The Last Autograph

Page 44

Chapter 1

He waits. That’s what he does. And he recalls the beat of an ageing commercial. A shake of his head clears it away, only to be replaced by the sounds of guests finishing their last pint, glass, whatever, farewell-ing and see-you-tomorrow-ing through the canvas walls of the festival’s temporary bookstall.

He checks the cashier at the desk with a till and a display of books by tonight’s star guest. Checks the queue waiting for five minutes with him; down to four. Checks the clock; 11:30. The cashier, the queue, the clock.

Unlikely to see further purchases this late at night, the cashier stacks the displayed books. She takes the pile to the last uncovered table and places it down, picks up a tablecloth and flies it over; says sleep tight to the books and the other tables bedding down for the night.

A smile crosses his lips. She smiles back. And for a moment, he is taken aback; he can’t remember the last time he’d seen a smile reach someone’s eyes. Together, they glance at the clock, then the queue and, in synchrony, they race to the end. He wins by a fraction of a second and takes his place as the last man standing in line.

She smiles and tells him he’s last, calls him a name that isn’t his and instructs him how there is to be no-one else after him.

Of course there won’t be, he assures her as she places a ‘Closed’ sign at the entrance and then wanders to the back of the marquee. She disappears from his view and his mind.

He waits, advances, waits again, has plenty of time. He knows the clock’s accurate, not that the time matters.

Now, at the head of the queue, he’ll be the next and he’ll be the last. From his coat pocket, he pulls out his notebook, turns to page 44. It’s blank, save for the hand-written number in the right-hand corner. He looks forward to when that won’t be the case.

‘Next.’

For a moment he doesn’t know where he is, his eyes blinking with surprise.

‘Sir?’ At the desk sits a woman, perhaps a little too old for that dress, hangover all over her face. He knows she’s been here for three hours and twenty-eight minutes and in that time has poured three glasses of water, one diet coke and has massaged the right shoulder of the author. Twice. Fire alarms wouldn’t convince her to move from that seat.

‘You good?’ asks the author, hand reaching out.

The fan nods, snaps back to the task, stands forward and holds out his book.

Now the author is confused, but accepts that which is offered.

He mumbles something about how he prefers to keep his books like they were when they came from the printers. Pristine. That’s why he uses a notebook.

‘You’ve read them, though, right?’ the author asks.

Of course he’s read them. Cradling them in his hands so they don’t break their spine, don’t lose that smell. Keep all the magic in. He smiles as he explains.

The author asks what he should write, and he’s told just his name and the date and the time.

The author picks up his pen and rests it on the first blank page.

No, the fan shouts and knocks the pen from the author’s hand to the floor. He apologises, he’s so sorry. It must be on the recto pages, so the autographs don’t run into each other on the paper. The author nods and stretches to retrieve the pen from the floor.

The fan bids the author wait and fetches the pen for him, handing it back, barrel-end first. He apologises once more—no harm done, says the author after examining the pen—then fanboi comments how strange it is to see an old-fashioned ink pen these days. How the pen, in particular this one, is mightier than the sword and the author agrees and tells him how many of these he has worn to a stub over the years. He knows. He’s done his research.

‘This side?’ The author asks, pointing to the right-hand page with the number.

He nods.

And now the pen doesn’t work. The trip to the floor has upset the flow.

‘No problem,’ and the author opens his mouth and runs the nib down his tongue, then smiles at his visitor, says, ‘For old times’ sake.’ And signs, and dates and times. It’s 11:53pm on Friday June 16th, and it’s late, he says, handing the book back.

‘We done?’ asks the author.

We are, indeed, done.

The author stands, stretches, says how he’s looking forward to his bed. Can’t understand how jet lag works, because he should feel lively not, and you’ll excuse his French here, like two shits rolled into one.

The assistant is waiting, the day coming to a much-needed end, and she tries to convince him to have one drink in the bar, but he tells her one leads to two leads to many, too many. And he knows when to avoid that danger, and that is right now.

She accepts and she and her charge leave the marquee.

And now he stands in the silence, the marquee is closed and the crowd has disappeared. The lights go out and still he waits. The dark and the silence fill him completely, and he clasps the book to his chest. Page 44 is complete.

Chapter 2

I ran up the hill. Well, as best a man of my age and fitness can. My legs complaining after a few strides and then my lungs matching suit. Is this where I am? Bending and lifting’s OK, but running is asking too much?

I pressed on, cursing the kids on the night bus unable to judge how much vodka to pre-load and therefore unloading onto the floor. Novices. So we were delayed, waiting while the driver jettisoned the revellers and attempted to clean up.

