The Ghost Writer — Part 1
A completed novel in parts.
Prelude
“And top marks for this week’s essay go to Tim Bryant,” the teacher announced in her matter-of-fact voice. There was nothing matter of fact about it because one young girl felt resentment rising. She looked across and studied Tim Bryant’s face, its smirk burning like hot coals on her cheeks.
She had won the school’s creative writing competition the past two years and would have done it again had it not been for the little bastard prying into her exercise book.
“He’s been cheating, Miss Porter,” said the girl sourly, pointing out the boy, her arm direct, forefinger leaving no doubt who she was accusing.
“Now then, no sour grapes, young madam, learn to be gracious in….”
But she was interrupted. “Here — you check then…” yelled the girl, hurling her book towards the teacher. “Read that, you’ll see I’m right — all he did was rearrange my words and change the ending…” she said and folded her arms, glaring.
“That’s nonsense….” The teacher was about to say more…
But the girl wasn’t listening to the teacher, reaching across to wrestle away Tim’s English Language book until Miss Porter’s hand thumped heavily on the desk. “Cease this behavior! I’ll not have unruliness in my class. Leave the room, young lady; I’ll speak to you later.”
The young girl did more than leave the room — she left the schoolyard and strutted along the street to where a broad alleyway turned right and led to the Grand Union Canal. She stood for several minutes, both hands gripping the railings of the old timber bridge that spanned it. Her rage was not at all evaporating. She imagined how the little runt must have crept back into class after school, rifled the teacher’s drawer for her homework book, then copied her work — he had to have done — there was no way he could have written anything better than her.
The thought of it kept her shaking with anger.
She checked her watch; school should be out in ten minutes. Miss Porter would be waiting, expecting her apology. Well, she could damn well wait; she wasn’t returning today. So instead, she would do the waiting — for that brat Tim Bryant. She’d have a surprise waiting for him. He’d need to cross the bridge to get to the cul-de-sac beyond the field on the other side. He’d be alone if luck went her way, and her little surprise would bear fruit.
And luck did go her way. One or two kids passed by, unaware of her presence, standing as she was in the shade of a large oak. Soon Tim ambled by, hands in trouser pockets, that stupid smirk glued to his face, and school bag dangling from his shoulder.
Ignorant of her presence…
Until her hand wrapped around the strap of his bag, which she pulled with all the force she could muster, swinging him around, she saw an aggrieved look of surprise on his podgy face.
“Let me go, cow…” his eyes big as full moons. He swung desperately, trying to fend off his attacker, but the girl’s hands were strong, and she had the element of surprise. Her hands grabbed the lapels of his school blazer with enough grip and power to drag him off balance as she began to swing him around, having every intention to hurl him into the thicket, teach him a lesson — only she couldn’t stop — nor did she want to — her anger increasing with every revolution so that the soles of his shoes dragged the ground. Then she let him go, and his balance was uncertain as he splashed into the canal, creating waves that rose onto both banks. No thought had crossed her mind that he couldn’t swim, despite his desperate cries for help.
He’d copied her story, and now he had to pay the price. It was all that mattered.
The girl stood expressionless, slapped her hands as if dusty, and went home.
Chapter 1: Find Him
It was a little after 7:00 am when Joseph Monteith entered the plush offices of Random House in New York.
Removing his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack, he moves behind his desk, but before sitting, he picks up a yellow note stuck to his desk phone and pulls out his spectacles, setting them on the bridge of his nose. Joseph, please meet with the Editor — ASAP.
Joseph had been trying to contact someone called Tim Bryant for two weeks and had failed. Now his Editor is about to give him hell or a push out the door.
When Joseph comes out from the elevator on the twentieth floor and turns right, he’s already preening himself as he walks down the corridor. He pushes through the glass doors that lead to the offices of the Editor.
The front office has several expensive and ornate chairs placed around a dark wood oval coffee table on which are various publishing magazines and one substantial colorful book recording the history of Random House. Joseph walks through the waiting area toward an attached office, seeing a woman seated behind a desk. She is in her mid-fifties, with mousey greying hair, gold spectacles, and a sleeveless summer frock.
