Crossing the Lines

by Sulari Gentill

  “You think I’m mad?”

  “Yes and no…you’re a writer.”

  “So you think I should keep going?”

  “Could I stop you if I wanted to?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  The agent extracted a notebook from her bag and opened it to make a note. “When’s your next Veronica Killwilly novel due?”

  “I’ve only just submitted the latest manuscript, so not for about a year.”

  “How long will you need to write it?”

  “Four, maybe five months.”

  “Then you have about seven months to play with Mr. McGinnity. Let’s see how it comes out. In the meantime, I’ll speak to some publishers, see what they think about Madeleine d’Leon writing something more…well, something new.”

  Madeleine beamed. Edward paused. She really did have a beautiful smile. It transformed her.

  Willow looked at him thoughtfully. “Why is she so caught up with this story?”

  “She’s a writer, it’s what she does.”

  “But why is this story different? She’s obviously written books before. Why does she become so involved with this one? I know you, Ned McGinnity. You’re not going to write a simple happy tale about a crime-writer.”

  Edward considered for a moment. “She’s lonely.”

  “She’s married.”

  “Even so. I think there’s a silence between her and her husband that she doesn’t know how to overcome.” He returned to the tea room to explain.

  “Should I talk to the publishers about giving you some time off to…?” Leith began looking closely at Madeleine.

  Something flickered in Madeleine’s eyes. A kind of panicked sadness, a telltale glassiness.

  “Hugh wants to stop trying for a while,” she said. “The last miscarriage…he just thinks we should stop.”

  “And you? What do you think?”

  “I think he’s wrong…but if he doesn’t want to, how can I force him, Leith?”

  “Does he know how you feel?”

  Madeleine shrugged.

  “Have you talked about it, at least?”

  “I don’t know how to…it’s so sad and serious. It’s not us…perhaps he’s right.”

  “You should talk to him, Maddie.”

  “Things are just beginning to feel normal.” Madeleine tried to force her voice to sound ordinary, light. She tried to conceal the thick disappointment, the terror that this was it. “I don’t want to push it. Hugh’s work is really demanding at the moment.” She smiled again. This time it was pensive and strained. “I’ll give it a few months. Maybe once I finish this book.”

  “Oh, Maddie…”

  “I’m just so sad for it, Leith…it would have had such a wonderful life if it had stayed…we could have given it so much…if it had stayed.”

  “You’re not giving up, are you?” Leith asked.

  “No, I’m not.” Madeleine bit her lip. “Though sometimes I wonder if Hugh and I will ever…What’s it like, really?”

  The agent sighed happily. She had three children. “I could tell you about the awful parts, but you won’t believe me. No woman ever does—it must some kind of evolutionary deafness designed to ensure the human race continues.”

  Madeleine waited. She’d asked Leith this question before and she needed to hear the answer again.

  “It’s hard to describe exactly,” Leith continued. “You think you couldn’t love anyone more than you love Hugh, but when you have a baby, that love will seem small and pale. You’ll love Hugh more because he loves your baby, but he’ll be a distant second—and you will be for him—but neither of you will mind. It’s a strange, mighty all-consuming love.” She sighed. “I’m glad you’re not giving up.” Leith frowned then, as a thought occurred. “Do you want me to talk to Hugh?”

  Madeleine laughed and looked warmly at her friend. “Leith, you’re my literary agent.”

  “I’m quite happy to insert kicking your husband’s backside into my job description at no extra charge.”

  “Thank you, but Hugh and I will work it out…eventually.”

  The agent studied her, considered her. “Then we should have cake.”

  “Does she really think that?” Willow asked. “Your agent? About children?”

  Edward nodded. “Yes. She complains that they’ve destroyed her life…but she does believe that.”

  Willow leaned forward and stole a forkful of his cake. “What do you think, Ned?”

  “About kids? I don’t know. I don’t have any. Maybe I’ll feel that way, but I can’t imagine loving anyone more than—” He stopped. “I don’t know.”

  “Elliot doesn’t think it’s right to bring children into a world when there are already too many people on the planet,” Willow murmured, half to herself.

  Madeleine could hear what Edward thought of Elliot, but of course Willow could not.

  “You should do what you want to, Will,” he said quietly.

  She looked at him uncertainly for a moment, and then she smiled brightly, shaking off the wistfulness he’d seen just moments before. “That’s not the way the world works, Ned, my darling. Elliot’s probably right.”

  Moving On

  Madeleine wasn’t really sure what came next. She didn’t write police procedurals for good reason. They required an insight into police practice that she didn’t have. Who knew what paperwork or procedure was involved in the investigation of a murder? Who knew what happened first or how long it took? The Veronica Killwilly novels were set in 1916, the protagonist a domestic servant who investigated crime in a town the war had denuded of men. Veronica didn’t work with the police and if their paths did happen to cross, the internal workings of the constabulary were glossed over with the sepia lens of history.

  This was different. Edward’s story was contemporary. A careless inaccuracy might pull the reader sharply from the world she was trying to create. A discordant detail could break the spell.

