A Closed Book (17 page)

‘What's the matter? Cat got your finger?'

‘You can be surprisingly unsubtle, you know, Paul.'

‘Can I?'

‘I mean to say, for a great writer, Booker Prizewinner, Grand Old Man of English Letters, all that crap, your methods are sometimes amazingly crude.'

‘You, John Ryder, are a crude antagonist.'

‘May I ask why you're laughing?'

‘I'm laughing because I've finally found the perfect title for your book.
Blind Man's Bluff
. Don't suppose you'd care for it, though. Sounds too much like a Jeffrey Archer.'

‘You're a cool one, I must say.'

‘Am I?'

‘Yes, you're a cool bastard.'

‘And why is that?'

‘What I've just dictated to you? It never occurred to you that it might represent my considered reflections on certain general principles of literary theory and practice?'

‘No, it didn't.'

‘No, it didn't. You immediately,
immediately
, presumed it had to do with the – with the – the palpable tension between us. Not only that. Without further proof, without a shred of corroborating evidence, you instantly exposed your own hand. Yes, I call that cool.'

‘Why waste time?'

‘You could have been giving yourself away prematurely.'

‘I knew I wasn't giving anything away. I know you too well. Though, just out of curiosity, Paul, who or what tipped you off?'

‘I spoke to Andrew.'

‘Who?'

‘Andrew Boles. My agent. I rang him up while you were in Chipping Campden.'

‘Aha. I see. And he –'

‘I naturally enquired about his trip around the world.'

‘I see. I see. Now that
was
foolish of me. I just didn't imagine you were capable of using the phone. So you told him about me, did you?'

‘Actually, no. I didn't. I could have, but for some reason I didn't. Probably because I had – and I still have – no idea what this is all about.'

‘The word is “should”, Paul, not “could”.'

‘What?'

‘You
should
have told him about me, you really should. Funny. I feel almost sorry for you.'

‘Oh, and why?'

‘Because now it's too late for you to do anything at all.'

‘Who are you, John Ryder?'

‘Who am I? Aha. That's a question I've been waiting a month to hear you ask me.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘No?'

‘Or maybe I do. Maybe I
am
starting to understand.'

‘You
are
someone, aren't you?'

‘I mean, you're someone I know?'

‘Someone I've known a lot longer than a month?'

‘Well? Aren't you?'

‘Answer me, for Christ's sake!'

‘Yes, Paul, I'm someone you know.'

‘Someone I know. Or someone I used to know?'

‘It's a small world, Paul. Especially if you're blind.'

‘All right. All right now. I'm determined to stay perfectly calm. I may be blind, but I can still think and I can still talk.
We
can talk, can't we?'

‘Yes. Yes, all right, John. There's something going on here I don't fully grasp. But what I suspect – well, what I suspect is that you're someone with a grievance against me? Am I right?'

‘If that's the case, if that
is
the case, John, then we can talk about it. We can always talk about it. You can tell me what – what I did, if it
was
something I did, and we can talk about it, can't we? John?'

‘Say something! Anything!'

‘Yes, Paul. We're going to talk about it. Or rather, I'm going to talk about it and you're going to sit and listen.'

‘I'd rather stand if you don't mind.'

‘You'll fucking sit. Sit down or I'll throw you down!'

‘What!'

‘Don't think I wouldn't! Just to shut you up I would!'

‘That's it. Now. Now. Now, Paul, you're going to listen to me for a change.'

‘You know, Paul, you're unbelievable. I just can't believe what I've had to take from you this past month. “Make yourself at home, John.” “Don't forget the semi-colon, John.” “Why didn't you laugh at my little joke, John?” “We'll be having cocktails at seven, John.” Just who the fuck do you think you are?'

‘Must you use that language?'

‘Shut up! I can't fucking bear the sound of your
voice! You say another fucking word, so help me, I'll stick my fist right down your fucking throat!'

‘Good. Now I'm going to tell you a story –
my
story, for a change – and if you're willing to sit and listen to it without interrupting me, I'll try not to use too many of these nasty four-letter words you're so squeamish about all of a sudden. Okay?'

‘A little while ago, Paul, when you lost your temper with me, you said – and I quote – “You forget yourself.” Well, now it's my turn to make a little joke, because you couldn't have got it more hopelessly wrong. No, Paul. I didn't forget myself.
I remembered myself
. I remembered myself at the age of eleven. Do you by any chance remember me at the age of eleven?'

‘No need to start racking those great big bulging brains of yours. I mean to remind you.'

‘So. I was eleven. Eleven years old. An ordinary schoolkid. Well, no, it's true, not an ordinary schoolkid. I was in a special school, a school for difficult children, violent children, the sort no other school, no “nice” school, wanted to know about. A school for kids who'd been expelled from everywhere else.'

‘Though I must say in all fairness it wasn't a bad school in its way. It had a football pitch, a rugby pitch, indoor swimming-pool, lots of nice big dormitories. Just outside Chichester. Aha! Is it starting to come back?'

‘Oh God!'

‘Why, Paul, you
do
remember me. Or do you? Maybe there were just too many of us for you to remember one particular boy? Especially because it was all so long ago, twenty-two years ago. Imagine, Paul, twenty-two years. Makes you think, doesn't it? You weren't a world-famous author in those days, were you? Just a couple of novels no one had paid any attention to. Am I right?'

‘Yes, just another poor underpaid schoolmaster. English and physical education. How many boys were you responsible for? Thirty? Forty? We should hold a class reunion one of these days, me and the boys. Talk over old times.'

‘But, you know, Paul, I still can't help flattering myself I was your special favourite. “My little cherub”, you used to call me, “my little angel-face”. Teacher's pet, that was me. Teacher's little pet that teacher liked to stroke and cuddle and fondle and kiss, remember?
Do
you remember, Paul?'

