At Dead of Night Page 3

‘Okay, here goes… It’s a story about a writer… let’s call him David…’

  ‘Yes, let’s!’

  ‘Shut up, David, or I won’t tell you!’

  ‘Sorry, darling! My lips are sealed.’

  ‘Good! Then keep them sealed! Well, David is a writer, and he has a phone call in the middle of the night – just like you did. And he can’t stop thinking about it, and dreams up all sorts of scenarios to explain what the phone call was about. How many possibilities would you say you have running around your brain at the moment?’

  ‘At least half a dozen, but maybe more.’

  ‘Good. Anyway, David’s brilliant wife comes up with a suggestion, because he’s always been a short story writer and doesn’t quite know how to make the transition to being a novelist…’

  ‘Yes, you need a stupid husband to go with a brilliant wife,’ David laughed.

  ‘Shut up, or I won’t go on! Anyway, his wife’s suggestion is that he makes up a short story about each of the possible scenarios that are going around his head, say, six, eight, ten stories – all self-sufficient and independent, but plausible interpretations of what the mysterious phone call might have been about…’

  ‘Oh, I see, yes, I’m getting the idea… But I can see one snag.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a very big snag too. The trouble is that for that idea to work you’d really need to know what the true version is.’

  ‘Why? I don’t think you would. I mean fiction is fiction, isn’t it? You’re perfectly capable of making up a story which caps all the stories that have occurred to you so far, and if you say that’s what the phone call was really all about, nobody’s in a position to argue with you, are they? And then there’s always the possibility that you might suddenly discover what was behind the phone call…’

  ‘And what if it turned out to be a boring, mundane story?’

  ‘Then embroider it! The author is God!’

  David laughed. ‘Oh yes! If only!’

  ‘But it’s true. You’re the only creator of every story you write. Now at the beginning of this story there is a real phone call, and that phone call raises all sorts of questions. But just imagine you had dreamed up that phone call. It would still be a cracking start to a story, wouldn’t it? And you could make up any story you liked to explain it, don’t you see?’

  ‘Yes, I do. What a good idea! And what a brilliant wife I have!’

  It was Margaret’s turn to laugh. ‘I told you I was brilliant! I’ve been trying for years to convince you of that!’

  ‘Well, now you’ve convinced me! So what do I have to do to make you think I’m brilliant too?’

  ‘Just write the stories, that’s all…’

  ‘Yes, I will do, just as soon as I get back.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were going out. Where are you off to?’

  ‘I thought I’d just pop round to have a word with Gerald…’

  ‘Gerald?’

  ‘Gerald Pilgrim.’

  ‘Why are you going to see Gerald Pilgrim?’

  ‘Because he’s a retired police inspector, and I thought it might be a good idea to tell him about the call I had, and see what he makes of it all. I might even get some useful ideas for my book!’

  So David popped round to see Gerald Pilgrim, who lived next door but one. ‘Hello, David!’ said Gerald when he answered the door. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I just wanted to consult you about something that happened last night.’

  ‘Oh? What happened?’

  ‘I had a phone call in the middle of the night…’

  ‘That was thoughtless of someone! Was it urgent?’

  ‘Maybe it was, but I don’t really know what to make of it myself, and I thought that the mind of a policeman might set me on the right road…’

  ‘A very old-fashioned policeman, mind! Don’t forget I’ve been retired for two years!’

  ‘Old-fashioned I can take – it’s the new-fangled I have problems with!’

  ‘I know what you mean!’ Gerald laughed. ‘Okay, tell me the story…’

  So David related to Gerald the story of the telephone call he had received, and what action he had taken since.

  ‘I see,’ said Gerald when David had completed his narration. ‘I can see why you were mystified – that sort of thing can be very disarming.’

  ‘Too right it can! The stupidity of the policeman I spoke to on the phone didn’t do my temper any good either!’

  ‘I should go easy on the young copper, if I were you! You don’t know anything about him, I assume?’

  ‘No. He didn’t even tell me his name.’

  ‘He was probably a very inexperienced young chap, you know. It might even have been the first time since he joined the police force that he had had to answer the phone.’

  ‘I suppose it might have been…’

  ‘Or perhaps he’d been on duty all night and just before he was due to go home his sergeant gave him something awkward to do and then the phone rings and there’s some old bloke who starts rabbiting on about something he probably dreamt…’

  ‘I didn’t dream about it!’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t, but you get all sorts of funny calls first thing in the morning in a police station!’

  ‘All right, I’ll go easy on the young copper. I suppose he can’t help it if he’s still wet behind the ears… But what would you make of the call I had? What do you think it was all about?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, David. It could have been all manner of things. In the middle of the night funny things happen, and even normal, rational people don’t behave rationally at dead of night! You’re the creative one… Whatever you dream up as the reason behind the call would probably be easier to believe in than the true reason!’

  So David took his leave, content that he had police approval to give free rein to his imagination, went home and spent the rest of the day listing possible scenarios for him to work on. At the end of the day he had on paper the outlines of at least ten situations which, he told Margaret later, might be capable of being transformed into stories.

