Chapter One

“Look, all I’m saying is that the literary world isn’t what it used to be. Take D.H Lawrence or Daniel Defoe. Do you really think there’d be a market for their writing if they were only just producing it today?”

     “Well, sure. I mean, they’re great writers.”

     “Obviously they are. To deny that would be ignorant. But unless they were writing about vampires, soft-porn or maverick ex-policemen taking the law into their own hands, today’s readers just wouldn’t give them a chance.”

     Oliver Willerton knew that what he was saying was a massive generalisation. But it was one that he truly believed in for the most part. Gone were the days of classic literature. Now it’s all about fast paced action and dumbed down plots. Readers just weren’t as patient or open minded anymore in his eyes.

     “People still buy the classic novels though. Look at Penguin Classics. Bringing old stories to new readers all the time,” argued Ken Daniels between the last swigs of his pint. All that remained was the froth at the bottom of his glass, which he looked into as if to inwardly agree with his own point.

     “But come on, what sells more copies? A reprinted version of Robinson Crusoe or one of those trashy paperbacks about Mr Steed holding Mrs Lily against her will, or whatever goes on in those stories.”
     “Granted.”
     “And can you imagine in fifty years time, will any of those books in the bestseller charts today be re-released under a classics collection?” Oliver’s eyes became visibly more animated. This was a matter which clearly meant a lot to him, and Ken took a mental note to agree with any future points. It wasn’t worth getting into a shouting match. Calm debate is always preferable.

     Oliver took a breath for a moment, producing his wallet from his pocket. Fishing through it, he pulled out a rather sorry looking bank note. Usually, signs of age are bits of cellotape holding the Queen’s face together like a cheap stitching job or numbers scribbled down in biro. This ten pound note featured both. He’d apologise for the quality of the note to the barman as a conversation starter if nothing else.

     He rose from his chair, which screeched against the floor as he stood. Pushing a dog-eared notebook into his back pocket as he advanced towards the bar, Oliver limped away from the table. It was almost his trademark walk by now.

     Ken watched his friend of many years trudge across the floor of the quiet tavern. While Oliver’s receding hairline couldn’t be seen from behind, his greying wisps of hair certainly could.

     Moving a beer mat around between his hands, Ken scanned the pub. A football match was on the screen, though not many people seemed to be paying much attention. It was a Premier League fixture, but between two teams who Ken wasn’t really familiar with. On the other side of the room, two men played darts. The quintessential pub sport. Pure in that there is always a clear cut winner and loser, which is more than could be said for the numerous and endless debates filed under the category of ‘pub talk’.

     The beer Olympics continued in the centre of the floor, as two more punters participated in a game of pool. The shredded felt was hampering both players, but one of them had been on the table for quite a long time. His opponent was a rake of a man. Shaven head, eyes like two hollow sockets. The kind of guy who looks at home in such an environment. A guy who you’d let win, just to avoid a scrape with him afterwards.

     Pinned to the wall next to Ken and Oliver’s table was the latest Fantasy Football chart. A regular named Wally was clearly living up to his name, sitting rock bottom of the table. The £250 grand prize seemed out of his grasp.

     Oliver returned to the table holding two freshly poured pints of bitter. Ken received his glass with an appreciative smile, taking a sip to avoid the overflow as he placed it down. Both men wiped their hands on their jackets to dry their palms.

     “You’re right though, it is a shame,” Ken offered as a mulled over retort. Halfway through a gulp of his frosty drink, Oliver gave a small nod.

     “Definitely. A new generation of great writers are being told by publishers that there’s no time to read their stories because they’re too busy with celebrity-written children’s books or heavily ghost-written autobiographies. Take someone like Huxley. Would people have ‘got’ him today, or would his seminal writing have been left to rot on the shelves of supermarket book sections?”

     The conversation was halted for a moment, the sound of silent agreement taking hold. Ken took the opportunity to remove his glasses and give the lenses a gentle rub.

     A shout could be heard from the dimly-lit pool table. Oliver looked round, and assumed that the black ball had been potted prematurely. The skinhead thumped the butt of his cue down on the floor in frustration. After some rather colourful language, he walked away from the table, declining the offer of a post-game handshake. With a great degree of trepidation, the next player slid his coin from the side of the table, entering it into the slot to release the potted balls.

     Oliver withdrew the notebook from his back pocket, noting something down that he could use later on. Ken didn’t even blink an eyelid anymore. He was used to spontaneous note taking from his friend.

     The small windows of the pub were steamed up, and it was completely dark outside. It was getting late, but the light rain falling outside was a good enough excuse for both men to remain in their warm watering hole for just a couple of hours longer.

     “How’s the wife?” Ken asked, breaking a prolonged silence.
     “Oh you know, we survive,” Oliver said, a small smile on his face.

