Ghostwriting
“In retrospect the advent of bad weather might have been seen as something of a harbinger. The phone call that interrupted my work – I have never been able to consider the shrill ring of a phone as a summons, only an alarm – was unwelcome, as I was beginning the final chapter of a novelisation that had to be finished by the end of the week. More unwelcome still were the words that greeted me.“Simon Charrington?” It was my name, spoken in a voice marinated over the years in a fatal combination of whisky and tobacco smoke. “Simon? Are you there?”“Beauregard? Christ, is it really you?”“I’m in the village,” he said by way of a reply. “How do I find you?”Numbed, I gave him directions.He was as laconic as ever. “See you soon.”I sat in the armchair in the darkened study, illuminated only by the aqueous glow of the computer screen, and contemplated what I had done. I told myself that I should have lied, said that Simon Charrington had moved away from the village years ago – but then I recalled... that you could not lie to Beauregard: he saw through dissimulation and deceit.MoreLess
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