Pleased with my efforts, I would reward myself with a few more beers, at which point I would discover that I had none left. This always came as a surprise and a second trip to the shop for more soon became a regular feature of my day, something you could set your watch by. The second trip was by bike, an old gentleman’s bicycle that had come with the house when we bought it. The chain was rusty and several spokes were missing or bent, so I must have been a pathetic sight, a long-haired, bearded creature on a rattling boneshaker, stamping on the pedals and swaying my upper body from side to side.
As the days passed, people got used to me, and on my late morning trip I always encountered the same two or three men sitting on the stone circle outside the shop. They greeted me faithfully every time, but to begin with I didn’t deign to look at them. I didn’t need human contact and I certainly wasn’t in need of drinking companions. I managed perfectly well on my own, thank you very much.
After the trip to the shop, my day consisted of sitting on the terrace if the weather stayed dry or in the living room in front of the stove if it rained and working my way through the day’s catch. Typically this meant ten or fifteen strong beers or a bottle of spirits, sometimes both. I often bought some food, but more often than not I didn’t get round to eating it.
The day would end with me falling asleep in front of the stove.
Writing was out of the question. I had lost the urge and the mere sight of books made me want to throw up. Four of the removal boxes in the living room were full of books, but I couldn’t bring myself to unpack them. The boxes remained unopened, a constant reminder of the life I had left behind.
One night, I tried to burn some of the books. The flames turned blue as they ate their way through the cover and the laminate bubbled like boils while the illustrations darkened until they were black all over and caught fire. The pages burned badly because they were too dense and I had to break them up with the poker to make them burn properly. It was slow and laborious work and failed to provide me with the satisfaction I had expected, so after three or four books I gave up.
One day, on my way to the shop for that day’s rations, I noticed that one of the men on the stone circle was holding a book. Even from a distance, I recognized it as Outer Demons. I was on the verge of turning around and probably would have done so had I not been as parched as I was. I ignored the men on my way in, but on my way out I couldn’t help glancing at them. There were three of them. Two of them were sitting down, probably to support the weight of their huge stomachs, and the third looked up. He was the one holding the book and I now recognized him as my neighbour. He waved the book and erupted in a broad smile.
‘Got you,’ he said, grinning.
I think I smiled and shrugged, but I exchanged no words with them and hurried home without looking back.
The weather was growing milder and I could sit outside on the terrace most of the afternoon. That was what I was doing that day, lazing in a deckchair with a wobbly frame and perished fabric that protested every time I shifted position. In order not to have to get up too often, I would get three beers on every trip. I was sitting with one in my lap; the other two were within easy reach, shaded by the garden table until it was their turn. This number meant my urge to urinate corresponded perfectly with my need to fetch fresh supplies.
‘Hello, neighbour,’ a voice suddenly called out and the man with the book appeared around the corner of the house. He was carrying a plastic bag.
I was about to return his greeting, but discovered I couldn’t get a word out. Looking back, I couldn’t even remember when I had last used my voice.
‘I hope it’s OK, me barging in on you,’ he continued, as he came closer. He was limping slightly and he held out his hand to me.
I nodded, straightened up as the deckchair groaned and shook his hand. It was dry and warm and I realized I hadn’t been in physical contact with another person for several weeks.
‘But … as we’re neighbours and all that’ – he pulled the book out of the bag – ‘please could I have an autograph?’
I gestured to one of the plastic garden chairs.
‘Yes, please,’ he said quickly and sat down.
‘Would you like a beer?’ I asked in a croaky voice, pointing to my stock under the garden table. I was offering not because I wanted to, but because I felt I had to.
‘No, thank you. I’ve already got some.’ He rattled the bag and the bottles clinked invitingly.
A huge wave of relief washed over me. I’d been dreading he was yet another scrounger, just like the people I had fled.
‘By the way, my name is Bent,’ he said, taking out a bottle of Fine Festival beer.
‘Frank,’ I volunteered, nodding towards the book he had placed on the garden table.
Bent grinned. ‘Yeah, mate, I worked that one out.’ He produced a bottle opener, polished to perfection by frequent trips in and out of his back pocket. He opened the beer, put the bottle top in the plastic bag and carefully removed any foil left around the bottleneck.
‘Cheers, neighbour.’ He held out his bottle to me. I held out mine and we toasted. While I drank, I watched how his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nearly half the beer.
‘Ah,’ he sighed when he finally removed the bottle from his lips.
I got up to fetch a pen and when I came back, Bent was busy opening the next beer.
‘I’m not usually much of a reader,’ he said. ‘But I just loved that shit. Bloody brilliant book!’
‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the book. It was a paperback, tattered and yellowed by the sun. My photo was on the back and I was struck by how serious I looked. My beard was trimmed with a ruler and my dark hair brushed back, smooth and a tad glossy like a 1930s crooner. However, it was the eyes that surprised me the most. They stared coldly and a little provocatively from the back of the book and I remember how hard it had been to look so aloof. There had been absolutely nothing to be cross about. After all, I had written a book Finn had assured me would be a bestseller, I was married to the loveliest woman in the world and had an angel of a daughter. The photo had been taken only four years ago, but it felt as if it was from a parallel universe, one where I was a successful author and not a bum.
‘A really good book,’ Bent repeated. ‘Gory details. Wicked descriptions of the murders, wicked!’
I flicked through the pages in my mind’s eye while he carried on praising the book. Several pages were dogeared. At the start, they were close together, but later in the book the distance grew and the last quarter had no folded corners at all. I signed my name and handed the book back.
‘Thanks a lot, Penpusher,’ he said holding it to his heart. ‘Viggo and Johnny wanted to borrow it, but I said no, and I won’t let them have it now, no way. They can buy their bloody own.’ He carefully returned the book to the bag as if it was as fragile as the bottles. ‘I’ve started another one. I can’t really remember the name of the guy who wrote it, but it’s not a patch on yours.’