O’Donnell: “I agree with you, Mr Thorpe, completely. Jesus, if you want some titillation in your life, just sign up to the sexnets and be honest about it, really!”
“Well… exactly.”
O’Donnell: “No, I wouldn’t touch that rubbish with a bargepole. I always used to like murder mysteries, thrillers, police procedurals, that sort of thing. Probably why I ended up in the investigation industry! Do you ever read anything like that?”
“I imagine you already know I do, Ms O’Donnell.”
O’Donnell: “Oh, call me Joanna, please. Well, yeah, your purchase history is on your public profile, Mr Thorpe, so I can see you buy quite a lot of thriller novels. Looks like we have the same taste in books, that’s great! Although obviously I’m not a massive AB Foster fan like yourself. It’s amazing to think that she started as an indie author, publishing her books herself, isn’t it? Back then everyone was having a go at selling the old eBooks, a couple of friends of mine even did. They say everyone’s got a book inside them, don’t they?”
Derek’s fist tightens further around a steering wheel he isn’t controlling. He knows where this is heading. He knows what the sneaky little cow is driving at.
“Have you been doing a little digging, Joanna?”
Joanna: “It’s nothing personal, Mr Thorpe. Global Investigations always runs a basic timeline search on its clients, just to make sure we’re not party to any illegal activity.”
Derek takes a moment to swallow down all the vicious things he wants to call her. He manages to keep his voice steady. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I didn’t hire Global Investigations to investigate myself. Did I?”
Joanna: “No, Mr Thorpe.”
“Your job is to help me expose whoever’s copying AB Foster’s work. I’m the one paying your wages tonight, Joanna, got that? You are working for me.”
Joanna: “Of course, Mr Thorpe, you’re absolutely right, sorry about that. I blame all those detective stories I used to read, they always had me looking for a secret even when there wasn’t one. Used to drive my poor folks crazy, I did!”
Her sweet little chuckle makes him want to scream. He’s glad of the distraction when another Roadnet message appears on the smartwindow, sent by the big red Ford Cortina Mk VI driving alongside.
Excuse me mate, do you know
where the dubporch rave is
going to be tonight? Is it down
Lewisham?
His auto responds precisely the same way Derek would have.
Go fuck yourself.
Derek ignores the Cortina revving its engine and speeding off in a cloud of fumes, asking “Have you worked out yet where I’m meant to be going?”
Joanna: “I’ve narrowed down the IP address to somewhere in Limehouse, an area about fifty metres square… not sure I can get more specific than that, but I’ll try. Funny though, I thought the webcast would be coming from a studio, but this part of the borough is mostly derelict. Just loads of abandoned buildings.”
“That makes sense,” Derek nods. “Whoever’s doing this doesn’t want to be disturbed. They’ll be based somewhere out of the way, hard to reach.”
Joanna: “Sending the map references to your auto now, Mr Thorpe.”
Derek sees the geo-data scroll past. Feels the steering wheel twist in his hand. The Volkswagen makes a sharp turn off the main road. Electric motors whine as it shoots ahead through the rain.
Excitement in his belly. They’ve got her scent. Getting closer.
He turns his attention back to the webcast. Detecting this, his auto moves it to the centre of the smartwindow and increases the volume.
Crown: “…on to the newest book in the series, which is only half an hour away from release. I understand there’s some radical changes in store?”
AB Foster: “Yes indeed. I’m very excited to announce that the twelfth Box Clever novel will not be released as an eeBook, but in a brand new format that has been developed by Buchanan Publishing. It will be the world’s first ieBook… an interactive electronic book!”
Joanna: “An ieBook? What’s that when it’s at home?”
Crown: “Now, there have been rumours about a new format over the last few months. Can you explain what makes this book different from the others?”
