Top Of The Shop

by Les Broad

wants to sue me for some huge sum of money. He's annoyed the film company too and they reckon that I'll have to pay their costs too.”

  “I see. I take it that it's all just, how can I put this, carelessness on your part and not in the least deliberate?”

  “Well, I made the details up, if that's what you mean. I didn't know the address existed, or that anybody called Smithson lived there.”

  “I see.” Walker seemed to be thinking, and his expression was turning more and more serious as the seconds dragged by. “Forgive me for asking this as it seems so basic, but all this seems to have happened extremely quickly.”

  “I suppose some people might think that. Seems a long time to me.”

  “Do you happen to know when the film was released?”

  “About eighteen months ago, maybe a bit more.”

  “Ah. I see. And the book was written when?”

  Martin though for a moment. “I finished writing it about eight years back, probably nearer nine now. It was rejected by a few publishers, then, about five years ago, it did get published.”

  Walker pulled a thin file from his briefcase, read through its meagre contents then made a few notes on a white A4-sized pad before pulling the top sheet off and inserting it in the file. He then laid the file carefully on top of his closed briefcase.

  “Mr Harrison, I'm dreadfully sorry to tell you this but I think we may have quite a major problem. Your libel insurance came into effect just under a year ago.”

  “Yes, I imagine that's about right, and this libel thing started a few weeks ago.”

  “This is difficult, and I'm in a dilemma. But I believe honesty is the best course, don't you?” Martin nodded. “If my reading of the policy is correct, and I really can't see how it can be anything but correct, it covers literary works written during its currency but is open ended – called in trade jargon long-tailed – in that an action could be started against you years from now and the cover you've bought would protect you even if you didn't renew for a second year. So, the policy you have with us doesn't cover any works written before it came into force. Your book, Mr Harrison, predates the insurance and no claim can be admitted. You'll need to make a claim against the policy that covered the time when the book was published. The time of completion isn't relevant – it's the publication date that matters.”

  There was a pause during which the little colour that remained in Martin's face drained away.

  “So, what you're saying is that you can't meet the cost I'm facing?”

  “I'm afraid not. I'm really very sorry, but the insurers you used before you came to us will be able to. I'll take up no more of your time as you'll need to contact that company as a matter of some urgency.” He slid the file into his briefcase and stood up, ready to leave. It took Martin several seconds to stand before showing his guest out.

  Once Walker had driven away Martin slumped down in a chair. The enormity of what he'd been told began to sink in: he'd lost his wife and, as if that wasn't bad enough, now he had no insurance but people still wanted huge amounts of money from him. Agnetta wanted half the sale proceeds of the house too. He needed George Hadley, but couldn't be bothered to contact him. It was just too much effort.

  Over the next few days Martin's phone rang, often. He didn't answer it. Neither did he wash, or change his clothes. He didn't eat. He sipped water direct from a tap when he needed to and could be bothered; it was the only thing he did to keep body and soul together.

  More or less exactly a week after Alan Walker had walked out of Martin's house and his life, another caller appeared on the doorstep; George Hadley stood there, agitated and concerned at his inability to reach Martin by phone. Those feelings were made worse by the simple fact that both of Martin's cars were outside the house, implying clearly enough that the owner was at home.

  Naturally Hadley knew that Agnetta wouldn't be there; the letter he had received from her solicitor, newly appointed to deal with the matter of her divorce, had made the current marital situation crystal clear. Although he'd heard of the separation and intent to divorce from Martin, he had been quite shocked by the apparent degree of vehemence by which Agnetta was motivated.

  Hadley drummed a tattoo on the door but however loudly he banged it went unanswered. The date of the libel hearing was looming and no preparatory work had been done – it could not even begin without Martin's input, and it was that input that Hadley was now seeking.

  In a state bordering on desperation he moved around the house to see if any other door might possibly be unlocked. That leading into the kitchen, he found, was not just unlocked but ajar; he let himself in, feeling guilt to add to the other emotions he was enduring.

