Poison Pen

by Tanya Landman

  “I’m fine,” he kept saying. “Really… As soon as this bleeding stops I’ll be fine. Please don’t worry.”

  Luckily, Sue Woodward turned out to be good at first aid, so she got Charlie’s nose sorted out pretty quickly. Viola pressed a cup of hot, sweet tea into his hands. By the time he’d finished it, the author seemed more baffled than hurt.

  “I suppose it was kids, was it?” he asked no one in particular. “Playing football in the street. They were a little over-zealous! That was an unlucky shot, for me at any rate.”

  No one but me and Graham had seen the guy in the football strip. While we looked at each other, wondering if we should say anything, the rest of the grown-ups muttered things about “kids these days” and “lack of parental supervision” and “I blame the teachers”. They all seemed to accept Charlie’s theory without a thought.

  But Viola frowned and said softly, “There will be foul play…” She fixed us with another of her X-ray looks and demanded, “What are you two not telling us? Spit it out.”

  Slowly, reluctantly and no doubt looking extremely guilty, we described the man we’d seen.

  “His back was to us,” I finished. “We didn’t see his face. Only…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, when I came back from the ticket office just now, I saw someone in the corridor who looked exactly like Sam the Striker. And he was wearing the same strip as the man who ran away.”

  There was a stunned silence, which was eventually broken by Charlie Deadlock giving a small laugh and saying, “I do have some very enthusiastic fans. I’m sure it was just an accident.”

  “Yes,” said Viola uncertainly. “Perhaps…” She looked helpless – as if she didn’t quite know what to do next – and I could hardly blame her. It was all pretty weird.

  Charlie brought her back to speed. “It’s nearly half ten,” he pointed out. “People will be starting to arrive soon. Could someone show me to my venue?”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?” Sue asked. She glanced at Viola. “Perhaps you should cancel?”

  Viola paled at the suggestion. Charlie’s session had sold out. Turning people away from one of the very first events would be a public relations disaster.

  When Charlie assured both women that he was fine and would go ahead, Viola nearly kissed him.

  “I might just look a bit odd, that’s all,” Charlie smiled bravely. “But I don’t suppose anyone will even notice.”

  I was beginning to like Charlie. He was nice and straightforward and didn’t like making a fuss, which was more than could be said for Nigella Churchill.

  “I just hope they’re paying you danger money,” she said acidly as she got to her feet.

  Graham and I had originally been given the task of escorting Charlie to and from his venue. He was giving his talk in a large room on the first floor, so it wasn’t exactly difficult to find. But what with the drama over the football and the nosebleed, Viola insisted on abandoning the celebrity chef to Sue Woodward’s supervision and accompanying Charlie up the stairs herself. She bowled along on one side of him and Nigella clicked along on the other, pearls swinging, bosom bouncing.

  As we trailed behind, I whispered to Graham, “I’m right, aren’t I? I mean, the man in the corridor must have been the one we saw in the street…”

  “I agree,” said Graham. “The likelihood of there being two Sam the Striker lookalikes in the vicinity seems very slim.”

  “How much damage did he mean to do?” I wondered. “Could you kill someone with a football?”

  “I’m sure that it’s theoretically possible. If Trevor hadn’t been behind Charlie he could well have banged his head hard enough to cause a mortal injury. It was an exceptional shot,” said Graham. “His aim was perfect. I wouldn’t have thought anyone but a professional footballer could have managed it.”

  “A professional footballer,” I repeated. “Like Sam the Striker?”

  “Sam the Striker is a fictional character,” Graham pointed out.

  “I know. But it’s weird, isn’t it? Like he’s stepped out of the book… But why on earth would he want to hurt Charlie?”

  “I can’t imagine,” said Graham. “The whole thing is utterly bizarre.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  During Charlie’s event, Graham and I were stationed at the side of the hall in case we were needed to run errands or carry messages.

