Literary Remains

by R. B. Russell

  ‘I am sorry to call you out on a pretence,’ she apologised. ‘But I didn’t know what to do. My son has just found a job. I am alone in the house all day.’

  My thoughts immediately went to the stories of bored housewives. Then she said:

  ‘I am scared.’

  ‘Scared of what?’

  ‘Of what is in the roof. Tell me, what did you see in the roof when you went up there?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There can’t be just nothing. Did you see someone?’

  ‘No, nobody at all.’

  ‘But my son goes up there for hours. I hear him making noises.

  Talking. And when he leaves the roof I hear nothing. But since he has started working I sometimes hear somebody up there.’

  ‘I’m sure there must be some other explanation.’ It was obvious that she wanted me to investigate.

  ‘I’d offer to go up and have a look,’ I said generously. ‘But your son has the key.’

  ‘He has, but I have made a copy. He left it in his trousers one day and I pressed it into some pastry. Then I took the impression to the locksmith and he said it was a standard key. Look, this is it.’

  She passed me a small key. It sat in the palm of my hand.

  ‘Will you please look up there for me?’ she asked.

  My eyes still on the key, I grudgingly agreed to investigate for her. The woman was plainly very scared, and to be completely honest I didn’t feel much more at ease myself. I suppose I felt she was relying on me, and no gentleman should ever turn away from a woman in distress.

  Once again I climbed the stairs, with Mrs Johanssen following me. In her son’s bedroom I put the wooden chair under the hatch and opened the padlock. I looked around and saw the pole that I should have recognised before. I used it to push up the hatch door, and with the hook on its end I pulled down the ladder. I had to move the chair before I could transfer my weight onto the ladder, which then creaked in protest.

  I climbed up, and, feeling for the light switch, flicked it on before raising my head carefully through the hatch. As I looked around, all seemed as before: the garden shed was unchanged; the boots were still beside the door. Now that I had the light on I could see that the loft space was large and that the shed was big too. It really was quite amazing how the son had actually managed to get it up there at all. I expect you know that sheds usually come in prefabricated panels, so he must have had to break those panels up into smaller sections, and take them up the ladder and through the hatch a piece at a time.

  For a moment I thought I might have heard a noise myself, but when I stopped to listen properly, all seemed quiet. Feeling a little more confident now, I climbed into the loft and then cautiously walked over the joists to the shed door. The woman in the bedroom below had said nothing, and was obviously waiting patiently. Slowly, my heart beating a little faster, I lifted the latch and opened the door in front of me.

  I would have jumped violently, startled by almost anything that I saw inside. But the last thing that I expected to see was that Mrs Johanssen was already up there before me.

  There were two red-shaded lights throwing a soft glow over heavy flock wallpaper, a deep-pile carpet, and a bed of rich silk sheets and velvet pillows. She lay on the bed, covered by one of the sheets, her skin no longer grey but warm and golden in the dusky light. She looked younger, and beautiful. Her limbs were long and perfect, her hair down around a soft and lovely face. She turned from her back on to her side and I could see the outline of her breasts through the thin sheet.

  ‘Come here and love me,’ she said in a soft voice. I wanted to, of course—how I wanted to! Her bright eyes might almost have been hooks, the way they seemed to drag me across the short distance towards her. I could see the sheet gradually sliding down her body. I could scarcely breath, and, as you can imagine, it was an horrific shock when a harsh voice came up from the bedroom below:

  ‘What have you found?’

  I had not realised that I was so far into the shed, by the bed, kneeling down and about to kiss those full, soft lips. In my confusion and horror I backed away from the bed and stumbled over a cushion. I grabbed at the door frame to steady myself, and the whole thing shook. I regained my balance and turned to look out of the shed towards the loft hatch. Suddenly I could hear her coming up the creaking steps.

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ I nearly shouted as I took one great step over the rafters to the hatch. The grey-faced woman was there, looking up at me. ‘No, nothing at all,’ I said, backing down the steps and giving her no option but to climb down quickly.

