Pompomberry House

by Trevithick, Rosen

  “Yes,” I snapped. Then I quickly repeated myself softly. “Yes.” I remembered that I’d led him to believe that my eyes were yearning for a glimpse of him.

  “You read my short, didn’t you?” he asked, grinning.

  “No. Well, actually yes,” I admitted. I’d skimmed though the whole anthology, looking for clues. I’d found Rafe’s cannibal story particularly disturbing, in light of the copycat action. Instead of appreciating the carefully-penned black humour, I found it both repulsive and terrifying.

  “I knew it!” he laughed. “I knew you’d read my story, and that then you wouldn’t be able to resist me.”

  “What?”

  “I wrote it for you, Dee! It was inspired by The Red River — by you!”

  “It was?”

  “Couldn’t you tell? The social mockery, the dark comedy, the flawed characters ...”

  “I ... I didn’t realise. I thought you were seeing Annabel.”

  “I can’t be tied down, Dee! I’m a creative spirit!” He burst from his chair and started pacing around the table. “I must be allowed to roam. I require varied stimuli. How else will I continue to create diverse and fresh fiction?”

  “Sit down!” I snapped.

  He sat down, looking deflated.

  “Put your pretentious justifications away and grow up!”

  He gawped at me.

  “Annabel really likes you.”

  “Some things are greater than pandering to the romantic desires of others,” he said, sheepishly.

  “Like your writing?” I asked, sarcastically.

  “Exactly!”

  “Stop sleeping with her!”

  “What?” His green eyes were wide with shock. Then that smirk came stretching back. “Are you jealous?”

  “You’re hurting her. And being a writer does not give you a licence to behave like a prick. Either commit or leave her alone. Let her move on.”

  He stared at me, as if I’d slapped him in the face. He was clearly unaccustomed to women standing up to him. He studied me for a while, trying to decipher whether I was real, or a ghostly apparition. I fancied that, for a moment, he thought that he was in a Dickens novel, A Grow-Up-You-Prick Carol. Then suddenly, a look of understanding spread across his irritatingly chiselled face. “You are jealous.”

  “What? No. That’s not it at all.”

  “All right, ‘that’s not it at all’,” he laughed, clearly unconvinced. “Hey, are you going to join the group Skype chat tonight? I’m this week’s featured author.”

  “So you said.”

  “Well?”

  “Rafe, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  He leaned forward, tresses of his warm brown hair flopped into the conversation. He groomed them back with his long fingers and cocked his head to the side. He was obviously expecting a big love confession, that this would be the moment in which weeks of yearning for him would erupt, spraying lust lava everywhere.

  He braced himself for praise.

  “Do you know who’s going to kill Netta Lewis?” I asked.

  “What?” He wasn’t looking at me hopefully any more.

  “You heard me.”

  “Why would somebody kill Netta Lewis?”

  “So you do know who she is?”

  “She’s a celebrity, everybody knows who she is.”

  “You must know more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the copycatting.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. Even if you didn’t figure it out yourself, which seems unlikely, Annabel must have told you.”

  “We don’t really talk ...”

  “Rafe!”

  “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. Netta is one of the girls you based your characters on. I noticed that.”

  “And you don’t think that it’s odd that a pig was pushed off a cliff during the same week that a gnome wedding was staged and a foot washed up on a beach?”

  “What?”

  “Oh come on, Rafe! You must have seen the news.”

  “I do watch the news, but I didn’t see any of those stories.”

  “Well, I wish you had! I’m on my own here, Rafe. I feel like I’m going mad. However, I am not mad! Those stories are real. Our anthology is really coming true.”

  “Slow down, Dee.” He firmly held my upper arm with one of his plate-sized hands and looked at me through his sincere green corneas. “Tell me exactly what has been going on.”

  And so, once again, I explained the news stories, their significance and their implications for the future. What reaction could I expect this time? Disbelief? Mockery? Ghost speculation?