  ‘Only might?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, until you really get down to the actual writing bit, you can never be absolutely sure that an idea is going to work!’

  ‘Well, you know what to do about it, don’t you?’

  ‘No, but I know what you’re going to tell me to do about it though!’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Just get on with it!’

  ‘Okay, so do it!’

  ‘It’s not quite as straightforward as that!’

  ‘Why not? You said yourself that you’ve already got ten outlines of situations in mind, so where’s the problem?’

  ‘I’ll tell you where the problem is – it’s inside my head.’

  ‘Then get it out and talk about it! That’s what we’ve always done before when you feel that your train has run into the buffers! And we usually find that the solution is inside your head too… So tell me what you see as a problem…’

  ‘Shall I lie down on the couch?’

  ‘If you like, but I’m not a very good psychiatrist. I usually just listen…’

  ‘That’s what good psychiatrists do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Up to a point, I suppose. Anyway, tell me what appears to be the problem.’

  ‘I’m a writer of short stories.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but why is that a problem? It’s never stopped you writing before.’

  ‘It’s a problem because what I’m working on now is a novel, not a short story…’

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘And my plan so far is to invent ten or so explanations for the mystery phone call…’

  ‘True…’

  ‘But don’t you see, if I do that, I shall have ten or so short stories…’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘So I will still be a writer of short stories, not a novelist!’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes,
I think it does. I think there is a difference between a collection of short stories and a coherent novel.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘There needs to be a unifying factor somewhere, something to pull it all together.’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘The unifying factor is the phone call.’

  ‘I know that, but I don’t think that’s enough. I’ve racked my brains to see if I can find a way to have a character, or some characters, reappearing in every story, so that it’s always, for instance, the same person who makes the phone call, or the same person who receives the phone call, but I can’t see a way to do it. In fact, the more I think about this project, the more I think it’s a dead duck!’

  ‘I’m sure it isn’t! There has to be a way round it!’

  ‘Well, I can’t see it!’

  ‘Hang on a minute! I think I can…’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘You want an overall theme that embraces the whole book, okay?’

  ‘Yes, exactly.’

  ‘Well, I think maybe it’s staring us in the face.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Maybe… Try this for size… You’ve already got a short-story writer who wants to be a novelist, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’ve got the initial situation – what we called the ‘hook’ when we first started talking about it… And then this brilliant writer of short stories dreams up a series of stories each explaining how that mysterious phone call came about…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But then he realises that a series of short stories isn’t enough to make it into a novel…’

  ‘That’s exactly my point.’

  ‘And so you stop bottling up all the problems you’re having and put them into the book properly…’

  ‘I don’t quite see…’

  ‘What I mean is that the phone call isn’t the unifying factor – or rather, it isn’t the only unifying factor – the overall unifying factor is the transformation of the writer of short stories into a novelist…’

  ‘Oh, I see what you’re driving at now! Brilliant!’

  ‘In other words, any difficulties the writer comes across, he talks to his wife about – which is what you and I always do anyway – and now, instead of fretting about it and allowing it to prevent you writing, you just make it an integral part of the story.’

  ‘Do you think I need to change our names then?’

  ‘I don’t think you should use our real names, no, not our surname anyway! How about David and Margaret?’

  ‘I think that will do very nicely, darling!’

  Chapter Two

  Every day for the next two or three months, David made at least half a dozen attempts to contact the person who had called him in the night, so concerned was he for the mental health of the caller, and so worried was he about the situation, whatever it was, which had led somebody to get in touch with the police, but the result was always the same: the number remained ‘unobtainable’.

  Although he had been re-living the incident constantly, and diligently attempting to find logical explanations for what had happened, he still felt that he was nowhere near finding out the truth. So he continued to worry, he continued to try to explain it, and he continued to call that number.

  But even ringing a number unsuccessfully half a dozen times a day does not take up a great deal of time, and after his wife had challenged him to transform his worrying experience into a book, David sat at his computer the very next morning and started to write. The following day he did the same, and the next, and the next… By the end of the week he not only had one story finished, but he printed it off and presented it to Margaret. ‘Well done,’ she said, ‘I really didn’t think you would get this off the ground!’

  ‘Oh ye of little faith! Why on earth not?’

  ‘Because you didn’t seem too sure of your ground, and I’m not used to seeing you short of confidence in your writing.’

  ‘I’ll have more confidence if you’re convinced by the first story!’

  ‘So all I’ve got to do is say I don’t like it, and that will scupper your ambition for ever, do you mean? That’s an awful position to put me in, I must say!’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that! Obviously I’d like you to like all my stories, but I really need a genuine opinion, I don’t want you to tell me you like it if you think it’s awful!’

  ‘You know me better than that! Okay, give me the story and I’ll read it after supper this evening.’

  ‘Okay, here you are.’

