Selling Tales

Patrick Thomas walked quickly down Manchester’s city streets. The pavements were busy with early evening people, either on their way home from work, shopping or socialising, or on their way out the night. A swagger of young lads walked by, all aftershave and fresh haircuts. Patrick side-stepped and moved around them, today he had a swagger of his own.

Today, he told himself, was a good day, a momentous day. It would be a day he would look back on for years to come. It wasn’t every day that you had a signing session of your debut novel. To see his name on the cover of a published novel was something so special, something he would have given anything for.

He smiled to himself, and walked on down the dark city street, a spring, a proud bounce in his step. As he reached the bookshop, his eyes were drawn to a woman across the road. She wore a bright yellow raincoat and was staring at him intently. Her pale features seemed almost ghostly in the darkness. He shrugged, the city was like that some nights, full of strange people. On one night out in Manchester a guy had approached him in a bar, to explain how the recent pandemic had been a government ploy to get the public into staying indoors. If this woman was glaring at him then she’d either got him mixed up with someone else, or had him down as an alien visiting from the Cetus Constellation.

Before going through the door, Patrick paused for a moment to admire the display in the large shop window. His name, and the book title, No Escape, was plastered in large, friendly letters. He studied every inch of the display. The debut author of the novel that has amazed both readers and critics alike. Patrick gave a little fist bump, adjusted his leather satchel on his shoulder, and went inside.

The bookshop had that special hush that only they and libraries had. A woman in her twenties, wearing a polo-shirt with the shop logo, came over.

‘Can I help you? Are you looking for something in particular?’

‘I’m Patrick. I’m here for the book signing.’

‘Do you have a ticket?’

‘Erm, not quite. I’m the author.’

‘I am so sorry.’ she said, her cheeks burning red.

‘It’s fine.’ Patrick laughed.

She ushered him through to the back of the shop, into a small room crammed with sofas and a kettle. A guy with a thick beard and lumberjack shirt entered. He shook Patrick by the hand.

‘I’m Nick, this is my place.’

‘Patrick.’

Nick told him the session would start in around twenty minutes and would have him talk firstly, followed by a Q&A, and then the book-signing. Patrick nodded.

He flopped down in the armchair, trying to keep calm. He wanted this to be a great evening. It would be awful if nerves or excitement got the better of him. The shelves that lined the walls were filled with yellowing paperback books. One day his story would be a dog-eared paperback book. Would his book be as highly-regarded as the works he rated? He certainly hoped so.

There was a gentle knock on the door. Nick poked his head around the door. It was time.

‘Are you ready, Patrick?’

‘I think so.’

Patrick looked out at the rows of people. They stared back, smiling, waiting expectantly. He cleared his throat and moved awkwardly to the small wooden lectern. He leaned on the lectern for support and gazed out at the crowd. He recognised several faces, family and friends, who had come along to support him. He forced down his nerves, and plastered a smile on his face.

‘Good evening, I’m Patrick Thomas. I’m here to talk you tonight about my debut novel.’

He paused as the people clapped and cheered. As the talk went on, he found his rhythm, and was actually enjoying himself. He felt like a rock star doing their first gig. Hopefully this would be the start of something.

During the Question and Answer session, he gave the usual replies to the usual questions. Unlike a lot of authors, he had only come to writing recently and was amazed and humbled at the response his debut work was generating.

‘Where did you get the idea for No Escape from?’ called a voice from the back.

‘If you ask any writer where they get their ideas from, they will tell you, ideas just come to them. It was the same with this story. I just kinda stumbled across it. The idea just came to me.’

At the end of the session, Patrick was shown to a table at the front of the shop. The table had a black cloth thrown over it and was stacked high with copies of the book. He was ushered across with such respect and reverence, he left like a visiting foreign dignitary going to Buckingham Palace.

Once he was sitting in place at the table, the people queued up, to pick up their signed copy. The readers gave their names and enthused that they couldn’t wait to read the book they’d heard so much about. A few of them had their own copies of the book, purchased earlier and devoured prior to the signing. While that stuck him as a bit cheeky and robbing the store of revenue, the readers were so gushing about the book, that he didn’t have the heart to refuse to sign their books.

He was still in a little bit of disbelief that he was actually sitting here signing his book for admiring readers. The whole thing seemed like a dream.

The next person to approach was a woman in a yellow raincoat. He recognised her immediately. He had seen her across the road earlier. She had been glaring at him. So, riddle solved, she was a reader, getting an early glimpse of the author. He gave a broad smile.

‘Who should I dedicate it to?’

‘To Laura.’ she said.

Patrick scribbled and added, best wishes, before signing the bottom of the page. He held out the book, still smiling. Laura snatched the book from him, a look of fury on her face. She waved the book as though it was an exhibit in a court trial.

‘I wrote this. This book is mine, word for word.’

‘I’m afraid you are mistaken.’ He replied as calmly as he could.

‘I wrote this!’ she yelled, shaking her head in disgust.

