Somebody's Voice Read online

  ALEX

  “In three hundred yards turn left into Manly Lane.” But when the rush-hour traffic in the unfamiliar town lets Alex reach the junction, it’s blocked by a diversion. Since Manly Lane is a one-way street, he can’t enter by the far end. The next road on the left brandishes a No Entry sign, and the phone urges him to backtrack. When the car manages to crawl to the next junction, he’s able to turn left into a tangle of back streets where most of the pedestrians appear to think traffic shouldn’t be allowed or isn’t even there, to judge by how they amble across his path. The route confuses the phone even more than it bewilders him, and he silences the robot voice before dropping the mobile into his breast pocket. At last he escapes onto a main road, and is heading for Manly Lane once more when the phone announces an unknown caller. Lee slips a hand like a caress into his pocket to retrieve the phone and says “Hello?”

  “Sorry, have I typed you wrong? That isn’t Alex.”

  “Not unless we’ve switched identities,” he says. “It’s my partner Lee.”

  “This is Janet at the bookshop. Sorry to ask, but could you use the back door? We’ve got people at the front protesting about your book.”

  “You don’t want me to thank them for the advertising.”

  “Best not antagonise them if you don’t mind. Whereabouts are you?”

  “Just coming to the wrong end of your road.”

  “Go past.” This sounds like a warning until Janet adds “Then take the first right and you’re bound to find some parking.”

  As Alex coasts past Manly Lane he sees pickets poling slogans, some of which Lee reads aloud. “Tell Truth without a comma Not Tales,” she says and corrects the others too. “Our Lives Aren’t with no apostrophe Fiction, Tell Your Own Story Not Ours with an apostrophe….” Her long face framed by straight red hair cut short across her high brows makes it plain that she’s amused, a state her large dark eyes and wide lips seem constantly to hope for. The right turn leads to a multistorey car park, where Alex finds space on the second level. On the way past Manly Lane he slows down to read the placards, and Lee takes his arm to propel him onwards before anyone recognises him. A sign she didn’t read to him takes his fancy: WE ARE NOT MATERIAL. “Maybe some of my critics on Twitter are showing their faces at last,” he says. “They don’t look immaterial to me.”

  “Depends how much you feel they ought to be.”

  “They can’t realise they’re publicity. That’s they’re with an apostrophe in case you were wondering.”

  “Their with an i would work as well.”

  They’ve performed this sort of routine ever since Lee began copyediting his books among the many her job brings. As they find an alley that leads behind Texts they hear demonstrators chanting on the far side of the bookshop. “No semicolon no,” Alex punctuates the chorus, “semicolon no.”

  “Writers don’t need those. Colonisation isn’t good.”

  “I can think of a few who’d give you an argument, except they wouldn’t dare.”

  “So long as you do when you think you should.”

  “That’s a collectible event,” Alex says and rings the bell beside a wordless door. “No colon no colon no.”

  “Here’s the girl who’ll leave you with no colon.”

  “Just keep your hands off my brackets.” He gives her time to anticipate his saying “Except in bed.”

  A young woman in trousers and a Texts T-shirt opens the door as Lee wrinkles her long elegant nose at him. “Is everything all right?” the bookseller says, not without alarm.

  “We’d say so, wouldn’t we? Alex and Lee, who helped me find my voice.”

  “Janet,” Janet says, shaking hands with both of them at once as if to demonstrate efficiency. “We can wait in the office.”

  In the room to which she ushers them a desk is strewn with stacks of books, while the walls are patched with posters and sketches of mountain ranges – performance charts, on one of which a lonely member of staff is stranded in the foothills. Janet hangs their coats on a single prong protruding from a laden board and offers them wine from a box in a dwarfish refrigerator. “Don’t drink too much before you read,” Lee says.

  “I never do.” When she lowers her delicate brows to emphasise the look she gives him, Alex admits “Not for years.”

  “Never’s longer,” Lee says and tells Janet “Sometimes I can’t stop editing.”