  He began looking around the house, room by room, until he came across Martin sitting disconsolately in his library. There was no reaction to his entry and Hadley thought, just for a couple of ever-lasting seconds that Martin might actually be dead. But Martin looked up, briefly, as Hadley approached.

  “Martin, what's going on?” he asked but got no reply. “Look, we need to talk.”

  “Don't care,” was the unexpected reply.

  Hadley looked closer at Martin, noticing the dirty clothes, the unshaven, unwashed and emaciated body. That was all a big enough shock, but the the smell hit him, the bittersweet smell of urine not quite masking that of excrement. It was all beyond Hadley's experience: he backed out of the room in the certain knowledge that his disappearance would change nothing. Then he rang for an ambulance.

  Martin spent a week in hospital at the end of which he he regained a little of his old self, albeit only thanks to a course of aggressive drugs. Hadley had been able to establish some sort of two way communication with Martin, but even heavy stressing of his client's health issues had failed to secure any deferment of the court hearing. He had a difficult decision to make: did he suggest that Martin should not be present in court due to his health, or encourage him to attend anyway? There was a chance, however small, that Martin's state of physical and mental health might engender some sympathy and as a consequence the damage to his finances might be lessened. It was, Hadley decided, worth the risk.

  The day before the court hearing Hadley received a letter from lawyers representing the American film company. Written in tortuously complex English, it ran to several pages but contained only a simple message, which was that the lawyers' client company was at the time of writing instituting an action in a Los Angeles court the intention of which was to prove that Martin Harrison had been culpably negligent in warranting that his work contained nothing that would be to the detriment of the company. Since Martin had written a book, on which the film was based, that contained details which amounted to a serious libel and those details had been carried through to the film the company intended to seek substantial damages – and that was 'substantial' in an American context.

  It represented another massive financial blow to Hadley's already badly browbeaten client and when Hadley told Martin, as he had to do, he could see the little fight that Martin had left in him drain away.

  It explained why Martin gave the appearance of being wholly disinterested in the court hearing. As he entered the court building he was the subject at which scores of cameras were pointed and at which a thousand questions were shouted. Hadley, who had never been a seeker of either fame or infamy, scurried inside as quickly as he could; his ideal rate of progress was impeded by the need to propel Martin, who seem either unable or unwilling to propel himself.

  Once inside though, it was much quieter and the mismatched pair, solicitor and client, were permitted to proceed through a maze of corridors to meet with Eloise Ewart, who was to represent Martin. She took one look at Martin and realised immediately that she needed to modify her strategy for the day. Interrupted only by occasional whispered exchanges with George Hadley, she wrote furiously, intent on making the most of the limited time available before their case was called.

  The case was called all too quickly: the trio making up the defence team made th
eir way into another room, through a large oak door bearing the legend 'Courtroom 1'. After a brief, whispered conversation with counsel for the Smithson side which was not overheard by either George Hadley or Martin, they all sat, awaiting the arrival of the Judge.

  After the opening legal formalities were completed Ms Ewart rose to her feet. She glanced at the opposing barrister and, receiving just the slightest inclination of a head, she addressed the Judge.

  “Your Honour,” she began, “I find myself in an unusual position and must ask for your indulgence. My client,” glancing towards a vacant-looking Martin, “has suffered over the past few weeks from serious health issues, and these have been both physical and mental. He is in no position to take any active part in these proceedings and, I believe, should not be in attendance at all. However, he is here. The case is simple in that the fact of a libel having been made is agreed by both sides; what is at issue is whether that libel is deliberate, as Mr Smithson believes, or whether it is accidental. I appreciate that the testimony of Mr Harrison is crucial in determining the truth of the matter but I ask that in the cause of humanity he be excused the need to appear in the witness box. His position has been made clear to me in person on several occasions and to his solicitor rather more often. His statements