ever go to live in County Cork, I’d be on a boat back within a fortnight.

  I opened the door to my room and my heart went into contractions when I saw the answerphone winking. Surely not Digger. He said I wouldn’t have to pay him back until the following Tuesday. My dole check comes on Monday, and I’ll be able to persuade Barry to give me £30 for this leather jacket of Roy’s. Four messages.

  But first I bit the bullet and opened the letter from the credit card company. If they type my name and address in uppercase, it’s just a statement. If they use lowercase letters, I’m in trouble. This was uppercase.

  Even so, it hurt. Where had this money gone? A shoe shop, restaurants, music equipment, a modem. There was a nice little bit at the bottom saying that my credit limit had been extended by £300! Are these people stupid?

  Nope. They’re not remotely stupid.

  Next hurdle on the Marco Steeplechase: the answer machine.

  “Marco, this is Wendy. I know I promised not to call for a while, but I couldn’t resist. I’m sorry. Well, I’m fine. I got that place at St. Martin’s. I thought you’d like to know. I told my boss today that I was quitting. Like you said I should, I just told him. Straight out. No beating around the bush. I told him, and that was that. I know you said we should have a cooling-off period, but if you wanted to celebrate with me, I could get a cheap bottle of champagne in and I’d cook you whatever you wanted. So if you’re interested, phone me. Okay? Wendy. Ti amo, bellissima. Ciao.”

  Ah, poor kid. She’ll get over me at art college, and learn her gender endings. One down, three possible Diggers to go.

  “Ah, Marco, sorry to bother you, this is Tim Cavendish. We’re having a slight family crisis. It appears that my brother’s law firm in Hong Kong has gone down the tubes. It’s all a bit of a mess … there’s the Chinese police, asset freezing, and whatnot.… Erm, why don’t you drop in middle of next week and we’ll see how this might affect my ability to run Alfred’s book.… Erm, terribly sorry about this. ’Bye.”

  Digger would have been better.

  “Marco, this is Rob. I’m leaving the band to go and shack up with Maxine in San Francisco. ’Bye.”

  No problem; Rob leaves the band once a month. And I can stop trying to write songs that feature handbells. Last hurdle, God, please don’t let it be Digger. If he can’t contact me he can’t threaten me.

  “Dear Marco, this is Digger at Fungus Hut Recording Studios. How are you? I’m fine, thanks. This is just a friendly little message to remind you that you owe us £150 and unless you pay by five o’clock on Tuesday, then on Wednesday I will sell your drum kit for whatever the pawn shop in Tottenham Court Road will give me for it and spend the money on chocolate chip cookies for our cleaning staff. Best wishes, your loving uncle Digger.”

  Sarcastic bastard. All this fuss for a piddling £150! I’m an artist, for Christ’s sake! I bet he isn’t such an arsehole if Mick Jagger owes him money. I’ll work something out somehow.

  Some evenings I like to open the windows and meditate as the room empties into the ebbing dusk. But now I needed a crap, a shower, a joint, and a nap, in that order, before I met Gibreel in the bar downstairs around 9:30.

  I tried to phone Poppy but the line was engaged. Jealousy, with nowhere to put it. A pigeon fluttered onto my window ledge, and glanced around my room. Was that the same bastard bird whose dried shit I just washed out of my hair?

  Pigeon paranoia.

  Time for a joint with Dame Kiri Te Kanawa. The last of Josh’s Moroccan Brown … Ah, the joys of being flat broke and Generation X and surrounded by women and being miserably alone.

  My room is too much like a Methodist chapel. I’m more of a Church of the Feral Pagan type. What I need is a classy chair from a more elegant century, like Katy Forbes’s. Weird. I could remember her chair, her pepper mill, and the shape of her nipples, but not her face. She’d had a birthmark shaped like a comet.

  I got clean, rolled my joint, and as I smoked it the ceiling lost definition. Ah! Peat fire in the hollow of the golden bough … Josh gets his hands on the very best. That happy Gulliver-tied-down-by-Lilliputians feeling sagged my organs, and the next thing I knew the moon was framed by the window and Gibreel was standing over me. “Put on your zoot suit, Marco boy!”

  My gummy mouth tasted of an inner sole. My clock shone 21:45. When did I last get a good night’s sleep? How did Gibreel get a key? I always lock the door when I smoke. “Why? Where are we going?”