AB Foster: “Well as you know, John, with printed books there wasn’t any way for the reader to really interact with it other than simply read the text, it was a very passive experience. When eBooks arrived, readers could adjust the text size and font, or hear the text spoken out, and so on. With eeBooks, of course, the reader can bring up illustrations to help them visualise the text, listen to music that will convey the mood, and generally feel immersed in the story. But now with ieBooks, we’re putting the reader fully in control!”
Derek’s fist tightens, not liking the sound of this.
AB Foster: “With an ieBook, each reader will be able to customise it according to his or her personal taste. Not just in terms of display settings, or amount of enhanced content. They’ll be able to actually tailor the story itself to meet their individual requirements. An ieBook really puts the reader in the driving seat!”
Sitting in the driving seat, Derek’s hand slips from a steering wheel moving by itself. His jaw hangs open as he watches a demonstration video on the webcast, showing a KindleBlaze displaying a range of digital touch-slides.
AB Foster: “As you can see here, each ieBook includes these easy-to-use controls. With them, a reader can directly modify the text of the book. For example, if they like reading lots of detailed prose then they can increase the amount of description, or reduce it if they prefer a more concise writing style. They can feature more dialogue from characters they enjoy, or less for a more plot-driven story. They can turn up the humour, tone down the violence… in fact their changes directly affect each ieBook’s BBFC classification, which means adult works could be made suitable for children. And vice versa!”
“No,” says Derek suddenly, surprising himself.
AB Foster: “Using the advanced settings seen here, the reader can customise the book even further by selecting which secondary characters are featured, which subplots are switched on and off, and even – and I know as a critic you’re going to like this, John – even get to decide how the book ends!”
“No, no, NO!” Derek thumps the steering wheel. “That’s so bloody… Christ, that’s just wrong!”
Joanna: “Wow. This is weird. The reader controls everything?”
“But they don’t!” he insists. “They shouldn’t! It’s not theirs to control!”
Joanna: “Well, if nothing else, this proves we’re onto something. I imagine the real AB Foster wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with this, would she Mr Thorpe?”
“…No. She wouldn’t.” Derek glances again at the speaker as if throwing Joanna a suspicious look.
AB Foster: “...demonstrated using copy from the very first book, ‘Box Clever and the Shadow’s Challenge’.”
The webcast displays a page of text. One that Derek remembers well.
Box threw his entire weight against the door, again and again. Even his iron-hard shoulder ached, but eventually, he heard the doorframe splinter and crack. He almost tumbled as he crashed through, then recovered and ran inside the gym. Only to skid to a halt as he realised he was running into darkness.
He couldn’t see anything: not the punchbags, not the weights, not the training mats, and not the owner of the voice that said “I knew you’d work it out eventually.”
Box squinted, adjusting his spectacles. In the faint glow of the moon coming through the gym’s skylight, he could just about see a figure standing up in the boxing ring where he had spent so many years training. A huge, dark silhouette. One precisely as tall, precisely as well-built, as he was. It was like looking into a mirror.
“Where’s Polly?” he demanded angrily. “And Slow George? What have you done with them!”
“Don’t worry about them, Mr Clever,” said the man in the
ring. “They were just the warm-up. Our contest begins properly now.” Box heard padded feet moving, and glimpsed hands resting on the rope barrier.
Not hands, he realised with a shiver, but boxing gloves. Almost identical to those he wore except for one detail. They were jet black.
“Final round,” hissed the voice.
AB Foster: “By adjusting the description and tone controls, you can see how the copy can be made a little more sophisticated for our more mature readers...”
Derek swears under his breath as his eyes scan the new text.
With a stentorian thud, Box threw his entire weight against the hardwood main entrance to Gallagher’s Gym, repeating the process several times. Even his shoulder, hardened by a lifetime of bodybuilding, ached as a result of the multiple impacts. Eventually, he heard the doorframe surrender with a splintering crack. He almost lost his balance as he crashed through, then recovered and sprinted rapidly inside the building. Only to skid to an unexpected, sudden halt as he realised he was running into a pitch-black, impenetrable darkness.
