The Girl On the Page

by John Purcell

  A few more attendees were preparing to leave too. I started walking towards the door.

  ‘I can’t believe he won,’ he said, walking beside me, ‘I really can’t.’

  ‘Imagine having to get up there in front of all of them.’

  ‘It was a good speech, at least.’

  ‘You think? Knowing what we know?’

  ‘At least he spoke about Helen in the present tense. That’s a step in the right direction.’

  We were crossing the square.

  ‘I was thinking of her at home watching it on TV. She’s by herself, you know. Malcolm’s with Trevor. All that stuff about integrity and no compromise. It would have been like an acid bath to her. Malcolm’s a bastard for saying all that stuff. He knows how to hit the mark.’

  ‘No one but you and Helen would see it that way. The world saw it as a heartfelt tribute to Helen Owen the writer.’

  ‘I don’t care what the world thinks. Only Helen matters.’

  We reached the street.

  ‘Where’s the best place to get a cab?’

  ‘There’ll be plenty along here.’

  We stood on the kerb, each looking up and down the street.

  ‘So you’re not working with Liam anymore?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right. We’re done.’

  ‘So that’s the end of Jack Cade?’

  ‘It might be. I’m not sure.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Oh, there’s one!’ I stepped out into the road to get the cabbie’s attention, but he drove right past. ‘What the fuck was that about?’

  ‘I don’t know. They’re a law unto themselves.’

  ‘You’d think they’d be more attentive. With Uber around.’

  We stared after the errant cab.

  ‘So, what will you do now?’

  ‘Finish watching House of Cards. Fuck, it’s cold.’

  ‘After that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Game of Thrones?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘I don’t know, Max. I haven’t a clue. I just need a cab. And some pyjama bottoms. And some thick socks.’

  ‘There’s one.’

  ‘Get him!’

  I watched as Max stepped out into the street. The cabbie stopped.

  ‘Your chariot awaits, miss,’ he said, opening the door for me.

  I climbed in. He held the door open and stared at me.

  ‘I want to have dinner with you.’

  ‘I thought you said no to all that.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Can I say how beautiful you looked up on that stage?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Can I say how beautiful you look right now?’

  ‘Hey, mate, are you in or are you out? You’re letting all the cold air in.’

  Max turned to look at the cabbie and I leant forward in my seat so that when he turned back to me he was close. He turned back and I kissed him briefly on the mouth. Then I fell back in my seat and said, ‘See you later, Max.’

  Without taking his eyes off me, he closed the door and stood back. The cab drove off.

  Chapter 64

  But Who Would Do Such a Thing?

  The house was silent when Malcolm arrived home. He made his way straight to the kitchen, where he opened the fridge and took out one of the mince pies he’d bought that afternoon. He looked at the bottle of white wine in the fridge door and decided to have a glass. He had just won the Booker; he could celebrate with a mince pie and a glass of wine.

  He popped the pie on a plate, placed it on the kitchen table and poured himself a glass of that wine. Then he sat down. He listened to the house. Nothing. He began to eat his pie.

  He had finished eating when Amy opened the door to the flat. She was still in the dress she had worn to the Booker, but her feet were bare.

  ‘Congratulations, Malcolm. You were right. You won. I know it doesn’t make you very happy to have won. But congratulations anyway.’

  She hugged him from behind, briefly. But as he remained stiff and unreceptive, she withdrew.

  ‘Thank you for reading my speech.’

  ‘Have you seen Helen?’ she asked, lifting Malcolm’s untouched wine from the table and taking a sip.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You know all that crap about Helen being uncompromising was unnecessary, right?’ she said, sitting down at the table opposite him.

  ‘I spoke of the Helen I knew. The Helen I loved.’

  ‘What if she agreed not to publish the book?’

  ‘What’s done is done.’

  ‘It can’t be like that, Malcolm. It can’t. There has to be a way back for her. I need there to be some way back.’

  ‘We were compatible because we shared one thing. Integrity. What that is I don’t know. I feel it more than I know it. Like authenticity. We all have a sense of when something is corrupt. Like off meat or milk. We know before we’ve even tasted it.’