  But what would happen next? Madeleine presumed the coroner would conduct a post-mortem, but how long would that take?

  She discussed the problem with Hugh over breakfast.

  “High-profile death like that would probably be rushed through,” he said. “But does it really matter what the coroner says? It’s not as if it could be anything but murder.”

  “He could have simply fallen,” Madeleine replied, pouring maple syrup onto her bowl of porridge.

  “Why would he have been in the fire escape? I don’t think the police would need to wait for the coroner to decide it was murder.”

  Madeleine nodded. “You’re right.” She was relieved. It was not that Hugh knew any more than she about the ins and outs of police procedure, but his logic was comforting. Perhaps she could just take for granted that the police would investigate. It was what Edward McGinnity would do that interested her. Hopefully that was what readers would focus upon too.

  “How did your meeting with Leith go?” Hugh asked through a mouthful of cornflakes.

  Madeleine told him about the possibility of a television series. “It’ll probably come to nothing.”

  “Your enthusiasm’s a bit underwhelming, Maddie.”

  “I write books—television is for someone else to get worked up about.”

  “Still, it’d be nice to be rich. Maybe you should be concentrating on the Killwilly novels.”

  “Oh, Hugh, they talk about a television series every couple of years. It won’t come to anything.”

  “But if it does, you could keep me in the style to which I’d like to become accustomed.”

  Maddie laughed. “Let’s just wait and see, shall we?”

  “Fair enough. What have you planned for today?” Hugh made a sandwich with toast and jam to take with him. He had rounds at the hospital this morning.

  “I’m wr
iting,” she replied. “I might bake a cake if I get time.”

  “Would you like me to speak to Jeeves?”

  “No. A Swiss roll from the supermarket isn’t going to cut it. I feel like proper cake. Would you grab some black cherries on your way home?”

  “Black cherries?”

  “Just the tinned variety. I have a hankering for Black Forest cake, for some reason.”

  Hugh pulled a pen from his breast pocket and wrote “black cherries” on his hand. “Jeeves will be hurt, but I’ll try.”

  Once Hugh had departed, Madeleine settled in her writing chair, an old wingback that had been worn in the just the right spots. The throw which covered it hid the tears in the plaid upholstery and a past calamity with coffee. It was positioned near the fire and a power strip, into which she plugged her laptop.

  Madeleine closed her eyes and waited for Edward McGinnity, called him from that part of her soul where stories are held awaiting release.

  He was just waking, rising drowsy and bare-chested from a bed that bore the dishevelled imprint of a restless night. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and rubbed his face.

  Madeleine softened. In sleep the features of men became soft and innocent, and they seemed to wake as the little boys they once were.

  Edward looked up and for a breath it seemed that their eyes met, locked, that they recognised one another. He smiled faintly and reached for one of the notebooks he kept on the trunk beside the bed. Rolling onto his stomach, he pulled a pillow under his chest and wrote.

  Madeleine noticed the scar on his lower back then; wide and slightly raised, it ran from his spine around his torso beneath his ribcage. The accident that had killed his family—he must have been in the car, too.

  Although she wondered what he remembered, Madeleine did not stop to define this part of Edward McGinnity’s backstory. He would tell her when he was ready to do so…give her access to his memories some night as she was falling asleep or early in the morning when the dreams of the people in her head became her own.

  The telephone rang. Edward groaned and shut the notebook. He rolled over, realising he’d left his phone on the coffee table by the couch. Taking the stairs three at a time he made it to the phone before it rang out.

  “McGinnity,” he said as he snatched up the receiver. “Leith…Blast! I’m so sorry. I slept in.”

  Madeleine typed more quickly, pleased that she’d managed to work another of her friends into Edward’s story.

  “Half an hour?” Edward said. “Sure…What about here? I have coffee and I think there’s some cake left.”

  Putting down the phone, he ran back up the stairs to shower and dress, returning in jeans and a crewneck jumper under which he wore a collared shirt. He set about brewing a pot of coffee.

  A knock.

  “Door’s open.”

  “Mr. McGinnity?”

  Edward stepped out of the kitchen. “Who are you?”

  The man standing just inside his threshold wore a too-fitted suit with an open-collared shirt. He smelled of deodorant applied excessively. A second man, in a Dr. Who t-shirt, stood at the open door with a video camera and boom mike. “What the dickens—?” Edward began.

  “I was hoping you could answer a few questions, Mr. McGinnity.”

  “Questions? About what?”

  “About the death of Mr. Vogel, sir.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Peter Blake, sir. I’m from Channel Six.”

  “You’re a reporter?”

  “Would you mind answering a few questions about last night, Mr. McGinnity?”

  “Yes, I would mind.”

  “Is it true that Miss Meriwether threatened the deceased?”

  “Of course not. I think you should leave.”

  “Is it true that the police consider Miss Meriwether a person of interest?”

  “Get out!”

  “Were you aware that Mr. Vogel had submitted a very negative review of Miss Meriwether’s exhibition?”

