The Paper Cell Page 8

  Janine, he mused. He thought briefly of Freddie’s hand on a fine, feminine cheek, but it was Julie’s face he pictured.

  He wasn’t sorry that she was dead. It struck him as a horrible truth, truer than anything he had known in his life. A truth that, once formed, he could never un-think, a rank stain he would never be able to rub away. And not only was he not sorry, he was glad.

  It always seemed that great shocks in his life brought greater self-awareness. When his mother had died, it had struck him how much he loathed his father. Without her there to bind the two of them together in the illusion of mutual love, his father seemed suddenly a cold, detached man.

  And now this. He realised with interest that it wasn’t revulsion for Freddie’s act he felt, but revulsion for his ill-handling of it, for his unforgiveable loss of control. Freddie’s aloofness, his slight cruelty and the aura of power that he had been so maddeningly attracted to had been spoiled by his performance last night and this morning. Freddie wasn’t a man, Lewis thought. He was a stupid, snarling child, lashing out at the things he felt threatened by. He had achieved what they needed, but not well.

  Lewis permitted himself a moment to consider how he might have dealt with Julie himself. He wouldn’t have dined with her in public, for a start. That had been absolute foolishness on Freddie’s part, and it was this they had argued so fiercely over on Thursday evening. No. Julie walked home at night. She disdained London buses and chose instead to walk the two miles to her flat, something she discussed at exasperating length in the office. Plenty of opportunity to seek a private moment then, Lewis thought.

  He moved to fill his wine glass and was surprised when a young man sat down in the chair opposite him. He thumped his own drink onto the table between them and smiled at Lewis.

  ‘You’re a Hobbs man,’ he said.

  Lewis blinked, taken aback by the insinuation he read there. ‘If by which you mean I work there…’

  ‘I know you do! You were here a couple of weeks ago with your colleagues. I’m Gerard Walsh.’ The man stuck his hand across the table, beaming.

  Lewis took it warily, and they exchanged a brief shake.

  Gerard Walsh looked to be about twenty. He had very fair hair and bushy blonde eyebrows, and he made Lewis uncomfortable with his penetrating stare. His eyes were extremely blue, and too bright. Perhaps he was drunk, Lewis thought. His cheeks were certainly quite red, and his demeanour suggested a certain lack of inhibition. He continued to smile inanely at Lewis across the table, and he felt his irritation rising. He chose not to help Walsh out and waited in silence for him to provide an explanation for his intrusion.

  ‘I don’t mean to take liberties,’ he said, though he looked far from sorry. ‘It’s just that you never see Hobbs folk in here during the day. It seemed like…oh, I don’t know, providence or something that you were here this afternoon.’

  ‘Do you have a manuscript you wish me to look at?’ Lewis asked, realising the young man’s intent.

  Walsh’s eyes widened in surprise, but he immediately ducked down and produced a thick manuscript from his satchel, which he thrust across the table. Lewis became aware of his role in the situation.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ he said, smirking. ‘I didn’t say I wanted to see it.’

  The man’s face fell, and his already flushed cheeks seemed to darken slightly. Lewis mentally thanked Freddie for the line and leaned back to cross his ankles, maintaining a tense silence.

  ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to presume,’ Walsh said, terribly embarrassed.

  ‘It’s quite alright. But perhaps you could tell me something about the novel before you expect me to devote my evening to reading it.’

  Walsh brightened, and for an unpleasant moment Lewis saw himself in the man. It was distasteful, to see oneself so clearly in someone else. But he dismissed the thought. Walsh would have to defer to him. Lewis nodded at him to go ahead.

  Gerard Walsh launched into an expansive description of his debut novel. Lewis was not so much fascinated by the proposed content – a turgid satire of some sorts – as he was by Walsh’s forceful passion. He spoke at a wild pace, his hands moving as he talked, his eyes bright and intense. At what point had Lewis set aside his own hunger for writing, he wondered? He thought that it might have been around the time he stepped into Freddie Hobbs’ office. This rankled. The fool of a man had been quite diverting.

  Walsh had paused his monologue to light a cigarette. He held the packet out to Lewis, who accepted one and sat back.