  ‘Helen isn’t off milk, you shit,’ Amy said, standing. She made her way to the hall then turned back. ‘You need to read that fucking book. Version three. It’s been on your desk for months. Then you’ll be on your knees begging for her forgiveness.’ She placed her hand on the table and leant in menacingly. ‘If you don’t read it, I’ll tie you to a chair and read it to you. I tricked that fucking snob Clarissa Munten into reading it. She said it was the best thing Helen has ever written.’

  Malcolm seemed unmoved by Amy’s outburst.

  ‘She said it was better than any of your shit. And I agree.’

  ‘Why are you so angry, Amy?’

  ‘Because you’re breaking her heart, Malcolm. Because you’re being unnecessarily cruel to a woman you’ve loved for fifty years!’

  ‘She broke my heart first. Can you see that?’

  ‘And she’s suffered for it. She is suffering for it.’

  ‘She’s beyond suffering now.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, she’s not dead. She’s alive. She’s probably upstairs in tears. I would be if I were her.’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it!’

  Amy grabbed Malcolm’s arm and pulled him to his feet.

  He was surprisingly light, she thought. She might be able to force him upstairs. She’d end this right now.

  ‘Come upstairs.’

  Amy walked to the bottom of the stairs. When she turned Malcolm hadn’t moved.

  ‘You’re coming one way or another, Malcolm. Don’t make me kick your arse.’

  He seemed to smile, but grimly, with a hint of a determination not to be moved.

  ‘This isn’t the outfit for a brawl. Do you have any idea how much this dress cost? More than any advance you ever received.’ She strode back to him and took hold of his arm. ‘But if you want to rumble I’m willing to risk it.’

  As soon as her grip tightened around his biceps, Malcolm felt the fight go out of him. Though slender, Amy had youth on her side. He had nothing on his side. When she tugged at his arm, he moved forward. Then steadily, but with unexpressed reluctance, Malcolm was led upstairs.

  ‘She might be asleep. Wait here.’

  Amy left Malcolm on the first landing and went up to Helen and Malcolm’s bedroom. She pushed the door open carefully. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she saw the bed was made and empty. She switched the light on.

  ‘Amy!’ came a cry from downstairs. It was Malcolm. Amy’s heart skipped a beat and her head filled with dread. She ran downstairs as fast as her feet could take her.

  ‘Malcolm?’ she said, when she reached the first floor.

  ‘In here.’

  There was less anxiety in the tone of his voice now. Amy went into his office.

  Malcolm was standing by the sofa bed staring at a mound of shredded paper.

  Amy rushed forward and took a handful of it.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked, looking at him. He was crying silently.

  ‘My book. Someone has
shredded my book.’

  ‘What book?’

  ‘The best thing I ever wrote.’

  ‘What book, Malcolm?’

  ‘It didn’t have a name. I just finished it. It was . . .’

  ‘The novel about Helen’s death?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘You did,’ she lied, remembering that Max had told her.

  ‘I did not. I haven’t told anyone. It’s been a private project. I wasn’t even going to publish it.’

  ‘You haven’t been that discreet. You don’t know what you’re doing lately, Malcolm.’

  ‘It’s gone now so it doesn’t matter. But who would do such a thing?’

  ‘Helen.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  Amy had been lifting the shreds of paper and she noticed a larger piece fall to the ground.

  ‘There! What’s that?’

  It fell at Malcolm’s feet. He bent to pick it up. Amy took it from him.

  She recognised the paper. It was from a pad on Helen’s desk. She turned it over.

  Amy read it and handed it to Malcolm. ‘She’s not fucking dead.’

  He recognised Helen’s handwriting immediately. The note said: You know nothing of grief.

  ‘I have to find her.’ Amy left the room.

  Malcolm sat on the bed and pushed his hand into the shredded pages. He read the note again. And he broke down. Not for the loss of his book. But for the loss of everything he loved.

