Open Your Eyes

by Paula Daly

  ‘Depends on how many five-star reviews it had.’

  ‘Let’s say ten.’

  ‘Well, no, probably not.’

  ‘And let’s say a book you were not so excited about had dozens of glowing five-star reviews, comments along the lines of: “An instant bestseller!” “A classic!” “Leon Campbell has created a masterpiece this time!” Would you buy that book?’

  I went cold.

  ‘Did Leon actually write those things?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘Yes, Leon actually wrote those things … and many more. I’m happy to show you all of this if you would be willing to meet. I can come north. I can get to Liverpool in say, two hours … two and a half?’

  ‘Around that,’ I said reluctantly.

  ‘The evidence is more than compelling, Mrs Campbell. Particularly now that we have the websites too.’

  ‘What websites?’

  ‘The ones Leon created devoted entirely to the denigration of another author.’ Giles Beatty was about to go on, but he paused. ‘You really never knew about any of this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He never talked of it? Mentioned it? I only ask because your husband went kind of rogue on this, Mrs Campbell. He went to extraordinary lengths, and it would have been all-consuming, I expect.’

  I thought about all the hours Leon had spent alone in the attic. Not working. Blocked. I thought about the loan he’d taken out just to cover the month-to-month household expenses because he’d not been able to write.

  ‘He never mentioned it,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I am surprised because—’

  ‘Look, until you show me proof,’ I cut in, ‘I’m not going to make the assumption that these things were created by Leon. It’s totally crazy. What if it was done by someone wanting to sabotage Leon’s work instead?’

  Giles Beatty took a weary breath. ‘We’ve had a very skilled set of technicians working on this story for over a year, Mrs Campbell. I assure you I would not be going ahead with the article unless I was absolutely certain of my facts.’

  I closed my eyes.

  I thought about the folder entitled ‘Bad Reviews’ I’d found on Leon’s computer, and realized, with sickening clarity, that it was unlikely those reviews were ever received by Leon himself. They were his bank of judgements for others. He fished them out when he needed them and posted them on online forums.

  ‘OK, I’ll meet you,’ I said.

  I waited in the Adelphi Hotel bar, next to Lime Street Station.

  When he arrived, I asked Giles Beatty if he wanted something to eat but he told me he’d had a full English on the train. ‘Virgin do a half-decent fry-up,’ he said, impressed, as if dealing with bacon and eggs required real skill.

  He wore a clean shirt, dirty spectacles, and carried an extra twenty pounds around his middle. I surveyed him as he took his seat, emptying his bag of his laptop, phone, and an envelope folder that had once been used for a purpose other than ‘Leon Campbell’ – lettering which was now printed above a scored-out name.

  I tried to discern his intentions. He wanted something. Didn’t everyone? He wouldn’t be making the trip north for no reason.

  So what did he want?

  ‘I thought Leon might be joining us,’ he said hopefully.

  ‘Leon’s in no position to talk to you. Perhaps I should have made that clearer.’

  ‘How’s his recovery?’

  I shrugged, reluctant to give this man any more information than was necessary. ‘It’s been a process. Challenging’s the word I might use.’

  ‘Is he working right now?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Is he writing anything?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be well enough to tackle something eventually? Another book?’ he asked.

  I held his gaze. ‘Would you like to know what it is that we’re tackling right now, Mr Beatty?’

  He nodded, not sure where I was going with this on account of my barbed tone.

  ‘Right now, every time Leon makes toast he almost burns the house down. He can’t remember that setting the timer to maximum keeps the toast in there longer. He thinks maximum means intensity. So every day he whacks the thing up to the highest setting, thinking it will toast his bread faster, and every day it catches fire. Even though I’ve attached a note to the toaster telling him not to use it. He sees the note and thinks I’m trying to control him. So that’s where we’re at. And you see why your timing with this article is less than ideal.’

