I wondered if I should say something. My experiences so far suggested that these were not people who liked to be disagreed with, particularly on matters of literature.
Then again, I wanted this anthology to be good. I wanted it to sell thousands of copies, because then thousands of people would see my story. Some of them would read it. Some of them would enjoy it. Some of them might go on to read The Red River.
“I disagree!”
The Sahara Desert sprang to mind — a vast, empty wilderness where the only sound was the sound of the wind.
“I think the first idea is better,” I continued.
“Well, it isn’t!” harped Dawn.
“In my opinion, it is.”
“Well, you’ve already been outvoted, so let’s move on.”
Rafe lifted his arm and showed Dawn his plate-sized palm, then he showed it around, to make sure that everybody had noticed his objection. “I want to hear what Dee has to say.”
This was followed by some miffed murmuring, which I took as my cue to interrupt. “I just think it has more depth, and greater potential for humour. How far can you go with a couple and a detective, really? The black comedy idea gives rise to an ensemble of characters ...”
“It’s a short story!” cried Montgomery.
“Even so, I think Rafe could make the first idea work. He clearly has the ability to identify the societal quirks that need to be ridiculed in order to pull it off, and I think that’s a unique skill that should be nurtured. Anybody can write about a couple having a bit of a misunderstanding.”
Then Rafe as good as dug my grave. “I agree with Dee.”
This time, it wasn’t the Sahara Desert in my mind, but the moon. Great expanses of rock spanned in every direction. The wind no longer signified silence; it was silent. Completely silent. Eerily silent. Silent silent. Silent.
Eventually, Dawn spoke, bringing me back from my bleak fantasy world, and into the much more terrifying reality of the dining room in Pompomberry House. “I think we should elect an editor.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Montgomery.
“Hear, hear!” cried Dawn, more loudly.
“That’s a good idea,” said Rafe, “but I’d like the freedom to choose my own story, whether we have an editor or not.”
I realised that Annabel was glaring at me. What was wrong with the people and birds around here? All I wanted to do was write, yet never an hour seemed to go by without somebody giving me the evil eye.
“I don’t know whether my fallen pig should have a happy ending,” mused Dawn. “I mean, as much as I’d like to see her rescued, happy endings are just not very fashionable, are they?”
“Perhaps it could end on a cliff-hanger?” I joked.
“I think I want tears,” she said, ignoring me. “Yes, I want tears. I’m going to do it! I’m going to kill the pig!”
“Oh!” cooed Annabel, clutching her heart.
“Bittersweet endings are definitely the way to demonstrate versatility,” agreed Danger. “I am going to write about a foot. There is no way that can have a happy ending.”
“A foot?” asked Annabel, looking indignant.
“Yes, a foot washes up on the beach.”
“What, you mean ... without a body?”
“Yes, severed.”
“Well, that sounds like a great teaser for a whodunit!” roared Montgomery.
“Oh, it is not the teaser, it is the plot. I mean, it is a short story, right? I am going to describe its journey from the shallows of the sea to the tide line.”
Everybody looked at me, expecting me to say something, but my objecting days were over. I couldn’t risk losing any more goodwill among these people. Besides, we were dealing with Danger Smith — the most insipid man I’d ever met. If I talked him out of the foot idea, plan B would probably be ‘a hand washes up on a riverbank.’
“Who wants to hear my idea?” cried Montgomery. It wasn’t a question. “Sam Black’s colleague is asked to defend a murderer who, despite being despicable, gets off, so Black kills him.”
“Is that not the same as the plot of I Shot A Man?” Danger noticed.
“And I Shot Two Men,” added Annabel.
“It’s the same thing that happens in all of his books!” explained Dawn.
“Well, if it isn’t broken, don’t fix it,” said Montgomery, with a sturdy grin.
“It is a tried and tested formula,” Dawn told me with a warning glare.
I hadn’t said anything! What was I now, the token devil’s advocate?
“A formula that got me a film deal,” Montgomery pointed out, puffing out his chest.
“Judging by the trailer, it is not a very good film though, is it?” commented Danger, through his nose.
Dawn kicked him in the shins.
“Ow. Perhaps they are saving the best bits for the film,” Danger added.
Rafe hurriedly changed the focus back to Montgomery’s short story. “Those are some great foundations, Monty old chap. However, I can’t help feeling that now, four books in, you could afford to mix things up a little.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps bring in another character, give Black a different motive, get him to accidentally kill an innocent ...”
“I know!” cried Montgomery. “I could get Black to kill an innocent man ...”
“Yes?” chorused everyone, nodding enthusiastically.
“And he’s going to go down for it ...”
“Yes?”
“But then it turns out, he imagined the whole thing.”
What?
“He’s a schizo!”
WHAT?
“I like it!” said Danger.
“Very original,” Dawn added.
No it’s not! ‘It was all a paranoid delusion’ was my least favourite plot device ever, and regrettably, one of the most overused in the twenty-first century. It was the modern equivalent of ‘then she woke up and it was all a dream’ and the extent to which it annoyed me was rivalled only by two other irksome tricks: ‘the main character has been dead all along’ and ‘another instance of the character’s split personality did the crime’. I mean, sure, those ideas were great in 1999, but now they reeked of laziness and desperation.