  When Nigella introduced the author to his audience she showered him with so many compliments that he started to blush. She said The Spy Complex was a work of genius that ought to win every prize available. Seeing as Sue had said almost exactly the same, I decided to stick it at the top of my To Read list. By now I was quite looking forward to hearing Charlie talk about it, but when he finally spoke, it didn’t even get a mention. It was odd. I mean, I liked Charlie, but I have to admit that unless you were a dead keen football fan most of his talk was pretty dull, involving a load of photos of famous strikers and perfect goals on which he’d based his books. Graham and I were both yawning by the time Nigella asked for questions from the audience.

  Someone stuck their hand up and asked where he’d got the idea for The Spy Complex. Nigella repeated the question more loudly so that everyone in the audience could hear and then turned to Charlie for his reply.

  Charlie smiled. “A famous author once said that writers don’t have ideas, ideas have writers. That may sound strange but I understand what he means. Sometimes stories just come into your head from nowhere. It’s as if they’re floating around in the ether looking for someone to write them. That’s what happened with The Spy Complex. I just got lucky.”

  Someone in the back row waved a hand in the air. My stomach flipped right over. It was the invisible man.

  “Yes?” said Nigella. “What’s your question?”

  The invisible man cleared his throat and then said in a soft, slippery voice, “I know you had writer’s block before you completed your last football book, yet you finished the series. I was wondering how you got over it.”

  The question seemed innocent enough, but his tone struck me as sinister – as if it was a veiled threat. He seemed as tense as a coiled spring, full of a strange, silent menace.

  Nigella didn’t notice. Maybe I was imagining things. As before, she repeated the question and then turned to Charlie for his answer.

  Charlie looked extremely uncomfortable. He rubbed the back of his neck as if it had suddenly stiffened up, and it was a few seconds before he said haltingly, “It’s true I was blocked, but it wasn’t until after I’d done the series. I wrote fifteen Sam the Striker books in total, and by the end I’d simply run out of steam. I dried up. Didn’t write a word for five years. Then, thankfully, the idea for The Spy Complex came to me.”

  It wasn’t my imagination, I was sure of it. Nice as he was, I’d have bet all my pocket money that Charlie Deadlock had something to hide.

  max spectre

  Before Charlie finished his event, the invisible man melted away. I didn’t even see him go – he was there one minute, gone the next. Spooky.

  After his talk, Charlie signed books for his fans. They queued up in a more or less orderly fashion, and Graham and I were kept busy writing their names on Post-it notes and sticking them on the front covers so that Charlie could write the dedications without getting the spelling wrong.

  By now Charlie’s nose had swollen up – close to it looked as though it was slowly spreading across his face. Whether he was in pain or just upset by the invisible man’s question was hard to tell, but he seemed irritable. He smiled at his fans as he signed their books, but it was a brittle affair that didn’t go all the way up to his eyes.

  Viola had to dash off during the signing because the celebrity chef’s portable stove had exploded in the middle of his cooking demonstration and he was apparently in floods of tears. Nigella Churchill, scenting a story, went with her. So when the last of the fans disappeared, it was down to Graham and me to escort Charlie back to the writ
ers’ green room.

  We’d only got halfway there when Charlie realized he’d left his pen behind.

  “I’ll nip back for it,” he said. “You go on ahead. I can find my way from here.”

  He ran back up the stairs two at a time. If Viola hadn’t given us such strict instructions about sticking with our author at all times we’d probably have done what he said, but neither of us dared incur her wrath. Graham and I followed him.

  He was a fast mover, so we hadn’t caught up by the time he got back to the room. It was empty now; the chairs had been stacked, the lights switched off, the curtains opened. As we reached the door, we saw Charlie picking up his missing pen and stabbing it into his jacket pocket so hard I thought he might do himself another injury.

  The reason for his fury was obvious: facing him across the room was the invisible man. I don’t know which of them looked scarier.

  Graham and I stayed in the corridor, pressing ourselves against the wall on either side of the door so we could hear what they were saying without being seen.

  “I’m Max,” said the invisible man in a tone of silky menace. “Max Spectre.”

