Derek leans forward in his seat as Andrea Beatrice Foster appears, again with a bubbly sweep of music.
It’s a simulated avatar of course, based on the few photographs of her that are available: a plump woman in her late fifties, wearing half-moon glasses like Box Clever does, smiling kindly like every lovely aunt there’s ever been.
Even if you built a stadium-sized bookshop for this launch event, AB Foster wouldn’t be there. It’s well-known that she’s a recluse, never making personal appearances. It’s not just that she’s keen to retain her privacy. She’s also disabled, a spinal injury as a child having left her wheelchair-bound. On top of which she suffers from clinical agoraphobia – unable to be outdoors for longer than five minutes. In previous interviews, she stressed how much she valued the gift of writing, which enabled her to reach out and connect with people. To someone who lives their life within four walls, it literally meant the world to her.
There’s no doubt in Derek’s mind this is why AB Foster became well-known so quickly, back when she first started. There’s always a great spirit of ‘loving the underdog’ in the UK. So when this crippled woman with the debilitating condition started writing these quirky little novels, people took her into their hearts. They made her one of the most popular new authors in the last ten years.
Even the press, normally keen to be as intrusive as possible, agreed to back off and respect her privacy. Very, very few images of her exist now, and details of her private life and family have never been revealed. Most people don’t have a clue whereabouts in the UK she is from, or where she lives.
Derek isn’t most people.
As he stares at her simulation with narrowed eyes, he remembers the first time he saw the cottage down in Cornwall. Ivy climbing above the doorframe. Whitewashed wooden fence. Apple tree in the front garden. Grassy fields on all sides.
The secret residence of AB Foster, her hidden retreat away from fans.
Derek closes his eyes and remembers...
Crown: “Ms Foster, first of all, let me say thank you so much for speaking with us today. I’m sure that many people are very pleased to hear from you, as much as they’re looking forward to your new novel.”
Her sim-face is perfectly synced with her real voice, pouring out of the car’s rear speakers like honey. It’s almost as if she’s sitting on the back seat, amongst all the other crap piled up there.
AB Foster: “Well thank you for talking to me, John, it’s lovely to chat to you again after so long.”
She sounds warm, mellow, relaxed. Exactly like she used to in the old days, Derek thinks. He’s nodding with a sort of bitter appreciation. Yes, you bastards did a good job. Sounds exactly like her.
John Crown kicks off the interview with a recap of her career, despite the fact that almost everyone watching this webcast already knows it. He talks about her unexpected return to publishing at the start of the year, following four years when we heard nothing from her at all. He refers to the great success she enjoyed between 2013 and 2018.
Crown: “It’s fair to say that the popularity of those first six books, which introduced the character of Box Clever to the world, made you something of a household name...”
“The only six books,” mutters Derek. “Not the first, they’re the only ones!”
Crown: “...all the more amazing that you published them all yourself, taking advantage of the direct publishing platforms that Amazon, Apple, Barnes & Noble and a few others were pioneering at the time. In fact you were something of a champion of what was known as ‘indie publishing’ back then, and were an inspiration to many hopeful young writers, and those who had never been fortunate enough to win a publishing contract.”
Derek strokes his chin, surprised to hear John Crown mentioning this. Buchanan Publishing Ltd won’t be too happy that he slipped that little comment in. They always down-play her indie past.
Crown: “Can we assume that it was the pressure of your meteoric success back then which caused you to drop off the radar for so long?”
AB Foster: “Well, yes, that was definitely part of it, John. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting my little books to be so well-received! And that was especially difficult for me, since I find it very hard – as everyone knows – to properly deal with the outside world. I so wanted to be out there talking to fans of the books, and promoting, and all the things writers are supposed to do. Much easier now of course, with modern technology! But things were a lot more hands-on back then.”
“Christ, it was only a few years ago, you weren’t trapped in the Stone Age!”
AB Foster: “So yes, it did seem sensible to take a little break and give myself time to recharge my batteries.”
