Burning Effigies At The Drop Of A Hat...

On the days not spent at TV shopping channels I’ve been hanging around the Harper Collins offices, spending time in the different departments and trying to be dazzling and memorable. When the workers look as though their tolerance of my presence is ebbing away, I try to make myself useful. What starts with a polite offer to take a parcel from one office to another culminates in a two-hour stint at a photocopier for one of the secretaries while she enjoys an extended break in the coffee room, and I begin to suspect that they are taking advantage of me. When Doris the cleaner trundles up to me with a mop and bucket and asks if I could give the women’s toilets ‘a quick going over,’ although the opportunity of a leisurely examination of the different machines and bins is momentarily intriguing, I decline and revaluate my tactics.

I swing by my publicists’ office, which still requires a steely will on my part. In my nightmares the windows are covered in ancient cobwebs and a cauldron boils in the centre of the room but in the mid-afternoon reality there is only the lingering musty odour of decay that could just be a coincidentally dead animal of some kind nearby.

Mavis is there alone, muttering to herself as she does something strange behind the desk. I cough and linger in the doorway and she looks up and quickly closes a drawer. “Christopher.”

I force a smile and take a few cautionary steps into the office. Mavis is masterminding my forthcoming ‘Drunken Public Appearances’ campaign, which so far consists of two fifteen minute slots at sci-fi conventions in the Midlands. “I had a new idea,” I tell her.

“Always appreciated. What’s your plan?”

“I could make a few religiously offensive comments and get some dramatic-looking protests against me going in the streets of Asia. Those people burn effigies at the drop of a hat.”

“What kind of comments?”

“I don’t know. Muhammad sucks donkey dicks, some Hindu Goddess is a slut. Maybe get some cartoons going, they don’t seem to like them.”

She sighs. “I don’t think selling a few more copies of your book is necessarily worth having our worldwide offices firebombed, Christopher. But thanks for the idea.”

“I’ll keep thinking,” I say, and then on my way out, my agent Sid phones me with some good news so I head to my editor’s office for some subtle gloating.

He barely looks up from his piles of papers. “Next time you should clean the copier before using it,” he says, flicking through some pages. “It’s nice that you’re helping out around here but look, there’s a dark smudge on every one of these.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You all set for the big release?” he says. “Going to have a little party with all your sci-fi mates? Maybe dress up as different characters from the book?”

“I might be going to Europe.”

“You are in Europe.”

“Proper Europe.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“Sid has sold the book in Germany and Poland. My words are going to be translated.”

I have Chris’ full attention for the first time. “Sid has?”

“I know, I can hardly believe it myself. Apparently I have an advance magically winging its digital way into my bank account as we speak.”

“Sid did?”

I shrug. “He must have something over publishers there too. So it seems the Poles do read, which makes it even more of a shame that the Ealing community seems against me.”

“Well, that’s good news, anyway. Congratulations. Make sure you tell Mavis and Pauline.”

The thought of going back there makes me cold. “I’ll email them.”

Another man walks quickly into the office and hands a file to Chris. “No rush. Just look them over when you get a chance.”

“No problem,” Chris says. “Oh, Bradley. You should meet Christopher, the author of Clear History.”

Bradley shakes my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Chris looks at me. “If we publish a second novel then Bradley will take over as your editor.”

“Right.”

“No, that’s not true,” Bradley says. “Harper Collins always keeps the same editor on series’. Don’t worry, you won’t have to go through some upheaval. Got to get a move on, I’m afraid. Nice to meet you.”

He leaves and Chris slumps behind his desk, eyes glazed and staring at nothing. I lean forward. “That is good news. As soon as I get home I’m going to send you the first hundred pages of the follow-up. I’m going to send you all my notes as well and you can tell me what you think. Of everything.”

Chris looks at me. “We’ll see how the book sells.” It is almost a threat.

I nod. “We’ll see how it sells in Germany and Poland.”

I stand up to leave. “Hang on,” Chris says. “Sid sold the rights?”

“We’ve been through this.”

“No, but…Harper Collins owns the worldwide rights.”

“What?”

“Yeah. That was the contract Sid approved and you signed.” He taps at his computer. “Here’s the press release. We even have the US rights. What a contract!”

Now I stare at him in shock. “And is Harper translating it into German and Polish?”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t appear to be any plans yet.”

“I can’t believe that man.”

“I wouldn’t spend that advance just yet.” He picks up his phone. “I have to warn the relevant parties. I suggest that you sort this out before it becomes a real problem.”

I point upwards. “It’s like God can’t stand anything going well for people that don’t believe in him.” I walk out of his office.

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” he calls.

“I know,” I shout from the corridor on the way to a pub.

Shrink In Cold Water...