  “Holy faeces, Dee!” His long arms fell by his side, and he stared at me, motionless.

  “So you agree with me? That this is too much to be a coincidence?”

  “Of course it’s not a coincidence. Three totally improbable things, all related to our book, all happening together. Of course something dodgy is going on.”

  “Thank you. Thank you!” I was delighted that he was taking me seriously.

  “But I don’t think you need to worry about Netta.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “The copycat won’t go that far. Putting some gnomes in a field, and having a bit of fun with a pig are one thing, but murder is in a different league altogether.”

  “Having a bit of fun? That pig could have died!”

  “Pigs die all the time, Dee. It’s called bacon.”

  “Let’s not forget the foot. That’s pretty sinister.”

  “Sinister, yes, but murderous, no.”

  “It was a human foot!”

  “Yeah, but you can pick them up anywhere.”

  “What?”

  “You know ... med schools, mortuaries, undertakers.”

  He was beginning to give me chills. He leant back in his chair, drumming on the table. How could he be so blasé about a human foot being used to promote our anthology? “You sound as though you know who did it.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well how can you be sure that he or she won’t strike again?”

  “Putting some gnomes on the beach is playful. The pig — yes, cruel, but hardly murder. The foot — sinister, but again, not murder. It’s a massive leap to assume that these three coincidences mean that somebody is going to murder Netta Lewis.”

  “Oh, so you’re calling them ‘coincidences’ now, are you?”

  “Whatever they are, they’re not murders.”

  “But Biff’s death was murder!”

  “Biff’s what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Who’s Biff?”

  What was he playing at? He knew exactly who Biff was. He’d been there when we heard the scream, there when we discovered the body, and had been part of the frantic search for the killer. There was no way he could have forgotten Biff, or his killer.

  “Perhaps you need a holiday, Dee.”

  “Oh no you don’t! You do not turn this around and try to make it seem like I’m going crazy. You’re the one who failed to report a death — no, a murder — to the police, not me.”

  “You’ve been going through a lot lately — your divorce, the book launch ...”

  “Book launch?”

  “The Book of Most Quality Writers.”

  “I didn’t even know my story was in it until recently.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. I never submitted my story. My memory card was stolen.”

  “Really? I wondered why ...”

  “... there were mistakes in it?”

  “No, I was going to say, I wondered why it didn’t have your usual level of over-editing.”

  “What?”

  “It was much better than The Red River. It just flowed better. You can tell that you usually re-draft to death.”

  “It’s called writing.”

  “Is it, Dee? I liked
‘natural Dee’ much better than ‘heavily revised Dee’.”

  “Well, thank you for your input. I didn’t realise that The Red River didn’t flow.”

  He chuckled, enjoying the pun.

  “And how can you put a book launch in the same category as a marital separation?”

  “I don’t know. Some of us have never been divorced. Book launches are pretty stressful though — the apprehension, the thrill, the fear ...”

  “A separation is like having your guts torn out through your nostrils whilst somebody breaks your toes one by one with a hammer.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh indeed.”

  “A bit different then.”

  “Yes. A bit different.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Never mind.”

  “You miss him a lot, don’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “Your husband. Who do you think I mean? Danger Smith?”

  “I don’t miss him. I asked him to leave.”

  “That doesn’t mean that you don’t miss him.”

  “I do not miss Gareth!”

  “It’s only natural to want your ex back from time to time. You wouldn’t be human if ...”

  “I — do — not — want — Gareth — back! It’s over. I’ve made my decision and that is it. It’s not like I’m sitting here longing for him to call.”

  “I never said that you were.”

  “I have moved on.”

  “Good.”

  “In fact, I think I’ll delete his number. I’m so over him that I won’t be needing it anymore.” I took out my phone and began searching for the address book.

  Rafe took my hand. I was surprised by the softness of his grip — it wasn’t pushy like most of his gestures. “Dee, don’t do anything rash.”