  ‘Well?’ Walsh repeated, and Lewis realised he had not heard the question. ‘Will you read my manuscript, Mr Carson?’

  That was interesting. He had not told him his name. This sent a flush of pleasure through him. Ann was right – he was someone of importance to writers now. Sought after, even. He savoured the authority he held over the writer for a moment, glanced at the woman by the bar who was watching their exchange with some interest. Another writer, or Walsh’s girlfriend, perhaps? He smiled as he realised how his next words would impact the two.

  ‘Come by my office next Monday,’ he said, though he had neither the intention nor the authority to pass the book on to the editorial board. Walsh practically leapt from his chair, an unexpected ‘Yes!’ shouted across to the woman at the bar.

  Lewis smiled, pleased with himself. He had quite forgotten about Julie.

  6

  Lewis stretched a cramped hand and looked out of the small window above his desk. He had written all night, he realised, taking in the faint whisper of daylight beginning to emerge over the buildings opposite.

  He looked over at the bed. Ann was curled on top of his sheets, still in her blouse and skirt. She had kicked her shoes off and taken her hair down, and appeared to be in a deep sleep.

  They had quite literally bumped into one another as he left the King’s Head, his mood elevated in the wake of Gerard Walsh’s enthusiastic gratitude. He wanted to write, he realised. He wanted to put pen to paper and put Gerard Walsh’s tripe to shame. When he collided with Ann, about to enter the pub with some brown-haired woman she worked with, his good cheer made her flush, and she seemed delighted by him.

  ‘I’m going home to write,’ he told her, grinning. ‘It’s like there’s a frenzy upon me!’

  ‘Quite,’ she laughed, her eyes bright. ‘I can’t wait to read it,’ she added, and the idea was upon him.

  ‘Come with me,’ he urged, putting his hands unselfconsciously around her waist.

  She flushed deeply, and her quiet companion raised an eyebrow in arch misunderstanding. Lewis didn’t care. Freddie’s absence, which would have nipped and rankled at him only two days prior, now came upon him as an elation. He would write and he would live and Freddie and his Janine could go hang. No Julie, no Freddie – this was better, he decided.

  ‘But you’re going to be busy, writing,’ Ann said, looking up at him in a sort of happy confusion.

  ‘Yes, and you’re my star reader. No one gives me feedback like you do, Ms Barbour. I can bounce my ideas off you as they come to me, and you can cackle at my ineptitude and demand changes. I’ll even provide wine and dinner,’ he said, gently swaying her body from side to side, as though they were dancing.

  She flickered a look at her friend, who merely shrugged, a small smile on her lips.

  ‘Go on,’ he cajoled, ‘be my muse.’

  That had sealed it, he saw. She laughed and nodded, promised to see her friend soon, and they walked back to his flat with their arms linked.

  He made them a sort of indoor picnic for dinner – strong cheddar cheese, white bread, some cold cuts of meat and biscuits – and they had drunk an entire bottle of red wine before he had even sat down at his desk. Ann perched on the edge of the bed, and he talked her through the outline. When the scratch of his pen on the paper replaced the bulk of their conversation, she lay back on his bed with a small book
of poetry. She would occasionally appear at his side with a pot of tea, though he hadn’t noticed her move or heard the kettle on the stove.

  He was enthralled by the whole scenario, from the almost fevered pace at which he wrote to Ann’s soft smiles and admiration as she lay across the room from him. He studied her for a moment, asleep on the bed. Such long eyelashes. Her mouth was parted slightly, her face flushed pink from the warmth in the room. There was something very innocent about her, he thought. She could be his, if he wanted her to be.

  He didn’t want to touch her, of course – she was pretty and she adored him, but he didn’t want to pin her down the way he’d wanted to with Freddie. She satisfied a different sort of need. He thought that he might enjoy having her around more permanently.

  Ann stirred. When she opened her eyes and saw him watching her, she smiled. ‘Was I snoring?’ she asked.

  ‘Quiet as a mouse,’ he said, enjoying the likeness. He stood up and patted the chair. ‘Here, have a read at what I’ve done and I’ll make us some tea and toast.’