Hours after exercising for the first time in awhile, before the damage is felt and you spend the next few days unable even to scratch your nose without wincing, you feel just great. You bounce down the high street lighter than air, strutting confidently through the crowds with saucy smiles at the pretty ladies, feeling fit and healthy and attractive. Then you catch sight of yourself in a shop window and you stop and stare in shock, oblivious to the businessman who clatters into you from behind with a loud tut. You have not, as you assumed, instantly transformed into a svelte buff Adonis with a flat stomach and chiselled jaw line. You look, in fact, much as you did that morning. Overweight, pudgy, blobby. Not obese, not by a long shot. But the bulges are there, the ones that never existed when you were twenty-four and drinking beer rather than whiskey every night, for Christ’s sake. How can this be? You’ve just been through Hell.

It’s my fourth week of swimming and before I head into the pool I study myself in the mirror. I think it may be having an effect but since Cheryl broke our bathroom scales (water, not weight) I cannot be sure. I only have to raise my hands to my forehead to look normal now, but when they are by my sides I still wobble and jostle. And so I walk into the pool with my towel apparently casually, but actually artfully, draped over my shoulders to hide some of the excess flesh. It is late morning on a weekday and most of the men here, presumable un- or casually employed, seem to spend their spare time working on pumping up their bodies. The women do not. There is nothing to look at here. Apparently only middle-aged fat women have the time to swim. They do so with excruciating slowness and presumably only so that they can ogle the men in their tight Speedos clinging to impressive packages that, judging from the shower room afterwards, don’t even shrink in cold water.

I go in the fast lane and we pound up and down the ropes. I keep up with them all, breathing every three strokes and tumble-turning, at least until I run out of breath and then I cling to the wall after every length, gasping for air. But this renews me and the boys in the fast lane swim so fast that we send the water into a churning, pulsating wave machine. Those in the adjacent lanes almost drown in our wake. We push until our muscles and lungs are ready to burst and our wrists almost snap when we crash into the walls. When we have finished the water level will have dropped by three feet.

My goggles, inevitably, mist up, and swimmers coming the other way loom into view like ships in thick fog. And, startlingly, one of them is wearing a pink bikini. At the end of the length I stop and rinse out my goggles. On the second pass she looks slim and pretty, even with a rubber hat. On the third length I am already catching her up and the fact that she is slow in the fast lane makes me annoyed with her as well as intrigued and excited, which is confusing. On the fourth I am behind her almost immediately and as people are coming in the other direction and I cannot overtake, I switch to breaststroke and stay just two feet behind her. I am staring right into her, at the thin band of material then runs over the most intimate parts of her, everything rounded and pivoting in front of me, and even though it is not of my planning, I feel shamed somehow. When she stops to let me pass I stop too to rinse my goggles, but regret it because she is looking at me accusatorily. To distract her I look down at her bikini top, and even though it has only dropped a little on one side, I nod at it and tell her that she has popped out.

She drops down under the water up to her neck, grabbing for her top. “God. How embarrassing,” she says.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say.

“It does to me.”

“Come on,” I say with what I imagine might be a knowing smile. “I think we both knew from the instant we first laid eyes on each other that I was going to see them sooner or later. Why wait?”

She rolls her eyes. “Jesus.” She lowers her goggles and pushes off, and I am stuck behind her again, keeping my eyes on the lines on the floor.

I climb out after a mile – a proper mile, not a swimmer’s – and I can barely walk straight. I cover myself with my towel and when my vision clears I look back at my lane and realise that the man I was so proud of keeping up with is in fact swimming with a float between his legs and those resistance paddles that threaten to slice your fingers off if you nick them on the way past.

I get home and read on the couch for awhile and then close my eyes and fall into the kind of nap that leaves you feeling half dead for twenty minutes and then so good that you reminisce about it for the rest of the day. Cheryl is back from work when I stumble into the bedroom.

“You’re always here,” I tell her. “How can I ever bring a woman back if you’re always here?”

“Go to hers,” she says without looking up from the computer. “And stay there ‘cos you’re not coming back here.”

“You’re so fucking square,” I say, sitting on the bed. She is looking up properties on the Isle of Wight. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I’m just exploring our options for when we get rich.”

“Have you invested in some amazing stocks I’m unaware of?”

“When your book reaches its first million sales we’ll buy a house.”

I sigh. “It must be nice living in your little world. I must visit one day. Besides, I thought we said Cornwall.”

“I thought the Cornish hated outsiders because we’re taking their houses and pricing them out of their own county and that they think they’re their own country when in fact they should accept that they’re just a small part of England and they should just shut up and run the pasty shops.”

“Cheryl! Some of my best friends are Cornish. You shouldn’t talk that way.”

“You told me that. In fact, you shouted it to me in a pub in Cornwall just before closing time, jabbing your finger at the locals.”

“Oh. How did they react?”

