Absolute Zero Cool E-Book

Declan Burke

• Herausgeber: Liberties Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Winner of the Crimefest 2012 Goldsboro Last Laugh Award Billy Karlsson needs to get real. Literally. A hospital porter with a sideline in euthanasia, Billy is a character trapped in the purgatory of an abandoned novel. Deranged by logic, driven beyond sanity, Billy makes his final stand: if killing old people won't cut the mustard, the whole hospital will have to go up in flames. Only his creator can stop him now, the author who abandoned Billy to his half-life limbo, in which Billy schemes to do whatever it takes to get himself published, or be damned . . .

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR DECLAN BURKE

‘Among all of the recent crop of Irish crime novelists, it seems to me that Declan Burke is ideally poised to make the transition to a larger international stage.’

John Connolly

‘Stop waiting for Godot – he’s here. Declan Burke takes the existential dilemma of characters writing themselves and turns it on its ear, and then some. He gives it body and soul … an Irish soul.’

Reed Farrel Coleman, author of Empty Ever After

‘Declan Burke has broken the mould with Absolute Zero Cool, which is actually very cool indeed. Funny, inventive and hugely entertaining crime fiction – I guarantee you’ll love it.’

Melissa Hill, author of Something from Tiffany’s

‘If you want to find something new and challenging, comic crime fiction is now the place to go … Declan Burke [is] at the vanguard of a new wave of young writers kicking against the clichés and producing ambitious, challenging, genre-bending works.’

Colin Bateman, author of Nine Inches

‘Absolute Zero Cool is a surreal rollercoaster of a read, full of the blackest humour, and yet poignant. An outrageously funny novel … The joy is in the writing itself, all sparky dialogue and wry observation, so smooth that when it cuts, it’s like finding razor blades in honey.’

Deborah Lawrenson, author of The Lantern

‘Burke has written a deep, lyrical and moving crime novel … an intoxicating and exciting novel of which the master himself, Flann O’Brien, would be proud.’

Adrian McKinty, author of Fifty Grand

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphIWINTERIISPRINGIIISUMMERIVFALLAcknowledgementsCopyright

As a tiny token, offered in thanks for all the joy her gift of unconditional love has given us, this book is dedicated to our beautiful baby girl, Lily.

Graphomania (a mania for writing books) inevitably takes on epidemic proportions when a society develops to the point of creating three basic conditions:

(1) an elevated level of general well-being, which allows people to devote themselves to useless activities;

(2) a high degree of social atomization and, as a consequence, a general isolation of individuals;

(3) the absence of dramatic social changes in the nation’s internal life. […]

But by a backlash, the effect affects the cause. General isolation breeds graphomania, and generalized graphomania in turn intensifies and worsens isolation. The invention of printing formerly enabled people to understand one another. In the era of universal graphomania, the writing of books has an opposite meaning: everyone surrounded by his own words as by a wall of mirrors, which allows no voice to filter through from outside.

Milan Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting

Times are bad. Children no longer obey their parents and everyone is writing a book.

Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BCE)

The man at the foot of my bed is too sharply dressed to be anything but a lawyer or a pimp. He is reading, intently, which leads me to believe he is a pimp, as these days lawyers are more usually to be found writing novels than reading them.

Above his head, close to the ceiling, a gecko in Irish racing green is the only splash of colour in a room that is otherwise entirely white. White walls, white tiles on the floor. The window blinds, bedside locker, sheets, wainscoting, the door – all white.

As it is a manuscript of a novel the man is reading, the page facing me is white.

His eyes meet mine.

‘You’re some man for one man,’ he says. He lays down the manuscript, comes up with a newspaper. ‘They’re a day behind here,’ he says, ‘but you get the drift.’

The newspaper’s front page is dominated by a charred hospital that appears to be teetering at an angle.

I reach for the pen and pad on the bedside locker, scrawl one word.

Rosie?

He gets up and comes around the bed, takes the pad.

‘The wee girl’s okay,’ he says. ‘Some smoke on her lungs, apparently, but nothing serious. She’ll be fine.’

