Ten Year Stretch

by Martin Edwards

  All of this was interesting, of course, but got more so when the Trevor Howard lookalike laid out his proposition. His name, by the way—not his real name; just a code name—was Daffyd. Now that I’ve come to write this down, incidentally, I’m struck by how Welsh it sounds, but that’s just a coincidence. Anyway, the job I was being offered was to spy on all these other spy novelists, in order to determine who among their number might prove susceptible to blackmail on account of leading a deviant and unsavoury personal life. Even given that the answer to this was clearly ‘all of them,’ natural loyalty to my fellow authors left me aghast at the notion of such treachery, until it was explained that I would receive a salary. But there remained one obvious question, i.e., what would happen when MI5 tried to recruit me, as per its usual practice? At this, Daffyd hummed and hawed a bit, and looked embarrassed, and finally explained that, in an exact antithesis of his own approach, MI5 tends to focus on spy novelists whose output is both plausible and clever. Which I thought harsh at the time, but as it turned out, MI5 has never displayed the slightest interest in my work, so he may have had a point.

  And thus, as I say, began my life as a spy. I’ve continued to write novels, of course, and the salary I receive from the Secret Service has allowed me to give up my day job. The Service has also managed to suborn various juries to ensure that certain titles of mine appear on awards shortlists, and to solicit, via generous ‘presents,’ favourable reviews from the more notoriously corrupt critics, resulting in the kind of attention which produces invitations to attend crime-writing conferences and speak at public events alongside other crime writers and, more often than not, spy novelists. When this happens I’m as affable and sociable as possible, joining in with the usual post-event celebrations; trotting along to whichever pub or bar my fellow authors aren’t currently banned from; merrily matching them drink for drink, despite my own inclination towards temperance and moderation; and then, once they’ve passed out, searching their hotel rooms, bugging their laptops and cloning their phones. Money for old rope, really.

  Daffyd is proud of me. Pretty much every communication that every spook novelist has with MI5 now goes straight into his Service’s database, TAFF, which sounds Welsh but stands for Telecommunications Appertaining to Fiction-writing Faction, so is normal. The dossiers he has on my fellow spy novelists are such that not one among them has been able to withstand the pressure to become a double agent; indeed, Daffyd has such confidence in this fifth column that he’s even drawn up plans for a hostile takeover of MI5 itself. When Daffodil Day arrives (a code name that was assigned by a random word generator, and has no special significance), MI5 will find its entire network of novelists well and truly scuppered, and all down to a midlist scribbler whose work ‘doesn’t meet our current requirements,’ as one early reader put it. So I think I can safely say I’ve made a lasting impact on my genre.

  Or at least, that was how things stood until this morning, and the event which triggered this output.

  I was fast asleep here in the Bristol Royal Marriott when I was woken by the buzzing of my Service-supplied state-of-the-art de-encryption device-slash-satellite-transponder handset, which is cunningly packaged to look like a severely retro mobile phone. It was Daffyd, with bad news.

  ‘Boyo,’ he said—short for ‘Bosanquet’, my middle name; I generally keep this quiet, but Daffyd found out—‘Boyo, you’re in big trouble.’

  Because, it turns out, MI5 isn’t entirely stupid. It had not escaped its attention that its network had become compromised, and in its search for the novelist responsible had narrowed the field of suspects down to the contingent of crime writers currently attending this year’s CrimeFest—a particularly large number, due to the rumours of an open bar to celebrate the festival’s anniversary. And having done so, it would not rest until it had identified the individual who had done such damage, whereupon it would—with that same arrogant cruelty that, as Daffyd pointed out, has characterised the English nation’s treatment of those it regards as subversives ever since its persecution of, random example, the Druids—terminate him/her (i.e., me) with extreme prejudice.

  Not the gentlest of alarm calls, I think you’ll agree.

  My first response was to announce my immediate retirement. If I simply curtailed all activities, I reasoned, MI5 would be unable to track any further subversive movement and would conclude that the operation had ceased. My brilliant undercover career peacefully brought to an end, Daffyd and I would make our good-byes and have no further contact. The game would be over.