  He nodded, acknowledging my words, but decided to continue to probe nonetheless. ‘Have the doctors given you any clue as to his long-term prognosis?’ he asked. ‘Any idea how it might be with regards to working again?’

  ‘We try not to think about it.’

  ‘But what did the doctors say?’

  ‘We really don’t know at this point.’

  ‘But if you had to call it?’

  ‘Then you’d be the last person I’d tell.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Most brain-injured patients never return to the work they did before, Mr Beatty,’ I said.

  ‘Giles, please.’

  ‘Their brains simply can’t cope with the amount of information necessary, and so they often end up in minimum-wage employment.’

  ‘That’s very sad.’

  ‘Isn’t it,’ I said flatly.

  I took a sip of my drink. I’d ordered a San Pellegrino and could feel the cold liquid streaming behind my sternum. ‘We’re relying on the money from the sales of his backlist right now,’ I said. ‘It’s not a lot, but we’re relying on it. And if you write this article, and it has a deleterious effect on Leon’s image, then I’m not sure what we’ll do …’ I let the words hang.

  Giles didn’t respond.

  ‘What exactly is it that you want from us?’ I asked.

  ‘I just want to talk to you and get your side of the—’

  I held up my palm. I enunciated slowly. ‘What. Do. You. Want? I have very little time available to me right now. I’ve called in sick this morning to meet with you, so I suggest you say whatever it is you came here to say.’

  He sat back in his chair with an air of resignation. ‘I was hoping to interview Leon,’ he admitted, and when I went to argue the case against that ever happening, he talked over me. ‘I see now that was presumptuous. I really didn’t know what … what the full extent of Leon’s limitations were. I just sort of assumed he’d lost his memory. I apologize. That was insensitive. But look,’ he said, leaning forward again, ‘I know for certain Leon carried out this sustained attack on another author. Others know he did it too. Leon was clever, but he was also pretty stupid at the same time. I’m not so interested in getting you to believe me; I have all the proof I need. What I’m really interested in is the why.’

  ‘The why,’ I mirrored back.

  ‘That’s what I need to tie this story together. As it stands, all we have is professional jealousy as a motivator, but I can’t help feeling that it goes deeper than that. Leon’s demonstrated a level of hatred that is completely unprecedented, and I’d really like to know where that comes from.’ He looked at me as if to say: Any thoughts?

  ‘I can’t help you.’

  ‘Did you talk to him about my coming here?’ he asked.

  ‘He doesn’t know.’

  ‘I owe it to the author involved to proceed with this.’

  ‘Even if it damages Leon?’

  He looked away. ‘Even if it damages Leon,’ he said. ‘Obviously, I didn’t anticipate this set of circumstances when I began to cover this. I wanted to expose Leon for all the damage he’d done. I felt it was only fair on the person involved who’s suffered humiliation, had their name smeared, watched helplessly as their book sales tumbled. I felt it was essential Leon be brought to task over his actions. I’ll be completely honest with you, Jane – can I call you Jane? I wanted to publicly shame Leon.’

  ‘Wanted to or want?’

  For a
moment he didn’t answer.

  Then he said, ‘Wanted,’ firmly.

  Past tense.

  ‘So what changed your mind?’ I asked. ‘Because I’m assuming that small sob story about his backlist and our financial situation wouldn’t affect a hardened journalist such as yourself.’

  Giles Beatty looked at me levelly. ‘Frankie Ridonikis changed my mind.’

  I frowned. ‘Frankie?’

  ‘He told me he wouldn’t lend his name to the piece, wouldn’t comment upon any of this, if I was to go ahead and shame Leon. Now that Leon was … well, now that Leon wasn’t the person he used to be any more. He didn’t think it was fair.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What’s Frankie Ridonikis got to do with any of this?’

  Giles Beatty’s eyes went wide. ‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Absolutely everything. Frankie Ridonikis is the author Leon tried to destroy. Has completely destroyed, in fact. I’m not sure he’s got much of a career left.’