  Amy went into Helen’s study. There was the shredder on her desk. And the framed picture of Daniel that Helen had kept near her since the funeral. There was Howards End, too. And version three was there. She had brought it back from Malcolm’s office.

  The note Helen had left for Malcolm had given Amy a bit of a shock. But these signs of action on her desk calmed her. She went downstairs, suddenly realising where Helen would most likely be. Sue had come to use the back garden as a place of retreat. Malcolm never ventured out there. When TV didn’t help, she would grab a blanket and head outside. Since the funeral, Amy had shivered beside her watching two days dawn.

  But the back door was locked. She unlocked it and walked with feet bare into the yard. It was freezing. She saw both garden seats were empty. She ran back inside.

  She checked her flat. She checked the front room.

  Panicking, she ran back upstairs. She pushed open the bathroom door, turned the light on. And screamed.

  ‘Malcolm! Fuck! Malcolm!’ Amy was hysterical. ‘Malcolm. Oh my god! Fuck! Malcolm! Fuck!’

  Amy took a few steps into the bathroom. What she saw horrified her. She couldn’t think. Her body was leaden. Helen was naked, seated clumsily in the half-full bath. Her head rolled along the curve of the bath towards the noise. Her eyes fixed on Amy’s.

  Malcolm arrived.

  ‘Oh my god! Helen! What have you done?! Oh!’ He was screaming, too. He fell to his knees beside the bathroom cabinet.

  ‘Get someone! Malcolm! Do something! She’s alive!’

  Amy moved slowly. She didn’t want to see more, but she had to help Helen. All of her instincts were for flight. This was too much for her. The horror in Helen’s expression. She was alive. She was in pain. She was dying.

  Amy rushed out of the room. She ran into Helen’s office and dialled 999. She screamed down the phone that Helen was dying, that she had stabbed herself. There was blood everywhere. The woman at the other end tried to calm her to get the address.

  Amy couldn’t remember the address. She couldn’t think straight.

  ‘I don’t know! I don’t know!’

  The woman on the phone told her to calm down. Amy saw letters on Helen’s desk. She looked at them. Nothing. She opened drawers looking for letters or bills with the address on it.

  ‘What’s the fucking address, Malcolm!’ she screamed.

  Then she found a bill. She read the address to the woman on the phone. ‘Come quickly.’

  While the woman was still talking Amy slammed down the phone and ran back into the bathroom.

  Malcolm was on the floor. He had dragged Helen out of the bath and she lay awkwardly across his lap, legs bent and head thrown back, unconscious. Her naked flesh was bleeding from numerous wounds. He was hugging her to him and rocking her, like she was a child. He was howling like an injured animal. Blood was everywhere. She had stabbed herself everywhere. A frenzy of stab wounds.

  Amy stood still for a moment. She saw the knife on the floor for the first time.

  The blood was on the floor. On the bath. On the wall. The bathwater was red.

  Towels. She pulled the towels from the rails. She’d stop the bleeding.

  ‘Oh fucking Christ!’ she moaned. ‘Fuck! Fuck!’

  She didn’t know what to do. There were too many wounds. Blood gushed from Helen’s thigh. Amy could see it pumping. She was going to die. She’d been stabbing herself while Amy had been in the house. Amy was moaning uncontrollably. Her hands shook; she was light-headed.

  She covered her mouth and turned away from Helen and Malcolm, vomiting in her hands. It spewed out over the floor. She rested on one hand and shook her head. It was a nightmare. A nightmare.

  ‘Helen. Helen. Helen. Helen?’ Malcolm repeated. ‘Helen. Helen. Helen.’

  Amy turned and pressed her hand on Helen’s thigh. Trying to force the blood back. Trying to save her. It was warm. Her body was warm. She looked at Helen’s face. It was white. Malcolm was kissing her and repeating her name. Blood drained from a wound on her neck.

  She’d attacked herself with such violence. Amy couldn’t cover all the stab wounds. She didn’t have enough hands. Why would she? Why?

  Then Amy heard banging on the door. The front door bell had been buzzing, she realised, and now someone was banging on the door. She stood up and moving unsteadily, her bloody feet leaving a trail across the landing carpet and down the stairs, made her way to the door.