He unfolds the newspaper, leafs through. ‘Reading between the lines,’ he says, ‘they reckon the best you can hope for is criminal damage. And that’s claiming insanity. Start out full-blown, work your way down to temporary, you could be out in five years. But that’s the best case scenario.’

A man cannot live tilted away from the world. The world will not permit it. Gravity will have its way.

He must live straight, upright, or not at all.

‘Worst case,’ he says, ‘they’ll be pulling out the big guns, offences against the State, terrorism, the works. I mean, there’s no specific law against blowing up hospitals, but let’s just say they’ve plenty of wiggle room to play with.’

He waits. The A/C hums. From beyond the shuttered window, faintly, comes the burr-thrip of cicadas.

‘So that’s the good news. The bad news,’ he says, holding up the op-ed pages, tapping the editorial, ‘is they’re saying you couldn’t have been working alone. They’re saying you must have had help, maybe a whole cell.’

There is nothing to add to this. It would appear that all effort has come to naught.

He folds the newspaper and tucks it under my pillow. Retrieves the manuscript, which he places on the pristine sheet beside my hand. He lays a red pen on top so that it underlines the title, ‘The Baby Killers’.

‘Seeing as you won’t be going anywhere for a couple of days,’ he says, ‘I thought you might like one last skim through. See if we can’t kill a few more babies.’

My line for today comes courtesy of Samuel Beckett: Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

•

He just appears, as if wished for.

I’m out on the decking beside the goldfish pond, a fine hazy morning, one of those mid-spring bloomers, the sun on the rise and the day coming warm. Bees humming, the fountain burbling away like a baby dry and fed. Good coffee to hand. I’m just thinking that this is the life when a shadow falls across the pages. When I glance up, shading my eyes against the glare, he’s standing there with a shy and slightly goofy grin.

‘You don’t remember me,’ he says.

He’s confusing me with someone else. We’ve nodded to one another in passing over the last couple of days, in the refectory up at the Big House or strolling around the grounds, and each time I had the impression he was waiting for me to recognise him, for a friendly smile to allow him jump in and start a conversation.

Not my scene. The whole point of being here is to cut myself off, shut down, focus on the work. Exile and silence, then hope for cunning.

Now I lean back in the chair, still shading my eyes, and admit that I don’t remember him. I hear myself apologise, saying that I’ve always had a terrible memory for faces; names yes, I’ve never had any trouble recalling people’s names, but faces just don’t work for me. None of which is true, in fact it’s the reverse, but even if it were true I think I’d have remembered this guy.

‘It’s probably the eye-patch,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t blond then, either.’ He has a platinum-blond crew-cut, one Newman-blue eye and a square jaw. I guess him to be mid-thirties. ‘And I was about three inches shorter.’

He shuffles his feet. ‘A man needs some stature,’ he says.

I’d put him down for a poet if it weren’t for the motorcycle boots. For some reason the poets here prefer comfortable shoes.

‘I don’t suppose there’s any coffee going,’ he says.

Just to be polite, and because I need a fresh coffee, I cross the lawn and go inside my chalet and draw two cups of coffee. Waiting for the kettle to boil, watching through the window as he filches a smoke, I make a bet with myself as to how long it’ll be before he starts whining about how no one understands how hard it is to be him.

I’m thinking, Christ, maybe if you spent more time at your desk clarifying a few things, instead of roaming the grounds in search of fellow enablers and stealing other people’s smokes …

The bet: if he bitches about the Arts Council inside ten minutes, I’m taking the afternoon off to go fishing on the lake.

Back out on the decking, he’s staring down into the pond.

‘Listen,’ I say, ‘this is kind of embarrassing, but …’

He turns to face me, a defiant jut to his chin. ‘Karlsson,’ he says.

‘And we’ve definitely met,’ I say, blowing on my coffee.

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘I don’t follow.’ Except then I realise he knows me through the web, the blog I write that keeps tabs on the latest in Irish crime fiction. Karlsson doesn’t ring any bells, but maybe I know him by another name, an avatar.

‘I’d have remembered someone called Karlsson,’ I say. ‘Are you a writer?’