“A couple of them told you to fuck off.”

“See? Proved my point.”

It is two months until my novel is published, and yet this is how I spend my days. Tomorrow I’m working until five am on Sky’s studio coverage of a West Coast basketball game that will probably go to Overtime. It is, in a word, very strange.

"The Best Pubs In The World Are In The East End..."

Sid appears to be sniffing the air as he says this. “In another life I’d like to have my own place on Brick Lane. I’d be like Sam on Cheers.”

“I’d be your Norm.”

“I see you more as Cliff.”

“No one ever gets drunk on Cheers.”

We are two-thirds of the way through our third pints and we are both slowing down because we don’t want to leave.

Reluctantly, Sid brings us closer to the inevitable. “I’m happy to drive you home but we’ll have to leave after this.”

“I know.”

“We can stay but we’d have to get the tube…”

“It’s stupid to leave your car here and have to get it in the morning. We’ll go now.”

It’s decided so we finish the drinks and visit the gents. At the exit, Sid stops suddenly. There are three average-looking girls at a table. Apparently Sid thinks otherwise. “Oh my God,” he says, licking his lips. “Let’s get the tube.”

“What are you going to do, Sid? Ask them out? Take them home? Come on, let’s go.”

“Hey, I’m a world class girl watcher.”

I follow him to the bar and he orders two more pints. He points at where we were sitting. “Look, our table’s taken.”

“So?”

“All the tables are taken. But I bet we could squeeze onto the end of theirs.”

“And then what?”

“Who knows? Come on, you ask them, you’ve got a ring so they’ll think it’s innocent.”

When I ask them though, I keep my left hand in my pocket and they are polite enough to let us sit at the table and then I lean forward to chat to Sid but he is leering at the girls with a childish smile plastered on his face and eventually the girl next to him is forced to talk to him. “What do you do?” she asks.

“I’m a literary agent,” he tells them. “And Christopher here is a writer. A novelist.”

“Really?” they say and we’re off and Sid buys them drinks and shots which they refuse and so we do theirs as well as ours and by the end of the night I have kept my hand under the table and asked all three of the girls in turn for their phone numbers.

“I just heard you ask both of my friends,” the third girl says.

“That was just practise,” I slur. “You’re the one I really like.”

Sid is knocking drinks over and buying more and when the girls ask us to leave we refuse and get rowdier and the bouncers are escorting us out and Sid pushes one of them and gets thrown on his arse onto the pavement.

I walk towards the tube but Sid goes the other way and I stop. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll drive you home.”

It seems like a good idea but we are immediately lost and I squint at his A-Z London, trying to make out the meaningless shapes on the page under moving patches of light from the passing street lamps. When I realise that I have been holding the book upside down I throw it in the back seat. “Try to find the A4,” I say.

“What’s an A4?” he says.

We pull away at a green light and the car leaps into the air. “Shit,” I say.

“Shit,” he says. “What was that?”

I look back. “I think you drove over a kerb in the middle of the road.”

“A kerb?”

“A divider.”

“I didn’t see it. Did you see it?” I shake my head. “That is so dangerous.”

“Are your lights on?”

“I’m not sure.” He leans forward. “No.” He switches them on. Our vision does not improve. The lights were not the problem.

I turn down the stereo. “What is that noise?”

It was a rumbling, crunching grinding.

“I don’t know.” He turns the stereo back up.

We are lost in the Docklands, then deeper in the heart of Tower Hamlets. “If we just drive in a straight line at least we’ll get to the M25,” I say.

“I can’t find a straight line,” he says.

Shadowy figures are staring at us from the side of the road. “Are you sure the car is alright?”

Sid looks at me. “It’s okay if I hold the wheel upside down.”

“Upside down?” Sid had his arms wrapped around each other, fighting to keep the steering wheel in some position that it should not be. The grinding noise is now louder than the stereo and the car is bouncing as though the wheels are square.

“Maybe I have a puncture?” Sid suggests.

“I think there’s something seriously wrong.”

“It’s okay. Where the fuck are we?”

“I don’t know.”

People are running after us in the street now. “I think you should stop.”

Sid suddenly pulls over and scrapes along the kerb. We both stumble out of the car and stand unsteadily in the night air. Sid tries to look at the front wheels. “Christopher. I don’t think there’s any tire here.”

I lean over on my side. “Nor here.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been driving around on the alloys.” The wheels are smoking.

Three men who may be tramps reach us, out of breath. “You guys are crazy,” one of them says. “Didn’t you see the sparks shooting out of your car?”

“I thought they were in my head,” Sid says.

The tramps look at the damage. “Have you got a spare?”

Sid nods. “It’s okay. We’ll change it.”

“What are you going to do about the other one?”

Sid shrugs. “Call the AA?”

The head tramp waves him away. “We’ll sort it out.”

