Chapter 1
I would say that I was having one of those days, but I’d been having one of those days every day for the last year.
I had been summoned from my cave in St James’s to the headquarters of Price-Lewis an owl hoots in the wind-whipped trees, but nothing else disturbs that lonely place. There are no car motors or laughing children. As a hooded figure runs into the shadows of the ancient manor, there is just the sound of the natural world.”
“Excellent! So the book’s set in a crumbling country pile?” he interrupted.
“That’s correct.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “But would you mind not breaking my concentration?”
“Of course not. My apologies. Please continue.”
I picked up the threads of the story once more. “The man stops to survey the scene before pressing on through the gardens. The air is crisp, and the moon is full in the sky. A silvery light bounces off the carpet of snow—”
“Oh, it’s been snowing. I do enjoy a winter mystery.” Bertie rubbed his hands together with glee. “This book will sell, though you should probably have mentioned the snow from—”
It was my turn to interrupt. “Do you mind? I’m trying to set the scene.”
“You’re absolutely right. Go ahead.” He sat up straighter in his chair, as though to signal that, henceforth, the floor was mine.
“A thick carpet of snow lies on the ground. The moonlight catches the jagged edge of a lustful knife in the hand of the cloaked figure.” As I said this, I could practically hear Bertie thinking, Hmmm…
there are a few too many adjectives for my liking!
“Just for a moment, we catch the outline of the man’s face, but it’s too brief to make out any detail.
He pauses again, perhaps listening for the faintest sound that has been drowned out by the wind, before changing direction to cut across the courtyard of the old house. ”
I was gaining confidence as I unfurled the tale and, for a moment, I could picture myself there in the freezing environs of the tumbledown mansion.
“He moves faster. The powdery snow kicks up beneath his feet and, as readers, we move with him, switching to the man’s perspective as he continues his hunt.
Reaching the covered porch, he pulls the door but finds it locked and has to skirt around the side of the building to another entrance.
In luck this time, he tugs it open, and the groaning hinges almost deafen him.
He is frightened of discovery, frightened for his life.
And just then, we come to question who this man could be.
Is he a killer? Is he some madman, hellbent on revenge? ”
My fuzzy-haired chief clapped his hands together appreciatively but said nothing.
“Inside the house, our mysterious invader navigates the labyrinthine halls, ever-aware of the sound of his own footsteps and fearful that the creaking floorboards will give him away. And so it dawns on the reader: this man must be a thief, looking for some valuable object in the dilapidated old place. He enters the drawing room and walks over to an ornate cabinet. Putting the knife down to free his hand, he unlocks the door with a small silver key from a chain about his neck just as a hammer comes crashing down on the back of his skull. The blood pools around him like lava, and the last thing he sees before his eyes close is the face of his killer smiling down at him.”
I waited a few seconds to see how the chubby-cheeked fellow would react.
He didn’t. He just stared at me expectantly.
“It’s called A Glimpse of a Blood Moon,” I revealed when he still wouldn’t say anything.
“So?” he eventually replied.
It was not the response I’d been expecting. “What do you mean, ‘So?’”
His wildly overgrown eyebrows knitted together in concern. “So what happens next? It’s an exceptional beginning, but we’re going to need more than that.” He folded one hand over the other on his desk.
I laughed as though he’d said something terribly foolish. “Bertie, old thing! It’s not just a beginning. In that one scene, you have the whole book. Can’t you imagine it?”
His right eye twitched, and I knew he saw through me.
“No, Marius. I’m afraid I can’t.” He pushed his chair back and rose to standing.
Since he wasn’t the tallest gent in London, this only gained him a foot or so in height.
“How will you sustain the reader’s attention over two hundred and fifty pages?
Where’s the intrigue? All this opening scene does is make me want to know more. ”
I swatted a dark curl from my forehead. “That’s just what we want, isn’t it? We need readers to open the book and not close it again until they finish the final page.”
“That’s perfectly true, but it would be better if the first chapter was not also the last.” He walked around the desk to set his gaze upon me.
Bertrand Price-Lewis was a small, stout man of sixty-five.
I’m sure I could have given him a good walloping if we’d ever come to blows, but that didn’t change the fact he terrified me to the quick.
“Before we go any further, I’d like to know the main thrust of the rest of the story. ”
“All in good time, Bertie. All in—”
“Marius, do you have the vaguest idea of what happens after that first scene?”
There was a drinks cabinet in the corner of his well-appointed office. I wasn’t thirsty. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning, and I don’t normally drink alone, but I poured myself a measure of brandy nonetheless. “Of course I know what happens. I just told you the title—”
“Yes, I heard you. It’s called A Glimpse of a Blood Moon. However, it doesn’t appear that you’ve written much beyond the front cover.”