  The question distracted Edward from his intention to throw the man out. “How could he have? He died at the opening.”

  “It seems a number of critics were given an advance viewing so that their reviews could come out as soon as possible. Mr. Vogel was delivering Channel Six’s Arts Report, so you can understand we’re taking a particular interest.”

  Edward regarded the reporter coldly. “You’re trespassing. Leave.”

  “You invited me in, Mr. McGinnity.”

  “Get out before I throw you out!”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. McGinnity?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Ned!” Leith Henry sidestepped the cameraman and walked into the house. “What’s going on here?”

  Edward threw his arms in the air. “Reporters. They won’t leave.”

  Leith looked sternly at the men from Channel Six. “Gentlemen, Mr. McGinnity has asked you to leave and now he has a witness you can’t edit out.”

  Blake opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to think better of it. He pulled out a card and placed it on the hall table. “We really are interested in finding out what actually happened, Mr. McGinnity. Geoffrey Vogel was a much-loved personality and a personal friend.”

  “I’m afraid that particular friendship does nothing to recommend you, sir,” Edward snarled.

  Blake bristled, but he replied evenly. “Please call me when you’re ready to tell your side of the story.”

  Leith cleared her throat and looked towards the door. Blake conceded, backing out.

  “What the hell did he mean by my side?” Edward asked as Leith shut and bolted the door.

  “Why did you let them in?”

  “I thought it was you. God, sorry…you don’t even know…”

  “Yes, I do.” Leith pulled a newspaper from her bag. The death of Geoffrey Vogel was splashed across the front page. “It looks like you had quite the evening.”

  Edward took the paper and scanned the article. Clearly someone had spoken to the media.

  He sighed. “Coffee?”

  Leith nodded. “Well said.”

  Leith salvaged the remains of cake from the refrigerator whilst Edward poured coffee. As he did so he read the article in the Herald, which reported the murder and eulogised the television arts presenter and renowned literary editor. The piece credited Geoffrey Vogel with having a hand in the careers of some of the nation’s greatest writers and artists. It alleged a bitter falling-out between Willow Meriwether and Vogel, precipitated by his critique of her exhibition as “shallow and lacking originality.”

  “Bloody hypocrite,” Edward muttered.

  Leith pulled a stool up to the kitchen bench, placed the cake between them and handed him a fork. “You’d better tell me what happened last night.”

  Edward did so.

  “So Vogel and Meriwether weren’t at odds, as far as you could see?”

  “No. He couldn’t tell her enough how wonderful she was…thought one of her paintings was a tribute to him.”

  “And was it?”

  “God, no! It was a painting of my desk. Will stayed here for a week when she was fighting with Elliot last year. She painted the couch, the coat stand, and my bed as well, I think.”

  “Your bed?” Leith grinned.

  “I wasn’t in it…and neither was she.” Edward laughed. “Will has an obsession with furniture—it’s an art thing.”

  Leith read through the article again. “You aren’t mentioned, so let’s just wait and see. If your friend from Channel Six decides to bring you into it somehow, we may have to issue a press release.”

  “What about Will?”

  “Adrian Barrington is her agent isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “He knows what he’s doing, Ned. He�
��s probably already dealt with it.” She rummaged through her handbag and extracted a notebook and pen. “Forget about all that. We need to talk about you.” Leith looked at him, glowing.

  “What?” he said recognising a certain triumph in her manner.

  “I’ve found a publisher for Sentience.”

  Edward stared at her in horror. Sentience had been his first novel. It had been signed by a major publishing house before Geoffrey Vogel had destroyed it. Edward had come to hate what his novel had become…he’d pulled it from publication himself. Buried it. Leith had somehow kept him from being sued by the publishing house. “Leith, what have you done?”

  Leith placed a hand on his arm. “I sent the original manuscript, Ned. I kept an unedited version—as you wrote it. They liked it, they want it, and you will have full editorial control. They won’t change a comma without your say-so.”

  “Who?”

  “Barn Owl Books. They’re not a mega publisher but they have a good reputation. They can’t offer you the same advance you had with Middleton Meyer but they love the story as it is, Ned. They want to get it ready for an August release.”

  Edward said nothing for a moment. He had nearly given away writing after the train wreck of his experience with Sentience. He had been published since, to significant acclaim, but he’d mourned Sentience. He had walked away from it of his own volition, but there was something haunting about a story abandoned, characters and ideas denied the light of day. His novels since had not been written with quite the same naivety and consequent joy…until Madeleine.

  Madeleine held her breath. She wanted him to be happy about this, but she wasn’t sure…he wasn’t sure.

  Edward exhaled. “Okay, thank you.”

  “This is good news,” Leith said.

  “I know. But it’s rather like being told that someone is coming back from the dead years after you finally let them go…it takes a little getting used to.”

  Madeleine saw then. He’d written his own tragedy into Sentience, his family, his grief. No wonder he was so winded by its resurrection.

  “You want to see it published, don’t you Ned?” Leith asked.

  “Yes, I guess so. I haven’t looked at it in a couple of years…but yes.”