“It’s okay,” Sid tries again. But the tramps are already getting the wheel out of the boot and jacking up the car.

He pulls me away. “Shit. They’re going to want money.”

“Fuck ‘em,” I say quietly.

“Oh yeah, right. Do you have any cash?” I shake my head. “Stay here with them. I’m going to find an ATM.”

He shuffles off and I wait with the tramps. One of them takes a swig from a bottle of something. “Let me have a shot,” I say.

Reluctantly he hands me the bottle and I take a couple of swallows. They pass it round. Sid returns just as they finish changing the tire. “Here’s thirty quid for your trouble,” he tells them, handing the money to the head tramp.

“Let’s go find you another one,” he says.

“That’s okay,” Sid says.

“I’ve got a friend nearby with the same car. He won’t mind.”

“Okay,” Sid says. He heads off with two of the tramps and the tools. The other one stays with me but I crawl into the back seat and pass out.

Sid shakes me awake. “Have you got any cash?” he says.

“No,” I tell him again.

“They want a hundred for the wheel. I don’t have any more money in my account.”

I get out of the car. Somehow they have put the new wheel on without waking me. “One hundred pounds parts and labour,” the head tramp confirms.

“What happens when their friend wakes up to find his wheel gone?” I ask Sid.

“I’m not convinced they knew the owner,” Sid says. “I think we just walked until we found another Beetle.”

I lead them to the ATM, cursing them. I put my card in the slot. “Give me that,” I say to the tramp with the bottle, grabbing it and taking another swig. It takes me three attempts to enter my pin correctly.

When we drive off Sid still has to hold the wheel in the wrong position. “I can’t drive this,” he says. He has sobered up a little.

We pull into a twenty-four hour service station and Sid calls the AA. I pass out again and am woken up by the tow truck man wrapping chains around the axels. He calls us stupid sons of bitches as he takes us to Sid’s house.

His mother wakes me up on the living room sofa by rubbing her wet hands over my face. It is just as well. I have to be at Bid TV by 10 o’clock.

So Many Women, So Little Chance...

Six months ago I went into Borders on Charing Cross Road to see which authors my book would nestle between on the shelves. But after a few seconds in the sci-fi section I was red and sweating with embarrassment and I fled out of the shop and into Soho and relieved my trembling with liquor.

Today though, I am wearing one of five ‘Christopher Hardy – King of Sci-fi’ T-shirts that I had a local printing shop knock up. In about thirty seconds from the look of them. But the point is made; a very childish, unfocused point vaguely taking the piss out of Harper Collins for pigeon-holing me into a genre, but a point nonetheless. Unfortunately it’s a joke that about five people on Earth might understand.

That quickly drops to four when I meet my agent Sid for a pub lunch and he grins broadly. “Hey, that’s fantastic! Can I have one?” I pull one out of my bag and toss it to him because I suspected, depressingly, that he wouldn’t get it.

“That’s great advertising,” he says, when I get back from the bar. He had been sitting without a drink and made no effort to buy a round. “We should get one for everyone we know.”

“How about a sandwich board?” I suggest. “We could put one on your mother and just let her wander the streets all day.”

“Yeah…” He strokes his chin and actually contemplates it. “The trouble is, people tend to assume sandwich boarders are mad.”

“Well, your mum is mad.”

“Yeah. It wouldn’t work.” He sips his pint. “That’s a shame. A shame.”

I look around for famous media types but I don’t think they drink in the John Snow. “How did you tear yourself away from work?”

“Things were a bit quiet today to be honest.”

“When are they ever not quiet, Sid?”

He ignores me. “I’m looking to supplement my income.”

“How?”

“I need to find a girlfriend with a job.”

“I suppose that’s one way.”

“I spent the morning hanging around outside the Stockwell Refugee Women’s Centre.”

I shake my head. “Why?”

“They won’t let me in.”

“I mean…” I shout, then I take a breath and a gulp of my drink. Then, in a level voice, “I mean, why not join a dating agency?”

“Nah. Think of how desperate those people must be. Who wants to meet desperate people? Better for me to hang outside the refugee centre.”

“Right.”

“I’ve got a great spot on a park bench across the street. I can see them all coming in and out. There’re some real boilers of course, but also some beautiful slim Eastern European types. And some lovely Asians. Ah, I can’t decide who to approach.”

“I think either way the end result will be the same.”

“Think how grateful they’ll be. I’ll give them a place to live, they’ll be allowed to stay in the country. And then I’ll send them out on a little cleaning job or something. Perfect.”

“I can’t see a flaw.”

“Well, there is one. I don’t want to end up with one who’s had any female genital mutilation. Apparently it’s a problem with some of them.” He sighs. “That’ll be a tough subject to broach.”

I finish my beer. “I think I need something stronger,” I say.

