Dreck

The bestsellers’ rack: the most depressing sight Clive ever gazed upon. Yet a casual observer would never guess by the frequency he subjected himself to it. He flicked through the number one book: a young woman’s voyage of self-discovery. Like there haven’t been a billion of those already. And what was this next to it? Some run-of-the-mill techno thriller. And the number three spot: vampires? Dear God, were they back? Clive sighed, replaced the book on the shelf and left the shop. He could write something infinitely better, but why bother? Publishers don’t want quality, they want the usual formulaic stuff. Anything approaching substance probably never made it past some minimum-wage publishing assistant’s in-tray.

The drizzle outside was fast turning into something more. Clive turned up his collar and hurried into Coffee ‘n’ Chat, shaking the rain from his hair as he gazed about for the others. Jennifer was there, reading Persuasion as she sipped at a herbal tea. He took a seat opposite her.

‘First here?’ he said.

She smiled. ‘As always. Not much point going home before. How are you?’

They exchanged the conventional pleasantries, Jennifer as usual looking like she’d rather get back to her book. ‘Oh, did you hear Phil’s news?’

Clive raised an eyebrow. ‘No?’

‘He mentioned it in the WhatsApp group. You should really go on that sometime. Anyway, turns out he’s getting published.’

Clive sat in stupefaction. ‘Published? You’re sure? Sure he’s not just got an agent or something? Or maybe he’s self publishing.’

‘No, proper, old-school published. Sceptre Books.’

‘But, he’s only been in the circle for six months! He told me he’d never even thought much about writing until recently. And he ends up published while the rest of us have been slogging it out for years.’

Jennifer shrugged. ‘Some people are just lucky I guess.’

Clive nodded. ‘Yeah, luck. I mean I’m sure it can’t actually be any good. Have you seen the bestseller list recently? They’re all such… dreck!’

‘No doubt. Why I stick to the classics. But he’ll be here soon so I guess we’ll have to try to be happy for him. Oh, here’s Dave and Natalie now. Hello, we’re over here!’

Clive didn’t say much in the circle today. This in itself wasn’t unusual; he had little interest in commenting on the others’ work and, after a few harsh exchanges, he only reluctantly let the others know what he was currently working on. Truth be told, he wasn’t really working on anything currently, his enthusiasm for his most recent project having ebbed away as it always did. Still, while he didn’t say much, he did generally make a point of listening, but this time he couldn’t even do that. As soon as Phil started gloating about his publication deal, Clive couldn’t focus on what anyone else was saying. The smug bastard wouldn’t even elaborate on his story, saying they would all have to wait until it was published next year. The conversation then moved on to some inane nonsense Natalie was writing about a governess or something equally unoriginal. Clive was the first to leave, turning down the suggestion of a stronger drink to celebrate Phil’s success. He wished he had Phil’s book to hand right now, just to satisfy himself that it was as rubbish as everything else that gets a publisher’s stamp of approval. He would have to be patient.

There it was, sitting in the new releases section with a cardboard star on the shelf proclaiming it as the work of a local author: No Chance of a Second Chance by Phil Griffin. Well, the title was no surprise; Dave had wrangled that out of Phil some months ago. The cover art wasn’t quite what he had expected when he pictured this moment: a wilted white rose on a black background. His hands trembled as he took the book from the shelf and started to flick through. Damn, this was actually not bad. In fact, it was pretty good. In fact…

‘Oh,’ said Jennifer. ‘First time anyone beat me here.’

‘Took a day off work, thought I’d come down early. Have you read this yet?’ Clive placed the book on the cafe table.

‘Wow, you’re quick off the mark. It only came out yesterday, didn’t it? You’ve read it already?’

‘Twice. Last night and again this morning.’

‘That good, huh? I must admit I read the blurb online but didn’t really seem like my cup of tea. Speaking of which, can I get you anything?’

‘Oh, it’s good, alright,’ he said, ignoring her question. ‘In fact, it’s a story I came up with years ago.’

‘You’re kidding? Phil wouldn’t do that, would he? You think he stole a manuscript off you then?’

Clive shook his head. ‘It never got that far. Just a few notes and some ideas in my head.’

Jennifer smiled. ‘So Phil read your mind and stole your story?’

‘No, of course not! But maybe I mentioned some plot points in the circle.’

‘Clive, you haven’t shared anything more than a character name for years.’

‘Well, maybe he caught a glimpse of my notes then.’

‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ she shrugged. ‘But then remember that class we went to a few years ago? Remember how they said there’s really only, what, seven basic stories and everything else is a variant of those. I mean from what I could tell, Phil’s book is just a modern version of The Odyssey.’

‘The Odyssey? Where do you get that from? It’s about a woman who goes on the run after accidentally killing her father.’

‘So basically like Odysseus doomed to ten years at sea after blinding the cyclops.’ She smiled. ‘Okay, I’ll admit, it is a bit of a stretch. But then, is your story all that close? And even then it’s hardly the most original of plots, is it? Plus, you know as well as I do that the plot isn’t really that important, it’s how good you write it. So did Phil nick any of your turns of phrase or anything?’

Clive chewed on his lip. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe.’

Jennifer took his hand in hers. ‘Look just try to be happy with Phil and stop with all this petty jealousy. He’d be happy for you.’