  As I descended I looked back once through the door of the shed and into its plush interior at the woman sitting on the bed, the sheet now covering only her lap. I flicked the light switch off and jumped down the last two steps. I pushed the ladder back up into the roof on its runners and, finding the pole, hooked the hatch and pulled it down. I moved the chair into position under it in the middle of the room and, in spite of my still-trembling fingers, re-padlocked the hatch.

  Mrs Johanssen was sitting on the sofa in the living room when I had finished and walked, uncertainly, downstairs. I could see her through the door, but I let myself out without talking to her. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  I often think about what I saw in that loft. I was mistaken, of course. Mrs Johanssen had been downstairs all the time. When I got home that night I found the key to that padlock in my trouser pocket. I still have it. It’s a pretty ordinary, standard key, so I may find something else that it will unlock, one day.

  ASPHODEL

  Mr Gabo was an unlikely-looking author, but then most of their authors were unlikely-looking. Asphodel Books always attracted the improbable. As they were essentially a vanity publisher they were not in a position to turn down anybody who was willing to write a large enough cheque. Mr Gabo was perhaps seventy, and his face a mass of deep wrinkles, soft pouches and furry skin. His eyes peered out blearily from somewhere deep within his face. He looked like someone’s great uncle, or great grandfather, with the life all but ebbed away from him. And he was very short indeed. He was standing in reception, wiping a finger over the dust on the books on display.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Marc apologized as he entered, ‘But I’m afraid that both our managing director andour editor are out. Can I help?’

  ‘That depends on who you are?’ Mr Gabo asked quite reasonably, and rather quietly.

  ‘I’m the publicity manager. If we publish your book then I will be responsible for its promotion.’

  ‘It will not be required,’ the old man dismissed the young man’s role. ‘The book will sell itself.’

  ‘Even the best books need to be presented to the public,’ Marc justified himself.

  ‘Not mine.’

  ‘Well, that’s a long way down the line.’

  ‘The young are always biased against the old,’ Mr Gabo stated, without any sign of rancour. ‘You assume that because I’m so far removed from your own preoccupations and interests that I’ve lost touch, or am out of date. You forget that the elderly who shuffle around the streets of your city once knew the place just as well as you do now. We fought wars and saw things that you could not start to imagine…’

  ‘Fair point.’ Marc put his hands up in defence. During the old man’s softly spoken lecture he had advanced towards Marc slightly, perhaps trying to look threatening or menacing but not succeeding.

  ‘Before I pay you a great deal of money to publish my book, I’d like to see around your operation here.’

  ‘Of course,’ Marc agreed, slightly disarmed by the man’s matter-of-factness about the financial arrangements.

  Marc Drake did not enjoy working for Asphodel Books. In fact, he had come to detest the job. That old feeling that he used to have as a youngster going to school, that heaviness in the stomach, was back with him as he made his way to work each morning. Even the night before that feeling would blight his evening. Sundays were the worst time: at least on Monday morning
he was running around getting ready without a moment to think about it. He knew that it had all become too much for him when he would have that feeling for tomorrow before he had even left the office the previous day.

  Which is what made those first few months at work seem so long ago. For those first few Sunday evenings he would actually look forward to going to work. He had things to be getting on with, people to phone; he knew that he would enjoy himself. Against all of the odds he had a job in publishing, a decent job (or so he thought), without any real experience. He had bluffed his way through his interview, had somehow given the right answers to questions he only half understood, and if the money wasn’t that good, then at least there was a promise of more later on.

  He knew so little about publishing that he failed to realise the implications of one of the questions asked at his second interview:

  ‘Would you be confident that you could reassure an upset author that they hadn’t wasted their money?’

  ‘Wasted their money?’

  ‘They are often expected to pay a contribution towards the costs of publishing their book. For some people it’s quite a lot of money, and some expect great things. If they only sell a hundred copies they may not be very pleased.’

