Chapter Eighteen
From: [email protected]
Subject: Book of the Dead 2
Thanks for mailing Winter, mate. I don’t want to scare her, but hopefully it’ll shake her up a bit and she’ll realise that she has to knuckle down, might make her a bit more responsive when I see her tomorrow. At least, I’m hoping to, there’s every possibility that she’ll have skipped out on all of us, so I’m pinning my hopes on her staying to help out a little girl with bullying issues. Reckon if it wasn’t for that, she’d have run a while back . . .
Anyhoo. Yeah, to update you. I’m doing okay. Yeah, yeah, you’re concerned, very touching mate, very Brideshead Revisited, but I’ll be fine. I mean, the whole deal with Beth getting hurt . . . but she’s doing okay too, so don’t need to worry about me. It’s Winter we need to worry about. Not just as an author, if you see what I mean. We both know that there’s plenty more where she came from, after Book of the Dead everyone is having a crack at writing Genealogy Fiction, we can fill that June slot a hundred times over if we want, although, Jeez, don’t you ever dare tell her that, she’s fragile enough already. No, she’s going non-functional on me.
I’ve got my . . . well, not spies, but people who are watching out. And she’s not eating, not leaving the house except when she has to, and the awful, evil fucking thing is that I think I know what’s going on in her head. Win and I we were a tight team back in the day . . . what am I saying, it’s only been six months, feels like a lifetime. Hey, we were good. And I know how she thinks, how she works. She’s pinning this all onto me, won’t leave the house because of me, etc etc, you know how it goes. And, yeah, I could go. Take away that excuse. But then I think without me to drive her on, even if it’s pure hate that’s keeping her running, without that . . .
Shit, mate, I dunno. I’ll just do what I can, I guess.
Dan
I thought I was ready for Daniel. I was wearing my most combative jeans and a jumper that effectively hid most of my upper body; I looked as though Margaret had taught me everything she knew about fashion. I’d opened multiple files on the laptop, sorted the books so that disparate pages pointed to the fact that I was researching carving styles, and removed the latest half-dozen cups of cold coffee from around the room.
I actually started reading one of the books while I waited. I’d forgotten, yes, almost forgotten that I enjoyed this sort of thing, and I had sunk myself so deeply into the pages that the knock at the door made me jump.
‘Dan?’
‘Yeah, well, Richard Armitage was busy.’ He stayed on the step this time, making no attempt to come inside. ‘You look like shit.’
‘You don’t look so great yourself.’ It was true. He looked . . . well, ‘bleak’ was the only word which sprang to mind. His normal restlessness seemed stilled as though life had tied weights to his limbs and his stubble had crept away from his chin and was now climbing up both cheeks like a cheap disguise. ‘It’s not your sister, is it? She . . .’
A smile that only engaged his mouth. ‘No. Beth’s cool.’ And then the quiet again, so alien to Dan, who usually came on like someone had wrapped a stream of consciousness in a greatcoat and turned it loose.
‘So,’ I said, awkwardly. ‘You want to talk about the book?’
‘What, in comparison to standing on this doorstep with Swedish-export winds whistling into every orifice? Yeah, settle for that one.’ He hunched his shoulders.
I stepped back to let him in. ‘I’m getting stuff done.’ I waved a hand at the open books.
‘Really?’ He was looking at the shelf above the fire, but I’d moved Daisy’s picture upstairs to beside my bed to stop him using it as a conversational opener. His dark eyes raked around the room. ‘Jeez. If you’d said you wanted to write in these conditions we’d have rented you a lock up in Camden. Do these windows actually, y’know, work? Or are they just stuck onto the brickwork for show?’
‘It’s cosy.’ Why was I defending a room where I regularly sustained impressive bruises just trying to tune the radio? ‘Snug.’
‘Even Bobso’s got better accommodation. At least he can turn round without having to go outside.’ Dan whipped around and his coat swept a handful of biros onto the floor. ‘Okay. So what have we got?’ Now he perched on a corner of the table, one booted foot up on the seat of a chair. ‘’Cos that deadline . . .’ Arms flung into the air as though to avoid an oncoming train. ‘I can see every hair on its chin.’