  So, true to her word, immediately after supper she began reading – while her husband washed the dishes; and this is what she read:

  ‘Did you enjoy that, darling?’ said Ben after they had finished eating. ‘And how about coffee and a liqueur?’

  ‘Oh yes, it was a really lovely meal, Ben,’ said Sylvia, ‘but what say we have coffee and liqueurs when we get home rather than having them here? Then we can just tumble into bed whenever we feel like it…’

  ‘Good idea!’ Ben responded, secretly more motivated by the thought of tumbling into bed with Sylvia than by the idea of coffee and liqueurs by the fireside. ‘I’ll ask the waiter to bring the bill right away.’

  Ben gestured to the waiter, who immediately moved to the till and printed off the bill before coming over to their table.

  ‘I hope you enjoyed your meal, madam,’ the waiter said as he approached the table.

  ‘Yes, very much,’ Sylvia replied, ‘very much indeed. We’ll certainly come again.’

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve dined here?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Actually we don’t often eat out these days, except on special occasions.’

  ‘Oh… and is tonight a special occasion then?’

  ‘Yes, it is, it’s our Silver Wedding…’

  ‘Congratulations, madam, and congratulations to you, sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ben mumbled impatiently, still thinking of the warmth of their bed. ‘Do you think you could call us a cab?’

  ‘Of course, sir, no problem.’

  The waiter handed the card machine to Ben, then, once the transaction had been completed, returned to the till and picked up the phone. One minute later he was at their table again. ‘Your cab is ordered, sir. It will be here in two minutes.’

  Ben and Sylvia got up from the table, and, by the time the waiter had retrieved their outdoor clothes and they had put them on, they saw a taxi draw to a halt outside the restaurant. Once in the taxi Ben told the driver the address, and he and Sylvia settled comfortably into the back seat, as the taxi made its way up The Promenade in the direction of Leckhampton.

  ‘What a lovely evening it’s been,’ said Sylvia to Ben, ‘thank you so much, darling!’

  ‘It has been a nice evening, hasn’t it! I’m so glad you enjoyed it. I’m always a little bit wary of going to a newly opened restaurant, particularly when we’re celebrating something special!’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Sylvia replied, taking Ben’s hand and squeezing it affectionately.

  ‘Maniac!’ shouted the taxi driver suddenly. ‘Bloody hell! Did you see that?’

  ‘No,’ said Ben, ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t watching. What happened?’

  ‘Some blithering idiot totally ignored a red light and came charging out of Oriel Road straight in front of me and disappeared up St George’s Road. I was lucky not to crash into him! Look, there he is again! Oh God, he’s just demolished a traffic bollard too!’

  Ben looked out of the car window and saw a distinctive looking orange mini careering erratically up St George’s Road.

  ‘Good God!’ Ben exclaimed. ‘Look at that, Sylvia! I’m positive that’s Roy’s car! Driver, stop please! I need to go and see if the boy who’s driving is all right.’

  The driver pulled up as soon as he could, and parked at the side of the road. ‘Do you mean you know the driver of that car, sir?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do
. It’s my son!’

  Ben jumped out of the taxi without waiting to hear the driver’s caustic comments on his son’s competence as a driver, and ran into St George’s Road, but by the time he reached the damaged bollard, the orange mini had disappeared into the distance – as far as he could see, without any further misadventure. In consequence there was nothing Ben and Sylvia could do, other than get back in the taxi and continue their journey back home.

  Once they had returned home, however, Ben lost no time in ringing his son’s number, with Sylvia sitting beside him with bated breath, but there was no answer, even though the number he had called was that of his mobile, which normally accompanied him everywhere, and which he appeared to use all the time.

  ‘What the devil was he playing at!’ exclaimed Ben in exasperation. ‘And where the hell has he gone to now? He certainly wasn’t going home, he was driving in the wrong direction! I expect he had a girlfriend in the car, and he’s taken her home… Do you know who he’s going out with now?’

  Sylvia laughed. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ she said. ‘I just can’t keep up with him! Since he ditched that lovely girl Marilyn and left her to go and live on his own he must have had at least half a dozen girl friends! Goodness knows why he dropped Marilyn. I really thought that was going to be a long term relationship…’

  ‘So did I,’ said Ben, ‘she was a bit of all right, was Marilyn.’

  ‘Well, he obviously didn’t fancy her as much as you did!’

  ‘Ha, ha!’ Ben replied sarcastically. ‘Do you want a proper conversation about this or not?’

  ‘Of course I do! You were the one that started fantasising about Roy’s former girlfriend, not me!’

  ‘Actually,’ said Ben, ignoring his wife’s teasing comment, ‘although you said that it was Roy who dropped Marilyn , I’m not so sure that it was Roy who initiated their break-up.’

  ‘Oh, do you know something that I don’t then?’

  ‘I doubt it! You usually know far more about this sort of thing than I do! But I do remember two or three times while they were living together when he intimated that Marilyn was giving him a bit of a hard time.’

  ‘Oh, that was just because she was getting fed up with Roy being away from home so much, that’s all!’