Crown: “Most of your readers probably assumed that was the end for the Box Clever series, but you’ve more than made up for lost time this year, with five brand new novels released since January.”
“Oh right yeah, brand new, course they are!”
AB Foster: “Yes, it’s been a busy time!”
Crown: “The difference being, of course, that now you’re publishing through Buchanan Publishers Ltd rather than independently. Was that purely a financial decision?”
Again, Derek is surprised that this question is being asked – because it’s a damn good one. For the ‘champion of indies’ to become one of the traditionally published big names is a serious U-turn. Maybe John Crown isn’t such a sycophantic shithead after all.
AB Foster: “Not at all, John, it was a matter of moving with the times more than anything. Back when I was writing simple eBooks, it was quite easy to do all the work myself. Now of course, eeBooks offer so much more, especially to my younger readers, who I have always cared about more than anything. So it made sense to work with a publisher who had the ability to produce a wide range of high-quality enhanced content. And I must say they’ve done a marvellous job, don’t you think? So exciting that people can now see and hear Box and the gang, as well as read about them!”
“Oh piss off, you – ”
A musical beep from his auto informs him that he’s receiving a phone call. The caller ID flashes in the bottom corner of the windscreen.
Joanna O’Donnell
Global Investigations (UK) Ltd
Derek brings his thumb and forefinger together to lower the webcast volume, then says “Answer. Hello, Ms O’Donnell.”
A woman’s voice fills the car, youthful with an Irish lilt. “Good evening, Mr Thorpe, how are you doing? I take it you’re watching the interview?”
“Of course I am.” He wants to ask why it’s taken so damn long for her to get in touch, but bites it back.
“I’ve got some good news for you, Mr Thorpe. We’ve isolated all the individual feeds making up the webcast transmission, including AB Foster’s.”
“You’ve found her?”
“We’re very close. We were right that she’s within the London area, not Cornwall as you suggested. That matches with our analysis of her most recent online messages. There were some proxy servers bouncing her feed out to Norway and Greenland, but those were just to throw off standard search algorithms, not our deep-search programs. I haven’t got a precise IP address yet, but I’ve narrowed it down – ”
“Where is she!” snaps Derek.
“...Somewhere in East London. I’ll have more details in a little while.”
He says “Car ignition.” Instantly, lines of white light glow around the interior. Digital dials appear across the glassy dashboard, from which the steering wheel emerges and spirals up towards him. There’s a hum of power coming from deep within the front bonnet. Derek bought his Volkswagen Cross Coupé SE when it was brand new, three years ago, back when he could afford it... back when he had an income. He’s determined to hold onto it. Especially since he’s been living in it for the past two months, after getting thrown out of his flat.
He says “Roadmap.” On the smartwindow, the webcast slides aside as a satellite map appears, with options to enter destination by postcode, street
name, area, borough and more. Derek puts his finger over the flashing symbol of his car, then draws a line to the right of London, the East End.
He says “Drive mode, full auto.” The dashboard lights change from white to blue. Foot-pedals sink back into the floor. The steering wheel stays out but revolves and locks into place. Derek wants to drive, he’d get there a lot faster that way. But he also knows that the way he’s feeling, there’s a good chance he’d trigger a speeding fine and get himself flagged. He doesn’t care about yet another fine. He cares about staying under the radar and avoiding the police. Can’t risk anything tonight. His auto can do the driving.
He says “Quickest route, fastest speed.” On the roadmap, his auto plots the most direct path, a zigzagging blue line. The speedometer dial blinks into life, a red marker at 40mph indicating maximum legal speed.
He says “Start journey.” Headlights spring on, indicators flash, the steering wheel twists, and the Volkswagen Cross Coupé SE pulls away from the kerb by itself. As the car slides into traffic and moves smoothly down Shepherd Street towards Piccadilly, the smartwindow displays the road ahead. Little identity balloons hover over all nearby vehicles, showing driver profiles – he can see who’s got points on their licence, whose insurance isn’t up to date, and so on. His own car keeps the regulation safe distance from them all.