“I’m sure you can think of a number of directions to take the idea, Montgomery,” I said, thinking I was being tactful.
“What’s wrong with the idea?” demanded Dawn.
I shrugged. What was the point of giving feedback if people were going to keep getting uppity with me?
“I get the feeling that Mrs Whittaker is not impressed,” said Montgomery, during a rare moment of perceptiveness. “Perhaps I’ll keep my books as they are — the formula that people know and love.”
“Very wise, Monty!” said Dawn.
“Or,” he cried, excitedly, “I could kill off the lawyer! Nobody will be expecting that!”
“What, and end your series?” asked Dawn, shocked.
“No, that’s the second twist — he comes back as a ghost and continues. Still unimpressed, Mrs Whittaker?” he asked, with a big, self-satisfied grin.
I tried to hide my negativity, but some of it must have escaped, because Dawn scowled at me.
“Do you have an idea, Dee?” she asked. “Or just opinions about everybody else’s?”
I was almost too terrified to share my synopsis. There seemed to be a great deal of hostility towards me as it was, without handing them something specific to criticise. Still, writers don’t get anywhere in life by being scared to share, so I took a deep breath, and braved a pitch.
“My idea is based on a real contest that I saw recently on the internet.”
No objections so far.
“Three charities are competing for a big grant from Porter and Miller, which looks all right on the surface, even though they’re a multinational corporation that could easily afford to finance all three causes ten-thousand times over ... Anyway, when you look more closely, it’s actually a popularit
y contest. Each charity is headed up by a ... well, I hate to use the word ‘bimbo’, but that about sums the spokespeople up. The three girls have all appeared on TV in their false lashes and their push-up bras promoting their causes, one of them even released a single called ‘A.F.R.I.C.A.’ to the tune of ‘D.I.S.C.O’. The point is, winning isn’t really about the causes at all, it’s about the girls. And the girls are just being used as corporate publicity whores ...”
“So, what’s your story?”
“Well, it will be a satire about the competition. I’ll change the name of the corporation, invent three new characters, none of whom gives a damn about the charities that they’re representing, and the girl in second place will be so competitive that she kills the girl in first place.”
“I say!”
“But the real catch is that after she’s murdered, the victim becomes so famous, that she wins hands down. It’s about personal greed, modern society’s preoccupation with celebrities, and people’s tendency to take every good-sounding cause at face value, particularly in the age of social networking. It draws on lessons learned from Brass Eye, The Tourist of Death ...”
“Well, sounds like a bog-standard whodunit to me,” said Montgomery, nodding.
Dawn agreed. “I’m happy with that. You can never have too many classics.”
* * *
I sat in the window seat, watching the tide come in whilst tapping words into my laptop. My first draft was almost finished. It would need a lot of work, but it wasn’t bad for a first draft.
At least discussion time was over. I could be alone with my thoughts and ideas. What a letdown this weekend had turned out to be. I’d been hoping to improve my skills, but the only person who seemed to understand my writing style was Rafe, and he was such a pretentious lump of veiny knob cheese.
I wondered what Biff was up to. Perhaps I could sneak off and talk to him. It wasn’t as though I was getting anything done sitting here anyway.
Unexpectedly, the silence was broken. The thunderous, purposeful footsteps of Montgomery could be heard. The aroma of old, stale clothes filled the room.
“Dee,” he said, in a low, drawn-out fashion. He studied me from beneath thick, hairy eyebrows.
“Yes?” I asked, when many seconds had passed without a further utterance.
“Rafe tells me you’re getting a divorce.”
Ouch.
“Did he?” I said, through gritted teeth. There was nothing I felt less like discussing. I hated the expression ‘getting a divorce’. A marital break down wasn’t an object that you could go out and get, like a house, or a new car; it was the sad passing of something complex and vast, something that had once held great promise and expectation. If the worst came, I wouldn’t just be ‘getting a divorce’, I’d be reluctantly accepting a broken heart.
“I’ve done a divorce, so if there’s anything you need to know ...” His concerned face was off-putting. It gave his face crevices large enough to conceal babies. “Anything at all ...”
“There isn’t. Thanks.”
“Did he play away?” he asked, with a knowing tone.
“What? No.”
‘Play away’ was another horrible term. How could the deep betrayal and irreversible shattering of trust ever be explained away using the word ‘play’? At least our marriage hadn’t faced that problem.
“Did you play away?” he asked.
“Nobody played away.”
“Because if you did, I know a great solicitor who can help you out.”
“I didn’t!”
“I got the house you know.”
“Good for you.”
“My wife chose it, decorated it, and raised our two kids in it, but I got the house. That’s how good my people are.”
“You must be very proud,” I muttered.
“Do you want hubby walking away with everything? Think about it ...”
“I don’t need a solicitor!” I barked. It was far too soon to be talking about lawyers. I’d only just claimed my independence back.
“I played away,” he told me. Then he sniggered. His wide nostrils made the resonating snorting sound that indicates loose snot.