  “What’s rash? I kicked him out weeks ago.”

  “Well then, one more hour won’t make a difference.”

  “Fine. But the moment I leave here, that number is toast.”

  Rafe smiled. It was a smile I hadn’t seen before; it was subtle, without the usual smug corners stretching up toward his ears. I didn’t know that he had a humane mode.

  Unexpectedly, he changed the subject back to his ill-advised fling. “I do care about Annabel,” he said softly.

  I shot him disbelieving eyes.

  “Just because I don’t want to settle down, doesn’t mean I’m a monster. I’m not pretending to like her or anything like that.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “I do like her, in a funny sort of way. To be honest, a romance seemed like the only good thing to come of that weekend. The only way I could make it all a bit less terrible.”

  “It was a horrible weekend,” I agreed, softening.

  “It was doomed from the start,” he said. Then he looked at me and the twinkle returned to his eye, “‘Journey’ — ‘gurney’.”

  “Ha ha! Hang on ... Danger said that before ... You were listening outside the door! I knew it! I knew you didn’t spontaneously come up with your response. What was it again?”

  “He regarded her through his deep, cobalt eyes ...” began Rafe.

  We continued together, “... as his gaze journeyed across the room.”

  I looked at his cheeky face and we both fell about laughing.

  “Well, somebody had to mix it up a bit,” he chuckled.

  “Wasn’t the rivalry between Dawn and Monty just embarrassing?”

  “Oh, it was terrible. Did you notice the sexual tension though?”

  “Between you and Annabel?”

  “No, between Dawn and Monty!”

  “No!” I cried, shuddering. I had had my suspicions but the last thing I ever wanted was confirmation. They were both revolting in their own right; the idea of the two of them doing the hippy hippy shake disgusted me. Surely Dawn-Monty love would pose a threat to the planet, like two tectonic plates grinding together. Oh! Why did I have to think of the word ‘grinding’? Thank goodness they were too old to reproduce. Ugh! No! I started to imagine the offspring of piggy-faced Dawn and faux-aristocrat Montgomery. The poor kid ... “Please tell me they’re not ...” I gulped. “... at it?”

  “To be honest, I don’t speak to them much. I think they’ve been abroad though.”

  “Together?”

  “I think so. They’re pretending that Dawn’s out there alone, but why would a wife and mother-of-three go off on such a long holiday alone?”

  “Well, it is Dawn we’re talking about.”

  “True, but they both update the forum from a Spanish IP address.”

  I shuddered.

  “Good luck to them, I say. I hope I’m still at it when I’m his age.”

  “Really? With that?”

  “Oh, good point!” he said, and we laughed again. I was surprised by how approachable he was when he took off his mask. Suddenly his colossal good looks didn’t seem to offend me anymore.

  “Tell me honestly,” I began, “what do you think of the anthology?”

  Rafe buried his head in his hands melodramatically, and when he raised it again, he was shaking it profusely. His floppy mop danced around on his head.

  “I hope nobody reads it,” I admitted.

  “Nobody has,” he told me. “As of last night, it had sold seven copies.”

  “Seven?” I was irate! How could my readers know that there was a new Dee Whittaker story out there, and not be tempted to take a look? Then I remembered the title, the cover, the blurb, the other writers and the content, and it was all painfully clear.

  “Seven,” echoed Rafe.

  “But I hear Enid Kibbler’s written a review. Seven copies and the book’s got an Enid already?”

  Rafe nodded, looking glum. “It’s got three reviews actually.”

  “Three?” Dammit, why hadn’t I remembered to check the reviews? There it was again, that compulsion to grab my phone. Must know what’s being said about me, and must know now! “Who?”

  “Patti.”

  “Patti from Goodreads.”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense!”

  “She said, ‘After reading this collection of short stories, I felt it required a special collection of its own on my Kindle.’”

  “Well, that’s all right.”