  ‘And what will you do then, Boyo?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ll continue my writing career without your behind-the-scenes support.’

  He chuckled, and wished me good luck with that (‘Good luck with that’ were, in fact, his exact words), but suggested that it might not be enough. ‘I’m not sure, Boyo, that they’ll give up that easily,’ he said. ‘I mean, you’ve nobbled some of their star names. J N , for example. You nobbled J N !’

  ‘I did,’ I agreed. ‘I did nobble J N .’

  ‘J N , man!’

  ‘J N ,’ I said.

  I could hear him shaking his head on the other end of the de-encryption device-slash-satellite-transponder handset. ‘J N ,’ he repeated softly. Then he said, ‘Well, they’re not going to take that lying down, Boyo. They’re going to want to kill you really badly. Really, really badly. That chap who turned up in those suitcases? In those three suitcases? That’s how badly they’re going to want to kill you.’

  Three was certainly a terrible number of suitcases to be found in. I sat up. ‘What should I do, Daffyd?’

  ‘Well, Boyo,’ he said. ‘What you need to do is supply them with an alternative culprit.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And ideally,’ he went on, ‘one not in a position to deny anything.’

  He was right, of course. The only thing that will persuade MI5 to give up its search is if it thinks it’s found what it’s looking for. All I need do, then, is to identify among the crowds of crime writers attending this year’s anniversary CrimeFest a credible villain; that is, one who’s been to all the right conventions, who’s appeared on a lot of platforms alongside writers of spy fiction, who’s spoken at a lot of events, and who might plausibly fit the bill as a treacherous, back-stabbing, amoral, soulless snake in the grass.

  Moreover, I have the means to hand, too. When first kitted out as an undercover operative, I was supplied with the usual tools of the trade: the de-encryption device-slash-satellite-transponder handset; the exploding leek (other vegetables available); and, crucially, the travel-size vial of poison, which is not untraceable exactly, but, as its symptoms exactly match those of extreme drunkenness, crippling nausea, and the mother of all hangovers, is unlikely to arouse comment if used in the crime-writing community. The fact that this hangover ultimately results in unstoppable haemorrhaging and painful death is more attention-grabbing, of course, but if the crime community can’t cope with the occasional body in its midst, then it really ought to think about a rebrand.

  So here’s the plan. I’ll wait until the bar downstairs is full—mid-afternoon should do it—and make a circuit of the room, vial up my sleeve, stopping to chat to the many good friends I’ll encounter along the way. Then, when the opportunity arises, I’ll squeeze a few drops of poison into the unguarded glass of a random novelist, who by this time tomorrow will be enjoying the best reviews of his or her career, all of them including the words ‘sorely missed.’ The serial corrupting of MI5’s agents in the spy-writing community will cease forthwith, and those in charge of the mole-hunt will therefore assume that our late (sorely missed) friend was the creature responsible. By which time, having put aside my own undercover career, I will be focusing on producing more of those novels that have made me an all-but-constant fixture on Amazon’s list of the top ninety-seven thousand bestselling writers of (British) (Male) (Spy) thrillers.


  There’s an argument, of course, that announcing this intention in an anthology which could easily attract tens of readers might not be the wisest course of action, but to that, I’d point out that a confession made in a short story collection is of dubious evidential value. I mean, every word a crime novelist writes has to be treated with caution, yes? We’re people who discuss in public how many cats we’ve killed, when the truth is, hardly any of us have killed very many at all. (Single figures, I expect. Low double, max.) So I doubt there’ll be serious comeback; and even if there is, well, I’ll still have a nearly full vial of poison left.

  Almost time to go, then. I’ll finish this then attend a panel or two—because I could do with a nap after being woken early—and then hit the bar. I hope it’s not a particular friend who ends up carrying the can for my covert activities, but those are the breaks, and anyway, as a proud member of the Crime Writers’ Association, I can state with near certainty that most of my fellow members would jump at the opportunity of laying down their lives for a colleague in difficulty. Besides, unstoppable haemorrhaging and painful death notwithstanding, I’m the one with the real problem.