  “I realize that.” Charlie was icily controlled. “I just don’t know quite what you expect from me. You were well paid, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. But I’ve written something new.” There was a rustle as he held up his plastic bag. “It’s really good. The best thing I’ve ever done.”

  “Well…” said Charlie tersely, “send it to Fletcher, Beaumont & Grimm.”

  “An unsolicited manuscript?” scoffed Max. He began to laugh – a sad, embittered sound. “They won’t even look at it!”

  “Yes, well… It’s a tough business.”

  “Look, I just need a little help. A word in the right ear. An introduction to the right person. Please… That’s all it will take.” Charlie didn’t answer and Max sounded suddenly desperate. “Please,” he begged again. There was more rustling, as if Max was trying to thrust the bag into Charlie’s hands. “Just read it.”

  “I’m sorry,” sighed Charlie wearily. “There’s nothing I can do. I’m not a publisher, Mr Spectre. Or a critic, for that matter.”

  Max was getting angry. “I could tell them, you know. Your fans. Or Nigella Churchill. It would make a nice story for her newspaper.”

  “Are you trying to blackmail me?” Charlie’s voice was chilling. “Because if so, I warn you that it will have serious consequences. I believe you signed a contract? I hope you read it properly. There was a confidentiality clause, Mr Spectre. If you break that, you’ll be sued to within an inch of your life. You’d better keep your mouth shut or you might find someone shutting it for you.”

  With that, Charlie turned on his heel and strode back across the room. Graham and I fled towards the stairs, desperately hoping he hadn’t seen us. The nice, straightforward, softly spoken author had sounded dangerously angry. If he knew we’d heard every word, I didn’t much rate our chances of survival.

  zenith

  Whats an unsolicited manuscript?” I asked Graham back in the green room. The buffet lunch was in full swing and we were temporarily off duty while we ate.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” he confessed. “Perhaps we could ask Mrs Woodward.”

  We sidled innocently over to the librarian and Graham said casually, “If you’ve written a book, how do you get it published?”

  Sue swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and said, “Bitten by the bug, eh? Bit of a closet novelist, are you, Graham?”

  Graham didn’t answer but didn’t need to. Assuming that he had secret writing ambitions, Sue ploughed ahead with an explanation. “It’s terribly difficult to get started. Most publishers won’t look at anything unless it comes from an agent. It doesn’t stop people sending their work in, of course, and unsolicited manuscripts just get put on the slush pile.”

  “The slush pile?”

  “Yes – manuscripts get piled up in a corner of the office, and once in a while a reader sifts through them. I should imagine that ninety-nine per cent get binned. Sad, really.”

  “So you need to get an agent?”

  “Yes … and that can be dreadfully hard too, I’m afraid. Most agents are deluged with material – they all have slush piles of their own.”

  “So if I understand you correctly,” Graham said, “you can’t get a publisher to look at your book unless an agent sends it in. But it’s difficult to get an agent because they’re all swamped with submissions?” Graham glanced at me. “It would be enough to make you desperate, wouldn’t it?”

  Sue smiled and patted him encouragingly. “Persistence, Graham, that’s the key. I’m sure if you want it badly enough, you’ll succeed.”

  At that moment the high-pitched squealing of several hundred girlie-girls exploded on the pavement outside the town hall and swept through the building like a tidal wave.

  “Ah,” said Viola, putting down her plate and prising herself out of her chair. “I believe Zenith has arrived.”

  I wish I could have photographed the expressions on everyone’s faces as Viola left the room.

  Sue’s lip literally curled. “Of course, if you’re a celebrity you can get away with writing any old tripe,” she said to Graham. “There’s always someone who’ll publish it, more’s the pity.”

  Katie Bell and Francisco Botticelli looked at each other, their eyes gleaming with undisguised malice.