     “Sounds like she’ll understand you being here a lot more than my wife will. She thinks I should be working more, taking advantage of the overtime. She listened to, I don’t know, some Radio Five show a few weeks ago, hasn’t stopped going on about pensions since. She thinks I should be doing more to build a nest egg for us. Truth is; we’ve obviously held it off too long.”

     “You’re not alone. We’ll be living off a basic state pension at this rate unless my latest book takes off. I tell you though; anyone else other than Paula would really put the heat on me to get another job. She understands that I’m on the cusp of something though.”

     Ken looked down at the table, drawing an imaginary pattern on the surface. All of a sudden he felt a touch of sympathy for his friend’s wife. She was such a wonderful woman, especially after what she’s been through, and maybe Oliver should be getting a 9-5 job before he gets too old for it.

     “So what are you writing about this time?” Ken asked, suppressing the faint urge to tell Oliver to pull himself together.

     “Well, without giving too much away… I wanted to write about an artist. I’ve always been intrigued by the link between writers and artists, or painters more specifically. I suppose it’s based on my father slightly. I can’t really tell you much about the plot, there are still some creases to iron out.”

     Ken took a long gulp of his drink, buying himself some time. What to say? He had heard similar things before from Oliver, who had never been able to make a good living out of his writing. This one sounded no different. He chose to remain silent.

     “Well don’t sound too enthusiastic, pal,” Oliver grinned, giving Ken a cue to redeem himself with a positive comment.
     “No, it sounds good. Keep me updated with it. I’d like to know more.”
     “Will do.” The writer was satisfied.

* * * * *

Oliver returned home to little reception. Not a hero's welcome anyway. The lamp in the corner of the living room was left on. Paula had a habit of keeping it on before retiring to bed for the night, so that Oliver could see when he got in and also to warn any burglars away. Oliver thought it was a waste of electric, but then there’d been no burglaries that he knew of.
     He made his way into the kitchen, where he boiled the kettle on the gas rings of the oven. The oven itself was on its way out, and so this was really the only use for it. He also noted that the kitchen door needed fixing sooner rather than later. It was of the sliding variety, and only just clawed onto its hinges.
     Pouring a flat teaspoon of coffee into a chipped porcelain mug, Oliver heard the sound of feet on stairs. Either Paula was awake or the burglary-free streak was well and truly over.
     "Coffee? It's past midnight," croaked the lady emerging through the living room door. Wrapped in a sky blue dressing gown, she folded her arms tightly across her chest to retain heat.
     "Want a mug?" Oliver asked, expecting that he knew the answer already.
     "Of course I don't, are you coming to bed?"
     "Afraid not, I'm going into the study to work a few things out for an hour or two," Oliver replied.
     "Well don't be too late, that bed is too big to sleep in alone."
     Oliver kissed his wife on the cheek before she returned upstairs. Her light brown hair pointed out like wires in all directions, her eyes half shut as she disappeared into the darkness of the hallway once again. Oliver still found her beautiful.
     Adding a slug of milk to his coffee, he followed upstairs, but turned left on the landing to enter his home office instead. He enjoyed this luxury. A place for his own thoughts, for his writing to grow organically in a heavily controlled environment. Sometimes just to sit at his desk without lifting a pen or pressing a single button on his typewriter was enough to allow him to be immersed in his own world.
     He placed his coffee onto the desk, hanging up his leather jacket on the back of his pine chair. The last of the raindrops trickled down the battered item of clothing, creating tiny damp patches on the maroon carpet. Oliver pulled his typewriter towards him and began to make a few bullet points of ideas he’d had in the past couple of days. The typewriter was a vintage machine, something he had stood by for years. Even now, in the age of word processors, laptops and whatever all those other gadgets and gizmos were called, he still put his typewriter through its paces in the early stages of an idea.

     This was going to be the book that would finally see Oliver Willerton respected as an author. He really thought so. Of course, a writer must have faith in any project, but Oliver felt much conviction this time. An artist, defying the odds to become successful in his work and lead an affluent life. What could be a better story? One sip of his coffee and he was away again, punching the letters onto the page. The ink ribbon would need changing soon, but for now it was time to offload some ideas.

     He often thought of Paula when he was writing. After all, she was the reason he was doing this, right? To put food on the table for her. And if he hadn’t exactly filled her stomach with lobster and fine wine over the past few years, their time was to come. He was sure of it.
     The coffee tasted sweet, despite its lack of sugar.

* * * * *

Somedays I felt like I was drowning.