I come back with whiskeys. Sid hands me something in a plastic bag. I unwrap it and hold my book.

“It’s the page proof. It’s not finalised, but it’s similar to what will end up in the shops.”

I stroke the cover and then flick through the pages. There is no THE END on the last page. It feels like an indication that there will be a second book. I ask Sid what he thinks.

“I think if I had to bet I would say that there will be another. They like their series’.”

“Then what are they waiting for?”

“Well, if the reviews and the sales are both dreadful then they might pass.”

“Why would the reviews be dreadful?”

“They might think it’s rubbish.”

“Oh God. What if it is?”

“I don’t think it is. But if it sells then it doesn’t matter.”

“Right. I’m going to do some promotion. I’m going to do those stupid conventions. I’ll do reading groups.”

“No you won’t.”

“Yes I will. At the moment I spend my life in my flat playing Mario Kart and pushing sofa cushions back into place. I want it to be a bestseller.”

“I think Dan Brown and that Harry Potter woman have got that list sewn up for the next eight years.”

“I can try, dammit. I just don’t see why Harper can’t do more.”

“They’ve got their favourites. And for whatever reason, whether it’s your belligerence, your writing, or the genre, you ain’t one of them.”

We finish our drinks. Neither of us orders food.



Back at home I lie on my living room floor turning every page of the proof and smelling the print. It feels like something significant, even if what’s written there isn’t that good. I can’t tell anymore.

Then the phone rings. A young woman introduces herself. “I understand that you’ve worked with Dave Rock JR.”

“Yes. I think he used to freelance at Bid a year ago.”

“Well we’ve been using him on the cricket. We’ve got a Caribbean tour starting in September and Dave can’t do it. He recommended you highly and says you’re a great camera op. Would you be available? It will be for three months.”

“Three months?”

“Yes, from late September until mid-December.”

I rub my head and sigh. “I have a book coming out in October.”

“Oh right,” she says, totally uninterested. “So…”

“I’d love to but I have to do promotion…”

“Okay, no problem,” she says.

“Maybe next time?”

“Yes, I’ll keep you in mind,” she lies and hangs up.

I push the book and the phone away and lie flat on the floor with my nose breathing up carpet dirt, unable to move.

"Are You Keeping Fit?"

Not a particularly unusual question, except that it wasn’t what I was expecting as the opening gambit on my first live radio interview. Cheryl and I had rehearsed for an hour or so last night, going over a few questions we thought might come up, but this was not one that we had practised.

The pressure is low because this a local Internet radio station with a tiny audience, albeit an audience who may well prove receptive to a local success story. But when Mandy, the pixie-like PA meets me at reception I tell her that I am impressed by the size of the setup. I nod at the dozens of people storming around holding clipboards and books, and the long queue stretching from the receptionist to the sliding doors.

“Oh no,” she says. “That’s the reception for Ealing Borough Council. We’re off in this side room.” She leads me into a small office with one desk and a door – open – leading to a tiny audio booth where a small, harassed middle-aged man in a tweed jacket is looking through a stack of CDs as though he has no comprehension of what they are for.

I spread my arms. “This is it, then.”

“This is our whole setup,” she confirms. “Nice and laid back.”

“I like it,” I say because it is my turn to say something.

“I’m trying to make it better,” she says. “More professional. Sometimes it seems that no one except me is too bothered.”

“Do what you can and move on,” I say.

She nods and from nowhere there is an unexpectedly sticky atmosphere of mutual attraction. She looks at my ring finger. “You’re married,” she says, giving a rueful smile.

“This?” I say, holding my finger up. “This is just an unfortunate birthmark. A 3-D, gold-coloured birthmark. Let’s do dinner and drinks.”

She laughs and turns to the DJ who is holding the back of a CD case inches in front of his face. “Matthew? Our guest is here.”

He looks up. “Send her in.”

Mandy turns back and sighs. “Good luck.” She gestures to the door and I walk through.

The DJ stands up in obvious confusion and holds a hand out. “Oh, hello old chap.”

I shake his hand. “Christopher Hardy,” I say.

“Ah.” He shuffles through some papers and I sit opposite him at one of the two guest mics. “Got yer,” he says.

He reads though his notes and then suddenly looks up at something. He frowns and puts his headphones on. I do the same. There is silence, and probably has been for some time. He pushes a fader up. “That was…” He searches through more papers. “Some music. Now we have our guest of the day. Welcome to Ealing FM!”

“Thank you. I’m Christopher Hardy.”

“Yes you are. Are you keeping fit?”

I am stuck for a second, unsure of how literally to take the question. Am I being stupid? Does it mean something else? I look out of the window and see Mandy gesturing for me to answer. “Well, actually, I have just started swimming again. I’m going a few times a week, doing about a mile each time…”

“Wow, without stopping?”