  I no longer have a salary.

  Daylight Robbery

  Donna Moore

  ‘You told me your father was dead.’

  Graeme just mumbled something incomprehensible and flapped the pages of his newspaper. Polly spread a thin layer of supposed-to-taste-like-butter on her toast and reached for the own-brand, reduced-sugar jam that Graeme insisted she buy because he didn’t eat jam. His body was a temple. A cliché-ridden, jamless, joyless temple. She stuck her knife into the jar, then glanced up. His face was still hidden behind the reactionary rag he insisted on reading. All she could see was the latest ‘Are Immigrants Giving British Taxpayers Cancer?’ banner headline. Polly upended the jar, tipped a thick covering of jam over her toast and added a heaped teaspoon of sugar. ‘You told me your father was dead. I’ve thought that for the last twenty-one years. And now you just announce out of the blue that he’s coming to live with us?’ She took a bite of toast. ‘What are we going to do? Stick his coffin in the gazebo and hope the smell doesn’t annoy the neighbours?’

  ‘Don’t be facetious, Polly, it doesn’t suit you.’ Graeme folded the paper into a precise square and tucked it into the briefcase at the side of the dining room table, where they sat having breakfast. ‘And, for God’s sake, what are you doing putting all that jam on there?’

  ‘I can’t believe that you told me he was dead. And why does he suddenly have to come and live with us?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Well, you bloody well have to.’ Polly threw the remainder of the slice of toast she was eating across the room. It landed—jam side down, of course—on her spotless wooden floor. ‘Graeme, this isn’t one of your normal sins of omission. You’ve not forgotten to tell me that you’re going to be home late from work, or that you’re going to watch the football down the pub and you’ve forgotten we were going out for a meal, or that you’ve already decided we’re going to Tenerife on holiday.’ She bit back the ‘or that you’re having an affair with Denise in Sales’ that threatened to burst out. ‘This is something much more significant. You told me before we married that both your parents were dead. Our child has been brought up thinking he has no paternal grandparents. There are no photos of your father anywhere in the house and you never even mention his name. And now you tell me that not only is he alive and well and living in Glasgow, but also that he’s going to be coming down here and moving in with us for a few months. What do you expect me to do? Roll over and accept it without a word?’ As she usually did. ‘Well, it’s not bloody happening.’

  Graeme pressed a napkin to his lips and ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘Okay, okay.’ He sighed. ‘Look, the reason I told you he was dead is that he’s a complete waster. There aren’t any photos of him because he spent most of his time in and out of jail.’

  ‘In and out of…jail? And you want him to come here?’

  ‘He’s not a murderer or anything, he’s not violent. Just a useless wanker of a petty criminal—and not very good at it, is all. Burglary, breaking and entering...that sort of thing.’

  ‘And what about your mother? Is she alive too? Maybe running a brothel in Ayrshire or something?’

  ‘No. She’s...’

  Polly stared at him as he lapsed into silence. ‘You have to be kidding me. She’s alive too?’

  ‘Look...it’s complicated. They’re useless. Always were. I got out as soon as I could, came down to England, and made a life for myself. One that didn’t include them.’

  Polly sometimes didn’t understand her husband. And she was beginning to wonder if she even knew him. ‘And now?’

  ‘Now he’s ill. Needs a bit of looking after. He got my Uncle Reg to help track me down and sent me this letter.’ Graeme pulled the letter out of his pocket.

  ‘What happened?’

  Graeme shrugged. ‘He was out on bail and had a heart attack in the pub. Bloody typical. When the case went to court he was tried in his absence by some soft, bleeding-heart judge who let him off on the proviso that he got help and got out of the area for a while.’

  ‘And your mum?’