  They rushed past her and up the stairs. They followed the blood. When Amy reached the landing, Malcolm was outside the bathroom, kneeling on the carpet, staring into the room and absently wiping his bloodied hands on his trousers. Helen was stretched out on the floor with strangers around her. Two more pushed past Amy. Amy collapsed onto the top step and pressed herself against the wall. She stared, expressionless, downwards.

  Chapter 65

  Phone Message

  ‘Hello, Malcolm. Paul Beatty here. I just wanted to congratulate you personally on your win. And thanks for what you said about The Sellout last night. You didn’t have to, and I appreciate it. It just wasn’t my year. Well, congratulations again. Oh, and best wishes on this, your fiftieth wedding anniversary. Perhaps if you’re ever in the States we can have a drink? Bye for now.’

  Chapter 66

  Max’s Article

  Draft Copy

  The New Old Ways

  The generation of readers raised upon the Harry Potter, Twilight and Hunger Games series will determine the direction modern publishing will take. At the moment these readers and the publishers are in a game, not of cat and mouse, but of cat and cat, as reader and publisher circle one another, watching and waiting, and stagnating, neither getting the upper hand, neither taking the lead.

  There is money to be made from this book-loving millennial generation, and the multinational publishers want to maximise their returns. But with so much at stake, neither side willing to take risks, and neither showing any initiative, much of the industry is forced to tread water.

  Which is good for some. The first beneficiaries of this stagnation are the ‘forgotten’ writers of the fifties, sixties, seventies and eighties. Boutique publishing houses are springing up everywhere with one goal: to unearth neglected modern classics.

  Like the emergence of vinyl, these publications are gaining popularity among those who never experienced their like. These are not nostalgia hunters but archaeologists, seeing the artefacts for the first time. And it is having an effect.

  Even before his recent Man Booker win, Malcolm Tayl
or had been surprised to see some of his earliest novels being republished with sixties- and seventies-style jackets. They were designed to appeal to the more discerning of the Harry Potter generation. The author thought they looked atrocious. But since the win, all of Taylor’s previously out-of-print novels have been placed back on the shelves and are selling well.

  Speaking to Malcolm Taylor just before his win, I was astonished to discover that he did not think much of his earlier work was relevant to the present age.

  ‘I recognise that writers like Kurt Vonnegut, Italo Calvino and Russell Hoban have a continuing relevance, if only in their dedication to experimentation in writing, which serves to remind writers that boundaries do not exist, but writers like me, who failed to bring anything new to the form and structure of the novel, all I have is social commentary. I will go the same way as Malcolm Bradbury, Elizabeth Jane Howard and C.P. Snow. And even Vonnegut and friends have a use-by date. Writers like Elizabeth Bowen and Milan Kundera, and my wife, Helen Owen, should be championed by a new generation. Because these writers expand our understanding of ourselves. But then none of this is about what should happen, is it? It’s about utility. And Calvino is more useful to modern writers than Iris Murdoch, say.’

  That concept of writers being useful to other writers struck me as interesting. Taylor was referring to craft and not to content, I think. For all writing is useful to writers, surely. Whether you are J.K. Rowling reading The Chronicles of Narnia, or Tolstoy reading David Copperfield. One thing that unites all writers is their dependence upon their reading.

  Taylor’s own reading has been extensive. I had the pleasure of examining his book collection while interviewing him for this article. The thousands of books, mostly bought second-hand, were still in some disarray, as he had recently moved house. And though he had just ‘thrown the books onto the shelves’, I could discern some reading patterns there. For one, there wasn’t a single book we might be able to call commercial.

  I asked him about the large number of American writers on his shelves.

  ‘How can you ask? America, that’s where everything was happening. The fifties, and most of the sixties, in the UK were bleak. We all looked to the US for the new. They were streets ahead of us in every way. They were born innovators, largely because they consciously ignored the past. They had cut their ties, while we were suffocating under the weight of the great tradition.’