“No, there’s no need to do that anymore. Just take plenty of breaks and call it Interval training. Essentially I’m doing just enough to feel less guilty about drinking afterwards.”

“So…Clear History.”

“Yep.” He nods at me, smiling. “That’s the name of my book.”

“I was fiddling with my computer the other day…”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. And I saw Clear History when I tried to do something or other. Is it named after computers?”

“Erm, well not exactly. I mean, obviously I’m aware of the connection. I suppose that firstly, Clear History sounds good to me. It feels nice to say. And secondly, I like the idea that every time people see it on their computer they will think of the book. Like when people use the phrase Dire Straits, everyone automatically thinks of the band. Or if someone said to me, ‘He’s keeping the Status Quo,’ I could never hear that without singing ‘Whatever you want duh-duh, duh-duh,’ you know?”

He shakes his head. “Status Quo?”

“Yes. The band, famous for their two-chord songs and the ponytails?”

“I’m not familiar. My daughter would probably know. She keeps up to date with all the new groups.” He looks at his notes. “I was intrigued by the press release your publishers sent me. They describe it as ‘sky fi.’ Perhaps you could explain that to us.”

I laugh but he stares at me, straight-faced. “Erm, I think that’s sci-fi, as in science fiction.”

“Oh right, that’s what it stands for. Very clever. Do you like being a sci-fi writer then?”

“Err…sure. I mean, I wrote the book. I suppose I don’t really know why there has to be such a big distinction between genres. People should be able to enjoy all different kind of stories. There certainly isn’t such a big deal made about it in cinema, for instance. Futuristic thrillers are some of the biggest box office draws. It seems that people are more likely to go and watch a sci-fi movie than read a sci-fi book, and I think that partly has to do with the way they’re marketed. I think my book can fit within the sci-fi genre, but it also has elements of action thriller and mystery and suspense. I also like to think that it explores human emotion just as effectively as the majority of novels considered more mainstream.”

Matthew is sorting though papers and there is a period of silence that feels excruciating. Finally he looks up, startled, as though suddenly remembering that he is hosting a radio show.

“What happens in the book, then?”

“Well…the book’s about ninety-thousand words long, so quite a lot happens. I’m not sure I can tell you everything that happens. Perhaps you mean I should give a general overview of the plot?”

“What happens in chapter one?”

I laugh quietly. “There’s a prologue that people can read online, then in chapter one, two of the main characters are introduced. They are two new recruits to the police force of the Company, and they are plunged into a terrible dilemma almost immediately when…”

Matthew looks at the clock on the wall. “Sorry. We have to play a record.”

He plays some soft rock and then we stare at each other across the toy-like mixing desk. “Actually, I’ve got to run,” I say.

“Really?”

I stand up. “Sorry. Commitments.”

He looks downcast. “I don’t know how I’m going to fill the next three hours.”

In the council reception, Mandy gives me a sheepish look. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s like he’s just arrived from a distant galaxy and found himself on a radio station. Why don’t you do a show?”

“I don’t really want it on my CV.”



Cheryl is reading a magazine when I get in. “Do you think Amazon’s pre-orders have rocketed up?” I say.

“What happened?”

“What? You didn’t hear it?”

“I couldn’t hear anything. All I could hear was him and you, very distant.”

“The idiot must have forgotten to fade my mic up,” I say, incredulous. “Jesus. I’m glad I didn’t stay for the whole show.”

“Surely someone would have phoned in and told them?”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh yeah. Let’s watch a DVD.”

"Romanticised Hemmingway Fixation..."

I assumed that my brother’s visit would be a deathly, crushingly tedious affair, full of unreasonable accusations, tantrums and the dredging of past errors. And God knows what he’d be like. But it’s okay because I have a Wii and so we can sit next to each other and play Mario Kart and not have conversation as the main focus of the afternoon.

Brian was sent over to West London for some reason (try as I might I cannot remember who he works for or what he does – just a tedious office job, I assume) and has used the opportunity not to return to the office (wherever that is). For the first time in fourteen years or so we play together and it is an easy way to get along, cheating really, like taking a first date to the cinema. A quick drink afterwards – who can’t make one drink go well? And who can’t sit and play a video game with someone else if that’s what you’re into? And Brian is into it. He never stopped playing them every night. He owns all the consoles and that is how he spends his evenings.

Except he is still rubbish. He plays every night but he never really got good at any of them. It is not in his make-up to excel. Merely to take part and pass time. We play online together against people from around the world and I don’t even mind that the split screen is making it harder and that my Virtual Ranking is dropping because we are getting on and that is a relief.

We play and talk intermittently, short conversations taking minutes, interspersed with cries of frustration or delight. “Hope I’m not interrupting your writing,” Brian says, using a forced break after driving his kart into some lava as an opportunity to push his glasses up his nose.

