The Author's Tale

There had been yet another long period of worry, stress, confinement and social withdrawal but all that had now changed, for now. Today was the first face-to-face meeting of the Billabriggy Writer’s Club since the third pandemic. Everyone looked forward to catching up. They were lucky to reserve a table at their usual café as the world emerged from its enforced confinement to re-establish a more normal existence. The neighbouring kerbside cafes were crowded and the roads busy with traffic.

Instead of their former spot, the group found themselves seated outside, around a socially distanced table with socially distanced wooden benches flanked by masked waitresses. A large pergola loomed over them, sentinel to the bright morning sunshine.  Chalked lines sub-divided the pavement, demarcation zones from potentially infected fellow diners.  The table was positioned on the corner where the walls of the café offered some respite from the hubbub of passing traffic and other patrons, allowing sufficient quietude for their purpose.

Barbara, as club president, quickly organised the order of business. Each attendee had been asked to bring along a short story or poem to be read by its author. An order of presentation had been unanimously agreed. The first to present their work would be Sue, followed by Angela, Barry, Kerry, Steve, Bob and finally, Barbara.

Orders were first made for their food and drink thus assuring the full attention of their fellow writers with no one still poring over the menu when each member read their literary offering. A passing teenage waitress curtly noted everyone’s selection, the carefully layered make-up doing nothing to conceal an air of boredom that oozed from her Café Gusto themed face mask. Orders made, Sue cleared her throat, picking up the small sheaf of papers from the table in front of her. She was about to begin when Steve suddenly burst out excitedly, “Look, over there, the next table, isn’t that Gary Feltham?”

“I believe you’re right,” said Angela excitedly, “I knew he lived in the area but to see him in the flesh, wow!”

“Sorry,” Barry said querulously, “I’ve heard of him but don’t know much of his work.”

“What!” Angela exclaimed, “You must know him. He’s famous for his predictions. Over twenty years ago he was writing about things way ahead of their time. He forecast all three pandemics, the discovery of bacteria on Mars, self-piloted passenger planes, the Antarctic wars. He was uncannily accurate.” She stood suddenly, paper and pen clamped firmly in hand, “He’s a legend. I’m asking for his autograph.”

Before anyone could say anything, Angela walked to the next table giving an embarrassingly awkward yet deferential semi-curtsy to her literary hero. The group held their breath, wondering if the famous man would perhaps be offended by the intrusion. However, he seemed to be quite content to listen and, after a few moments, they were amazed to see him walking towards them, a flushed Angela excitedly trailing behind, rather like a child being led to see Santa Claus at the local store.

“Hi, your friend has been telling me all about your writing club and has asked for my autograph. I would be delighted.” He paused for a moment, pensively stroking the one-day growth of stubble on his chin, “I would ask a favour in return.” There was a series of acquiescent head nods from his overawed audience. “You see, I am best known for my novels but, like you, also enjoy writing short stories which, frustratingly, are not so popular. Would you mind taking a look at my latest and giving me some honest feedback? I do mean honest. I won’t be offended by constructive criticism.”

“Do you have a copy on you?” Barbara asked.

“Yes, it’s in my car just over the road, there.” Gary answered, pointing towards a gleaming Porsche.

“Then we’d be honoured.”

Gary crossed to his vehicle returning quickly with a leather folder. “I’ve signed the piece, which you can keep, together with the folder. My email address is inside so you can send me your comments. Unfortunately, for reasons that will eventually be clear, I can’t stop any longer.”

He then placed the folder in the middle of their table, nodding a farewell to the group as he returned to his car, giving them one last wave as he drove off.

The whole episode had seemed almost surreal. Bob, a member of the local dramatic society, who everyone agreed, had a resonant speaking voice, broke the silence. “Would anyone mind if I read the story, aloud of course?” No-one objected.

Meanwhile their orders were emerging from the kitchen. Bob waited until an incredibly large bacon roll, toast, cakes, muffins, tea, coffee, and one milkshake, were deftly placed amongst the mass of papers, notebooks, pens and spectacle cases already covering the table. There was a palpable feeling of excitement. Bob mischievously lingered, until an expectant silence had descended.

‘It was a bright, warm Friday morning when the Billabriggy Writer’s Club met once more, for the first time in over two years. On this particular day, seven of them had been able to attend. The air was tense with excitement as they anticipated comparing the works of their writing friends. Yet a chance meeting  was to have a significant impact on the small band.’

The friends sat there, mesmerised; the story had begun by describing their day in remarkably accurate detail, even including the name of their club. As he continued, Bob began to look increasingly uncomfortable. The story created a detailed portrait of everyone at the table, as though the writer had known them for years. Not simply their physical appearance but even the clothes they were wearing, every moment since their arrival at the café. The listing of drink and food ordered by the group, the very items that were on the table in front of them, created a distinctly eerie atmosphere.

It was a surreal form of déjà vu. No detail had been omitted: the group meeting, the author’s unusual request to read one of his stories, not least the discomfort now felt by each of them. Nothing was said, but each of them asked the same question. How would this end? Bob was now wishing he had not volunteered to read. This was literally becoming strange beyond words.

‘As Bob continued to read, a thousand questions raced through the minds of each member of the Billabriggy Writer’s Club. How could this author see beyond the confines of the space and time of their reality? They were nervous, frightened by the ominously prescient nature of the tale. They were also mesmerised, so much so that no one wanted to move. Each had a need to discover more, as though the writer had somehow reached out and taken control, rendering them simply helpless bystanders in their own lives. The world for them had been reduced to the confines of the group, their small kerbside café table was now the entirety of their universe.

This perhaps explains why they lost all awareness of their less immediate surroundings, they failed to hear the commotion and warning cries of other diners. A driverless, automated delivery vehicle, with its powerful but silent electric motor, was rapidly approaching. They knew nothing of the computer virus which had infected the program overriding the inbuilt safety logarithms. Not until it mounted the kerb amidst the screams of horrified onlookers.’