I had started drinking, and so I continued until there was nothing left in my glass. My throat burned, but at least it delayed the inevitable for a few seconds longer.
“Marius!” His good cheer was forgotten. “Have you written a single page?”
“Your lack of faith in me is astounding. I’ve written a whole chapter.” It’s hard to fathom that I could state this so proudly, as it was the very thing I’d wished to conceal when I entered that room five minutes earlier.
“A chapter?” Bertie spoke in such a sorry, disappointed tone that I think I’d have preferred him to shout. “You’ve had a year, and you’ve only written a single chapter?”
Hiding the truth had done little good, so I did my best to devise a defence. “To be fair, it is quite a long chapter. And don’t forget the snow. You liked the snow.”
He couldn’t look at me but collapsed into a red leather armchair. “But your advance… It was the biggest in this company’s history.”
“I was going to mention that. You see, I’ve spent it, and I could really do with a small sum to see me through the next few months.”
“You’ve spent it?” He looked rather like an owl and peered up at me through his perfectly round eyes. “What about the royalties from the last book?”
“I spent them, too.” Far from the dread I’d experienced on arrival, revealing my dilemma turned out to be oddly restorative. “I bought a flat in St James’s, and now I’m quite penniless.”
He shook his head before speaking. I was used to surprising the old boy, but he was clearly mesmerised by my stupidity. “Then sell it!”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” The intensity of these two words made me shudder.
“ I have my mother to consider. Not to mention my aunt and uncle. They’d be out on the streets.”
“You live with your mother?”
“She was all on her own,” I rushed to explain. “When she came to visit, she subtly mentioned how large the spare bedrooms were, and I’m not so cruel as to deny an old lady some company.”
“Then how did your aunt and uncle end up there?” He really hadn’t grasped what I was saying, and I didn’t have much hope of making him see.
“It would have been rude not to invite them after Mother came to live with me. I was trying to be a good nephew.”
He raised his hands to his head at this point, as though he no longer had the strength to support it. “Didn’t you consider buying somewhere more economical? I hear there are affordable properties in Hackney these days.”
“Well, my first book was such a success and, to be quite honest, I never imagined I could want for inspiration.” I tried to move the conversation towards the topic I really wished to discuss. “Now, if I could get a loan to tide me over until the ideas start flowing, that would—”
“No more money!” These three words thundered out of him. He was no longer a five-foot-five publisher with a perfectly round belly. He was a Herculean warrior. “I’ve seen this problem before with writers. The only solution is to keep you hungry.”
“I’m already hungry,” I replied through gritted teeth. “I’ve even cut back on the essentials.”
He seemed to materialise ten feet closer just then, like Zeus before a trembling peasant.
“No more money, do you hear me? You must go home, take out that expensive typewriter I bought you, and write Chapter Two of A Glimpse of a Blood Moon, and then Chapter Three and Four and so on until you have something that might plausibly be described as a novel!”
As nothing else had worked, I decided to throw myself on his mercy. “Bertie, I need your help. The bank is already furious with me. I’ve got until the middle of January to pay my next mortgage instalment, or they’ll take everything.”
He was deadly still, having turned from a Greek god into a statue of one. “I’ll give you a hundred pounds for every chapter you produce.”
I sighed and looked down at the richly patterned carpet. “I stared at that typewriter for days, but it did no good. I think I’ve forgotten how to write.”
He walked over to the door and opened it. “Those are my conditions. You know I’m terribly fond of you, boy. But I’d be doing you no favours if I handed over a few notes and sent you on your way. This is your hole, and you have to dig yourself out of it.”
He jerked his head towards the reception, and I felt as though a surgeon had cut me open to rearrange my organs.
“But, Bertie,” I tried one last time, “it’s Christmas Eve.”
“My compliments of the season, Marius. I hope that Father Christmas brings you a new chapter.” He pointed to the door, and I was in no doubt as to what he wanted.
With my head bowed, I trudged from the room. Even his stone-faced secretary looked a little sympathetic to my plight and, when I got to the exit, Bertie shouted after me, “Wait, my boy. Wait just a moment.”
I turned around to see the smile on his face, and my organs jumped back into their usual places. “My dear friend, Bertie!”
“As you said, it’s Christmastime.” He reached into his suit jacket, and I’d never loved the man so much in the three years I’d known him.
“You’ve changed your mind!”
“Pardon?” He looked a little puzzled as he extracted a card from his inside pocket.
“Oh, no, no. It’s just that Margery wants to make sure that you’re still coming to our house for lunch on Boxing Day.
My beloved wife worries about you if she can’t make sure that you’re alive from time to time.
I can assure you it will be quite the feast.”
He clapped the address into my hand and pushed me towards the exit.