The bus arrived much later than scheduled and I had jumped off and started to run up the hill to the festival’s hall. Only to be reminded that I was in my late fifties and the last time I had seen exercise, it was on a Scrabble board. Seventeen points.

At the brow, I could see the lights in a marquee. I was late, but I wasn’t that late. The warm glow cheered me, and I redoubled my paltry efforts.

I reached the flat leading to the marquee. I slowed, almost there, almost there, and then the lights went out. I stopped. I looked at the darkened tent, unable to accept what I was seeing, and I dropped to my knees.

‘No, no, no, no, no.’ I had come so far, braved all of those demons, only to fall at this final hurdle. I rocked back onto my heels, crying inside, and I stared at the tent, willing the lights to return. I was so close and yet…

‘You good?’ An older voice, an American voice.

I looked up, despair blearing my vision. Surely not? Him?

‘Sir, you OK?’

Surely is. Him.

‘Here, lemme help you.’

I took the outstretched hand and slowly found my feet. Found myself staring into the eyes of a man that had saved me. Found he was four inches shorter than me. OK, wasn’t expecting that because I am not tall to start with.

‘Thank you.’

‘No problem. Us old-timers have got to stick together, right?’ Not just shorter than me, but also older than me by a good twenty years. Now in his twilight and on his last tour of the festivals before retiring for good. No more stories to tell. I looked around. I was expecting an entourage, but here he was, alone, standing with me; a man with an oversized tongue in his mouth. Or so it felt.

I took a book from the pocket of my overcoat. Looked at it, all battered and dog-eared. A book I could recite at a moment’s notice.

‘Wow, you’ve got one of those?’

I nodded.

‘You don’t see many, not the first print. Not the old Black Tongue Publishing edition. Still got it,’ he said and pushed out his tongue. It was indeed black.

‘Want me to sign that?’ Again, I nodded. Given time, I might have found the ability to string a sentence together.

He took the book from me, opened it to the title page, then checked his Apple watch. ‘Hey, look at that. It’s tomorrow already. Don’t you just love these things? Always the right time, the right day, no matter where you are.’

He pulled his pen from his pocket, put the cap in his mouth and, with a well-practised jab and spin, readied the pen for use. As he licked the nib, he smiled, for old times’ sake, before signing his name and then the date and the time. Saturday June 17th, 12:03am.

He offered the book back to me and again smiled. ‘If you ever need a replacement, I have three hundred or more in my loft, still in their crates.’

I took it from him. ‘It’s not just the words, it’s the book itself,’ I said.

He thought about that for a second, then said, ‘OK, you have a good night.’

‘I will, and thank you.’

He nodded and said, ‘Time for bed. I can’t do these late nights anymore.’

He turned to set off, and I noticed him wobble, then catch himself.

‘OK, not feeling too good.’ He swayed again.

‘I need to…’ and he fell to his knees. I followed him down.

‘Sir?’ I asked, trying to keep the fear from my voice, searching for help, finding none. Just two young women standing 10 yards away, rapt in conversation.

I was about to yell out when he grabbed hold of my coat and wheezed, ‘I’m gonna need a…’ He tried to steady himself against my shoulder, but missed and collapsed to the ground. I looked at him, his eyes glazed and breathing stopped.

I stood, turned, and ran. Not this again, not this again.

Chapter 3

He can’t believe what he’s seeing. He’d followed the author from the marquee, heard him once again say how he was going straight to bed, how age and jet lag don’t mix. Then this… this… this tramp in the tattiest of overcoats accosts the author, gets him to sign a book. A book that surely needs pulping given its state and then fuck if the author hasn’t put the date and the time on the page. The plan had come to be just like he’d dreamt, only to be punched in the mouth at the death.

Now Page 44 is ruined, and he really must do something about that.

Chapter 4

I didn’t sleep well that night. I’ll admit, I don’t sleep well as a rule, but that night was worse than most and I was almost glad to hear the teasmade start. The water boiling and then being forced into the waiting teapot and when all the hissing and straining is done, the alarm sounding. Making sure you’re awake in case you’ve somehow slept through the racket.

I got out of bed, silenced the alarm, and poured myself a cup of tea. I added some milk, which I kept in an insulated container. I had tried black, lemon, long-life, and then I had found my container and moved it to the living part of the house.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I tried to piece together what had happened last night. I reached the end of the cup and came up with nothing. A shower didn’t help. Towelling my hair didn’t help. A bowl of porridge and a second cup of tea didn’t help.