I shrank away from him.
“It’s a secret of course, because she’s married ...”
Dawn came scurrying through the door, bingo wings raised, clapping her hands. Dawn was married, wasn’t she? Shudder. She began hooting at the top of her voice. “Everybody! Come in here! It’s time for another choral moment in the heavenly hymn of creativity!”
“It’s time for some more inspiration casserole! Our separate minds are the vegetables that will create the stew of brilliance!” boomed Montgomery, stepping in front of her. The competition between them was immense, but was there underlying sexual tension? Intense shudder.
Not long after, Danger appeared, followed by a bored looking Rafe and a giggling Annabel. My peace and quiet was well and truly shattered.
“How is everybody getting on?” Dawn quizzed.
There were some positive noises, and a few downright creepy ones.
“Lovely!” Dawn warbled.
“We need a title,” explained Montgomery.
“Yes, I was just about to say that,” she snapped,
“Anyone got any ideas?” he asked.
Rafe suggested, “Pompomberry House.”
Annabel suggested, “Island Inspired.”
“Good ideas, but I have one myself, which I believe will blow those out of the water,” ventured Montgomery. “How about ...” then he drew a broad rectangle in the air with his hairy hands, “The Book of Most Quality Writers.”
Seriously?
A loud, blood-curdling scream resounded around the room. It seemed like an overreaction to be honest. But then I noticed that everybody else looked as shocked as I did. The scream had come from beyond the doorway.
Biff!
All at once, everybody was running. Even Montgomery, who looked as though he’d never broken a sweat in his life, bounded toward the door.
Rafe flung the kitchen door open but then stopped moving and stood, motionless, in the doorway. What sight had paralysed him?
Annabel screamed. It wasn’t her usual silly flirtatious squeal, but a deep cry filled with sheer terror.
Biff!
“Coming through!” shouted Montgomery, pushing his way into the kitchen. “Bloody hell fire!”
“What? What is it?” asked Dawn. Even when people had moved out of the way, the vast woman had difficulty getting through the kitchen door.
“Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?” I demanded.
“He is dead,” said Danger, flatly. “The handyman is dead.”
Chapter 5
I hurried into the kitchen, but as soon as I saw him, I found myself unable to move. There was blood everywhere. His white shirt was torn and saturated with blood. He had clearly been stabbed. Yet his face and hair were perfect. There wasn’t a scratch on his gorgeous, chiselled face. His eyes were shut, as though he were sleeping. But he wasn’t! He was dead! Biff was dead! Gorgeous, beautiful Biff was dead!
“Is he dead?” asked Rafe.
Montgomery knelt down beside him, testing the seams of trousers bought when he had a more youthful figure. Dawn wobbled then dropped onto the floor, forming a giant blob. She tried to lean forward to take Biff’s pulse, but her enormous boob-stomach got in the way.
“He’s still alive, right?” asked Rafe.
Montgomery held Biff’s firm, young wrist in his saggy, old hand and searched desperately for a pulse. He shook his head, sadly. No, this couldn’t be right! Montgomery’s hands must have been too chubby to detect a pulse! There must have been some sort of mistake!
Rafe sprang into action.
“Where are you going?” cried Annabel.
“Whoever did this can’t have gone far,” he shouted. I heard the back door open.
Rafe had a good point. The tide was coming in and the causeway was blocked. If the killer was leaving by
boat, or wading across the causeway, we would be able to catch him or her.
It didn’t seem to matter. It wouldn’t bring back Biff. Who would want to kill a handyman, and such a lovely one at that?
Actually, I found that it did matter. Moments later, I was sprinting out the front door, hoping with all my heart that I would find Rafe apprehending a murderer at the crossing.
How could Biff be dead? Only half an hour ago I’d watched him in the garden, stretching to saw a branch off a tree, revealing a stomach that was toned, tanned and very much alive. Only last night, we’d spent hours talking. How could he be dead? He’d only just come into my life. Why would such a great character get merely a walk-on role in my life? It was like casting Ian McKellen to play Nemo’s mum.
Then I remembered something: “Dee, I’m sorry,” he had said. Had he been in some kind of trouble? My mind was whirring.
Something else burst into my mind like an unwelcome cricket ball smacked through a beautiful vintage glass window. ‘I die tomorrow’ read the message in the hat, the one that hadn’t been written using any of our pens. There was only one person on Pompomberry Island who hadn’t shown us his pen — Biff. He wasn’t part of the game, so it hadn’t occurred to me that the note might relate to him. Now, given his deathly departure, it was clear that it did. But who had written it? Was it the killer? Or Biff himself? What had Biff been involved in?
I got to the crossing, wondering if I would come face to face with a killer, but instead I saw Rafe darting around on his athletic legs, looking determined but bamboozled.
But there was something else out there besides Rafe — a seagull. A giant, fat, revolting, cackling seagull. I studied it, looking for blood. I knew that I was being ridiculous — the injuries to Biff must have been inflicted with a large knife or similar — yet still I felt that the gulls were somehow to blame. I scowled at it. Was it my imagination, or did it dance a little jig on its skinny yellow legs? I turned away, revolted.
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