“Morning, Gwyneth. There was a note left on my desk that Lawrence wants to see me, ASAP,” he says, his brow quietly questioning its purpose. Joseph isn’t a meek man. His frame, however, is thin for his five feet nine inches, as is his nose, and he has slender fingers, such as a pianist might want.
“Yes, he’s been on the intercom every two minutes asking where the hell you are, Joseph. He’s not in a good mood,” she says, raising her eyebrows as she looks over her glasses at him.
Joseph pulls in his navy-blue suit jacket, sets himself, though feeling sick to his stomach, knocks on the door, and enters boldly. A wide smile disguises his trepidation.
The office is imposing, two walls lined with books eight feet high, is filled with art, books, and sundry objects that inspire him, including a 1930s six feet wingspan model of the Stearman 75 suspended from the ceiling.
“Morning, sir. I hope you had a good weekend,” Joseph says brimming with confidence.
The man sitting behind the extensive desk responds, “do I take that to mean you haven’t found him, Monteith?”
“Well, no, sir, not exactly,” Joseph begins, “however, I believe I’m hot on his trail and feel certain it won’t be long now,” and he starts toward the chair on this side of the Editor’s desk.
“There’s no time to waste,” Bernstein says abruptly, leaning forward and collecting a cigar from the cigar box on the desk. Joseph understands that to mean don’t sit. “What the hell is wrong with him? Does he want to be published or not?” He says and begins the process of lighting the cigar.
“Well, sir, I would say he’s not pressingly engaged in the idea. I’ve left several messages with his housekeeper, and then visited the address given in Mendocino, and spoke to his, well, I think she is his housekeeper. I told her who I was and that if he would contact me, it will be to his advantage.”
The man behind the desk is small and round, and like all small and round men in the publishing business, he smokes a small round cigar. Lawrence Bernstein looks out of place in the great chair, feet swinging in the air. It was a funny sight to all who entered, but those who made it known were soon gone. Mr. Bernstein is not born with any concept of humor, but he is a man to keep the right side of and be respected.
“I want him signed up, Monteith. Look here,” and Bernstein picks up a letter sitting on his desk, “he submitted three chapters of a draft with this letter stating his ambition to one day be published, and he’d hoped this manuscript would be his chance. What bullshit,” Bernstein says, flying the letter back onto the desk in exasperation. “Who does he think he’s fooling. Look at his presentation. It is not the work of someone unpublished. No, this is the work of a man who knows the business. He sent three chapters, enough to gauge our interest, knowing, I suspect, that we would want to publish it. He’s playing with us, Monteith. I want this story, and I want the author to sign up. Do you understand? You find him and bring him here and let’s get him signed up before someone else does. What is the difficulty, anyway?” Joseph is reticent to admit, “com’on man, out with it.”
“Well, sir, I don’t know that either. His friends appear protective, reluctant to offer any information. The housekeeper, if that’s who she was, told me that he had left for Europe and didn’t know when he would be back.”
Bernstein stands away from his chair and moves toward the window overlooking Manhattan. He’s silent, motionless, before taking the cigar to his mouth, then blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Does this guy have money? Tell me about his home.”
“It’s impressive, from the outside quite beautiful, standing on acreage, maybe twenty in all, with stables, and there were horses grazing.”
“Mmmm…” Bernstein rubs the back of his balding head. “That confirms my first suspicions, Monteith. Whoever this is, he is not wanting for money. He’s an Englishman for sure, his work is full of phrases, flowery descriptions, yes, English, but I tell you Monteith, he is not a first-time novelist. I think we have something here. I want you to tread carefully, maybe this man is already signed up and looking for a way out. I’ve got a tickle in my armpit about this one,” and he turns to Monteith, and points at him, his cigar burning between his right forefinger and third finger, “you’ve got one job, I want you to drop everything else. Get him here, I want him under contract before the end of the year.”
“Yes, sir.” Monteith turns and leaves the office, closing the heavy door quietly, and leaning back on it, lets out a deep sigh.
“What’s that for?” Gwyneth asks.
Joseph looks across at her, his cheeks billowing.
Gwyneth shakes her head, knowing his luck. “You’re the third one to go in there this morning and the only one who’s come out still with his job!” She smiles and winks at him.
Part Two: The Island (Soon)
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