  Muriel Black’s face twisted into a sarcastic grin and she said something to Basil, who frowned, rubbing his side as if he’d contracted sudden, painful indigestion. Nigella Churchill drew her lips into a sour pout. Trevor flushed scarlet and looked uncomfortable, as if he’d been forced to watch one of her pop videos while his gran was in the room. Varying intensities of dislike were written clearly across people’s faces. The only person who seemed immune to emotion was Charlie Deadlock; his expression was totally neutral.

  Katie said loudly, “I can’t believe they’ve got a ghosted book on the shortlist, can you?”

  Francisco replied, “Ith an inthult. What were the judgesth thinking of?”

  They both turned to Charlie, who was standing right next to them. They were clearly expecting him to join in, but he didn’t. He simply shrugged. “It’s not the judges you should blame. The readers nominate their favourites, don’t they? Zenith is a name. You can’t fight celebrity.” He smiled apologetically and walked off to refill his plate.

  Interesting, I thought. Very interesting.

  It took Zenith a while to fight her way through the crowd of paparazzi and young fans. By the time she’d got through the double doors to the green room – shortly followed by Viola and a pair of leather-clad, heavily moustached minders – she only had a couple of minutes before it was time to fight her way back through to her venue.

  The moment I laid eyes on Zenith I was fascinated. Her minders and Viola were looking hot and stressed, but Zenith seemed completely cool and untroubled. All that plastic surgery had given her an oddly fixed, almost reptilian expression, so it was hard to tell what she was feeling. But she seemed to be basking in the attention like a contented crocodile under a sun-lamp.

  Graham and I were on escort duty again, but we soon discovered it was impossible for us to lead the way. In the end we had to give the minders directions and then follow along in their wake as they cut a path through the squealing crowds.

  Zenith’s event was being held in the biggest room in the town hall. There were five hundred seats in there, and by the time we arrived, every single one seemed to be occupied by a little princess in a frilly dress and spangly tiara. There was so much pink in there that it gave off a sickly glow. Hideous.

  According to our schedule, Graham and I didn’t officially have anything to do until after the event, when we were supposed to be doing the thing with the Post-it notes again. Pinky-Pony books aren’t really my thing, and I was going to suggest we give Zenith’s event a miss. But then I spotted Max Spectre. He was gliding towards the front row, carrier bag in
hand, looking oddly hopeful.

  “Graham! It’s him again!”

  “I wonder what he’s up to now?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  We squeezed down the side of the rows, elbowing small children aside, and got to the front just in time. Zenith was about to take her place on the stage, but before she could step up, Max Spectre grabbed her by the elbow.

  “Sorry!” he said. “Sorry to disturb you!”

  She turned around and gave him a dazzling smile. Or at least she attempted to. Like I said, she didn’t have a whole lot of movement in her face. “I’m doing autographs after the event. You’ll have to wait.”

  “No … it’s not that. I’m Max Spectre.”

  The attempted smile vanished. “Oh,” she said coldly. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve written this book.” Max held up the bag and spoke hurriedly, desperate to get his words out before her minders moved in. “Could you put in a word with your publisher? It would make all the difference.”

  Zenith didn’t answer him – she didn’t need to. Her minders had appeared, moustaches twitching menacingly. One cracked his knuckles and, without a word, Max backed off, drifting down the aisle and out of the room.

  “Do you think we ought to tell Viola?” I asked Graham.

  “What could we possibly say? We don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Something is, though. Something weird.”

  “I agree. But seeing as we don’t understand what it is, I don’t see how we could explain it to Viola. Besides, Zenith has her own minders. I’m sure she’ll be all right.”

  But she wasn’t. Five minutes into her event – just as Nigella Churchill had finished her introduction and the excited clapping had finally died down – a loud whinny ripped through the air. It was the sound of a horse, screaming in terror, and was followed by the clattering of galloping hooves. I looked about frantically, fully expecting to see a racehorse charging down the aisle, flattening the little princesses. But there was nothing there. It took me a full minute to realize it was just a recording, broadcast at full volume through the loudspeakers. Yet there was nothing fake about the brown, smelly stuff that then came raining down from the ceiling.