‘Right now I’m an evil genius.’

‘I get that, yeah, the eye-patch and all. But what were you when I knew you?’

‘A porter.’

‘A porter?’

‘A hospital porter.’

I reach for the makings and roll a smoke. Sip some coffee and wait for a tic or flinch to give him away. He only stares.

‘You’re that Karlsson?’ I say.

‘Him, yeah.’

‘Okay, I’ll play along. You’re Karlsson. So what can I do for you?’

‘You can start by telling me what happened.’

‘With Karlsson? Nothing.’ I explain that first drafts get written and printed out and then go on the shelf for at least six months. No exceptions.

‘Fair go,’ he says. ‘But it’s been nearly five years now. I mean, I was twenty-eight when you wrote that draft. And I know you didn’t stop writing. I saw your latest one, The Big O, it arrived on the shelf a couple of years back.’

‘Things just went in a different direction, man. No offence.’

‘I never thought you did it deliberately,’ he says. ‘But you should know, I’m in limbo here.’

He slips a forefinger under the eye-patch, scratches something away.

‘Publish or I’m damned,’ he says.

Karlsson was a hospital porter who assisted old people who wanted to die. His girlfriend, Cassie, found out. Then the cops got involved because Cassie contacted them anonymously before confronting Karlsson, except the cops wound up more concerned about where Cassie had gone.

‘How’s Jonathan?’ I say.

‘Jonathan?’

‘Jonathan Williams. My agent, or agent as was. As far as I know, he’s the only person who ever saw the manuscript. Unless he farmed it out for a reader’s report.’

I’m presuming the guy is working on some kind of funky theatre piece that involves taking on Karlsson’s persona, an unpublished character adrift in time and space. Not that I mind, it might even be fun to see it on stage, but I’d have preferred if Jonathan had asked permission before he handed over the manuscript.

‘I’ve never met any Jonathan Williams,’ he says. ‘How could I? I’m in limbo here.’

‘Right. And this limbo, does it preclude you from paying rights if you use the original story?’

A flash of something dark in the Newman-blue eye. ‘You think this is a joke?’

‘Actually, I think it’s a bit comi-tragic. Not full-blown tragedy, mind, but poignant, yeah.’

‘See, that’s the problem right there,’ he says. ‘It’s not full-blown anything.’

I’m liking the cut of his jib. Not only is he taking on Karlsson, he’s critiquing the piece as he goes.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ I say. ‘If you want the truth of it, I’m not really sure I ever intended that one to see the light of day. It was just a bunch of stuff I needed to write at the time, get down on the page. These days I write comedy. It’s easier, for one. And more fun. Life is shitty enough for people without asking them to waste their precious reading time on morbid stuff.’

‘Hold up,’ he says. ‘Are you telling me you never even sent it away?’

‘I didn’t just bury it.’ He has presence, I’ll give him that, an intensity that leaves me feeling faintly, ridiculously, defensive. ‘I mean, I gave it to Jonathan.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said he’d never read anything like it before. He reckoned he had to stop taking notes about halfway in, just read it through. I think the pervy sex stuff had him a bit freaked.’

‘That’s good, right?’

‘Not in today’s market. Freaking your agent isn’t cool anymore.’

‘And he never read it again?’

‘He was about to but I stopped him. I was showing him The Big O that day.’

We sit in silence. The sun clears the hills to the south and the grounds come alive. Clematis buds starting to show, some pink apple blossom, snowdrops and daffodils nodding on the faint breeze off the lake. Now and again a quick flash of orange in the pond, the pair of golden carp, Jaws and Moby-Dick. The little fountain pootling away.

‘So how’d The Big O do?’ he says, gazing off up the hill at the hospital, its glass frontage ablaze as it mirrors the sunrise.

‘It did alright, yeah. Got picked up in the States, a two-book deal, some decent wedge.’

‘The States?’

‘Yeah. Harcourt. Of course, then they went and merged with Houghton Mifflin and my editor got the boot, so it didn’t get a lot of play over there. Still, the reviews were nice, enough to get them behind the second book.’