His eyes were rendered utterly useless, blinded by the stygian gloom. He couldn’t see the giant heavy punchbags, or the gleaming steel weights, or the thick rubber training mats. Or the owner of the sepulchral voice that rumbled in the abyss like evil thunder: “I knew a man of your not-inconsiderable intellect would work out the answer eventually.”
Box narrowed his eyes flintily, adjusting his light but sturdy half-moon spectacles. In the faint lunar ambience emanating through the gym’s roof-inlaid skylight, he could just about determine a figure standing up in the dominant feature of Gallagher’s Gym, a huge boxing ring, where Box himself had spent so many years sparring, dancing, dodging, weaving and learning every manoeuvre a professional fighter could learn. Standing there now was an imposing dark silhouette, as if the night had coalesced into a humanoid form. One that mirrored his own physical dimensions with uncanny precision.
“Where’s my young companion, Polly?” Box demanded, anger threading through his voice like a vein of steel. “And my compatriot of yesteryear, Slow George? What fate has befallen my friends!”
“Don’t concern yourself with the well-being of your associates, Mr Clever,” enunciated the indistinct outline. “They were merely the overture, the warm-up act, the hors d'oeuvres. Our tournament commences imminently.” Box heard the distinct sound of boxer’s boots shuffling against hard canvas, and glimpsed a pair of hands resting atop the uppermost cord of rope that formed the outer wall of the square ring.
And yet... they were not human digits, he realised with a nerve-tingling quiver of trepidation, but boxing gloves near-indistinguishable to the red padded gauntlets upon his own hands... with the exception of one significant aspect. For these were gloves of purest obsidian, dark as the nefarious heart of the mastermind to whom they belonged.
“Final round,” articulated the faceless spectre with a distinctly serpentine tenor.
Joanna: “What on God’s green earth is all that bollocks?”
AB Foster: “As you can see, the essence of the story is of course unchanged, but now the text has been tailored for a more literary audience... something your friends on Review Locus might appreciate, John! As for our younger readers, adjusting the controls in the other direction should give them something lovely to enjoy...”
Box threw himself against the door. Bash! Bash! Bash! It hurt his shoulder but he kept going, until the door burst open. Then he ran inside, but it was totally dark. The lights were all off.
Then he noticed a dark shape standing in the boxing ring! A dark shape just the same shape as he was!
Then the dark shape said “I knew you would come!”
Box asked “Where’s Polly? Where’s Slow George?”
“Forget them,” said the dark figure. “We’re going to fight now!”
Then Box noticed that the dark figure was wearing boxing gloves, just like his own. But they weren’t red boxing gloves. They were black boxing gloves!
“Ding ding! Final round!” said the man with black boxing gloves.
Derek doubles over and moans like he’s just been punched in the gut. Punched in the gut by someone wearing a boxing glove.
AB Foster: “There’s no need even for these controls, really. Everyone’s auto knows how broad their vocabulary is, so putting the advanced settings on ‘auto’ means every ieBook will be adjusted to your tastes before you even start reading.”
Crown: “Fascinating. Judging by this extract from your earlier work, can we assume all of the previous Box Clever books will be converted into ieBooks?”
AB Foster: “It’ll take a while but yes, the plan is they should all be available in ieBook format by the end of the year. And it’s not just my books either, many other authors published by Buchanan will be releasing ieBooks too. All very exciting!”
“You can’t DO that!” yells Derek. He slams the steering wheel again. “They’re not your books, you bitch!”
Joanna: “Easy, Mr Thorpe, you’re almost there. We’re going to shut her down before this happens, okay?”
Derek nods, forcing himself to breathe through his nose. His insides feel wrapped tightly around themselves. The car seems smaller, pressing down on top of him.