  She stifled a yawn but nodded, touching his arm lightly as they passed one another. He watched her bowed head as he waited for the kettle to boil. She picked up his pen and made some small amendment. A flash of irritation ran through him, but he set it aside quickly. It had poured out of him like a torrent, late into the night. He couldn’t expect her to find no faults with it.

  He made the tea slowly, wishing to fill as much time as possible while she read so that he didn’t have to sit and watch her. When it was ready, he placed a cup by her elbow, and she murmured a quiet ‘thank you’. He took her place on the bed and examined the small book of poetry.

  ‘This is Arthur’s,’ he said, surprised. It was a little cloth thing, its cream pages bound by a thick, expensive-looking thread. Ann looked at it briefly, distracted.

  ‘Mm, yes,’ she said, returning her gaze to his manuscript. ‘He had it bound for me,’ she added.

  Lewis frowned. Was there something between Arthur and Ann that he didn’t know about? Or was this just a conceit of Arthur’s? He opened the little book and read the acknowledgements page. ‘To Ann’ it read, simply, and he felt himself increasingly irritated. Flicking through the pages to the shortest poem, he read it through with a mild snort.

  When he looked up, Ann was watching him, her gaze troubled. He smiled self-consciously, and her expression cleared.

  ‘Lovely little thing,’ he said, aiming to sound sincere but hoping she recognised the dismissal.

  ‘I haven’t finished this yet,’ she said, ignoring him and gesturing at the manuscript. ‘You’ve written so much, and in one night! But what I’ve read so far… Lewis, it’s wonderful.’

  She directed a beatific smile at him, and he impulsively leaned over and kissed her cheek. She ducked her head, embarrassed but pleased, and he laughed.

  ‘You really think so? Tell me what you like about it,’ he demanded. She looked flustered but smoothed her hand across the manuscript and answered him without reservation.

  ‘It’s so raw,’ she said, her finger tapping lightly on the page. ‘Locke’s anger at the world around him is almost palpable. He’ll make an excellent villain.’

  ‘Villain?’ He frowned at her choice of word and saw her falter.

  ‘He’s not your villain?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry, I misspoke – I haven’t read enough. I’m sure I’ve made a silly mistake.’ She wrung her hands together, her face apologetic.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Lewis said, waving away her apology. ‘I just hadn’t thought of him that way. It’s interesting.’

  He looked down into his tea, wondering at himself.

  6

  Lewis was in the office, staring at his manuscript. Ann had left the flat at 7.30am, harried and explaining that she must go home and change before work. She’d hung awkwardly in the doorway before leaving, seeming to want something from him. But he was distracted and didn’t have the energy to decipher her signals. He had left at her back, intending and succeeding to arrive at the office before Freddie.

  He stared now at her neat note on the second page.

  Will the reader be made privy to the event/tragedy that has made Locke so vicious?

  He sighed. Silly girl. Locke was no more vicious than himself. She had confused his sense of the character, and he frowned down at the page. He started at the rap on the door, but relaxed and gestured Ken in upon seeing his ruddy face in the doorway.

  ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice, Ken,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, you’re fine,’ Ken replied, sitting down opposite him and moving to take the manuscript from the desk. ‘I was glad you called. So you want to go ahead with Crothers?’

  ‘Yes. But with this manuscript.’

  Ken paused, lifted his eyes from the manuscript on the desk and met Lewis’s gaze steadily.

  ‘You think this is better?’ he asked. Lewis nodded, though he still hadn’t read the Watson sample.

  ‘I’m certain of it,’ he said.

  Ken shrugged, unconvinced, but he pulled the manuscript onto his lap. Lewis pretended to busy himself with paperwork while he read, but he was aware of Ken’s small movements, his murmurs and sighs. He occasionally looked up at him from below his lashes, but Ken’s expression was inscrutable. He consciously stilled his knee, which he realised had been bouncing beneath the desk.

  Ken cleared his throat and put the short manuscript back on the desk between them. ‘No,’ he said, simply.