‘And this is what you’re working on now.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So what happens to me?’ he says. The cigarette, forgotten, burns down between his fingers.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You can’t just leave me stuck here.’

‘I hear you. But I’m already committed to this,’ I nod at the pages scattered across the table, ‘I’ve a deadline to meet. I can’t just bunk off and start writing something new.’

‘If it’s good enough,’ he says, ‘they’ll wait for it.’

‘I doubt that. The industry’s changed a lot in the last five years, you wouldn’t believe how tight things have got. And I have other responsibilities going on. I mean, I’m married now. And we have a baby, Rosie.’

He congratulates me, grudging it.

‘The point I’m making,’ I say, ‘is that I can’t afford to spend any time on anything that isn’t at least potentially commercial. Or to be perfectly frank, anything I don’t enjoy doing. That dark shit is hard work. And if I don’t like—’

‘If it’s dark,’ he says, ‘whose fault is that?’

‘Mine, sure. But—’

‘But schmut. If you made it dark you can make it funny. Just go back over it.’

‘Make euthanasia funny?’

‘Just listen to me a minute,’ he says. ‘Can you just listen? You owe me that much, at least.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘See,’ he says, ‘I’m just not that kind of guy. The Karlsson guy, I mean. I even changed my name when I dyed my hair. I’m called Billy now.’

‘Billy?’

‘I’m aiming to normalise things all round.’

‘Then the eye-patch is probably too much.’

‘That was just to get your attention.’ He peels off the patch. There’s an empty socket underneath, a puckered purple wound that puts me in mind of a sucked-out prune. He pats the pockets of his zip-up sweater and comes up with a pair of tinted shades, slips them on.

‘What happened to your eye?’ I say.

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Anyway, this Karlsson guy – I’m not him. Not anymore. And I don’t think I ever was. I mean, I liked Cassie. Liked her a lot. And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t just kill her to get off on a euthanasia rap. I’d have done a flit. The old folks, they were one thing, they wanted to die and I was helping them out. But Cassie, no way.’

‘I never actually said you killed her.’

‘No, but you left it hanging.’

‘As far as I can remember,’ I say, ‘I gave you a happy ending, you got away with it. The cop investigating, he turned out insane, had all these theories about population control. A big fan of the Chinese, if memory serves.’

‘Even I didn’t believe that,’ he says. ‘That ending was a mess.’

I allow that it was.

‘You can do better than that,’ he says.

‘Not with you I can’t.’

‘I’m not the problem, man. The story’s the problem.’

‘The story’s what it is,’ I say. ‘And it’s told now.’

‘I didn’t hear any fat ladies singing.’

I stub out my cigarette. ‘Listen, uh, Karlsson, I have to—’

‘Billy.’

‘Billy, yeah. Look, Billy, I have to go. Deborah’s coming to visit today, and I’ve some pages to get straight before lunch. So …’

‘The story was too freaky,’ he says. He’s holding up a hand to delay me. ‘Too out there but not big enough. Plus you had me down as a total dingbat. These are things that can be changed.’

‘I really don’t know if they can.’

‘Tell me this,’ he says. ‘How long have you spent thinking about me in the last five years?’

‘I’ve thought about you, sure. And I wish—’

‘I’ve got a way to make it bigger. Although you’d have to be more honest about me. If it was to work, I’d have to be more real. More me, y’know?’

‘Right now you’re sitting across the table smoking my cigarettes.’ As much as he’s a distraction, I’m intrigued by the guy’s chutzpah. ‘I don’t know if I could handle you getting any more real.’

‘That’s because I’m Billy now. Karlsson never showed up, did he?’

‘He never did, no.’

‘Just as well. He’d probably have kidnapped little Rosie and tortured her until you’d rewritten the story the way he wanted it.’

‘Y’know, I think Karlsson liked who he was. I don’t think he’d have had any issues with what happened to Cassie.’

‘Because the guy was a sociopath.’ He shrugs. ‘Who wants to live like that?’ He leans in, drops the shades, pierces me with the Newman-blue eye. ‘You think I wouldn’t like a little Rosie to play with?’