“I’m not writing today,” I say. “I only write every other day.”

“How come?”

“I can only write when I drink whiskey but I can’t write at all when I’m hung-over. Today is my recovery day.”

Brian pointed at my can of lager. “But you’re drinking now.”

“Yes. I have to drink enough to sleep but not to feel ill tomorrow. It’s a delicate balancing act. It gets easier with practice.”

“Whiskey!” Brian scoffs. He will sip one glass of bitter over the course of the three hours he is in my house. “That’s just a crutch. Have you got some romanticised Hemmingway fixation?”

“Probably,” I say. “You’ve never been drunk.”

“Maybe I should. What’s the most drunk you’ve ever been?”

“Hmmm. That was probably when I went into some restaurant after the pub. You know some places have a tank where you can select the fish you want them to cook you?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I pointed to one – or near one – and said ‘I want that fish please.’ And the man said ‘Sir. That’s just our goldfish bowl.’ There was no way of recovering from that with any dignity. But luckily I was drunk so that wasn’t a concern.”

“Sounds pretty stupid,” Brian says.

“Yes. It is. But you asked me.”

We play in silence for awhile. Then Brian says my name.

“I’m right here,” I say.

“Do you miss Mum?”

“Of course. I know what you’re thinking. Why couldn’t it have been dad, right?”

“No, that’s not what I’m thinking. I just think it’s important that we do miss her.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. She died before her time.”

“She was overweight, though.”

The race has ended and I look at my brother. “I’m saying this because I care, but Brian, do you think maybe you should shed a few pounds? Do some exercise. Eat a bit less.”

Brian reddens. “How about I keep eating and you keep drinking and we’ll see who dies first?”

“I’ll drink to that,” I say, taking a gulp.

“It’s funny. I keep thinking back to something that happened when I was about thirteen. You must have been eleven. Remember she took us to Euro Disney? Just after Dad…moved out.”

“Jesus. It’s been called Disneyland Paris for how long now? And you still call it Euro Disney.”

“That’s what it was called then, dickhead.”

“Sorry, carry on.”

“We got on a shuttle bus to take us back to the hotel. It was crowded and when we got on there was one seat left. Mum tried to sit down but this woman stopped her, talking in French and pointing at this man. The man gestured for Mum to sit down but the woman still stopped her. Then Mum forced her over and sat down and the woman punched her on the arm. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah. That was weird. Mum just ignored her.”

“You were probably too young to do anything, but I should have. I just stood there, frozen. Someone punched my Mum and I did nothing.”

“Well, what could you have done? Leaned over and slapped the woman in the face?”

“Maybe I should have.”

“It happened very quickly, Brian.”

“Even so. What would you do if some girl punched Cheryl?”

“Tell you what. If that ever happens, I’ll call you over and we’ll beat the shit out of her, okay?”

We play in silence for awhile. I feel worse than I let on because I know that we were both a few years older than Brian remembers.

I win a race. Brian comes seventh. “I have a favour to ask,” he says eventually.

“Mmm.”

“I’d like to borrow some money.”

I look at him. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just want to do something.”

“If you can’t tell me what for, then, you’re my brother, I’ll do what I can. But it might be nice if you were able to be a little more specific.”

“I need a holiday. I want to get away for a week or two.”

I risk another glance in his direction even though it could send me careering off the track. “Oh really? A holiday? Anywhere nice?”

“The Caribbean, maybe. Anywhere there. I’m not fussy.”

“The Caribbean? Ooh, how lovely.”

“I can sense sarcasm.”

“Oh really? Sorry, I’m just slightly taken aback by someone asking me to fund their tropical beach holiday. You know what most people who want a holiday do? They save up their money for months and months and then pay for it themselves.”

Brian sighed. “Some of us in the family are a little disappointed that you haven’t offered to share some of your success.”

“Success?”

“Okay, you’ve done the all the work, and you deserve it, but Sharon and I weren’t lucky enough to have been born with your talent. And families should stick together. A little sharing with your siblings wouldn’t go amiss, is all I’m saying.”

“Wait. You think I’ve got money? From the book? It isn’t even out yet!”

“Come on, Christopher. You’re having a book published by a major company. There are advances and international sales and stuff. You must be rolling in it. I’ve done my research.”

“Do you know how much my advance was, Brian?” He just looks at me. “Ten thousand pounds. Nothing to be sniffed at, of course. But the days I’ve had to take off from my proper job in the last year to write and re-write mean I’ve made a loss. A significant loss. Why do you think I’d still be living here if I had money?”

Brian looks round at the small flat with damp patches on the wall and the rotting concrete back yard as though this hasn’t occurred to him. “Oh.”

“Mum left enough for a holiday.”

“I don’t want a holiday. I hate holidays. I was just using it as a reason.”