  He replied:

  ‘I’d try and impress upon them the positive things they’d got for their money, talk about the possibilities for the future. Say how much I’d liked their book?’

  It was the right answer and they moved on to ‘If we offered you the job what sort of money would you expect?’

  He hadn’t really thought about authors paying towards their book being published, although he later found out that it is quite common even among the most famous and well respected publishing houses. At Asphodel Books, however, authors didn’t usually pay a contribution towards the publishing costs, they paid all of the costs, and left the company a contribution towards their profits. And for most people it was a lot of money. A hundred copies would have been a liberal average for sales. There were some successes, but there were also a few authors who would sell less than ten copies.

  Quite how Mr Gabo would react to poor sales of his book Marc could not begin to guess. The old man had picked up his heavy-looking bag and was following him into the dark corridor.

  ‘This is our managing director, Mr Jolly’s office.’ Marc opened the door but stood so as not to let Mr Gabo enter. ‘As I say, he’s not in, but I am sure he would love to meet you before going any further. He shut the door on the dusty and smelly room. It looked nice, with dark wood panelling and heavy old furniture, but there was an ineradicable smell of urine that did not often impress authors.

  The company inhabited the top floor of an old Victorian building near the Gray’s Inn Road. It was a warren of small rooms, and they came to the editor’s next. Porter had recently had the heavy wood in his office painted a brilliant white and despite the heaps of manuscript, typescript and proofs, it had a fairly modern and industrious appearance.

  ‘Our editor works out of this room.’ This time he allowed Mr Gabo to enter. ‘After the contract is signed most of your dealings will be with Mr Porter. Say, for the first six months.’

  ‘Six months?’ he was unimpressed. ‘I did have a decent education, young man. I do know how to put together a coherent sentence. My book is ready to go to press without being mucked about with by an editor.’

  ‘That’s between you and Mr Porter.’ Marc tried to inject a lighthearted tone into his voice.

  Marc’s room, the next kennel down the narrow corridor, was, frankly, a mess, and he passed by it quickly. It was a mess that he had inherited from his predecessor and despite various attempts to try and clear it up there were always more pressing demands on his time. Some people in the business thought it strange that a vanity publisher would have an editor and a publicity manager, for most of their competitors just took the money and ran. Marc, however, liked to think that Asphodel Books were slightly different. Of course, most people in the trade saw Marc mainly as window-dressing. And as far as Mr Jolly was concerned a good review was not a means of selling books, but of enticing other authors to sign up. Marc did try and do a decent job, if only to justify his existence, and he liked to think that he was quite good at it.

  Marc and Mr Gabo reached Archie’s office next. Archie smiled sweetly at Mr Gabo, asked after his health, and as soon as the old man’s back was turned he stuck his finger up at him. Archie was the production assistant who should have found another job years ago, because he was never going to be promoted. He was paid badly, but was not expected to work very hard so he was content to remain in his lowly position. He had a fund of humorous stories, but not soon after meeting him Marc noticed that the same jokes and quips were endlessly repeated. Archie had been there longer than anybody else so he was the only one who knew the true genesis of the office in-jokes. It was painful to admit that everybody else became guilty of endlessly re-telling Archie’s stories.

  Marc explained to Mr Gabo that Archie’s job was to design the dust jackets and occasionally lay out books that required photographs or illustrations. Other designers would create the artwork, but Archie would design the lettering, set the blurbs and add the author photo and bar code. Mr Gabo listened to Marc without any interest.

  ‘And what have you written?’ asked Archie brightly. It was a question that Marc always dreaded asking.

  ‘Many years ago, young man,’ Gabo said seriously. ‘I committed a very great sin. My book is an atonement for that sin.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Archie, hoping his obvious show of interest would elicit details.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied simply but said no more.