‘Do you?’

‘I don’t know.’ He sits back, slipping the shades back in place. ‘I’m not feeling it, if that’s what you’re asking. But they say men don’t become fathers until their baby is born, maybe even a while after.’

‘That was true for me, yeah.’

‘Look, all I’m asking for is one more go, see if I can’t make it out this time.’

‘Out of this limbo.’

‘Sure. Maybe if I was to get some kind of written permission from the old folks, so I’d have something to show Cassie when she found out about the euthanasia. That could help.’

‘It’d help you and Cassie, maybe. But it wouldn’t do much for the conflict in the story.’

‘That’s the other thing,’ he says. ‘I think you need a different kind of conflict. I mean, a hospital porter bumping off old people? You can get that stuff in the newspapers. Why would anyone want to read it in a book?’

‘I guess it’d depend on how interesting the killer is.’

‘Between you and me, you’re no Patricia Highsmith.’

I allow that I’m not, although I remind him it’s comedy crime I write.

‘If you want my opinion,’ he says, ‘the conflicts that work best are between the reader and a character they like, okay, but who’s doing stuff they wouldn’t generally tolerate. Lear,’ he ticks them off on his fingers as he goes, ‘Raskolnikov, Hazel Motes, Long John Silver, Tom Ripley—’

‘I take your point.’

‘Your mistake,’ he says, ‘was to make Karlsson a total wackjob. No one who wasn’t a complete fruit could like him.’

‘Okay, so say I make you likeable. What then?’

‘We blow up the hospital.’

After lunch, a picnic out on the decking, I tell Debs I’m half-thinking about having another go at the Karlsson story.

‘Who?’ she says.

I tape Rosie’s nappy in place, snap the buttons on her baby-gro. ‘Karlsson, the hospital porter.’

She frowns, remembering. ‘The guy who killed all the old people?’

‘I’m thinking of making it a comedy. But don’t worry, I’ll work on it in the evenings, once the other stuff is out of the way.’

‘Your father’s a space cadet,’ she tells Rosie. The child, warm and dry again, gurgles like a faulty faucet.

‘It’s just a redraft,’ I say. ‘Nothing major.’

‘I’ll redraft the marriage licence,’ Debs says. She tickles Rosie’s tummy. ‘But don’t worry, it’ll be nothing major.’

I

WINTER

The cancer counsellor waves a rolled-up newspaper to shoo us away from the windows so his clients won’t have to watch us smoking. We are their bolted horses.

Some of my co-smokers drift away around the corner to where a breeze whips beneath the glass corridor connecting the hospital’s old and new buildings. There they huddle together, shivering. It’s a grey December day, sleet spattering the glass. The wind a cruel easterly.

The cancer counsellor raps on the window, jerks his head and thumb. I flip him the bird.

He opens the window and leans out, beckons me across. I stroll over. When I’m close enough, he mimes writing down the name on my plastic tag.

‘Let me get this straight,’ I say. ‘You’re miming a disciplinary action?’

This provokes him into taking out a pen and writing my name on the back of his hand. ‘You’re on report, Karlsson.’

‘Ingrate. If we didn’t smoke, you’d be out of a job.’

His face reddens. He doesn’t like being reminded of his role as parasite. Not many do. ‘Between you and me,’ I say, ‘stress is the big killer.’

He’s fuming as he closes the window. I try to make the connection between the patients’ cancer and my smoking but it can’t be done. There’s a fuzzy blurring of divisions, okay, and carcinogens either side of the wire. But I’m not finding the tangent point.

My line for today comes from Henry G. Strauss: I have every sympathy with the American who was so horrified by what he had read of the effects of smoking that he gave up reading.

•

‘That’s not very different from the first draft,’ Billy says. We’re out on the decking again, another beautiful morning. I’m hoping the good weather holds because I’m not sure I want to invite him inside.

‘I think it works,’ I say. ‘I mean, you’re going to have to be at least a little bit weird, otherwise no one’ll believe it when you decide to blow up the hospital.’