Heavy rain slaps against the windscreen, but his auto doesn’t turn on the wipers. Derek doesn’t need to see where he’s going.
He badly wants to fire up the turbodiesel engine, wants to hear its growl, but the fuel gauge shows how low he is on petrol. Hard to afford a full tank these days. Feeling the urge for speed, Derek touches the dashboard to toggle from E-Mode (City) to E-Mode (Sport). The second 85kw electric motor in the rear pulses into life. At least there’s enough juice in the cells for that. He feels the Volkswagen accelerate as it turns into the main road, the double-hum of motors increasing in pitch.
The hunt is on.
There’s another reason why Derek isn’t driving. With a gesture he brings the webcast interview back onto the smartwindow, blocking his view of the road ahead. He doesn’t want to miss a single word. Even though each word feels like a tiny nick on his skin with a knife.
Crown: “…surprisingly prolific over recent months, considering each eeBook has such a huge amount of enhanced material.”
AB Foster: “Well, the actual books themselves had been written for a while, of course. This is one of the reasons I took a break for so long, to focus on writing them without worrying about the various pressures one feels from publicity and promotion and so on. I felt that poor old Box needed a lot more thought and attention from me than he was getting, and goodness knows he deserves it!”
O’Donnell: “That sound like a load of old nonsense to you too, Mr Thorpe?”
Derek jumps. He’d forgotten that the line to Global Investigations is still open. He clears his throat, glad it isn’t a face-call. “Uh, yes. It does.”
O’Donnell: “You still think she’s a faker, then?”
“Of course she is. If it’s even a she. Whoever’s talking, it’s not AB Foster, I can tell you that much.”
O’Donnell: “I believe you, Mr Thorpe, and I’m not just saying that because you’re our client! Someone like you, a die-hard fan, well, stands to reason you’d know a rat when you smell it. I can see you’ve just bought the latest book. I’m guessing nothing there has changed your mind?”
Derek doesn’t feel like talking. But he used most of his remaining savings to hire this private detective agency, and he needs their help. “Nope. Not a single original word. It’s like the originals have all been… remixed, by someone else.”
O’Donnell: “My guess is several someones, Mr Thorpe. I reckon there’ll be a whole team of ghost-writers knocking out new books in AB Foster’s style. With all the money pouring in, the publishers can afford it! I suspect we’ll find the webcast is coming from some digital studio in Shoreditch, and all the ghost-writers are there right now, coming up with answers to your man’s questions – ”
“The publishers aren’t doing this.”
O’Donnell: “…They’re not?”
“They think they’re dealing with the real thing. I’ve spoken to a few people working there, and they all think that’s the real AB Foster, that she’s come out of retirement to write them these new books. No, Buchanan don’t have a clue, they’re being fooled just like everyone else is.” Derek smiles tightly. “They’re gonna look pretty stupid when we tell the world she’s a fake. Are we all set for that?”
O’Donnell: “Absolutely. The press releases have been written, bleets and veets all scheduled. Our webcast will be posted on about fifty different channels, including some international ones. The media are bound to pick it up within minutes, they can’t miss it.”
“I want to do it before the end of this interview. Before the new book gets published. When all her fans are watching.”
O’Donnell: “That’s fifty-two minutes from now. Shouldn’t be a problem, Mr Thorpe.”
Derek nods. He stares hard at AB Foster’s simulation, as if looking down the target sight of a sniper’s rifle.
Crown: “Let’s briefly talk about the first of the books you released this year, ‘Box Clever and the Phantom’s Gauntlet’, which many saw as a direct sequel to the very first book, featuring as it does the return of the villainous Black Glove...”
AB Foster: “Oh, I know what you’re going to say, John! Yes, I used to say Black Glove would definitely not be coming back from the dead. But he was obviously so popular, I felt it would be a way of making people happy, especially those loyal fans who’ve been with me from the very beginning.”
