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Shorts
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| Death of a Writer | |
| By hutmaster | ||||||
| 26 July 2007 | ||||||
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The spider dangled on an
invisible thread. He watched as the fat-bellied arachnid knitted its'
way back to the heart of the web to begin again the patient wait for a
victim. The dry air in the attic seemed to encourage the little beasts.
Others, less active than this one, unfolded their abundance of legs and
felt for the frantic trembling along the gossamer threads which would
signal the blundering arrival of food. Had he been in touch? Surely not, or Iris would be here with news. Maybe there was no news, and another day would tick by with only her gentle tap, tapping at the trapdoor, the sign that she'd left food below on the landing. So paranoid had he become that he forbade her to call his name, for fear the neighbours might hear. For days they had spoken in whispers. He felt like giving himself up; phoning Snape and confessing the deception. Iris demurred. Said they were in it together and that he had no right to think only of himself. ~~~~~~~ The Globetrotter was owned and run by Oliver Snape, a wannabe traveller with a fear of flying, hated ships and had a tendency to carsickness. Nevertheless, he had ploughed his inheritance into founding a small travel magazine dedicated to the roaming instinct he believed existed within the soul of everyone. Names like Raban and Bryson were not to be found amongst his contributors, but the magazine sold steadily to the smitten. Rivals scoffed at the amateurish writing and the disgraceful discrepancies he failed to edit from his unknown authors' pieces. But the fact was that sales were good with prospect of improvement. Especially after a favourable mention in a Sunday broadsheet of Maurice O'Leary's series of articles, "Dreamtime in Wogga Worra" subtitled "Six months with the Original Aussies". And that was why Maurice had taken to the attic. You see Mr O'Leary had never set foot outside Ireland. He didn't even own a passport. His Wogga Worra dispatches were complete fiction. The article he had originally penned for the Globetrotter, had been an account of a cheap holiday Iris and he had taken the previous summer to a cottage in Connemara. When he had shown it to Iris she'd persuaded him that the magazine wanted "Adventures" and that his 'almost' slipping into a rock pool might not qualify. He should invent something, she advised. He had, for many years, dreamed of foreign travel, and had read and collected many true travellers' tales. With the help of his little library, and Iris's encouragement he scoured the atlas for a remote region in which to set the fiction. To his amazement his first article, a tense tale of encounters with brigands and cut-throats in Albania, had been enthusiastically accepted and printed by the fledgling publication. When the cheque arrived he expressed remorse, but recent redundancy and his wife's delight salved his conscience. Within months Snape had used two further articles. An ebullient piece on bullfigting which owed more than a little to Hemingway, and a harrowing report of how the bold Maurice cheated death amidst the teeming waters of the Ganges in flood. Then came a problem. Snape wanted photographs. Maurice panicked and was ready to confess the deception. Iris cautioned against precipitate action. She had foreseen this eventuality and provided an answer. Ivor dashed off a letter to Snape bewailing the fates which were slowly stealing the light from his eyes, thereby preventing him capturing his peregrinations on film. Sufficient sight remained, though, for him to detail the local colour and drama of his surroundings. However, he added, if Snape was unhappy with his efforts then he was willing to try his luck with rival publications. This last remark one of Iris's helpful additions. As she had predicted, back came a letter of commiseration on his failing sight while praising him for the 'wonderful vibrancy' he managed to achieve. He was not to concern himself any further with the matter. His next byline described his condition and exhorted readers to ponder how deep was the bite of the travel bug. Another missive from Snape enquired why his pieces were not sent directly to magazine HQ in London. Iris suggested he use the excuse of his previously desribed difficulty to suggest that she was the only one who could transcribe his decrepit longhand. Again came an apology, and of course The Globetrotter understood. But why was Maurice cocooned in the attic? Well, under Iris's expert management they had persuaded Snape to commission a series on a phony sojourn he planned to take in Australia. Ever enthusiastic, Snape had okayed the idea, especially since the magazine incurred no expense. So, for months he had printed the remarkable story of how the half blind O'Leary fared in the land of the didgeridoo. The series had been a total success. The static traveller's tales, though, had stirred the interest of an Austrlian documentary maker named Wally Shylock. Wally was visiting Britain in an attempt to sell the BBC his latest rivetting production; City in a Gum Tree, and was anxious to meet up with Maurice. Even Iris panicked when Snape had called unannounced with the bearded documentarian a few days earlier. She had persuaded them that her husband was off yet again and that she would inform him of Mr Shylock's interest. On his return from the chip shop Maurice lost his appetite when she cheerfully shocked him with the news. 