‘Fair go. But I don’t know if I should flip him the bird. It’s a bit, what, gratuitous? If it was me I’d be a bit more subtle than that.’

‘I’ll take it under consideration,’ I say, making a note.

‘What’s next?’ he says.

‘You shave the skinny guy for his hernia operation.’

‘Roll it there, Collette.’

•

Today I shave a skinny guy, Tiernan, for a hernia procedure. The latex gloves are cold but he doesn’t seem to notice. I believe he’s trying to pretend another man isn’t fiddling around in his crotch.

Instead he tells me that a friend of his knows someone who died under anaesthetic. Tiernan says he doesn’t want to die not knowing he’s dying. What he’s really saying is, he doesn’t want to die. What he’s really saying is, he has no one to confide in except the guy who shaves strangers’ genitals.

‘I do shaves,’ I say. ‘I push wheelchairs and lift the heavy stuff when the male nurses are busy. If you want a priest I’ll see what I can do. But it’s only a hernia op. Catch yourself on.’

He’s shocked. I swab away the last of the cheap shaving foam. ‘You think you have problems?’ I say. ‘I have to look at dicks all day. Want to swap jobs?’

He works in a travel agency and spends his day emailing pornography to friends who pretend to appreciate what he understands to be irony.

‘You don’t want to die?’ I say. ‘Then do something. If you do something you won’t mind dying so much. Paint a picture. Have a kid. Then let it go. Dying isn’t so different from just letting go.’

But he isn’t listening. He’s back thinking about this guy his friend knew, the one who died without knowing he was dying. I get a bang out of that. If there’s one thing dead people know, it’s that they’re dead. And if that’s anything like the way the living know they’re alive, it’s not such a big deal.

He watches me peel off the latex gloves.

‘Pay attention,’ I say. ‘You might need to draw on this performance some day. You’d be surprised at how many people learn to live without dignity. Statistically speaking, you’ve every chance of becoming one of those people.’

The matron arrives. I wonder if they teach bustling at matron school. She throws back Tiernan’s robe. Matrons don’t usually check on hernia preps but I shaved the wrong side a couple of weeks ago.

‘How are you feeling, Mr Tiernan?’ she says. She says this so we can both pretend she isn’t checking my work.

‘I’m parched for a drink,’ the guy says.

‘It won’t be long now,’ she says. ‘It’ll soon be over.’ She speaks to me without looking in my direction. ‘Karlsson, I’d like you to take Mr Tiernan down to theatre at three forty-five.’

‘Let’s hope nothing funny happens on the way,’ I say. But she’s not listening.

•

He lounges back in the chair, tapping his lower lip with the butt of a pencil.

‘You’re still calling me Karlsson,’ he says.

‘Technically speaking,’ I say, ‘it’s the other characters who call you Karlsson.’

‘So have them call me Billy.’

‘I could do that, yeah. Except if you become Billy, you’re not Karlsson anymore.’

‘I’m not Karlsson anymore.’

‘Not to me, or you. But if the other characters start calling you Billy, they’ll expect to see someone who looks like a Billy. And I’d have to go through the whole bloody thing changing your appearance every time it’s mentioned. Your hair, your eyes, the way you walk …’

‘Are we doing this,’ he says, ‘or are we doing this?’

I’m none too keen on his tone.

‘No disrespect, Billy, but I’m doing you a favour here. Okay? And if we’re going to do this on top of my own stuff, we can’t be farting around worrying about every tiny detail.

‘What you need to do,’ I say, ‘is think of yourself as an actor. Yeah? Make like the story’s a Mike Leigh movie, or one of those Dogme flicks, and you’re contributing to Karlsson as he goes along, inventing dialogue for him, little tics and quirks. Making him you, eventually, but being subtle about it. How’s that sound?’

He takes a while to consider.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll give it a whirl.’

‘Glad to hear it. Listen,’ I say, ‘I’m thinking of leaving out the Pope-Camus stuff.’

‘What Pope-Camus stuff?’

‘The goalkeepers bit.’