  Disappointment and self-pity washed over Lewis in a staggering wave. He felt his knee judder again and he snatched the pages back.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked, his tone icy.

  Ken rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s not be infantile,’ he chided, and Lewis flushed.

  ‘I’m asking for your constructive criticism.’

  Ken shrugged, infuriatingly blasé. ‘It’s not that there’s anything wrong with it per se,’ he said, his hands outstretched as though he was trying to grasp his words from the air. ‘It’s just not as good as the text I saw at the library.’

  ‘I can’t give you that one.’

  Ken’s eyebrows rose eloquently towards his hairline. ‘Why not?’ he asked, sounding somewhat exasperated.

  Lewis glared down at the manuscript, the words that Infinite Eden belonged to someone else choked in his throat. Envy swelled up from his stomach and threatened to gush from his mouth, a black bile he seemed unable to swallow back. It was unfair, he thought. That dull slattern. This was his chance, his opportunity. First disparaged by Freddie, now this. The insult stung sharply, and he felt his fists clench on the table.

  ‘Christ, Lewis, I don’t know why you’re so hell-bent on this one.’ Ken gestured dismissively to the manuscript under Lewis’s fists. ‘It’s good. Very good, even. But Infinite Eden –’

  ‘Stop, stop, please,’ Lewis said, his anger abating.

  Ken opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the door opening behind him.

  Goldstein stopped short in the doorway, his eyes on Ken. Lewis noted that his tie was loose, knotted in an odd, strangled sort of way halfway down his shirt, which was also unbuttoned at the neck.

  ‘Sorry, Carson, didn’t realise you had someone in. It’s just that the police have cuffed Hobbs and taken him from his office. He’s screaming bloody murder.’

  Lewis wondered for a moment why Goldstein had come to fetch him specifically. Julie aside, he was quite certain nobody at the office had any reason to suspect his relationship with Hobbs had changed in nature. He glanced at Ken, who was looking at him with some interest. He diverted his eyes and nodded at Goldstein.

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  Goldstein bolted from the office, keen to return to whatever spectacle Freddie was causing. Lewis gathered the paperwork from his desk without looking at Ken, his anxiety building. If the police had concluded that Fre
ddie was lying about the circumstances of his and Julie’s date, his own role had become problematic. He tried to recall what Freddie had told them.

  ‘Ken, do you remember what time we left the pub? The other night, I mean.’

  Ken frowned at him. ‘Last orders, surely. It was past ten at the very least.’

  Good, Lewis thought. It was a small margin of error, enough to satisfy any questions about his own account. He could have been mistaken. He paused and looked at Ken as innocently as he possibly could.

  ‘Come with me, will you?’

  They walked along the third-floor hallway side by side. Heads popped out of doorways, drawn by the increasing commotion from the lobby. Lewis felt his pulse quicken as Freddie’s frantic voice carried through the building. They came upon him, legs braced wide apart as if by sheer force of will he could plant himself to the floor, and the two policemen would be unable to move him. A man he did not know trailed behind them, unconcerned.

  Freddie’s appearance shocked Lewis. His eyes were ringed by stark dark circles, giving him a bruised appearance. He was wearing the same clothes from the day before, crumpled and undone in several places. He saw Lewis and threw himself into a sort of lunge, bracing his legs down against the floor to stop their insistent frog march.

  ‘There, ask him! Ask Carson. He’ll tell you I was with him. Carson, tell them!’

  The two policemen turned to look at him, and heads in the lobby swivelled in his direction.

  It was the ‘Carson’ that helped Lewis maintain his calm. Something about the impersonal use of his surname seemed to create invisible distance between himself and Freddie, a final, blunt end to what their conversation the day prior had begun. Quite consciously, he realigned his own thoughts. ‘Freddie’ became ‘Hobbs’ once more, and Lewis found that he was curiously unperturbed by the scene unfolding in front of him.

  One of the policemen looked questioningly at the man who hung at the back. He approached them, sparing Hobbs a dismissive glance.

  ‘Inspector Sheffield,’ he introduced himself, shaking Lewis’s hand. Ken made to move aside, but Lewis gave him a minute nod. He remained.