  “Then she added, ‘Yes, I now have a collection named crap.’”

  “Ah.”

  “And Lexi Revellian, you know, the author, said ...”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “‘After reading this collection, I have given up on literature and taken up sky-diving instead, which is not as convenient when commuting.’”

  I buried my head in my hands. Then a worrying thought stuck me. “Well, if that’s what they said, how bad is the Enid?”

  “Bad.”

  “One star?”

  “Two.”

  “Two stars?”

  “Yeah, apparently she liked ‘Busty and Giving’.”

  I cringed once again at the mention of that title. How could they have degraded my work in such a way? But then I realised what Rafe had said — Enid Kibbler liked my work. Enid Kibbler, the indie hater, liked my work.

  “What did she say?” I was trying to sound as casual as possible, whilst secretly my heart bubbled like a volcano of excitement.

  “She said it was badly written, littered with typos ...”

  “No, what did she say about my story?”

  “That it was badly written, littered with typos and was a blemish on the face of literature, but that it was the collection’s saving grace and she was delighted to have finally found an indie who might actually, one day write something verging on average.”

  Wow. I felt myself glowing with pride. Enid Kibbler felt that I might one day write something verging on average! Judging by what I’d heard about Kibbler, this was endorsement of the highest kind.

  I looked at Rafe, knowing that he was
a pompous, competitive wanker, and I knew how hard it had been for him to pass on Enid’s kind words. I felt a moment of deep fondness for the guy. And, as a mark of respect for his moment of selflessness, I chose not to ask him what Kibbler had to say about Hungry.

  Instead, I said, “You have to wonder why a woman who hates indies would buy a book designed to showcase indie ...” I cleared my throat, “... talent.”

  “Particularly one with the world’s ... biggest ... indie on the cover.”

  I remembered the book’s hideous cover and giggled. I saw a new side to Rafe that lunch, and it was one that I liked. The problem with being a self-published writer, is that you have to learn to self-promote. Writing a novel is the easy part. Then you have to spend hours every week telling people how great you are, and after hours upon hours doing that, it can be difficult to switch off. Perhaps that’s all Rafe’s intolerable streak was — a man finding it hard to take off his marketing manager hat.

  What would Gareth think if he knew that Rafe Maddocks was finally impressing me?

  “My ex has taken the kitchen radio. The radio that I paid for! Can you believe that?” I cried.

  “Huh? Where did that come from?”

  “He said he needs it at Barry’s place. Can you believe that?”

  “I might, if I knew who Barry was.”

  “What does it matter? It’s my radio.”

  “Dee, why are you suddenly talking about your ex?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m not having a go. It’s just you seem a bit ... perhaps ... Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you think there’s a chance that you’re possibly, a bit ... not quite over him?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  He sighed. “Just a hunch.”

  I felt that strange sensation of fighting back tears again. Why? I must definitely be about to menstruate.

  “Did anybody comment on Enid’s review?” I deflected.

  “We were talking about Gareth,” Rafe reminded me.

  “He’s abominably lazy, Rafe. I don’t mean that he occasionally forgets to wash up, or leaves his dirty socks for me to launder. He hasn’t had a job in over a year. He hasn’t even tried to get a new job.”

  “But he did have one when you got married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he abominably lazy then?”

  “No, not lazy at all.”

  “Well, then maybe it’s just a phase.”

  “Oh, don’t you take his side! Gareth hasn’t grown up. That’s the problem. I didn’t mind him littering the living room with spliffs when we were twenty-five, or getting cigarette burns in the old, second-hand sofa. I didn’t mind him going out drinking every weekend — I used to go too — when we were twenty-five! I didn’t mind him turning his underpants inside out when we were twenty-five! Is it really too much to ask that my thirty-two-year-old husband behaves like a thirty-two-year-old, at thirty-two? How the hell are we ever supposed to move forward and start a family, when he’s still behaving like a big kid? So don’t take his side! Just don’t!”