He shakes his head. ‘I forget that one,’ he says. ‘What’d I say there?’

•

Albert Camus and Pope John Paul II were both goalkeepers in their youth. I like to imagine them at either end of a stadium, punting the ball back and forth while hooligans riot on the terraces.

As former goalies, Camus and Pope John Paul II may or may not have sniggered knowingly when they read about James Joyce’s ambition to be both keeper and crucifier of his nation’s conscience.

As for me, I was born. Later I learned to read, then write. Since then it’s been mostly books. Books and masturbation.

Writing and masturbation have in common temporary relief and the illusion of achievement. Many great writers have been avid onanists, and many avid onanists have been great writers. Often the only difference, as a point of refinement, is whether the wanking or writing comes first.

Me, I write some, I tug some, I go to bed. Only a barbarian would wank first, then write.

My line for today comes from the Danish novelist, Isak Dinesen: I write a little every day, without hope and without despair.

•

Jonathan Williams is a jovial Welshman, albeit one who is a dead ringer for every kindly English professor you’ve ever seen in a Hollywood movie.

‘No,’ he says, ‘I didn’t give the Karlsson story to anyone.’ His voice booms down the phone. ‘I wouldn’t do that without your permission.’

‘Not even for a reader’s report?’

‘Not so far as I recall. And I believe I would have remembered,’ he laughs, ‘a reader’s report on that particular gem.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Why?’ he says. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘Not a problem per se.’ I tell him I’ve taken a sabbatical, six weeks at the artists’ retreat, and about Billy’s idea of bringing Karlsson to life. ‘I’m just wondering where he got his hands on the story.’

‘I’m afraid I have no idea,’ he says, ‘but he certainly didn’t get it from me.’

Jonathan is no longer my agent, but being a gentleman he asks how things are going. I tell him my editor at Harcourt is banging on about the deadline.

‘Forget about him,’ he urges. ‘Get it right, that’s the most important thing. In ten years’ time, no one will care if you got it in by deadline or not.’

Sage words.

He says, ‘If you don’t mind me asking …’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Did you apply for Arts Council funding, towards the cost of the artists’ retreat?’

‘I did, yeah, but no joy. Apparently comedy crime doesn’t qualify.’

‘I don’t suppose you used the Karlsson story as part of your application,’ he says.

‘I did, actually. They needed to see a couple of samples of my work, and Karlsson was just lying there doing nothing.’

‘That’s probably it,’ he says. ‘Someone at the Arts Council read the story and passed it on to your friend Billy. Utterly unethical, of course, but there you are.’

‘And there’s no way of finding out who might have read it?’

‘Probably not. Those assessments are anonymous, so there’s no chance of canvassing. But I can make some discreet enquiries, if you’d like.’

‘No, you’re grand.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘The rights issue, I mean. If there’s any doubt at any point down the line, I’ll tell anyone who wants to know I read it in its original form and you’re the sole author.’

‘Thanks, Jonathan.’

‘Don’t mention it. Oh, and be sure to tell Anna I was asking for her when you see her next. Lovely woman, isn’t she?’

Anna MacKerrig, daughter to Lord Lawrence MacKerrig, whose Scots-Presbyterian sense of noblesse oblige was fundamental to the establishing of the Sligo artists’ retreat some twenty years ago.

‘I haven’t actually met her yet,’ I say, ‘but I’ll certainly pass that on when I see her.’

‘Very good. Well, I’ll talk to— Oh, I knew there was a reason I rang.’

‘Yes?’

‘The Big O,’ he says. ‘An Italian publisher has made an offer. The money is little more than a token gesture, of course, but …’

‘No, that’s grand, we’ll take it. It’d be nice to see it in Italian.’

‘Wouldn’t it just?’ He chuckles. ‘Maybe the advance will pay for a weekend in Rome.’

Maybe. If I swim there.

‘Talk soon,’ he says, and is gone again.

‘Y’know,’ Billy says, ‘I don’t think I should want to be a writer. I can see why you had it in there, to suggest Karlsson has some kind of depth. But now …’

‘You’ve changed your mind since you’ve met me.’