I indicated the books lying beside him on the table. ‘Research. And I’m fifty thousand words in, so . . .’
‘Coffee.’
I stared at him. ‘What?’ Confusion. That’s what Dan’s all about.
‘How much coffee are you drinking?’ He’d dropped his head, seemingly to stare at his boots, and was rubbing the tattoo as though it itched, but now his head came up. ‘Serious question, Winter.’
I had a momentary guilty thought about all the cups and mugs I’d recently rinsed and returned to the cupboard, but wild horses and a very large tractor wouldn’t pull the truth out of me in front of him. ‘Couple of cups a day. Why?’
Dan picked up one of my books, a floppy-covered academic work on gravestone lettering, and used it as a fan, waving it in front of his face like a literature-obsessed Regency damsel. ‘And the rest. Oh, Winter . . .’ and now his voice had a little hitch, almost sadness, which contrasted with the comical book-flapping, which was causing coloured Post-its to fall from the pages and rain around his feet. ‘Do you really not know what’s wrong here? Can you not see ?’
‘All I can see is a pillock losing all my marked places and sitting with his feet up on furniture which isn’t even mine. I thought you were supposed to be helping me, not perching like a budgie that’s been trained to make really abstract statements,’ I said, pushing some irritation into my voice to stop him from seeing the swirling bewilderment that he was causing.
‘Okay. Okay.’ Dan slid off the table. ‘In the spirit of the whole “Being Your Editor” thing, and not raking up the past . . .’ He caught my eye and went on smoothly. ‘. . . or even mentioning it, before you throw something at me, I have to say that I don’t think you’re going to get any further with this one.’
I sat suddenly on the florally cushioned chair behind me. ‘ What? You mean, call it a day?’
He shrugged and sucked his teeth. ‘Gotta admit it sometime, kiddo, it’s just not a goer.’
I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘Is this some kind of reverse psychology thing, where you tell me you’re pulling out and suddenly I get all incensed and write like a demon for three days without leaving the house and produce a masterpiece?’
Dan raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s Hollywood. This . . .’ He spun one of his coat-encompassing slow circles. ‘. . . isn’t. Despite the fact it’s built entirely of some kind of wood, that’s probably just so they can burn it down when you leave. Plausible deniability.’ He stopped spinning but his coat seemed to move independently for a few moments, as though it were a live thing in its own right, making a separate decision. ‘See, what it is, Win . . .’ His hands dug into his pockets now as his head came up. His eyes, which seemed almost black in the thick light, found mine and held on. ‘Sometimes you just have to cut your losses and I’m thinking now . . .’ A pause that made my heart beat almost sick-makingly hard in my throat for reasons I didn’t want to think about, let alone acknowledge. ‘. . . maybe you’re a loss too far,’ he finished, so softly that the words seemed absorbed by the air.
I felt the lightheaded buzz that was all the blood draining from my face, the clammy sweat unnecessarily cooling my skin. ‘But I thought . . .’ was all I could manage. My throat had gone dry. What had I thought? That this could go on forever? Me not writing, Dan hovering in the background being all Dark Angel? Shit, had Daisy been right all along, was I using this book somehow to get back at Daniel? Using all this writer’s block bollocks to control him, make him worried that he wasn’t going to get his investment back — that his confidence in me was misplaced? Make him look stupid in front of all those who’d ridiculed the idea of Book of the Dead and then poured so much scorn on the thought of a follow-up that the project had almost sunk under its weight? Was that it?
Dan was watching me. I’d always assumed that I knew what was going on behind that straight, dark gaze. That, even with all the chaos stuff and the random moves and the spontaneous behaviour, I knew him. I suddenly realised that I had no idea what Dan thought about what was happening. He’s a stranger. But now he’s a stranger who can take things away from you, things you know, deep down, that you really need. You aren’t giving him that power, it’s the power he’s always had in the real world.
‘One day,’ he said, softly, ‘one day, Win, you’re going to forget. It’s going to fade and fade until one day you’ll wake up and it will feel like it was all a dream.’