Crown: “Ms Foster, as impressive as this technology is, I know that some authors won’t be too pleased about the idea. For a writer who has worked for months or years on a book, they may consider their text to be sacrosanct rather than, as you’ve demonstrated, malleable. Don’t you think that it’s the author who decides how a book is written?”
“Exactly!” snaps Derek, unsettled to hear himself agreeing with John Crown, of all people.
AB Foster: “Although I understand your concerns, John, I think most authors will realise the benefits of allowing their readers to decide for themselves. In a way, ieBooks are a more democratic method of reading. They free the reader from the limitations of one person’s viewpoint and vocabulary and style. It’s quite a paradigm shift, actually, a regime change if you like.”
God, she makes it sound like she’s leading a revolution!
Crown: “Surely, the writer owns the text – ”
AB Foster: “But the reader owns the experience of reading it.”
Crown: “Um, well yes, but – ”
AB Foster: “It’s no different from what used to happen with print books, really. Even when millions of people read the same novel, they didn’t all have the same experience – they interpreted the novel their way, using their own unique imaginations. An author provides the material for that experience, but cannot dictate how the reader responds. So readers customising books to increase their own enjoyment is a logical progression, I think.”
Derek can feel his jaw working, wanting to shout at the stupid smiling sim-face floating in front of him, wanting to drive his fist right through the windscreen... but he can’t find the words. He knows this is nonsense. He knows it’s wrong. But he can’t articulate exactly why. He just can’t find the words.
Joanna: “I imagine this must be quite upsetting to a writer... the idea of someone else changing their work. That must feel horrible?”
“Of course it does! It’s bloody ridiculous! The amount of time you spend writing and editing and getting everything how you want it... last thing you want is all your punters rewriting your words just to suit themselves!”
The wet road whips past outside the car.
Derek slowly turns his gaze back to the speaker, as it dawns on him what he’s just said. What she’s tricked him into saying.
“So you know about that too, do you Joanna?”
Joanna: “About your books, Mr Thorpe? Yes, I found records of some of your submissions to publishing houses. Penguin Random House, HarperCollinsMacmillan, even Buchanan Publishing back when they were small. The earliest record I could find was in 2014... you’ve been trying to break into publishing for a long time, it looks like.”
Derek squeezes his eyes shut.
Joanna: “I have
to say, some of your books sound great! ‘Blood Beauty’, ‘Deadly Vendetta’, ‘Black Obsession’... I love that sort of thing, as you know. Any chance of getting a copy of one from yourself? Hey, you could autograph it for me!”
Her tone remains light and casual, as she jokes about the most important thing in Derek’s life.
Just hearing someone else’s voice say those titles out loud gives him the shivers. It’s never happened before. He has to yank open his eyes, unable to stop visualising the self-designed dust jackets he had printed, all those years ago. Images of daggers and guns and blood on a black background. His name printed at the top in huge letters, as if the whole world would be desperate to see them, as if his legion of fans would scour the bookstores for a glimpse of his name.
The books he wrote, that nobody else read.
Joanna: “Something I don’t understand, Mr Thorpe, is why you didn’t just publish your own books? I mean, sure, sending them to the big publishers is worth a shot, but why not just turn them into eBooks and sell them yourself, like AB Foster did?”
Through gritted teeth, Derek tells her “Because it wouldn’t count.”
Joanna: “Why’s that? Some of those self-published writers did pretty well for themselves – ”
“Amateurs.” The word unlocks the bile. “All of them, just amateurs, all they do is flood the market with free junk, cheap copies of whatever’s popular. Books so shit they can’t even give the things away! You’re not a proper writer unless you’ve been properly published, by a publisher, and that’s that. Those arseholes are kidding themselves, all they care about is making some easy money, they’re not real authors, they don’t know what being a real author means, they have no idea!”
Derek throws himself back in his seat. The car turns into a side-street, steering wheel revolving by itself. Rain batters against the roof. He glares at the speaker, unable to shake the feeling that the woman from Global Investigations is making notes.
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