  Alex sips his drink and restrains himself to doing so several unhurried times before he glances at his watch. He ought to be performing by now, and abruptly Janet appears to agree, though he hopes she’s more enthusiastic than her words. “We may as well go through.”

  Of the several dozen unfolded chairs that face a podium between shelves marked Fantasy and Crime, more than half are occupied. To the left of the central aisle the front row is empty apart from a tall man sprawling with his legs thrust out and wide. His stubbly face looks hammered broad and almost flat, spreading all the features, and his scalp resembles a translucent cover for a greyish hint of hair. Most of the rest of him is encased in black: polo-neck, jeans, socks, shoes. He sees Janet escort Lee to a reserved seat in the other half of the front row and then watches Alex take the solitary chair on the low podium, where a squat table bearing a bottle of water and a copy of his latest novel scrapes his calves when he tries to stretch his legs. As he opens the bottle, which is so full that a liberated trickle runs under his shirt cuff, Janet stands in front of him. “We’re delighted to welcome Alex Grand, bestselling author of the Palgrave Patten series,” she says. “He’s going to talk about his work and read from his new book Nobody Sees and then take questions.”

  She leads the applause as she makes for a seat next to Lee. The bald sprawler donates just a pair of sluggish claps. Perhaps he’s withholding enthusiasm until he feels impressed, which makes him a challenge to be tackled. Alex eyes him while explaining that in Nobody Sees Palgrave Patten’s sidekick Dyann is away on a sabbatical from teaching film noir, and so he’s helped by his latest client, who wants Patten to find a girl who was abused as a child. The search leads deep into the world of paedophiles, with Andrew the client posing as one, and Patten feels soiled by the experience despite arranging numerous arrests. None of this appears to gratify the bald spectator, who may be distracted by the chanting in the street. As Alex wonders if this will impair his reading it fades away, and he sees the placards sink beyond the window on the far side of the shop as the demonstrators disperse. He reads from the chapter where Andrew talks to Sandy, the victim he hired Patten to track down, only to leave her unidentified and hidden. “His reason’s on the last page,” Alex says and shuts the book.

  Janet steps in front of him to ask for questions, and the bald man speaks at once. “He’s talking to himself.”

  “He’s been talking to everyone,” Lee objects.

  “I don’t mean Mr Grand.” The man gives her no more favourable a look than he did when she sat down. “You’re with him.”

  “I shouldn’t think I’m the only one.”

  “Clever as him too.” This is plainly not intended as a compliment. “You came with Mr Grand.”

  Lee reacts to the way he makes it sound like a gibe. “Yes, that’s his name.”

  “Just Alex is the rest, is it? Hiding his gender to go with his book.”

  “I’ve used it ever since I was published,” Alex retorts. “Lee cut it down for me.”

  “Lee.” The man makes this sound suspect too, having glanced at her. “What are you saying the rest of you is?” he challenges Alex.

  “Alexander Evelyn Grand. We decided shorter was better, us and the publishers.”

  The man greets the expanded name with an aborted laugh, which provokes Lee to demand “Since you’re so interested in names, what’s yours?”

  “I’m ToM.”

  He pronounces it not just with pride but with considerable emphasis
on the last letter. “Tom,” Lee says with none.

  “ToM with a capital M.” More fiercely still he says “M for man and TM for TransMission.”

  “You were outside picketing before.” Lee clearly feels she should have realised sooner. “You had the sign about material.”

  In front of the podium Janet turns her head so vigorously that Alex sees the action ridge her neck. “I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to leave,” she tells ToM.

  “Don’t send him out on my account,” Alex says. “I’m happy to have a debate.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” Janet says but appeals to the audience. “Who has the next question?”

  A woman on the back row calls out “I didn’t understand the business about talking to himself.”

  “Andrew in the book, he’s Sandy,” ToM says at once. “She’s supposed to have transitioned because she was abused, and all that conversation he read you is really just one person.”

  Alex regrets having encouraged him. “Well, thank you so much for giving my twist away.”