      I'd watch the clock, the second hand labouring its way around. I would panic at the fact that I was in for a lifetime of pain and regret.
     When the thing you always wanted the most is torn away from you by a botched childbirth, there is no consolation. You are numb. Trapped in a thick perspex bubble, disaffected by all external factors. While other people carry on with their lives, you can't. While they gossip about the soaps or celebrities, you wonder how anything so trivial could ever register on your radar again.
     Paula and I didn't speak. It's not that I blamed her, how could I? But we no longer had anything to say. Nothing mattered. The void in our lives that we had planned to fill had now become a gaping black hole.
     Friends sent cards. 'Sorry to hear about your loss'. My mother was ever present. It made little difference though. Their intentions were golden but no amount of 'best wishes' were ever going to give us our baby back.
     I know Paula felt that she had failed me. Failed us. She took it even harder than I. Nine months of discomfort for nothing. We wondered if we'd ever be ready to try again, and if any future efforts would also be in vain.
     I took up walking. It helped me to escape. I'd walk further each day, not to run away from my problems, but rather as a way of forgetting them for the afternoon. It almost became an obsession, and a great way of alleviating the excruciating and crushing pain that had come to smother me.
     The fresh air had a definite soothing quality, the delicate setting of the country park agreeing with me. For the first time in ages I could step outside of myself and see that the world was carrying on without me. Earth continued to turn despite my depression, I just hadn't realised it.
     On the six week anniversary of what we will now always note on the calendar as our child's birthday, I took my new hobby up a level. There was friction between Paula and I. She felt that I was spending too much time away from her. She told me how she needed my company more than ever. I appreciated that, but we would only sit together, staring out of the window. I encouraged her to join me, but she seemed to have no interest in leaving the house.
     I took a bus to a small mountain range in nearby Eastfields. Something about the anniversary made me feel that I was coming full circle. I couldn't shake the guilt that I was doing so well to recover after just six weeks, but if feeling like I could go on to live my life again was selfish, I was a very selfish man.
     I packed a small bag, taking a few essentials with me. Bottle of water. Copy of the day's newspaper to read when I got to the top. Something about climbing the mountain that day made me open my eyes once and for all. There was life outside of a small, sepia living room with Paula. We didn't have to sit obediently as our past ate away at us. This may seem like an overreaction, and it was no Ben Nevis by any means, but I experienced a feeling that I came to recognise as fulfillment. An old friend had come to visit.
     At the top of the mountain I sat down. I left the newspaper in my bag, choosing to appreciate the view instead. Cloud formations slowly passed, inviting me to look at the shapes. Nature's Rorschach test. I was a 24 year old man, and my life wasn't over, even if it was supposed to be.
     Some time had passed before I decided to descend once again. The most cathartic experience of my life was over, but I was now ready to return to the house. To Paula. I'd attempt to put into words just what I had learned. Maybe she could feel the benefit too.
     To this day, I can take some degree of solace in the fact that I was as careful as humanly possible. What transpired was not a result of negligence or carelessness. If you believe in fate, it was always going to happen.
     Though my time on the mountain had been kind weather-wise, the rain from the day before had yet to evaporate. The surface was slippery, and I knew that climbing down was dangerous. I took small steps at first, fully focused on the next fifty centimetres closer to the ground. If it was to take half an hour, so be it. Once I was halfway down, I thought I was safe. I was wrong.
     The clouds. They were no longer of any real shape. I tried not to think about the scans of our baby in the womb. I tried not to look at the 'A' that was gradually forming up above. A for Andrew. Our beautiful boy.
     My right foot slipped. As I fell backwards, I scraped my calf and found myself in freefall. In my mind it took forever to roll down the sharp face of the small mountain, but obviously not long enough to stop myself. My head bounced twice off the ground, my temples throbbing instantly. I was sure that I'd throw up as a result of the head injury, though my thoughts were curtailed when I came to a sudden stop.
     My right ankle struck a large rock, which had been waiting to halt my decline. My leg caught at an awkward angle, and the rest of my body weight forced it up against the rock.
     The bone snapped instantly. The sound was like the breaking of a single twig in a forest, echoing to fill the space. It is a sound which still sickens me to this day, and is my strongest memory of the accident. As my ankle collapsed beneath me, I stared into the sky. The pain took a moment to kick in, but I knew about it when it did.
     My first reaction was to pop my ankle back into place, as if it was just dislocated. I knew I’d broken the bone horribly, but in my panic I wanted to force it back straight and wish it could heal.

     It took an hour until I was found. The doctors told me that I was lucky to escape an infection in my ankle. I didn’t feel lucky. They informed me that the ankle could get better over time, though I’d have to use a crutch for the forseeable future. Amputation was a consequence that I had managed to escape, but if my leg hadn’t been taken from me, my freedom had. I was back in the sepia house. Back in the trauma zone, never to escape.

     I had nothing. My wife was terrible company, my family’s presence began to grate as I became ever more impatient. The outside world was beyond reach for me, and I grew agitated as a result.
     My job was a distant memory. Working with a friend as a cash in hand window cleaner was no longer something I’d be able to do. Besides, if I never saw a ladder again I would have few complaints. My tendency to fall from a dangerous height was something that I’d have to watch in future.

     I had no back up plan. My choice of previous employer meant that there was no sick pay, no guarantee that I could return when my injury healed. The future had been bright a few months beforehand. Now it was riddled with uncertainty and insecurity.

     And that was when I began to write.