Phil was certainly happy for himself anyway. The grin barely left his face as he rambled on about glowing reviews, exciting order numbers, book signings and a potential sequel deal should sales match the publisher’s projections. Clive seethed, his hands trembling and his stomach lurching as each smug word tumbled from the man’s lips.

‘That’s enough,’ he cried, rising to his feet. The others stared, nonplussed. ‘I won’t sit here while you pass off my idea as your own and gloat at the wealth and fame this plagiarism is going to win you.’

‘Plagiarism? What are you talking about?’ said Phil, more confused than angry.

‘Please, Clive, don’t do this,’ said Jennifer.

‘No, I’m not going to sit here and act all happy for the man who stole my story.’

‘You stole his story?’ asked Natalie.

‘I did no such thing.’

Clive tensed his fingers. ‘I don’t know how you can sit there and lie so unashamedly. You know what you did. I want you to call your publisher right now and confess. Otherwise I’m going to the police.’

Jennifer sighed. ‘Clive, you can’t go to the police. You’ve got nothing. Let it go.’

‘No,’ said Phil, red-faced. ‘Let him go to the police. Let him get done for wasting police time and then maybe he can apologise to me after a night in the cells.’

Clive scowled. ‘You think you’ve won, Phil, but you haven’t. Everyone’s going to see you for the fraud you are.’

‘Oh for Heaven’s sake,’ snapped Jennifer. ‘Clive, do you want to know what the difference is between you and Phil? Why he’s published and you’re not? It’s because he can actually finish a book rather than just come up with ideas he abandons a week later. Even if Phil had stolen your idea, which quite frankly no-one here believes, then you should be grateful to him because that’s the only way it was ever going to make it to print.’

Clive stared at her, pursing his lips. She stared back, shaking slightly. Phil looked like he was chewing a wasp while Natalie and Dave looked like they wished the ground would swallow them up. A few of the other customers were staring now and the two baristas were having a whispered conversation. Snarling, Clive grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the cafe.

It had taken two weeks, but it was done and it would be worth it. His manager hadn’t sounded like he believed that Clive was ill, but it’s not like he could prove anything.

‘Next, please.’

Clive went up to the desk and handed over the package. ‘I’d like this sent by recorded delivery please.’

‘No problem,’ said the woman behind the desk. ‘What’s the return address?’

‘Same as on the front. I’m posting it to myself.’

She smiled. ‘Let me guess: a manuscript? Another writer worried about someone stealing their work.’

He frowned. ‘Something like that.’

‘You know I heard that pretty much never happens. There’s only like seven basic stories or something so there’s no point in stealing someone else’s story. And let’s face it, most stuff is dreck anyway.’ She blushed. ‘Though I’m sure this isn’t.’

‘Whatever. Just put it through, please.’

He left the post office with a receipt in his pocket and a smile on his face. Let people like her think what they will. He had Phil now.

Fourteen months. Fourteen months of not being able to focus on anything in work. Fourteen months of barely tasting his food; of jogging at night because he couldn’t sleep; of phoning the publisher to check sales figures were strong and that a sequel would definitely be coming out. And there it was, sitting in the new releases section: A Memento for Erica, the cardboard star declaring it as the sequel to the bestselling No Chance of a Second Chance. Hands trembling, he took it down from the shelf and began reading it. No. No, this wasn’t right!

‘You bastard!’

The members of the circle and half the clientele of the cafe turned to him in disbelief as he threw his manuscript on the table.

‘Clive?’ said Phil. ‘Bloody hell, I haven’t seen you in months. What’s pissing you off now?’

‘You know damn well. I read your new book last night.’

Jennifer rolled her eyes. ‘Let me guess: he stole this one off you too.’

He shook his head. ‘Oh, he’s cleverer than that. He knew I had a sequel in mind for my story, but he deliberately didn’t copy me this time because he knew I’d catch him out.’ He pointed to his manuscript. ‘This is the true sequel to my story. Not that nonsense you churned out. You killed Erica off on the second page and then make it about her brother trying to find her killer? A true writer would never do such a silly left-field twist.’

Phil picked up the manuscript and flicked through it, a grin slowly spreading across his face. ‘What is this, Clive? Fan fiction? Well, I’m honoured.’

‘I’m surprised you actually finished a book,’ laughed Dave.

‘A much better book than that nonsense Phil produced,’ Clive snapped.

‘Well, let’s see,’ said Jennifer taking the manuscript from Phil. ‘Hmm, the first page is riddled with typos. Not a great start, Clive.’

‘That doesn’t matter. The story is what’s important. You’ll see it follows on from the original much more naturally. Because, as Phil knows, this is the true sequel to the story I came up with.’

‘So,’ continued Jennifer, flicking through the pages, ‘Erica moves to New Orleans and seems to run afoul of the Cajuns. A bit silly. Plus, aren’t Cajuns out in the Bayou? Did you research this at all, Clive?’

‘Listen, Clive,’ says Phil. ‘I’m sorry you think I ripped you off. But I really didn’t. We must have just come up with a similar idea, is all. Happens all the time. As to whether my sequel follows on naturally from the original novel, well, you can read the reviews yourself. Five stars in The Telegraph and The Guardian. While as what you’ve written is just-’

‘Dreck,’ said Jennifer.