Even standing at the sink, staring down the garden while washing up, didn’t work. And that never fails. Hell’s bells, I even dried up and put the crockery and cutlery away and I still didn’t know what to make of things.

Other than the man who had written the book that had saved me, had died in front of me. And I had then run away, voices shouting after me to stop. Panic and self-preservation overriding the desire to help.

I checked the clock on the wall, turned the wireless on when I was sure there would be no news, only to be greeted by a tribute to the author. Poor thing had taken an age to warm up and there was me switching it off after less than ten words. Running away; like I always did.

There was one last thing to tidy away, and it hung there and stared at me, daring me to empty its pockets. Yeah, fat chance.

In the silence of the kitchen, I decided to update my ledgers. Ensure I had enough money for the coming months, because if I didn’t, I’d have to work out what to sell, which friends to say goodbye to. And in the afternoon, after lunch, I would mow the lawn.

Chapter 5

He hasn’t slept, but that’s alright; he wasn’t expecting to. He was expecting to have been kept up by a feeling of unalloyed joy. Unable to sit, pacing the room, triumphant, punching the air. No way could he call someone, tell them what he’d done, not just yet.

But not this, not this sense of so close and nothing. Worse than nothing.

It wasn’t the last autograph; it was the last-but-one autograph. Provably so. And even if it wasn’t, he knew. He knew.

So he considers what his actions can be. He can’t start again, he can’t tear the page out because there’d be a gap. Page 43 to Page 45, hey what happened to Page 44?

Maybe he could make an erratum. Admit that Page 44 is not as it seems. He thinks for a moment before discarding the idea. That is not what he set out to create.

It will to have to be an appendix, and he’s going to need that page. That’s just one more task to add to the many already done, and the few left to complete.

Feeling a little better—at least he has the start of a plan—he finishes the rest of Page 44 as he meant. He removes the pen from his pocket, finds a plinth of the correct size and colour in a cupboard, and mounts one on top of the other.

He takes a strip of brass and with his engraving tool he writes the author’s name and then ‘Last ever pen’ along with today’s date. Unsure of the time of death, he leaves that. The brass strip goes in the groove on the plinth, and he places the completed trophy in the waiting gap in one of his cabinets. He writes up his notes, detailing his every action for posterity.

For a moment, he admires the pen. Considers how clever he was to find one that was not just a replica, but the exact same make, model and year as favoured by the author. It saddens him—only briefly—that this isn’t the pen that did the deed, but… Then he smiles to himself when he thinks how well he improvised: knocking the pen to the floor. The plan had been to ask if he could hold the pen, cherish what had created all those words. And then drop it and swap it. But we’re here now, and we can’t have everything.

So, how do you find a tramp?

Chapter 6

I’d finished my bookkeeping. I could (with a fair wind) stave off selling something for a month, maybe two if I had no sudden expense, and I was re-heating some asparagus soup from the fridge when the world outside darkened. The dark that only happens on a summer’s day when the Heavens are about to open.

So much for mowing the lawn. So much for checking the fruit. So much for a fair wind.

It got darker still, and I turned the light on in the kitchen, the glow from the unshaded eco bulb so dim as to leave the furthest corners of the room unlit. I sat at the table and ate my soup, then washed the bowl and the pan. As I poured the water away, the rain started. Heavy spots to begin, then more until it felt like there was a solid wall of water out there and I had been cast out to sea.

I pitied any poor soul trapped out in this weather, and I wondered how much worse this weekend could get. Then the mains-powered doorbell sounded, shaking the house; somebody at the front door. And that answered my question. It could get a lot worse.

I stood at the door from the kitchen to the hall, looking to see who had come calling. I could make out one shadow, and it seemed they were trying to peer through the stained glass at the side of the door. One; not police then, I rationalised. They always came in twos.

‘Hello, I can see your shadow. Hello.’

I sagged. The light from the kitchen had made me a silhouette, easy to spot from the porch.

‘It’s ever so wet out here.’

No, seriously, how much worse could this day get? Maybe they’d just go away.

The doorbell sounded again. Designed to be heard from the end of the garden, it was now rattling my brain. Only one way to make it shut up.

I opened the door to be faced by a young girl, perhaps in her mid-twenties, but I am old, so who knows? Glasses steamed up and long blond hair drenched and plastered to the sides of her head. Her thin linen jacket was soaked, but not as soaked as the pamphlet she was holding out.

‘Could I interest you in letting the love and the light of the Lord into your life?’