  Graeme shrugged. ‘Apparently, she finally got fed up of his behaviour, and, while he was in hospital, she stuffed all his belongings into a dustbin bag, took it to the hospital and buggered off.’

  ‘That’s a bit cold, isn’t it? The man had just had a heart attack.’

  Graeme looked at her blankly. ‘She should have done it years before, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘What did he do, anyway?’

  Graeme sighed. ‘He broke into someone’s house and was caught when they came home and found him fast asleep on the sofa with a half-eaten cheese sandwich next to him, having racked up a two-hundred-seventy-five-pound telephone bill calling a psychic hotline.’

  Polly laughed. ‘You’d have thought he’d have seen that one coming.’

  Graeme stood up and put his jacket on. ‘It’s not funny, Polly. If the neighbours get to hear about this, we’ll be the laughing stock. We’re going to have to have a serious think about how we handle this. We’ll have to keep him indoors, get him well as quickly as possible, and get him back up the road to Glasgow.’

  The alarm bells started ringing. ‘And who, exactly, is going to play Florence Nightingale to your old lag of a father?’

  ‘Old lag? What do you think this is—an episode of Prisoner Cell Block H?’

  ‘Don’t duck the question, Graeme. Who’s going to look after him?’

  Graeme picked up his briefcase. ‘Well, you, of course. It’s not like you have anything better to do, is it? I’ll be home late. We’ve got a board meeting. Michaelson is getting us all together for some blue-sky thinking.’ And with that, he let himself out of the front door. She watched him as he got into the top-of-the-range Mondeo he’d bought without consulting her and backed carefully out of the drive.

  It was true, she didn’t have anything better to do. She’d been thinking of getting a hobby—scuba diving, maybe, or starting a course at the local college—creative writing; she’d always wanted to do that. What she hadn’t anticipated doing was babysitting a convict.

  Polly stood outside the entrance to the station, biting her nails, her eyes flicking to her watch and back to the gate. The train from Glasgow had just pulled in and people were starting to come through the gates. She held up the cardboard sign with her father-in-law’s name on it and scanned the faces. She didn’t know what to expect—it was like a game of Russian roulette with people. She knew it certainly wasn’t going to be the dapper, well-dressed man with grey hair, but please, please, please don’t let it be the thug with the spider’s web tattoo halfway up his face. What did a convict look like, anyway? Was he going to look like the characters in all those black-and-whit
e films she watched on Film Four while Graeme was at work? Maybe something like Edward G Robinson. Or Robert Mitchum in Night of the Hunter. Maybe she should start looking for tattooed knuckles.

  She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. Oh, why had she agreed that he could stay with them? She’d need to keep her jewellery box locked away. Her hands flew from her mouth to her ears and she fumbled as she tried to take out the gold-and-diamond studs Graeme had bought her for their twentieth wedding anniversary. Better not leave temptation in the old crook’s way. And what if he was violent? What if all that time in the slammer had turned him into a nonce? What if he’d brought a skank with him? Wait, that wasn’t right, a skank was something else...a shank. That was it. She dropped her earring on the floor. A cheery-looking rotund man wearing a pair of high-waisted navy slacks and a bright yellow polo shirt stooped down to pick it up. The top of his bald head was shiny and liver-spotted under the strands of white hair. He stood back up again with a grunt.

  ‘Jeez-o, I shouldnae have done that.’ He beamed at her and stuck out a hand. ‘Awright, hen? You’ll be Polly, I take it?’

  ‘Oh.’ She was taken aback. No scars, no teardrop-shaped tattoos on his cheeks. No chib mark from mouth to ear. ‘You’re Mr Fulton?’

  ‘Aye, hen. You sound surprised. What were you expecting? A suit wi’ wee arrows on and a bag marked “swag”?’ Her face obviously gave her away as the smile went down a few notches in wattage. ‘Aye. That son of mine been singing ma’ praises, has he? Well, I can’t blame him, right enough.’

  ‘I—’ Polly felt flustered and tongue-tied. Why couldn’t Graeme have done his own bloody dirty work and come to pick up his father?