“Listen. If by some miracle my book sells well and I make some money then I will be happy to help out you and Sharon. But in the mean time I have to go into QVC tomorrow and shoot close ups of jewellery until 2am and motivate myself to write on my breaks. Alright?”

“Fair enough.” We carry on playing. “Sharon won’t be happy though. She had her heart set on a new kitchen.”

I shake my head and send a homing missile towards Brian’s kart.





Free Counter

Publicity Juggernaut

It is just over three months to lift-off, and the publicity juggernaut is revving up.

By that I mean that Pauline has sent me a list of things that I should do. “I see that Black Kids’ second single went straight in at number thirty-six,” she added. “Nice job picking them as the next big thing.”

“Are you marketing them on the side?” I email her back.


Picking an item from the list at random, I call my local library. I have no idea where my local library is, having never belonged to one, but the Internet directs me to Acton. An Indian man answers the phone.

“Yes, may I help you?”

“Yes, my name’s Christopher Hardy. I live right by you and I’m having a novel published in a few months.”

“Well bully for you, sir. Why are you telling me this?”

“Err…Well, I thought you might be interested in doing some kind of event for the launch or something.”

“What kind of event do you think we do? It’s a library. We have books and a few CDs that people can come and take out and enjoy. Do you think I have time to organise a party? Perhaps you would like me to heat up some sausage rolls and bake a cake for you?”

“I didn’t think you’d allow food in a library…”

“No we don’t sir. Now please I must get on.”

He hangs up and I cross the item off my list.



To my surprise, the local sales rep agrees to meet me for lunch (on his expense account) in my local pub. I haven’t worked in over three weeks and I would spend an hour with a contestant on The Apprentice if he paid for the meal.

Mick introduces himself with a firm handshake. He is all suit and hair gel and aftershave. I order a burger and a pint and to my disappointment Mick just has a lime soda. “Have a pint,” I urge.

“I spend all day driving around. I gave up boozing altogether soon after I got the job.” We find a table and sit down. “I heard you like your drink. Don’t you worry about your health?”

“Haven’t you heard? The economy is in global meltdown. Pensions and the NHS won’t exist by the time I reach retirement age. Aiming to live a long life is no longer economically viable.”

“But you could save the money you’d spend on alcohol and fund your old age instead.”

“Well, you have a point.” I gulp my beer. “So, how’s the book selling? I’m picturing posters smothering the windows of WH Smith’s, billboards dominating the city streets, a primetime television advertising campaign…”

Mick laughs. “You think that people who watch ITV read books? All I can do is get it into the shops.”

“And have you?”

“Some of them. All the major Waterstones and Borders will have copies. I was surprised that Harper Collins has labelled it sci-fi though. So I insisted on selling it as a futuristic thriller.”

My eyes widen. “You did? That’s great.”

“Yeah. It might have backfired a little.” I wait for him to continue. “I sort of realised that I already had too many straight fiction books and yours might have got a bit lost in the crowd. It was then that I realised why Harper Collins were marketing it as sci-fi. There is method in their madness.” He points his finger and smiles.

“So what’s happening?”

“Well, it lost a bit of ground. The shops were a bit confused. At least when it’s labelled as a particular genre it gets sold in a small section of a shop and has a better chance of being reached by a particular audience. So…it will be in the sci-fi section.”

“But not WH Smith’s?”

“Listen, these book series are slow burners. When the second volume comes out, everyone will want to stock it, as well as back orders of the first.”

“If it sells enough for there to be a second volume.”

“Well, there is that.”

“Has it sold well to the Ealing borough independents?”

“To be honest, the local market really didn’t seem interested. I’ve never had that before. Maybe we can try your hometown. Where did you grow up?”

“Dartford.”

“Dartford? Jesus. I’m not going there.”

“Oh.”

“But apparently Jeff Black up in the North East has been doing well with it.” He jumps up. “I’ll keep you informed.”

“My food hasn’t even got here.”

“Sorry. Got to run. Lots of people are clamouring to see James Hardy’s book.”



Back at the flat, I steel myself and call a local Internet radio station and give my spiel.

“Oh, wonderful,” the girl says. “We’re always looking to get local talent on.”

“Sorry? I mean, yes, excellent.”

“We’d definitely like to get you on for an interview and a reading, if it’s suitable for broadcast.”

“Well that would be great. I mean, I’ll make it clean. What’s your audience size?”

“We’re on the Internet so we have the potential for about four billion people listening at any time.”

“Right. And in actuality?”

“Couple of hundred.”

“Okay. Well let’s do it.”

“Cool. So what type of book is it Christopher?”

“It’s a futuristic…” I trail off, gazing into space.

“I’m sorry?”

“Sci-fi,” I say. “It’s a sci-fi novel.”