  “Think nothing of it, because we don’t. It’s not just a twist for all of us who’ve lived it.”

  “Alex, your book is about a lot more than that,” Lee says and assures the audience “In some ways it’s better second time around.”

  With all the pride he showed in his name ToM declares “I’ve read it less than once myself.”

  “Then how can you criticise,” Lee protests, “if that’s what you think you’re doing?”

  ToM aims his response at Alex. “Have you changed your gender?”

  “I won’t pretend I have.”

  “Then you’re pretending when you try and write about it. I have and everybody in TransMission has, so don’t you dare claim you know what it’s like.”

  “I’ve never been burgled, I’ve never known anyone who was murdered, and nobody’s objected to my writing about those.”

  “Then they should, because your sort of book trivialises crime, but I’m talking about something people live through their whole lives. It doesn’t just happen to us, it’s what we are.”

  “You seem to be missing a point,” a man says behind Lee. “His book’s fiction.”

  “That’s exactly what it shouldn’t be,” ToM says and turns on Alex again. “Were you abused as a child?”

  “I’m glad to say I never was.”

  “More lies.” As Alex opens his mouth to deny it ToM says “That’s all your book can be.”

  “I think fiction can be a way of telling truths.”

  “Yours can’t,” ToM says and grabs his widely outstretched knees. “Have you had enough of a debate?”

  “Delighted to continue so long as we let other people in.”

  “I doubt they know any more about it than you do,” ToM says, levering himself lankily to his feet. “If I’ve saved a few people from buying your book I’ve achieved something worth doing.”

  Alex picks up the bottle of water to take a nonchalant swallow, only for the plastic to creak in his fist, so loudly it sounds close to splintering. While ToM stalks towards the exit, members of the audience mime support for Alex, grimacing wryly or casting their upturned hands apart or scratching their heads, and Lee tilts hers like a depiction of unbalance. As the gestures subside Janet says “Any more questions?” and Alex is the first to laugh.

  CARLA

  “He was a good man, your Bertie. I was proud to have him on my team. I could always rely on him to do the job, not like some of them, and he’d go the extra mile for anyone. It saddens me to say it, Mrs Batchelor, but that’s how he came to leave us. Another driver let a fare down and your Bertie was on his way to pick them up. I’m not saying he was speeding, but I understand the police were, and you’d think they should have had their siren on. There’s still a dispute about who had the right of way at the crossroads, but I don’t think it can make any difference now, do you? We mustn’t blame our friends the police for what happened to your daddy, Carla. They were only trying to catch a bad man. Just so you know, Mrs Batchelor, I gave the driver who let me down his walking papers, though that won’t bring your Bertie back. At least we know he’s with the Saviour.”

  “We pray he is, Mr Randal. Tell Mr Randal what you do before you go to bed.”

  I felt awkward telling him, and I was afraid that if I opened my mouth a giggle would escape. Just now his visits to our house were the only thing that stopped my mother crying, but I kept remembering how my father had made fun of him. I thought he had at least twice as big a head as its features needed – his small eyes were set close together, and he didn’t have much of a nose or mouth. I had the idea that the size of his mouth was the reason his voice was so high, and that his face had squeezed his shock of curly blond hair out of the top of his head like froth. At least he wasn’t using any of the phrases my father used to say he did. I couldn’t stay quiet while he and my mother expected an answer, and so I said “Pray daddy’s gone to heaven.”

  “It’s no laughing matter, Carla,” Mr Randal said, because I hadn’t managed to hold my voice quite steady. “Remember God sees everything you do.”

  “I expect the child’s nervous, Mr Randal,” my mother said, though I thought that was truer of her. “And she’s bound to be upset for a while.”

  “Shall I tell you what you ought to think, Carla?”

  I was old enough to know I wasn’t meant to take this as a question. “If you like.”

  “Please excuse her, Mr Randal. Of course she wants you to.”