Nick appeared beside her, smiling politely.

‘You’ve got your book signed, so let’s get you outside.’ Nick said brightly.

He let the still-protesting Laura away. Patrick sighed. Was this part of the publishing business or was his a special case? He reached for the next book and greeted the next in line with a warm grin.

The guy shuffled forward, pushing his glasses up, and asked for the book to be made out to Chris. I’m a massive fan of yours, he added.

Patrick took a deep breath and tried to regain his composure. This was more like it. This was what today should be about, not some crackpot accusing him of stealing her story. He couldn’t let some random weirdo with a grudge ruin his special day.

His wife was next in the queue, beaming proudly.

‘Can you make it out for Lyn, please, Mr Thomas?’ She laughed.

Patrick laughed too, before asking how she thought it was going.

‘It’s going so well. I’m really proud of you, love.’

Patrick gave her a wink.

The following week his agents called to say that the book was continuing to do well, that it have made the shelves of several major supermarkets. Apparently, there was a lot of interest in his novel.

One afternoon, following a meeting with an independent bookstore, Patrick returned to his car to find he had a flat tyre. Great, he chunnered, kicking the tyre as though that would help. Rain started falling from the grey skies overhead. He hopped in his car, and dialled the number of tyre guy he knew. After half an hour of sitting in his car, staring out through the windscreen, listening to radio four, there finally came the yellow flashing lights of the recovery vehicle. Patrick turned the collar up on his coat and stepped out into the lashing rain. The tyre guy was a stocky man in a hooded hi-vis coat. Patrick pointed to the flat tyre, stating the obvious. The guy nodded, pulling his hood up over his head to keep the rain off.

‘Have you got the locking wheel nuts?’ he asked in a thick Lancashire accent.

Patrick leaned in his car, and opened the glove compartment. The glovebox was full of pieces of paper, torn up printed pages. He tossed the paper down to the foot-well, and found the locking wheel-nuts.

Using all kinds of machinery, the guy quickly changed the tyre with a practised ease. Once the new tyre was fitted, and both he and Patrick were soaked through, the guy wiped the oil and grime off his hands with a dirty cloth.

‘It looks like the tyre has been slashed. You haven’t got an angry ex-girlfriend or anything have you? Anyone out to get you?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘It’s probably just one of those things. I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re good to go. I’ll email the invoice over to you.’

Patrick thanked him and got in his car, glad to be out of the rain. As he headed home, he tried not to think about his tyre being slashed, nor who would have wanted to inconvenience him like that. At a set of traffic lights that seemed to be on red for ages, he glanced down at the passenger-side foot-well. What were those papers? He hadn’t filled his glove-compartment with scraps of torn-up paper. They seemed to be all from the same source, not a stack of receipts, leaflets and junk mail that may have accumulated over time.

Checking the traffic lights were still on red, he reached and grabbed a handful of paper. What was all this? It was torn-up pages of print, like someone had ripped a book to shreds. He gasped at the heading on one piece of paper. No Escape. It was his book.

He was startled further when the car behind him beeped their horn. The lights had changed to green. He waved an apologetic hand, and quickly drove on through the early evening darkness.

He arrived home still stressing about what was going on. Had someone slashed his tyres deliberately? Was there someone out there holding a grudge against him? What was all the paper doing in his glovebox? A shiver went through him. Had the same person who had slashed his tyre, managed to get into his car and cram his glove compartment with his ripped up book?

A fist knocked on the window, right by his head. Patrick cried out in shock. He turned to see his wife standing there, a confused look on her face. His heart still pounding, he pushed open the driver’s door.

‘What are you doing sitting out here?’ Lyn asked, her arms folded against the cold.

‘Nothing.’ he mumbled,

He scooped up the scraps of paper and stuffed them in his coat pocket. He followed Lyn inside, closing the front door quickly behind him. He locked the door, checking the handle several times, making sure it was locked.

Patrick went straight through to the kitchen and, with trembling hands, poured himself a large measure of whiskey. He was leaning on the counter, sipping his whiskey, when Lyn placed a gentle hand on his arm.

‘What’s wrong, love?’

‘It’s been a long day, that’s all.’ he said, rubbing his eyes.

He explained about the flat tyre, the repairman’s suspicions, and reached into his coat pocket. He tossed the bits of paper on the worktop.

‘And my glovebox was full of this.’

Lyn picked up a scrap and studied it.

‘Pages of my book,’ he explained. ‘torn to shreds and shoved in my car.’

‘And you definitely didn’t but it there?’

‘Of course not. Why would I do that?’

‘I’m just saying, there must be some logical explanation. Things don’t have to be some big conspiracy. It’s real life, not like one of your stories.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ he said, taking another hit of whiskey.

Early the following week, as they were flaked out on the sofa watching rubbish TV, Lyn gave him a nudge.

‘I bumped into a fan of yours in town today.’ she said.

‘Really? How cool.’

‘Yes, she came up to me and started talking to me about your book. She was a bit odd, to be honest. She kept asking if I knew where you got the idea from.’