O’Donnell: “You’re one of those aren’t you, Mr Thorpe? A fan from the very beginning? Of the real AB Foster, I mean.”
Derek frowns. “How do you know that?”
O’Donnell: “Well... as part of my background research for this case, I took a close look at how AB Foster’s career started. You know, how word spread about her on the bookseller sites, the reviews, the forum discussions – ”
HOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNK! The Volkswagen’s horn blares, as a car on the road ahead changes lane without indicating. His auto reduces speed and then sounds the horn a second time. On the windscreen, an incoming message appears on the Roadnet car-to-car network:
Sorry! My bad!
Instantly, Derek’s auto calls up the profile of the driver, then replies on his behalf, using phrases it knows he would use.
Get off the roads and back in
the kitchen, you stupid fat
bitch!
His auto adds an abusive animated emoticon as the other car pulls away. The Volkswagen glides ahead through the wet streets.
“Go on,” says Derek.
O’Donnell: “...So I was looking through all the initial talk about AB Foster on the forum archives, from back in 2013, and funnily enough I found your name there, Mr Thorpe. You made quite a lot of posts, actually. So I could tell you were a fan right from the word go, pretty much!”
“Mmm.”
O’Donnell: “You were a little harsh on some of the other indie writers, though, especially the Young Adult ones. Ooh, you really stuck the boot into some of them! You left a lot of one-star reviews for their books too. Which I suppose sort of makes sense, seeing as they were competitors to AB Foster, who you were so keen on, so obviously you didn’t want them to do very well. Some of the things you said were hilarious. ‘I wish I could give it zero stars...’ ‘I’d ask for a refund but they can’t refund my time...’ ‘I don't know what those five-star reviewers were smoking while reading this book, but must've been some good stuff...’ Ha! Not backwards in coming forwards, were you, Mr Thorpe?”
Derek says nothing. His gaze moves from AB Foster to the tiny speaker in the corner of the dashboard. His auto lowers the volume of the webcast, knowing he’s no longer giving it his full attention.
O’Donnell: “Shame your old blog isn’t up any more, I
’d like to have read that. But I came across a few articles you republished on the forums, they were dead impressive. You saw the deeper meaning behind the books, when everyone else was saying how silly and lightweight they were. I loved the one about how Box Clever abandoning his boxing career and stepping outside the ring was a metaphor for AB Foster herself, the way she uses – or used, I should say – her imagination to step outside the four walls of her home. It was good stuff. Case research for me isn’t usually that much fun!”
Her voice is so light and airy. Almost flirty, with that melodic Irish accent. Just a chatty girl passing the time. A girl who knows a lot more than anyone should.
Derek rests his hand on top of the steering wheel, knuckles whitening around it as it turns by itself.
O’Donnell: “I don’t normally get much time to read any more... I used to back in Dublin, me and my sisters always had loads of books piled up in our room when we were little. I know Siobhan still reads a lot, she’s really into that whole telerotica thing, can’t see it myself...”
“Load of old shit,” Derek bursts out. “How the hell something like that becomes popular... Christ, it’s ridiculous!”
He can’t stop himself. It’s one of his pet hates: the whole ‘telerotica’ bandwagon that every writer and publisher has jumped on in the last couple of years, flooding the eeBook charts. Who’d have thought such appallingly-written crap like ‘Emote Control’, by that typo-blind amateur Matt Rogers, would spawn a thousand imitators? Quasi-fantasy stories about people being telepathically or hypnotically controlled, making them perform erotic acts against their will. Which allowed authors to have their cake and eat it, claiming to be creating ‘strong empowered independent characters’ that are nevertheless forced to act out depraved fantasies, theirs or someone else’s.
Just another fad, but one that’s drawn in millions of readers. Especially female readers for some reason, God alone knows why... women never make any sense to Derek. But there’s no denying that telepaths are the new vampires these days.
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