No. No, I will remember. I will ALWAYS remember. And the mere thought of losing those memories, of any of it fading and dying made me breathe a little faster. And I realised why I was writing this book. ‘Okay,’ I said slowly, drawing in a deep breath.
He seemed surprised. Eyebrows raised and he pulled a face, then scrabbled a hand through his hair until it looked as though a poltergeist had had a go at it. ‘You’ll let it go?’
‘I didn’t mean that, it wasn’t an “okay I agree with you”. It was an “okay, I can do this”. For me I can do it. For all those people who’ve got gravestones that people have forgotten about, all those humps out there in that churchyard that were once someone somebody loved.’ I stood up. ‘ I want this book. Never mind the guys back at HQ, never mind the readers and certainly never mind you. I’m doing this for me, and I will bloody well get that book in on deadline.’
‘Well, that was unexpected. And I thought I was the king of the random.’ He poked his tongue into his cheek, I could see the bulge. It was something Dan did when he was thinking very deeply about something, so deeply that, for a second, the image dropped and I was looking at the face of the real man underneath the manga-esque figure I was used to. The Dan that didn’t need to make an impression or show a front to the world. The Dan I . . . the man I used to know.
‘Seriously. I can do it,’ I said, and, even to me, my voice seemed to have a new certainty.
‘I know you can. Just wondering if it’s a good idea.’ He spoke without looking at me. His eyes were flickering but seeing ideas rather than reality. ‘Also wondering what the hell I just said there to kick you up the butt, because, fuck, I’m going to use that voice a lot more.’ A quick flick of a sideways look. ‘You know the coffee is you self-medicating, don’t you? I mean, yeah, you’re sharp, you understand what it’s all about.’ And suddenly he was standing very close, so close that I could feel that little static pull of his skin against mine. ‘You know what you’re doing.’
And I could feel that new certainty washing through my veins on a fizz of anticipation. ‘Yes.’
A slow nod. ‘Okay.’
I stepped away from him. You’re just a guy. Somebody I used to know, nothing else. Look, I can put clear air between us and not feel as though something is missing. ‘In fact, I’m going to start now. Go away, Dan.’
‘Getting the message and the picture, Win, don’t worry.’ He tilted his head and looked down at me; it made his eyelashes slant across his cheekbones.
Yeah, I get it, you’re attractive. But no more, Daniel. No more power over me.
‘I’ll check back in a day or so.’ Now he moved across the room, boots jingling like a horse pulling into harness, to pause at the front door with his hand on the catch. ‘Just remember what I said about the coffee. Ease up. It might feel as though it’s helping, but it’s really not, okay, kiddo?’
Like writing the books. Like coming here. ‘I’ll let you know how I’m getting on.’ I reached for the door to do the ‘hostess’ thing of letting him out, but he’d already opened it and was halfway down the High Street before I got there.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Have you been reading those romance books again?
Ciao, bella. How are you doing? Mum said you’d had a bit of a setback. Look, I’ll come down and see you, sometime in the next week or so, okay? You just hang in there, kiddo, keep taking the tablets as they say. I want to see you buzzing around, seen enough of you lying flat on your back, tbh, you lazy moo!
Remember when I was home last time, what you said about Winter and the books? And I didn’t want to listen? Hate to say it, kiddo, but it looks as if you might have been right all along. Guess I just didn’t want to look at it like that. But I think we might be getting somewhere with the new one. She’s pulled a bit of a turnaround on me and now she’s promising that she’s going to come in on time with it. Everything else between us has gone to hell, she gets all kinda jumpy when I’m around like she can hardly bear to look at me now. And every time she moves away from me, every time she refuses to see what’s in front of her, it’s like just another kick in the teeth for me.
I’m going to see this one through and then call it a day. Sorry, kid, I know you wanted this to work, I know you thought that Winter and I were going to be some kind of modern-day Tristan and Isolde, but it’s never going to be like that with us again. Too much is broken and I can only stand so much. Reckon I’ve had enough now.
See you soon
Danny Boy