Patrick felt sick. He sat bolt upright on the sofa.

‘What did she look like?’ he asked, a feeling of dread washing over him.

‘She had dark hair and was wearing a bright yellow raincoat.’

Patrick said nothing. He didn’t want to frighten Lyn, but what was really troubling him was how this woman, the woman from the bookshop, had found his wife, and approached her about the book. Right there and then, he wished he had never published the thing. Could a book be cursed? Could a story be bad luck? Would things eventually die down? Would all this blow over? Maybe when the initial fuss had passed, when his book was just out there and not a new release, maybe then, things would calm down.

Perhaps this woman had seen Lyn at the book signing. That was certainly possible. Although Lyn had queued up for a book, they had made no secret of who she was. Maybe this Laura had spotted her in town, having seen her at the signing, and had taken the chance to speak to her. That must have been what had happened, he told himself. He didn’t quite believe it. It sounded too much of a coincidence. He shook his head and when to make a cup of tea.

One night as they returned from a meal out with friends, pulling onto the drive, Patrick saw something on their front door. Leaving the engine running, headlights framing the door, he hoped out and moved slowly forwards. Lyn joined him. She was about to ask what he was doing, but Patrick simply pointed to the front door.

As he neared, he realised what was on the front door. Pinned to the wooden door by a kitchen knife was pages of his book.

‘What is all this?’ Lyn asked, panic creeping into her voice.

‘I have no idea.’ he sighed.

By midday the next day, the police had called round. Patrick and Lyn had explained how they had returned home to find pages of his novel pinned to the door by a knife. Patrick couldn’t bring himself to mention Laura, the woman in the yellow raincoat. He didn’t want to voice his concerns about the woman and her accusations of stealing the work. He hoped this latest incident was simply random vandalism. It could have been local kids, knowing the author lived nearby, and had wanted to take him down a peg or two. Nor did he mention that Lyn had seen Laura too. He just hoped it was all coincidence. By not voicing his concerns, he hoped it would all stop. If he said it out loud, to Lyn and to the police, then it would make it all real, somehow. The police had taken away the knife and the pages, saying they would be in touch if they made any progress. The way the officer had said it, hadn’t filled Patrick with any hope of hearing from them anytime soon.

He just hoped that things would return to normal. He wished right then and there, that he had never published the novel in the first place. He should have just thrown the completed draft in the rubbish bin.

In the days and weeks that followed, things did return to normal. He got on with his life, meeting friends, he and Lyn even talked about going on holiday. The release of his debut novel, the weirdness that had occurred afterward, it all faded in his memory.

One evening, months later, he pulled onto his drive to find a figure standing in the middle of his driveway. The person blocking his path was wearing a bright yellow raincoat. It had been that long since the previous incidents, that Patrick felt more annoyance than fear and trepidation. He climbed out of the car and approached the person.

‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

The pale woman stepped closer to him, it was her, Laura. Her eyes wide in outrage, she clutched the copy of his book.

‘Did you really think you would get away with it?’ she said.

‘Get away with what, exactly?’

‘This story is mine, every word of it.’

‘That’s not true. I wrote that book.’ he said.

‘How?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where did you get the idea from?’

‘I can’t recall. Writers get ideas all the time.’

‘I got the idea from turning the hitchhiker story on its head. What if the killer was the driver, not the hitcher? That’s where the story originates. That’s why I wrote the story. The story that you stole from me.’ she snarled.

It was at that moment that he noticed the knife in her hand. Patrick raised his hands, as though he was being mugged.

‘Where did you get my story?’ she asked.

‘I found it.’ Patrick admitted. ‘It was on a table in a coffee-shop. I read it and it blew me away. I took it home with me so I could read it again.’

‘I lost my first draft.’ Laura said. ‘It was saved on my computer, so no harm done. Or so I thought. How did you come to publish my story?’

‘My wife read the manuscript. She loved it, and she assumed I’d written it. I didn’t correct her. Before I knew what was happening, Lyn was sending it off to the publishers.’

He stared at the blade in her hand.

‘I’m sure we can make this right. I am so sorry about all this.’ he said.

Laura shook her head.

‘Not good enough. You can’t just steal a writer’s work, and fob them off with an apology and a cheque.’

‘Please.’ he whispered.

‘To a writer, our stories are precious. What you have done is unforgivable.’

Patrick said nothing.

‘Do you remember the last line of the book?’

He shook his head. She threw the book at him. Patrick caught it. Laura stepped closer, wielding the knife with intent. The look in her eyes, said she was deadly serious.

‘The last line,’ she snapped. ‘read it.’

‘Okay, okay.’

Patrick fumbled through the book, to the last page. He turned slightly, to catch the pages in the headlight glow. He read aloud.

‘The last thing he saw-’

He stopped reading, looked up at Laura, in terror. The realisation took the scream from his throat.

The last thing he saw was the glow of headlights glinting on the steel blade.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom