The Pretender (22 page)

‘I suggested the same to Tony, but he told me I was being paranoid. “What motive would Paul have for burning down the building?” he said.’

‘He could have taken the archive first.’

‘But he wouldn’t be able to sell it. He’d be caught first time he tried. Paul wouldn’t risk his reputation. No, I think we have to put it down to coincidence. The police reckon the fire started in the porn shop on the ground floor.’

I wasn’t sure I believed this, but Magneta seemed to accept it.

‘You’re lucky you woke up,’ she said. ‘Were you in danger?’

‘I wasn’t there,’ I admitted.

‘You weren’t... oh, Mark Trace, have you finally got a girlfriend?’

I shook my head, ‘Only sort of.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning she’s married and her husband was out of town.’

‘Mark!’ Magneta gave me a look I hadn’t seen before, one that mixed admiration with disdain.

I was still avoiding questions about this girlfriend when Tim came in. He was wearing a pale blue uniform. Seeing me, he whooped enthusiastically.

‘You look well,’ he told me.

‘He’s got a girlfriend,’ Magneta whispered, sotto voce.

‘It shows. Did you hear about Greene?’

‘I heard. What’s with the postman’s uniform?’

‘I’ve just finished work. I’m still writing. Don’t worry. But with the baby on the way, we couldn’t get by on what Magneta makes from her dirty books.’

‘Baby?’

‘She hasn’t told you?’

‘I thought he’d notice,’ Magneta interjected, ‘but he’s only been here a few minutes.’

It was too much to take in: destruction, death, birth, going on all around me. I congratulated them from the bottom of my forger’s heart.

That evening, we talked about what I would do next. I wanted to remain in London. I could always stay with Tony for a while. I should study for my first year retakes, then, in the autumn, begin my second year at university. Maybe I would switch courses. Maybe not. Money might be a problem, unless I managed to find work on another magazine.

‘We should pay you more rent,’ Magneta suggested.

‘You’re looking after the house, improving it. That’s all I want.’

The day before I returned to London, the final issue of the
Little Review
arrived in the post. Tim and Magneta pored over it.

‘He could still pull it off, ’Tim said, gratifyingly, after reading my Sherwin story. ‘I hope there’s more where this came from.’

‘So do I,’ I said, though I would be worried if there was. The appearance of an extensive section of
A Commune
might demonstrate — especially if Sherwin had changed his style — that my version was a fake.

That night, Tim bought a bottle of scotch and we got drunk. Tim and I talked about our literary ambitions, about novels we wanted to write and the scene we wanted to be part of. Drink gave us confidence — our time would come. Maybe not until the next century.We were young, we could accept that. Possibly the novels we wanted to write were old fashioned, but then the form was an old one. We’d find ways to freshen it up, make our claim. Life, we agreed, was an inexhaustible subject.

As Tim got excited, he put CDs on: loud, punky music. He and Magneta danced. Fifteen minutes later, Tim flaked out. It was after ten and he’d been up since five. Magneta and I had to help him upstairs to bed.When that was done, I thought she’d join him, but neither of us was tired. So we went downstairs and talked, continuing the conversation in a more measured, cautious register.

‘You haven’t said much about your writing,’ I ventured.

‘The bottom’s fallen out of the women’s erotic novel,’ Magneta told me. ‘I’m not getting any new commissions.’

‘I don’t mean that,’ I said. ‘What about your real writing? It’s ages since you sent anything to the
LR
. I know Tony asked you to contribute something for the final issue...’

Magneta sighed. ‘All that’s gone,’ she said. ‘I was never a real writer. I’ve got a bit of talent and I can give people what they want, whether it’s a wank fantasy or a surreal, confessional monologue that makes editors like Tony think there’s something there worth encouraging. But it’s all fake. Tim’s a real writer, working on his stuff every spare moment he can find, not bothered about who’s going to buy it. I’m just a hack. I see a market and sell to it. When I try and write for myself, there’s nothing there.’

I didn’t know how to reply. ‘You don’t really mean that,’ was all I said.

‘I’ve been doing this for ten years. If I was on to something, I’d know by now.’

James Sherwin’s memorial service was well attended. I recognised many of the people there. There were faces I’d either seen at literary events or recognised from dust jackets and newspapers. Amongst them were several young writers who couldn’t possibly have known Sherwin, and whom you wouldn’t have guessed could have been influenced by him. Maybe they weren’t and, to them, the memorial service was just another literary beano, where it was important to see and be seen, before retiring to the Coach and Horses to network and catch up on gossip. Richard Mayfield walked straight past me without so much as a nod. Maybe he was lost in thought or perhaps he had been so drunk the evening we spent together that he’d forgotten my face. I preferred these scenarios to the more cynical one, that he was seeking out more influential people than me to sit next to.

It was the first service of this kind that I’d been to. As people arrived, there was taped music by (according to the order of service) the Grateful Dead and the Pink Floyd. Tony said a few words about Sherwin. A well known actor read the passage about death from
Stargazer
. This was followed by an excruciating attempt to get everyone to sing Bob Dylan’s ‘Blowing In The Wind’.

‘The publisher’s suggestion,’Tony whispered to me. An organ played Bach, restoring calm, and we all filed out.

It was then I noticed him. Paul Mercer, not accompanied by his wife, walked rapidly out of the building. He ignored me and gave Tony only a brusque nod of the head. Paul was making a beeline for the chief mourner, Sonia Sherwin. We watched as he offered his sympathies.

‘I’ll bet the shit’s after Jim’s manuscripts,’ Tony whispered.

There’d been some doubt as to whether Sonia could cope with leaving Greece to attend this service. Tony, who’d organised the event, hadn’t known that Sonia was coming until she showed up in the front row of the church. I watched her now, pleased to see her give Paul short shrift, although she accepted the business card he proffered.

‘I suppose I ought to introduce myself,’ Tony said, when Paul left her. ‘Would you like to meet the widow Sherwin?’

There was an informal queue of people wanting to offer their sympathies. We waited for it to clear.

Sonia Sherwin’s body language was twitchy. She gave the impression she would prefer to be anywhere but where she was. Just as she thought she was clear of well wishers, Tony approached her. The widow flinched at having to talk to somebody else. When Tony introduced himself, she relaxed, but only a little.

‘Thank you so much for organising this. I wouldn’t have known where to begin. And thank you for sending Jim’s manuscript. It was very interesting.’

Tony murmured a few words of sympathy, then introduced me.

‘Mark Trace, my editorial assistant. He’s a great admirer of your husband’s writing.’

Mrs Sherwin held out a black gloved hand and I shook it.

‘I’d appreciate it if we could meet before I return to Greece, Mr Bracken. Would you have the time?’

‘Of course.’

I could see I wasn’t wanted, so melted into the background. Paul Mercer was still nearby, his red face standing out all the more because of his black suit and tie. Impulsively, I decided to speak to him. I might glean whether he was behind the fire. Also, Tony had made inquiries on my behalf: the Hemingway manuscripts had been sold for a large sum, if not quite what was reported in the newspapers. I ought to tap Paul up for more money. And I wanted to know if he knew I’d slept with his wife.

Seeing me approach, Mercer dragged himself away from the elderly poet he’d been chatting up.

‘Do we have something to discuss, Mark?’ Mercer’s tone was mildly aggressive.

‘You know we do,’ I said, then added, provoking him. ‘How’s Helen?’

‘She’s busy furnishing the townhouse we’ve just bought in the Village.’

‘You must give me your new address,’ I said to him.

Paul eyed me coldly. ‘What do you want, Mark?’

‘Tony tells me that you sold the Hemingway stories, several months ago.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘You lied to me.’

‘You lied to me about finding them,’ Paul pointed out. ‘Selling those fake manuscripts could have ruined my reputation.’

‘Instead, it made you.’

‘In a way,’ Paul admitted. ‘But not in the way I would have chosen. All that publicity was very embarrassing for Helen.’

‘We never agreed what your percentage was,’ I told him, businesslike.

‘No, we didn’t,’ Paul said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, I found those stories. There are plenty of people who’ll remember Helen and me trawling through the flea-market, looking in old copies of
Paris Match
. Our story stands up. Whereas your story — what is it, exactly? That you found the stories, as you told Helen? No proof. That you faked the stories and I took them from you? Again, no proof. And even if you were able to prove that you forged those stories, you couldn’t establish that I knew about them, because I didn’t. My reputation as a dealer would hardly suffer. Your reputation as — whatever you think you are — would be ruined.’

‘But I could prove that you didn’t pay me for the stories,’ I argued.

‘Oh but I did,’ Paul said.‘You accepted a thousand pounds. I didn’t ask for a receipt, so you may have avoided paying tax on it, but I have a very good witness who’ll tell any court that you not only took the money, but you also accepted various goods in kind that were paid for from my credit card account. You did well out of me, Mark. Now, let it drop.’

My face burned. But I wouldn’t leave it.

‘What do you know about the fire?’ I asked, and as soon as these crass words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.

‘I know you were lucky,’ Paul told me. ‘Lucky that all evidence of your forgeries went up in smoke, lucky that Graham Greene died when he did, lucky you weren’t in the building when it happened. Where were you, Mark?’

I didn’t answer this, but I didn’t have to. Paul Mercer was the sort of man who only asked questions to which he already knew the answer. He knew I’d fucked his wife and he didn’t care. Maybe he had even persuaded Helen to seduce me, but I couldn’t countenance that, not then.

‘If you stay in this game,’ Paul lectured me, ‘our paths will probably cross again. So remember this. You can’t beat me. Whereas I know enough to destroy you.’ He gave me a broad smile and turned round. ‘Hey, Tony! Good to see you. Nice service, but I’ve got to run. I really liked that last issue you did. You went out in style, gotta give you that.’

We watched him scuttle away.

‘What did the widow want?’ I asked Tony.

‘I don’t know. I’m meeting her again later in the week, after she’s seen both sets of Jim’s publishers.’

‘You don’t think she suspects?’

‘Suspicion doesn’t come into it. She either knows, or she doesn’t know.’

Next day, I went to the British Library, where I found a facsimile edition of the recently discovered Paris Hemingway stories. My original few pages had been expanded into an expensive hardback, newly published by a university press. It had a scholarly introduction, extensive footnotes and my variant text for
Out Of Season
. Skimming the pages, I found it hard to believe I’d been so obsessed with the macho Hemingway, when I could have spent my time in Paris retracing the steps of Beckett or Joyce. Saul Bellow, I’d since discovered, had written most of his best novel there. I was over Hemingway, but my fakes were part of the canon. The reviews I’d seen had been respectful, convinced that Paul Mercer had made an important find. His reputation as a manuscript dealer rested on these two stories. Nothing would give me greater delight than to fuck him up.

I held one trump card Paul Mercer didn’t know about. But I couldn’t decide how to play my hand. I didn’t want to claim credit for my forgeries. I wanted to discredit Paul Mercer as a dealer in valuable manuscripts.

That evening, I tried to explain all this to Tony, who was in unusually good spirits. As we talked, I hit upon the answer.

‘I know exactly what to do,’ I told my friend.

‘And are you going to tell me?’ Tony asked.

‘I won’t involve you. But I’ll need to go to France, in a week or so. I lost my bank card in the fire and I’m waiting for a new one. Can you lend me some cash for a plane ticket?’

‘No problem,’ Tony said. ‘The bank has increased my overdraft limit now I have an insurance payout on the way.’

‘I thought the offices weren’t insured?’

‘The buildings were insured, but by the owners. I only had a lease. The office contents were never insured. However, after agreeing a price with Mercer, I insured the archive. Once I knew what it was worth I’d’ve been mad not to.’

‘Astute,’ I said. Tony could be flaky in his personal life, but never where the magazine was concerned. ‘How much do you need?’ He offered me a generous amount. It would take me a few days to get a new passport. That was OK, because there was something I needed to do first.

‘Are you going to explain why you need the typewriter all of a sudden?’

Out of breath, I didn’t reply. I’d written to Francine and she’d collected the machine from the friend’s house where it was stashed. I’d met her taxi and was carrying the machine up to my hotel room in the seventh arrondissement.

At sixteen Francine was the beauty I’d anticipated when she was fourteen. She had lost all of her gawkiness. Once I’d put the machine down, I wanted nothing more than to take up where her father had interrupted us in the summer of ’89. But she wanted to talk about the typewriter.

‘You’re going to do another forgery, aren’t you? Do you still have any of the right paper?’