  I swallowed. ‘Frankie Ridonikis,’ I said. ‘You’re quite sure?’

  Giles Beatty nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re sure you don’t mean Alistair Armitage?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Alistair Armitage.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  39

  The event was being held in the Arts Theatre, inside the Victoria Gallery and Museum. Parked near the entrance was a black saloon. A black Volvo S90. Frankie’s car.

  Now I knew it was the car that had appeared in Leon’s video footage of the street, the car that had tried to frighten me, scare me away from digging amongst Leon’s personal files, and finding out the truth about what happened between Frankie and Leon.

  Ledecky had said dark-coloured saloon cars like that were remarkably common. Perhaps if I’d caught sight of the registration plate I’d have put two and two together earlier.

  Perhaps.

  The place was full on account of Frankie being paired with Liverpool screenwriter Jimmy McGovern. They were here to discuss how the city informed their writing, and how the people of Liverpool themselves featured in their work.

  I’d watched Frankie speak to readers several times before, but never alongside someone of Jimmy McGovern’s calibre. Another type of crowd had been drawn today. There were students from the university, English professors, as well as Liverpool’s well-heeled. Frankie’s literary events were usually populated with a different demographic: readers between the ages of fifty-five and seventy, mostly women, with the occasional man who came along, I suspected, so his wife wouldn’t have to park the car.

  I sat in the back row; Frankie didn’t know I was here. I had the folder and the book resting on my lap, and as the event came to a close, the last questions taken from the audience, I began to shift restlessly in my seat. A film and literature student, who’d announced herself as such, asked Jimmy McGovern what kept him continuing to write after all these years, and he laughed uproariously, before his clip-on microphone fell from his collar to the floor, and there followed a small moment of chaos as he was reattached.

  Then that was the end.

  The sponsors announced that sadly there would be no more time for questions, but that Frankie would be signing books in the foyer, and Jimmy was happy to stay behind for photographs.

  I rose from my seat.

  I made my way forward into Frankie’s line of vision.

  Gripping the folder and the book in one hand, I waved my other around to attract Frankie’s attention. He shaded his eyes from the bright overhead lights and his face darkened with concern as soon as he saw my expression. ‘Can I speak to you?’ I mouthed. ‘Urgently.’

  Frankie quickly made his apologies to the host and followed me, taking the steps two at a time, out of the theatre to the lobby area outside.

  ‘Jane,’ he said, running to catch up. ‘What’s wrong? Has something happened to Leon?’

  He was panting a little. His shirt was crumpled as if he’d slept in it and his breath was as it always tended to be these days: sour and pungent from last night’s booze.

  ‘You could say that,’ I said.

  I handed him the folder. Inside was the manuscript. Alistair Armitage’s manuscript.

  He took the folder, but he didn’t open it. Instead, his eyes rested on the hardback I was holding. It was Frankie’s debut novel. A signed first edition. Probably worth something now.

  His mouth dropped open ever so slightly.

  ‘Look in the folder, Frankie.’

  He held my gaze. He wouldn’t do it. But at least he now knew why I was here.

  ‘Jane,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’ve got people in there waiting for me.’

  ‘They’ll wait. Look in the folder.’

  He opened it and flicked through the pages. I saw him swallow. Saw his jaw tighten.

  ‘I don’t know what this is.’

  ‘Sure you do.’

  He exhaled long and hard. Pulled his hand through his hair.

  I reached forward, and I touched his cheek. ‘Run away with me, Jane,’ I whispered, mimicking him. ‘Remember saying that? Remember saying that to me? How very desperate you were, Frankie, to keep me away from this.’

  I smiled at him.

  ‘Remember taking somebody else’s novel too, Frankie? Remember passing it off as your own?’

  He handed the folder back. ‘This is worthless.’