‘Oh God, stop it, will you! Stop it!'

‘Hah! It
is
a small world. You know why I say that, Paul? You know why? Because those were the exact same words I screamed out all those years ago. “Stop it, will you! Stop it!” I can still hear myself, I can still hear those screams bouncing against the walls of the gym. But no one else could hear me, could they? Just as no one else can hear you now.'

‘Remember, Paul? Remember what you liked best?'

‘You liked to pull your cock out, remember? Do you? And then you'd take hold of my two hands, my two little hands –'

‘Stop it! For Christ's sake, stop it!'

‘Shut up!'

‘You'd take hold of my hands and then you got me to guide it, your great big fleshy red cock, it was a real monster in those days, wasn't it, not like the pathetic drippy thing that dangles between your legs now, and you got me to guide it into my mouth, and I could hardly get my mouth open wide enough. Wasn't that cute? You used to find that so fucking cute. You liked the word “cute”, I remember, it was a word you used a lot. And then, and then, when your cock was right inside my mouth and I'd just about stopped breathing
– I wanted to throw up – you'd pull down my underpants, my soggy grey little Y-fronts. Oh, they were cute too, weren't they so fucking cute, those little grey Y-fronts of mine? So cute you used to rub your nose in them, remember? And then you'd take my balls in your hands, my cute little balls, and you'd squeeze them so hard I wanted to scream my head off, but I couldn't, could I, because I had your cock half-way down my throat, your big dribbling red raw cock, and you were squeezing my balls harder and harder till you came right inside my mouth.'

‘And do you remember what you did then? Do you? Oh, this was wonderful, this was the best of all. You'd quickly draw your cock out of my mouth and then I
would
throw up, I couldn't help it, ever, and I used to see your face when you made me barf all over your cock, I used to see it, Paul, and I can tell you, at that moment your face was even more of a horror than it is now.'

‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.'

‘It's all wrong, I know. For
A Closed Book
, I mean. Subject-matter's all wrong. After all those high-falutin ramblings of yours about eyes and blindness and eyelessness, it would come as too big a shock to the reader's system. Yeah, but that's life, you see, Paul.
You said it yourself, remember? Life doesn't stick to the rules. It springs the sort of climax on you that you don't expect.'

‘Oh Jesus, what are you going to do?'

‘First, Paul, I'm going to go on with my story. You didn't know I tried to kill myself, did you? With a razor. No, of course you didn't. That was after you'd left the school. After you'd given up your job.
Sitting at the Feet of Ghosts
, wasn't it? A big, big success. The Booker Prize. Christ knows how many editions. Big-budget Hollywood movie. You didn't need me any longer. You didn't need any of us. Besides … besides, you were getting to be a bit too well-known, weren't you? A bit too conspicuous. If you wanted some little tyke to vomit over your cock, you had to start travelling, moving around a bit. Like – like Sri Lanka, no?'

‘I moved around a bit too. In my own way. In and out of reform schools, sleeping in the streets, that sort of moving around. Always on my own, always. Because I never could trust anyone. Never.'

‘What? No comment, Paul? Words fail you for once? Never mind, I'm just going to go on anyway. And actually, Paul, you'll be surprised to hear that my story lightens up a bit now. You wouldn't think it
could, would you, but it does. Because I met this guy. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a nice enough guy on the streets like me, Chris was his name, and we started bunking down together a lot of the time. Then one day, hallelujah, Chris landed himself a job. Teaching English. Just like you. Is that spooky or what? Teaching English in a crummy language school off Regent Street, sort of bargain-basement Berlitz, was what he told me, a total rip-off. You see, Chris turned out to be really quite well educated, I don't know how he got to be on the streets, I never asked him and he never told me, but, anyway, he got this job and he rented a flat and I moved in with him. A council flat in the East End.'

‘Well, we lived there together for a bit. And one day I was sitting alone in Chris's flat and I said to myself – I said to myself – if he can do it, I can do it. You know? I can get my act together too. And that's when I changed my name – changed it to John Ryder. It wasn't any sort of precaution, you understand. I didn't know then I'd be standing over you now. It's just that I was in the process of remaking myself, reinventing myself, and it felt good to have a new name for the new me.'

‘So, as I say, I got myself a job, any job, anything I
could find, working in a video shop, a betting shop, selling fruit and veg in a Bermondsey street market, you name it, you can bet I did it. And then, finally, to cut a long story short, I got myself hired as a runner in a brokerage firm in the City. Office boy, basically, but I was smarter than most of them there and I even did a bit of trading on my own, just penny shares, but I was really very good at it, so good I realized I could do better for myself if I did it from home. Which is what I've been doing for the last eight years. Till I turned up on your doorstep.'

‘Still nothing to say? Nah, it's not the kind of story that appeals to you. Not what you'd call “postmodern”, is it? Too much gritty realism. Touch of the Irving Welshes. Not your sort of thing at all.'

‘You didn't expect me to know a fancy word like “postmodern”, did you? Well, but you see, Paul, it's you I have to thank. You see, you forgot me, but I didn't forget you. I
never
forgot you. I read your novels. I read your interviews. I saw the movie. I even watched the Oscar night ceremony on TV. Tough luck, Paul. Best Costume Design. Better than a kick in the pants, I suppose.'

‘I was like a stalker – an invisible stalker. Because
nowadays, as I discovered, you can be a stalker without stepping outside your own home. That's how I stalked you – on TV, through the newspapers, through magazines. It was easy. It was child's play. You were so famous, Paul, you'd become so fucking ubiquitous. Is that the word? Ubiquitous?'