The writer’s tone when he was telling me all this was hard to gauge. Was he trying to be nice to me, or was he just playing with me like a cat plays with a mouse before making the final, deadly pounce?
I looked across the beach. His daughters had slipped out of their dresses now, and were taking it in turns to jump into the swimming pool and climb out again. Set against the sweep of the bay, and the ever-changing pinks and golds of the sunset’s dying embers, it was a ravishing scene. It seemed days, weeks, years since Yanmei and her friend had been swimming in there. My whole conversation with Lian already seemed to belong to a different time altogether.
‘You see, I worked out your itinerary in some detail,’ said the writer, rather boastfully I thought. ‘Starting with Valentine’s Day 2009. And then, when I realized that you’d have to arrive at Heathrow two days later, and when I remembered that I’d actually been there myself, that very same morning, on my way to do some readings in Moscow, I thought it would be nice if I could look in on you, while we were both passing through, as it were. You know, just to check things were going OK. I do feel quite responsible for you, after all.’
‘And Fairlight Beach, in Sydney?’ I was getting a pretty good idea of how his devious mind worked by now. ‘I’m guessing that you really were here on Easter Sunday with your family – is that right?’
‘Of course. I mean, just look at this place. It’s so lovely, isn’t it, at this time of year, and in this light? Such a sad, beautiful spot. I knew as soon as I saw it that the last scene in the book would have to be here.’
My heart sank when I heard these words. They sounded like a death knell.
‘The last scene?’ I said. ‘You’re really that close to finishing, are you?’
‘I think I am, yes. So – have you enjoyed it? I mean, have you enjoyed being part of it? How was it for you, Max?’
‘I’m not sure “enjoyed” is really the word I would use,’ I said. ‘It’s been … an experience, that’s for sure. I suppose I’ve learned a thing or two along the way.’
‘That was the whole idea.’
What a smug thing to say! I was beginning to suspect that, beneath his courteous exterior, this guy was full of nothing but conceit and self-admiration.
‘Don’t you think it’s rather an undignified thing to do,’ I said – definitely trying to rattle him now – ‘making up stories for a living? Let’s face it, you’re no spring chicken any more. What about writing something more serious? History, or science, something like that?’
‘Well, that’s a very interesting point,’ the writer said, sitting back on the bench and looking as though he was about to start addressing a seminar. ‘Because you’re absolutely correct that the kind of thing I write, from a literal point of view, is not objectively “true”. But what I like to think is that there’s another kind of truth – a more universal … Erm – excuse me, where do you think you’re going?’
I’d thought that while he was rabbiting on like this, it might be a good opportunity for me to sneak away. My plane left at ten o’clock, after all, and I would have to check in a good two hours before then.
‘Well, I have to go now, you see. I’ve got a plane to catch.’
The writer stood up and blocked my path.
‘I don’t think you understand, Max. You’re not going anywhere.’
Just at that moment, the writer’s wife came by and spoke a few words to him.
‘Could you go and get the girls out of the pool? Only Daddy’s looking a bit tired, and I think we should get home.’
‘Yes, in a minute,’ he answered impatiently.
‘Talking to your imaginary friends again, are you?’ she said, with an undertone of scorn, and headed off towards the swimming pool herself.
He turned back to me.
‘Like I said, Max – I’m sorry, but you’re not going anywhere.’
‘But I have to catch that plane,’ I said, my voice starting to shake now. ‘I’ve got to get back to London tomorrow. I’m having dinner with Clive in the evening. And then my dad’s going to come back to live in Lichfield and everything. We were going to do something about Mum’s gravestone.’
‘But the story’s finished, Max,’ he said.
I looked into his eyes and they no longer seemed kind. It was like looking into the eyes of a serial killer.
‘It can’t have finished,’ I protested. ‘I still don’t know how it ends.’
‘Well, that’s easy,’ said the writer. ‘I can tell you just how it ends.’ He gave me one last smile – a smile that was both apologetic and ruthless – and clicked his fingers. ‘Like this.’
Parts of this novel were written during a stay at the Villa Hellebosch in Flanders, funded by the Flemish government under the Residences in Flanders scheme administered by Het Beschrijf in Brussels.
I’d like to express personal thanks to my kind and attentive host at the villa, Alexandra Cool; also to Ilke Froyen, Sigrid Bousset and Paul Buekenhout; and to James Canon for his excellent company during my stay.
‘The Nettle Pit’ first appeared as part of the collection
Website: www.jonathancoewriter.com