  ‘Is it,’ I said flatly. ‘See, I don’t think it is. The first time I read Alistair’s manuscript I’d assumed Leon had stolen it for himself. I couldn’t really think which one of Leon’s novels it became though. So when I read it again yesterday, and then I read your debut novel all over again – Nightwatch – I was kind of stunned to see so many similarities. In fact, this is such an odd thing, but they’re almost identical plot-wise. You see, I was so focused on Leon’s annotations, I didn’t realize he’d made those notes for you to use, Frankie.’

  I waited for him to say something. He shifted his weight to his other foot.

  ‘Alistair Armitage wasn’t threatening Leon with plagiarism, was he?’ I said. ‘He was pissed off at him for giving the manuscript to you. For handing it over to you, and then not saying anything when you got your first deal by reproducing it in your own words … How many countries did that book go on to sell in again? I can’t quite remember.’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘Bravo.’

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’re—’

  ‘How did Leon come by Alistair’s novel in the first place? That’s what I can’t work out.’

  ‘They were in a writing group together, not that it’s relevant; they critiqued each other’s work. Leon was helping him make it a better novel when he gave it to me. He thought I could learn from it … to use it as a work-in-progress study.’

  ‘Why didn’t Alistair go to your publishers? Why not tell them you’d stolen it?’

  ‘He couldn’t prove anything. What exactly do you want, Jane?’

  ‘Why, have I got you nervous?’

  He looked away. ‘What do you want?’ he repeated. ‘Spit it out, or I’ll—’

  ‘What?’ I snapped. ‘What will you do? Try and kill me as well? I know what you did, Frankie. I know what you did to Leon. And I know what you did to Alistair, the poor sod. Did you really have to kill him? He would’ve kept his mouth shut. Couldn’t you have just threatened him?’

  Frankie looked around, over his shoulder, to check if anyone could hear what I was saying. The foyer was empty.

  ‘I know you didn’t want this information to go public,’ I went on. ‘And I know that every time you thought I was getting too near to it, every time I was on the verge of discovering, you tried to frighten me. You made sure I backed off.’

  ‘Jane, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Leave now, and I’ll spare you the embarrassment of calling security.’

  I laughed in his face. ‘I’m not leaving, you idiot.
Do you think I came here looking for clarification? Do you think I want an apology? I’m not here to hear you say the words “I did it … I shot Leon.” I don’t care about that.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘I want what’s mine.’

  ‘Yours?’

  I nodded. ‘I’m not going to be greedy, Frankie,’ I said, ‘but I want the money Leon lost. I want the money he lost while he was blocked, while he wasn’t writing … while you two were too busy sabotaging each other’s careers to write, while you were trying to destroy each other with all the negative reviews, the negative press … I want the money I owe to Charlie, and I want a little bit more as well to tide me over.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Thirty thousand.’

  He laughed. ‘I don’t have thirty thousand.’

  ‘Course you do.’

  Frankie rubbed his face with his hands.

  After a moment he said, ‘Thirty thousand, and then that’s it? That’s the end of this? You’ll never go to the police? You’ll leave me alone?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  A door opened behind Frankie and a woman in an orange blouse started to walk towards us. ‘Mr Ridonikis—’

  Frankie held his hand up. ‘Just a minute.’

  ‘Mr Ridonikis, I really must ask you to—’

  ‘Just a minute, I said. I’ll be back in there in a minute. Please show some courtesy.’ He turned back towards me. ‘Thirty grand and you assure me this is over?’

  ‘You’ll never see me again. I’ve signed a long-term lease on a house on the south coast and we’re all leaving on Saturday. You can transfer the money to …’ I reached into my pocket and withdrew a piece of paper with a sort code and account number on it. ‘You can transfer it into this. The names of the account holders are Mr and Mrs Campbell. Do it and you’ll never hear from me again.’

  Frankie took the paper and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. ‘I can maybe have it to you by Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday works.’

  ‘And you won’t be back for more?’

  ‘No,’ I said, and I paused. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Is that what Leon did? Did Leon come back for more?’