  “The casino!”

  I felt too mellow for my laugh to bubble up. “You’re taking the piss. I owe more money than the government of Burundi. I can’t afford to go to a casino.”

  “Which is exactly why we’re going to the casino, Marco! Win it back. Pay it off.”

  “Oh, just like that.”

  “I got the people, Marco. I got a system!”

  This time my laughter busted down the door and ran off over the hills.

  “What’s so funny, you stoner?”

  I wasn’t sure myself, I didn’t feel remotely amused by anything. It was either this or sob, I guess. I lassoed myself back and wiped the tears away. “Anyway, Gibreel, anyway. They don’t just let anybody into a casino. You have to be somebody. I’m definitely only an anybody.”

  “Don’t worry, Marco. My rich cousin from Beirut is over for the weekend. My rich cousin is definitely somebody. They run out of precious metals to color his bank cards. Tag along. You could emerge from tonight smelling of fortune.”

  “You’re a very bad influence, Gibreel.”

  “That’s why you hang out with me. King Marco, ruler of Nice-land, one day decided that he needed a bit of wickedness. And behold! Yeah, verily his plea was heard by the Angel Gibreel!” Gibreel’s eyes flashed in the semidarkness, and the darkness moved. “Got any of that hash left, Captain Marcotics?”

  We met Gibreel’s cousin some time later at a wine bar in Bloomsbury. I try not to make snap judgments, but I knew right away he was a prize wanker. He didn’t even bother to tell me his name. Sometimes you meet someone, and ten minutes pass before you realize that no, they really never are going to stop talking about themselves. He was too cool to ever remove his sunglasses. With him was a middle-aged Iranian called Kemal who had fled the revolution in the seventies. Kemal’s smile was radioactive. He clapped his hands together. “Let’s go. If I’m not mistaken Lady Luck is in the mood for some sweet loving. So, my friend—” he looked at me—“you are a man of the rouge and the noir?”

  “I’ve never used rouge in my life,” I quipped, and waited for laughter that never came. Make a note of that, Marco. No transvestite jokes. “Erm, I’m going to be more of a spectator tonight. I have a cash-flow problem.”

  “Creditors?” hissed Gibreel’s cousin in a way that made me glad I wasn’t one of his. It was the first sign of interest he’d shown in me.

  “No,” I said, “I don’t have any.”

  “Excellent! You have no creditors?”

  “No. I have no cash flow.”

  “What is this? Going to a casino, destitute and penniless?” Kemal fumbled in his shoulder bag and flung a thin stack of paper in my lap. “This cannot be, my friend.” It quivered when it landed in a way that reminded me of banknotes. Jesus, it was banknotes!

  “I can’t—”

  Kemal wasn’t listening. He fingered his beard and smiled at Rich Cousin. “Our friend Marco will do fine. Beginners are more unpredictable. But I insist on two to on
e.”

  Gibreel’s cousin snorted. “Forget it. The odds are even.”

  “Marco will do fine for what?” A cog clicked in a mechanism way bigger than me.

  “You didn’t tell him?” Rich Cousin asked Gibreel, who also had a crooked smile.

  “Marco my son,” began Gibreel, “Kemal and my cousin wish to place a bet on whether you or I come out of the casino with more money. You’ve just been given your stake to play with.”

  I even felt my smile going crooked. “I really don’t feel terribly happy about—”

  “And we get to keep any winnings, plus double the original stake. An extra three hundred.”

  “Three hundred pounds?”

  “No, three hundred lemons. Of course pounds.”

  “He worries too much,” said Rich Cousin.

  “Way too much,” agreed Gibreel.

  “It’s just a side dish for us,” said Kemal, “my friend.”

  “And if I lose all the money?”

  “Then you lose all the money,” said Kemal, “and nobody cares.”

  “And Kemal loses his bet with me,” observed Rich Cousin.

  So there we were. Me, Gibreel, and two dodgy characters I’d only known for ten minutes in the back of a taxi on our way to a casino. That made four dodgy characters in total.

  It was £150, in £5 notes so new they felt squeaky. A pert little coincidence, that. Exactly enough to pay Digger and get my drums back. Unfortunately, Gibreel’s cousin and Kemal showed me to the cashier to exchange the dosh for chips before I could think of a way to vanish down the nearest tube entrance.