  “Carla, everything that happens is what God wants to happen.” He glanced at my mother as if she’d objected, and said “Everything that’s not a sin.”

  I was wondering what I needed to be excused for, and found out as soon as he’d gone. “Don’t ever let me down like that again,” my mother said so furiously it seemed to dry her tears up. “Mr Randal’s a kind man and you’d no reason on God’s earth to laugh at him.”

  This felt disloyal to my father’s memory. “Daddy did.”

  “He just needed to be cheerful when he was doing so much for us, God rest his soul.” I thought my mother was trying to convince herself, and then she turned on me again. “Never you mind what grownups do,” she said. “Your poor father’s been taken from us, so just you be grateful his boss is being such a saviour.”

  Soon there were more reasons I was meant to be appreciative. Mr Randal brought me sweets whenever he came to visit, and gave my mother cuts of meat from a butcher, the brother of one of his drivers. I felt as if he was trying to improve on the presents my father used to bring home, and one day I overheard him lending money to my mother while the payment of my father’s life insurance was delayed. I managed not to laugh at him any more except when I was in bed and nobody could hear, though I hoped my father might be hearing. Laughing at Mr Randal felt like keeping my father alive somewhere closer than heaven.

  When my mother walked me home the day before the funeral she behaved as though she’d brought me a surprise. “Mr Randal is taking us in his limousine,” she said.

  She was making it sound like a treat for me, but I thought he was trying to outdo my father again. “Keep your feet off Mr Randal’s seats,” she said when he drove us in the car that smelled laundered, though I hadn’t put them anywhere near. At the church he went in Father Brendan’s pulpit to talk about my father. He repeated all the things he’d told my mother about him, which made me feel he’d rehearsed a performance. When he joined in the hymns we had to sing he kept trying to deepen his voice, but every time it sprang up high. My mother couldn’t hold hers steady, and so as not to laugh at Mr Randal I pretended I was crying like her, only soon I didn’t have to pretend.

  After the mass he came with us to the grave, holding most of his umbrella over my mother while I huddled against her. It was raining so hard that the ropes the undertaker’s men were using to lower the coffin
nearly slipped through their hands, and when it landed in the grave it made a noise like squashing rotten fruit. My mother seemed not to know what to do, and so Mr Randal dropped soil on the coffin, which upset me more than the rest of the day had. “He’s throwing mud at my daddy,” I cried.

  “I hope nobody thinks I’d do any such thing. You should never do that to anyone, Carla.”

  While I felt he was accusing me of more than I could grasp, I thought he was warning me not to denounce him. My mother threw some earth as if she had to copy him. “You as well, Carla,” she whispered, but I fled out of Mr Randal’s shelter and kept away from the grave, even though I was instantly drenched. He followed me with the umbrella and ushered us to the limousine, but I saw people throwing earth into the grave and thought they meant to cover up my father so he’d be forgotten. At the wake my mother sent me to take sandwiches around to everyone, but I could tell she had more to say to me. Once the mourners and Mr Randal had gone, she told me off for running away from the grave. “I can’t imagine what Mr Randal must think of you,” she said.

  I tried not to care, even though he seemed to want to treat me like a daughter. He had no children of his own and wasn’t married. He kept bringing me bags of sweets, till my mother said “You’ll be turning her into a little pig, Mr Randal.”

  “Plump’s attractive too,” he said and touched my mother’s arm. “Call me Malcolm.”

  I thought these sounded like the sayings my father joked about, but my mother simpered at them as if she’d forgotten she was a grownup. “Then you’ll have to call me Elaine,” she said.

  He started bringing her flowers as well as meat, and every time she said he shouldn’t, except the way she said it meant the opposite. They made the house smell like a graveyard, reminding me of the wreath he’d collected money from his drivers for. He’d put a notice on it saying In memory of Bertie, our reliable friend who lived up to our name, from all at Reliablest Cars. I’d thought it looked more like an advertisement for his firm than a tribute to my father, and now I felt the flowers he brought my mother were an advertisement for himself.