  Mr Gabo’s explanation filled Marc with dread. If the author couldn’t explain what their own book was about then Marc was not going to be able to do any better in his publicity campaign. There was an old saying in his native Norfolk that claimed ‘You can’t polish a turd,’ but the saying was wrong. Asphodel Books often received these from illiterate and unimaginative authors and polished them until they achieved an unimagined brilliance. Despite the unkempt appearance of their offices, Asphodel’s books looked good. Marc couldn’t help it if they were unpalatable should any member of the public be stupid enough to read them.

  Mr Gabo liked Archie and chose to deposit the manuscript on his desk.

  ‘It does not need editing,’ he told him. ‘A plain and simple typeface, not too small, and decent paper. The cover is to be charcoal grey with gold lettering.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to see a few examples of other designs we can offer?’ Marc asked.

  ‘No, I was told that it should look that way.’

  ‘Well, if he’s been told…’ Archie chided Marc.

  They exchanged glances, understanding that they should not ask from whom Mr Gabo had received his instructions.

  ‘I assume that three months will be a reasonable time-scale?’ Mr Gabo suggested.

  ‘Until proofs?’ asked Archie.

  ‘Publication,’ he said firmly.

  ‘It is a little quicker than we can usually turn books around,’ Marc started to warn him.

  ‘Just send me an invoice. Whatever your usual price is, and if you can publish in three months I’ll pay an extra ten per cent.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with Mr Jolly,’ said Archie conspiratorially.

  ‘Good.’ He turned to Marc. ‘And now you can show me out.’

  As they walked back down the corridor towards reception he explained:

  ‘Please don’t think me rude, but the book really doesn’t need publicity. It’s all in more influential hands than yours or mine.’

  ‘Good,’ Marc said as he opened the door for the old man, and Mr Gabo walked out.

  Archie had already worked out who the more influential hands belonged to.

  ‘The end is nigh!’ he wailed tragically as Marc walked back down to his office. ‘The great prophet has entrusted us with the job of spreading the news. Well, as publicity manager he’s entrusted i
t to you. His book is very philosophical, very deep.’

  ‘No, it’s out of my hands,’ Marc grinned. He looked into the manuscript. It was handwritten in green biro, and consisted almost entirely of helpful suggestions for those preparing for the end of the world. ‘Pay off your debts.’ ‘Be kind to everyone, including those you dislike.’ ‘Do not over-eat.’

  Mr Gabo was obviously very serious, but his thoughts were broadcast about the office, and for some reason there was great hysteria when the author suggested that the end of the world was not a good time to consider obtaining a pet dog. What was of more interest, however, was his description of his own personal preparation. As a chosen prophet he had to make special arrangements; he was to give away all of his possessions, be cleansed, purged internally and externally, and then he would be transfigured.

  Even Mr Jolly called Mr Gabo a ‘fruitcake’ on his return. Archie had moved the manuscript to Mr Jolly’s desk, wondering what his opinion would be. Their boss was the main reason Marc hated his job. The man would not allow his staff to be critical of any of their authors, yet he was happy to complain about them himself. He would admit that a book was unreadable and then become angry when his staff were unable to sell copies. Over many years he had sought to offer the world a façade of respectability and success while he knew that the vast majority of his books were worthless. For some reason he kept up this façade even with those he worked with—those best placed to know the truth.

  It would be wrong to suggest that all of their books were appalling. They published something like one hundred books a year and the odds were that they would publish a couple of reasonable titles among them, and they did, very occasionally, receive a good, high-profile review in a national newspaper. These, however, were exceptions.

  And it would be wrong if anyone believed that their authors were actually ripped off. The worst vanity publishers tell prospective authors that their work is on a par with that of Tolstoy and that they will be rich in a very short time. Asphodel Books never stooped to these practices, and, in fact, authors were told not to consider publication as a money-making venture; they were told that there was a distinct possibility of not selling many books. There are degrees of duplicity, and strictly speaking Asphodel Books gave authors due warning. But too many people are vain and won’t be told. If Mr Jolly had screamed at them ‘Your book will not sell and nobody will review it, because it is a bad book’ then many would still believe that they would be an international best-selling author. Sadly, few aspired to being the next Tolstoy.