'My God,Iris. Do you realise how serious this is. They could send me to jail for this. It's fraud. I've taken all this money under false pretences. Aren't you worried?' Iris crunched her battered cod. 'What's to worry about?' she asked, popping a soggy chip into her mouth. 'Did you not hear a word I said, woman? They could jail me for this.' Then, hoping to diminish her appetite he added, 'Us, jail us.' 'They'll do nothing of the sort. You make yourself scarce for a while. It'll blow over. That Shylock fellow is from Australia. I'm sure he won't stay long. I've told him you're off again and God knows when I'll hear from you.' Thus Maurice took to the attic, hoping that Snape would return to London taking the Antipodean Attenborough with him. He was beginning to grow hopeful they had gone. There'd been a few phonecalls from the hotel in Dublin, but Iris had stalled him with the news that Ivor had been laid low with a bout of shingles in Shanghai and she had no idea of his travel schedule. When she, in turn, enquired casually when Snape was returning to London he'd replied, ominously, that he had more business in Ireland and hoped he might yet see his star writer. The news did little to calm O'Leary's taut nerves. 'What happens if the Australian decides he'll go to Wogga Worra? All those aborigines I invented will spring to life and come back to haunt me.' 'For God's sake, Maurice,' said his wife, sharply. 'I wish you'd calm down. And stop talking like your articles, - Come back to haunt you - indeed. How can something which has never existed come back to haunt anyone?' 'Exactly,' he squeaked, 'Never existed, yet we accepted all that money on the lie of their lives.' Iris sighed deeply. 'There you go again - Lie of their lives -,' she mimicked. 'Snape will be gone soon and the whole thing can be forgotten.' The following day, as it had been three days since Snape's visit, Maurice quit his attic refuge,though for the next few days he maintained the air of a fugitive. Every car that stopped within sight of the house was kept under surveillance from behind the net curtains. He gradually persuaded himself that he'd been a prisoner long enough and took himself off to the newsagents for a supply of pipe tobacco. On his way back, puffing contentedly, he saw a strange car draw up outside his home. Inside was a tall man he didn't recognise. He couldn't run. Arouse suspicion. Instead he decided to stroll past his own house. As he drew level with the car the driver's door opened and a tall man unfolded himself from behind the wheel. 'Good afternoon.' said the stranger. An Englishman. He'd spoken to Snape on the phone once. It was him. 'How are ye?' croaked the pale Maurice in what he hoped was a convincing Scottish accent. 'I'm looking for a Mr O'Leary, I believe he lives around here. When he's not on his travels.' Maurice swallowed a burning mouthful of tobacco spit. What was Snape playing at? He'd been here. Knew where he lived. His reply was automatic. 'Aye. Used to, right enough. Poor mon died a coupla days since. Shingles ah heerd. Somethin' he caught on his travels.' He shook his head while staring at the ground, as if to emphasise his pity. 'I'm sorry to hear that. Perhaps I'll call with the widow. Express my sympathy.' 'Ye canny do tha'.' Maurice squeaked, more quickly than he meant. The editor's eyes were searching for his. He could feel them. A painful itch throbbed at his crotch, but thought he'd better leave it for the while. 'Poor lass. She takin' it awfy hard. She's away to China. To get the body, ye know. Red tape in Red China, ha-ha. So there's naebody at hame.' Maurice knew the accent was slipping, but he had to perservere. Snape stared at him in silence. 'Pity. He was a talented man. If you DO happen to see the widow tell her I called. 'Ah will, surely.' Snape moved back to the car. A relieved O'Leary watched, chin on chest, pipe streaming blue smoke into his stinging eyes. 'You didn't ask my name,' said Snape. Maurice bit hard on the pipe. The editor smirked. 'Tell her Mr Snape called. Tell her I'll be in touch.' He opened the driver's door and was about to lower himself in. 'Thank you for your help Mr...?' Maurice yanked the pipe from his mouth. The shank scraped over clenched teeth. 'Stevenson's the name. Robert Stevenson.' 'A fine Scottish name. Wrote "Travels with a Donkey". Coincidence that. It was a travel book too.' 'Is that so?', whispered Maurice, the pathetic accent failing him. 'Well. Good day, Mr....Stevenson' A few days later a letter arrived on Globetrotter notepaper. In it Snape expressed sypathy for the demise of a fine write whose talents might have been better suited to fiction. He explained that the magazine was winning a place for itself in a lucrative market and that any negative publicity might harm its' niche. The magazine was introducing new policy which would require all contributors to submit their passport after each trip, "for administrative purposes". He realised that it was Maurice's "inventive despatches" which had helped the magazine succeed and that the expense incurred in nurturing his talent had been worthwhile. Maurice began his first novel next day.
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