He abandoned a paragraph of Ferdy Thorn’s blunt chunky style and sprinted to his workroom to answer the phone. ‘Boswell,’ he panted.
‘Jack. How are you today?’
‘I’ve been worse, Quentin.’
‘You’ll be a lot better before you know. Did the books land?’
‘The review copies, you mean.’
‘We’d be delighted if you reviewed them. That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, if Jack reviewed the books?’ When this received no audible answer he said ‘Only you mustn’t be kind just because they’re ours, Jack. We’re all in the truth business.’
‘Let me read them and then we’ll see what’s best. What I meant, though, these aren’t finished books.’
‘They certainly should be. Sneak a glance at the last pages if you don’t mind knowing the end.’
‘Finished in the sense of the state that’ll be on sale in the shops.’
‘Well, yes. They’re trade paperbacks. That’s the book of the future.’
‘I know what trade paperbacks are. These—’
‘Don’t worry, Jack, they’re just our first attempts. Wait till you see the covers Carole’s done for you. Nothing grabs the eye like naive art, especially with messages like ours.’
‘So,’ Boswell said in some desperation, ‘have I heard why you called?’
‘You don’t think we’d interrupt you at work without some real news.’
‘How real?’
‘We’ve got the figures for the advance orders of your books. All the girls had to do was phone with your name and the new titles till the batteries went flat, and I don’t mind telling you you’re our top seller.’
‘What are the figures?’ Boswell said, and took a deep breath.
‘Nearly three hundred. Congratulations once again.’
‘Three hundred thousand. It’s I who should be congratulating you and your team. I only ever had one book up there before. Shows publishing needs people like yourselves to shake it up.’ He became aware of speaking fast so that he could tell the Aireys his - no, their - good fortune, but he had to clarify one point before letting euphoria overtake him. ‘Or is that, don’t think for a second I’m complaining if it is, but is that the total for both titles or each?’
‘Actually, Jack, can I just slow you down a moment?’
‘Sorry. I’m babbling. That’s what a happy author sounds like. You understand why.’
‘I hope I do, but would you mind - I didn’t quite catch what you thought I said.’
‘Three hundred—’
‘Can I stop you there? That’s the total, or just under. As you say, publishing has changed. I expect a lot of the bigger houses are doing no better with some of their books.’
Boswell’s innards grew hollow, then his skull. He felt his mouth drag itself into some kind of a grin as he said, ‘Is that three hundred, sorry, nearly three hundred per title?’
‘Overall, I’m afraid. We’ve still a few little independent shops to call, and sometimes they can surprise you.’
Boswell doubted he could cope with any more surprises, but heard himself say, unbelievably, hopefully ‘Did you mention We Are
Tomorrow?’
‘How could we have forgotten it?’ Sedgwick’s enthusiasm relented at last as he said ‘I see what you’re asking. Yes, the total is for all three of your books. Don’t forget we’ve still the backlist to come, though,’ he added with renewed vigour.
‘Good luck to it.’ Boswell had no idea how much bitterness was audible in that, nor in ‘I’d best be getting back to work.’
‘We all can’t wait for the new story, can we?’
Boswell had no more of an answer than he heard from anyone else. Having replaced the receiver as if it had turned to heavy metal, he stared at the uninscribed slab of the computer screen. When he’d had enough of that he trudged to stare into the open rectangular hole of the Cassandra carton. Seized by an inspiration he would have preferred not to experience, he dashed upstairs to drag on yesterday’s clothes and marched unshaven out of the house.
Though the library was less than ten minutes’ walk away through sunbleached streets whose desert was relieved only by patches of scrub, he’d hardly visited it for the several years he had been too depressed to enter bookshops. The library was almost worse: it lacked not just his books but practically everyone’s, except for paperbacks with injured spines. Some of the tables in the large white high-windowed room were occupied by newspaper readers. MIDDLE EAST WAR DEADLINE EXPIRES ... ONE IN TWO FAMILIES WILL BE VICTIMS OF VIOLENCE, STUDY SHOWS ... FAMINES IMMINENT IN EUROPE ... NO MEDICINE FOR FATAL VIRUSES...Most of the tables held Internet terminals, from one of which a youth whose face was red with more than pimples was being evicted by a librarian for calling up some text that had offended the black woman at the next screen. Boswell paid for an hour at the terminal and began his search.
The only listings of any kind for Torin Bergman were the publication details of the Cassandra Press books, and the same was true of Ferdy Thorn and Germaine Gossett. When the screen told him his time was up and began to flash like lightning to alert the staff, the message and the repeated explosion of light and the headlines around him seemed to merge into a single inspiration he couldn’t grasp. Only a hand laid on his shoulder made him jump up and lurch between the reluctantly automatic doors.
The sunlight took up the throbbing of the screen, or his head did. He remembered nothing of his tramp home other than that it tasted like bone. As he fumbled to unlock the front door the light grew audible, or the phone began to shrill. He managed not to snap the key and ran to snatch up the receiver. ‘What now?’
‘It’s only me, Dad. I didn’t mean to bother you.’
‘You never could,’ Boswell said, though she just had by sounding close to tears. ‘How are you, April? How are things?’
‘Not too wonderful.’
‘Things aren’t, you mean. I’d never say you weren’t.’
‘Both.’ Yet more tonelessly she said ‘I went looking for computer jobs. Didn’t want all the time mummy spent showing me how things worked to go to waste. Only I didn’t realise how much more there is to them now, and I even forgot what she taught me. So then I thought I’d go on a computer course to catch up.’
‘I’m sure that’s a sound idea.’
‘It wasn’t really. I forgot where I was going. I nearly forgot our number when I had to ring Rod to come and find me when he hasn’t even got the car and leave Gemima all on her own.’
Boswell was reaching deep into himself for a response when she said ‘Mummy’s dead, isn’t she?’
Rage at everything, not least April’s state, made his answer harsh. ‘Shot by the same freedom fighters she’d given the last of her money to in a country I’d never even heard of. She went off telling me one of us had to make a difference to the world.’
‘Was it years ago?’
‘Not long after you were married,’ Boswell told her, swallowing grief.
‘Oh.’ She seemed to have nothing else to say but ‘Rod.’
Boswell heard him murmuring at length before his voice attacked the phone. ‘Why is April upset?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Forgive me. Were you about to give her some good news?’
‘If only.’
‘You will soon, surely, once your books are selling. You know I’m no admirer of the kind of thing you write, but I’ll be happy to hear of your success.’
‘You don’t know what I write, since you’ve never read any of it.’ Aloud Boswell said only ‘You won’t.’