Peter Edwards peered around his computer monitor. His manager, at the desk facing his, glanced away from his own screen. He raised a what is it? eyebrow.

‘Am I okay to finish half an hour early tonight?’

His manager paused a moment before telling him it was fine. Peter had expected that answer, in fact he’d been planning on it. As long as there was cover in the office, his firm were pretty flexible.

‘What are you upto?’

‘It’s the Literature festival in town. I’ve got tickets to a book-signing,’ Peter replied.

He sighed, waiting for the disapproval that would inevitably follow.

‘You should be careful, Pete.’

‘I know. I will be.’

‘You know how tasty these things can get. It kicked right off last year. It was in all the papers and all over the news.’

Peter puffed out his chest.

‘I can handle myself.’

‘What? Against a gang of rival book fans?’

‘I will be careful.’

‘Keep your book in your pocket and your head down, okay?’

Peter nodded.

‘Besides, if you get your head kicked in it will be me that has to do your work.’

Peter laughed.

Before leaving the office Peter changed out of his shirt and tie. You had to dress the part at the book festivals. He had a new shirt, his denim jacket, and his best pair of designer trainers.

People, the media, the public, they couldn’t get past the violence at the events. Okay, so it kicked off at these things, but it wasn’t just about the gang-fights and violence. It was about the books. It was about supporting your favourite author, about meeting other fans. If fans of another writer slated your author, you didn’t stand for it. Why would you?

Whenever he read his latest paperback book in public he noticed the looks he would get. If he was in a coffee shop reading, nobody would take the table beside him. He had actually been asked to leave one bar when he pulled his book out. The landlord had told him he didn’t want any ‘book ends’ in his bar. Peter had insisted he wasn’t looking for any trouble. The landlord had pointed to his book, yeah right.

Just because he was a reader did not mean he was trouble. In the office bathroom mirror he checked his reflection. He nodded, he looked money. He was young, thin, and handsome. He was every inch what the well-turned out, reader about town aspired to be. He raised his fists at his mirror image.

‘Let’s have yaaaa!’ he growled.

He shut his computer down and grabbed his paperback book. Feeling eyes on him, he tucked his book out of sight in his jacket pocket.

‘Be careful, Pete.’ Called his manager.

Peter gave a thumbs up and strutted across the office floor. A couple of people shook their heads in disapproval. Peter gave them a grin and a chirpy See you in the morning. As he took the stairs two at a time he cursed the squares at the office. They didn’t know anything. They had never lived.

He marched towards the tram stop with a familiar buzz in his stomach. With practised cockiness he took the paperback book out and slouching against the shelter, began reading. As the tram approached the stop he could hear singing and cheering coming from the carriages. He grinned. This was what being a reader was all about. It was about reading the latest books as soon as they came out. It was about catching up with the lads at book signings and drinking until you couldn’t remember the name of your favourite author.

Holding his book with pride, he pushed onto the busy tram. He squeezed his was down the carriage. All the lads on the tram had a can of lager in one hand and a book in the other. The throng continued chanting. Peter joined in.

Shall we read a book for you? Shaaall we read a book for you?

A bloke in a George Orwell t shirt handed him a beer. Cheers mate, he nodded. There were book signings every few weeks but the literature festival was the highlight of the reading calendar. In the past he’d had some cracking nights out and seen some fantastic writers. Last year he’d seen Chris Platt talk about his Western saga and the renowned short story author known as Hully discuss the writing process.

For him it was the whole thing that made these events so magical. It was the books, the authors, the atmosphere, the excitement, the beer. Part of the thrill was the electric atmosphere. It did get a bit lairy at times but that was the risk you took. Part of the buzz was the fact that it could kick off at any moment.

The book fans cheered and whooped and clapped as the tram chugged into Manchester’s Deansgate-Castlefield. Still clapping and singing, the crowd flooded down the platform and spilled onto the streets of the city centre. The pavements were crowded with book fans, congregating in the city-centre for the literature festival. As he crowd swept him along, he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. He text his friends to find out which pub they were currently drinking in.

The pub was rammed. The air was thick with chatter, bookish laddish banter, and drunken laughter. Everyone in the busy pub was in town for the book festival. There were paperback and hardback books everywhere. Most people clutched dog-eared paperbacks in their non-drinking hand. People discussed books, plot twists, authors and characters. They spoke so animatedly. Peter was reminded of a quote by a famous publisher. He had been asked if books were a matter of life and death. No, he’d replied, they’re more important than that.

On the far side of the pub a guy was standing on a table reading from a hardback book. People listened and called out in encouragement. Peter shoved his way to the bar and got himself a pint.

He spotted his mates. They shook his hand, patted him on the back. Like everyone else in the city, they were so excited. They clinked their glasses together in celebration. His friend Carl threw an arm around Peter’s shoulder. He had a far away half-drunk look in his eyes. He had clearly had more than a couple of pints. Carl leaned in and confided that he had finished work at lunchtime to get into town and soak up the atmosphere.

‘Yes,’ Peter laughed. ‘and that’s not all you’ve been soaking up.’

A chant started across the pub. Moments later everyone joined in. They clapped hands in time. Peter and the lads did the same. They hollered the words like a battle-cry, a call to arms. Books! Books! Books!

As Peter chanted along it struck him again that, people who didn’t read books, who didn’t make the trip to the festival, or at least a signing, were really missing out on something special. What more was there to life than beers with the lads, and books and authors?

A few pubs later Peter returned from the bar to find his mates mercilessly ribbing one of the group. Peter took a swig of his pint and asked what the fuss was. They pointed to the guy in question. Steve, a heavy-set Salford lad, raised his hands in defence.

‘This pleb,’ someone declared. ‘hasn’t read the last Jim Grant.’

‘No way.’ Peter said.

‘Not had time, have I? It’s on my shelf.’

‘And you call yourself a book head? You clown.’

Steve sniffed in defiance and outrage. He jabbed a finger at Peter.

‘Have you read the new Hitcher novel?’

‘I read it the day it came out.’

Peter threw his arms up in triumph. The lads cheered.

‘Where’s Keith?’ asked Peter.

‘Haven’t you heard?’

‘No, what’s happened?’

‘He got his head kicked in at a poetry reading last night.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. You know how those things can get. Emotions run high. He went on his own. It kicked off and he had no-one in his corner. His own fault really.’

An hour later Peter and his friends joined the snaking queue into the large marquee in Albert Square. They filed into the large white tent, following the bustling throng of people. The crowd gathered in front of the stage bounced and barged around, singing and shouting. Peter and his friends pushed their way through the crowd and found a spot near the stage.

Peter felt the familiar rush. All he could see was people, a sea of heads and limbs, as everyone ballooned around in excitement and anticipation. A scuffle broke out a few feet away. People applauded in approval as fists and elbows flew. The lads involved swore and yelled abuse at each other. Peter stood on tiptoes, craning his neck to get a better view of the scrap. The bloke next to him gave him a nudge.

‘First fight of the evening.’

‘Yeah, and it wont be the last.’ Peter replied.

Two people walked out onto the stage. As the crowd erupted the guest speakers stepped into the spotlight glow. The author and the interviewer took the high-backed leather chairs. The writer spoke into the microphone. She asked the audience if they were having a good time. The crowd replied with a deep roar. Plastic cups of beer were tossed high in the air. Lager fell like rain. Peter punched the air and yelled.

Later that evening a fantasy writer was being interviewed by a local radio DJ. The smarmy radio presenter got the name of the main protagonist of the trilogy wrong. As the author politely corrected him the audience chanted in angry protest.

Book one, you’ve only read book one!

The evening wore on. More authors spoke to the increasingly rowdy audience. More beer was thrown, more fights broke out. Each element seemed to be an essential part of the festivities. Drunken brawls were breaking out all through the crowd. Like fireworks going off, pockets of violence burst out all around.

The next morning, with a bad head from the beer and the fighting, Peter crossed the office floor. He quietly flopped down at his desk. He sighed. It was going to be a long day. His manager popped his head around the computer screen.

‘Morning Peter. How was it?’ he asked loudly.

‘Yeah,’ he muttered. ‘it was fantastic.’

‘You look rough. Was it a heavy night?’

‘It was brutal.’ He pointed to his swollen black eye.

‘You should have a quiet one next weekend.’

‘You’re right. I think I’ll just go to the football.’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom