CONNIE....... A collaboration with Gordon Lewis
The Tip-tap of a typewriter was clearly audible as the man climbed the stairs and, as he approached apartment number 34, the tapping stopped with a ring of the typewriter's carriage bell.
The nameplate below the number was that of a Miss C.Josephs. With a rat-tat-tat upon the door the man stood back in anticipation but was rewarded with the sound of silence.
Knocking once more, louder this time, he was rewarded with some response as a voice called out... "Who's there?"
"I am John Prentiss, a telephone engineer from the telephone company. We're having to check all the phone lines in your block of flats. If it's inconvenient I could call back later."
The door slowly opened to the extent allowed by the door-chain, and there in the space above, was the face of an attractive young woman.
"Can I see your identity card please?" she asked.
The man produced his card and handed it to the young woman.
Satisfied with his credentials, Connie unlatched the door chain to open the door wider.
The man pushed his way into the flat then shut the door behind him.
Taken completely by surprise, Connie hadn't time to scream before a hand was clasped over her mouth.
"Keep quiet Miss Josephs, this is not what it seems — I don't want anything that is tangible, like money or goods. What I'm after cannot be seen or felt. It is what you know. That's what I want."
The man's voice had reduced to a harsh whisper. His features — hidden from Connie — creased more into the semblance of a mask than a real face.
Connie had bangs — and dressed in a long red over-all, with black boots poking from the bottom. She had been cleaning the bathroom before clattering the keys of her typewriter, in an attempt to record a few notions that had just drifted, unannounced, into — and then from — her mind. She wrote novels, some of which had done reasonably well, although not yet hitting the big time. Her mode of creativity was first doing the household chores followed by the opening of her imagination's valves and simply waiting for the next machinations of her latest plot to reveal themselves.
Yet, today, nothing had really flowed. And certainly nothing had stuck. She had gazed longingly at the telephone's handset in its cradle, hoping it would spring into life, with, say, an old school pal wanting to chat. That would absolve her, at least for a while, having to stare at the frighteningly empty page which, by then, should have been full of fruitful words.
It had, therefore, been quite a relief to hear knocking, followed by her own automatic 'Who's there?' although anybody would have done — almost.
A telephone engineer seemed to be the optimum interruption. She fleetingly recalled Samuel Taylor Coleridge entranced by writing the visionary poem KUBLA KHAN — only to be sent off course by that now famous 'Visitor from Porlock.'
But this seemed no friendly visitor from a nearby town. This was someone who wanted evidently to do worse that merely prolong the agony of a writer's block. This seemed more like a plot from one of her own vicious thrillers.
The man swivelled her round to face him; removing the cruel mask in one fell swoop of a wink, then a smile.
There seemed to be no menace in the face revealed. His harsh voice had changed to soft comforting tones as he urged young Connie not to cry out because he had no intention of harming her in any way. He hadn't hurt the girl, and as he slowly released her, anger boiled over and her eyes flashed as she said:
"Why didn't you just say you wanted to talk to me? To pick my brains you say. I don't know you and I should merely ask you to leave, but you have stirred the author in me. What do you want from me? It better be good enough reason for your violent intrusion."
"It has to do with your most recent novel, the one entitled 'AN AYE FOR AN AYE'. The plot had something so like something that happened to me it could well have been the biography of part of my life. So much so, I would like to know where you obtained the information. What happened to 'Frank Lloyd' was almost word for word my experiences of a year or so ago — so startingly similar you must have someone in the know with the local police force."
"It has to be merely a coincidence," she replied. "I can assure you all that was written in the novel was entirely from my own imagination. But what you have said intrigues me. Perhaps you can tell me what has happened to you subsequently. Perhaps it will give me some inspiration for a sequel to 'AN AYE FOR AN AYE'."
Connie could not believe what she had just said. Playing along with someone who was probably a dangerous lunatic was bad enough — but actually, beginning, as she were, to believe there was some element of truth as to his stated reason for the frightening intrusion at number 34 was a lunacy even greater, perhaps, than his.
"The sequel, you say, Miss Josephs."
She nodded, wishing desperately that she had not mentioned a possible sequel. Frank Lloyd — who first appeared in AN AYE FOR AN AYE — was due to meet, she was sure, a nasty end in the sequel she'd only, as yet, vaguely considered writing. It may well turn out to be her next novel, the one due to be written after the plot with which she was — between household chores — currently tussling, with false start after false start of wasted A4 sheets. She glanced at the bin of crumpled shapes.
She had, even now, tried to avoid using a word processor. An old-fashioned typewriter was more her thing — temperamentally. Yet, naturally this created far more work without the facilities of 'saving' and 'amending' which a computer-driven contraption would have provided. Indeed she was satisfyingly closer to the action with keys clattering against the paper one after the other, in quick succession, like tiny fists.
She shook her head. It was strange what thoughts come in the unlikeliest of situations. The man, by now, was sitting at her typewriter, staring at the paper that was curled into it — paper which was not empty at all, but full of a jumbled words she had been fooling herself were worthwhile additions to the fitfully developing scenario in her head.
"This is not the sequel, then?" he said with the soulless mask returning like a caul.
"No, Frank Lloyd is due to regather his existence" — a strange turn of phrase, she thought — "in the novel after this one." She sounded calmer and more sensible than she felt. She was determined to ride the storm. She felt faintly ridiculous in the red overall.
"What's going to happen to him, then? You got it planned out, yet?" He abruptly appeared fidgety, even panicky.
"No, I've not even given it a moment's thought, I'm afraid. I'm more concerned with what I'm doing now."
"This doesn't look much good to me Connie. (I can call you that, can't I?) Doesn't seem to make much sense, given the words you've written." He closely pored over the paper, as if he were short-sighted.
"It's only a draft, You interrupted my..."
"Your brainstorming?"
"Yes, That's a good word."
The conversation was flat, forced — but it was genuinely becoming a fluid exchange between the autonomous individuals, human beings extremely wary of each other.
"You know my name," said Connie, "I feel disadvantaged not knowing yours, and I am still puzzled as to your first approach. I have to admit I would probably have kept my door on the safety chain had you not pretended to be a representative from the Electricity Company."
"My name is Roger Prentiss and I am truly sorry for that show of violence, but I had to see you to find out about the novel you wrote."
"As I had never met you before," said Connie, "you have to believe the part that coincided with your life was simply that, an astonishing coincidence."
With that there came a knocking on the front door of the flat. Connie went to open the door, and as she expected, there stood David Thomas, a man friend of hers.
"Hello David," she said as he entered the apartment, and turning to Roger, she went through the formalities of introducing him, and, without mentioning the forced entry, she said:
"It is possible we may work together on a sequel to AN AYE FOR AN AYE."
"Surely," said David, "you'll not need a collaborator — I'm not at all sure that would be a good thing for you to do."
"He'll not be a collaborator in the strict sense of the word, he is merely going to provide some suggestions for part of the book. I have had some difficulty in starting to write as you can tell by the screwed up pieces of paper around my desk. Some fresh ideas may kick-start me off in a follow from my last novel, which ended leaving a way open for a further novel using the same characters, maybe some new ones too."
Connie indeed failed to mention Roger Prentiss' forced entry. She could not even fathom her own motives. David — who had just arrived — was someone she liked, might even grow fond of (one day), but she could not find it within herself to reveal Roger's initially unwelcome visitation to No. 34. David was ostensibly her saviour from this potential maniac, this imputed character from one of her novels — yet she did not, could not come clean. What was going on here? Not only was the entry forced, but the conversation since David entered the flat had also been forced… even false. None of the words in the exchanges had rung true. They failed to convince. She decided to change tack… but David intervened with a conviction none had yet managed to muster:
"What the hell are you talking about, Connie? Who is this bloke?" David stabbed a finger towards so-called Roger Prentiss. "Are you actually telling me that he's a writer? He doesn't look like any writer to me."
Connie knew this at least rung true. Roger did not indeed look like a writer. Perhaps more like the Electrician he had originally claimed to be. Yes, thinking about it, Roger would be well cast as an odd job man rather than one of the arty set with whom Connie and David usually mixed. Something had gone wrong with Connie's story. She kept a straight face, though — managing to splutter out a few words which bore a provenance of truth.
"Roger's a fan of my novels, David. He wrote to me... and after a few phone calls I invited him over since he seemed to have some wonderful ideas. I knew you were coming here today, David, so I invited Roger over at the same time. I meant to tell you. Roger arrived a little early… also you were late."
She held her breath. It had taken a lot to lie so convincingly. She even believed what she had just said.
Roger nodded. David shrugged, before saying:- "Well, you better get on with it. I thought we were going to the zoo, today."
"Yes, the zoo. Why not? I'll finish off with Roger, then we can go." Connie smiled, relieved that her words continued to hold water.
"The zoo?" interrupted Roger. "The zoo, yes, it could be a significant part of our plans. Perhaps I'll go there, too. Not together with you two. But separately — and we can compare notes later."
Agreement was reached; Roger left with a deft reference to AN AYE FOR AN AYE, proving he was not an ignoramus regarding the intricacies of its plot... Convincing a surly David as to a genuine claim to be Connie's fan.
After Roger left, Connie and David said very little of significance to each other — a set piece of small talk. They, too, left No. 34 for the zoo, after fitful sips of coffee.
* * *
The couple's visit to the zoo was a pleasant experience, but to Connie it was more than that. She had started work on her next novel which had as its theme a zoological gardens, something she had hinted to Roger Prentiss. Whilst Connie and David meandered around the zoo they were surprised that they had managed to avoid bumping into Roger, for which David was more than thankful.
Roger Prentiss wondered, too, why he didn't encounter David and Connie, as he traipsed around the smelly zoo, so it was simply a series of coincidence that the protagonists kept missing each other amid the maze of cages. Roger speculated on how such a zoo was allowed to subsist — especially with terribly small cages and crowded enclosures. Even the seals seemed to writhe in and out of each other like eels.
He mopped his brow. Why had he taken upon himself to visit Connie? It was ever dangerous for characters such as he to approach potentially vulnerable women...
Roger felt himself to be almost a nonentity and he needed the self-confidence granted to others simply noting his existence. He had tried many writers before approaching Connie Josephs. They had all supplied a tiny bit of himself. Now Connie was to be resposible for the final version of Roger Prentiss... as an electrician or handyman.
He had not, however, accounted for her friend David. The latter's arrival at No.34 had put the cat amongst the pigeons — a complete shock, although Roger hadn't appeared to show it at the time. He could not even recall feeling such shock. Perhaps, David had been like him… once. A barely sketched out individual, yearning for fruition as a fully fleshed-out fellow.
Roger idly watched one of the zoo-keepers sweeping down an elephant... one which idly tried to bust a concrete block with its hefty wallop of a foot. Then — from the corner of his eye — he saw a camel stalking primly across an expanse of grass which didn't seem enclosed. Had it escaped? He vaguely glimpsed — after directing his gaze upon the beast — a rider bobbing up and down, arms wrapped around the hump. But then Roger shook his head. There was no rider at all. The camel indeed was a joy-ride being led by a young girl towards a queue of little people.
* * *
David left Connie at the zoo gates. He was due to carry out some investigations in the library for the next part of her current novel. He often did such jobs for her. An amanuensis — or, even a ghost-writer,
Connie waved at him. They had just seen a sight which had left them with an impression of magnitude and mystery. A stuffed mammoth in the museum part of the zoo, a beast that the owners had called Kubla Khan. It was one of the big attractions. She wondered if it were real. Mammoths, surely, had been extinct for almost forever, hadn't they? She shrugged.
She eventually arrived back at No.34, still breathless after running from the bus. She half-expected Roger Prentiss to be there. She entered and found her writing which had been interrupted earlier. Who knows where the plot would have taken her...
She touched the light-switch. And a vast charge coursed through her body. She zig-zagged. The last thing she heard was the trumpeting as of some jungle bememoth.
David Thomas had stopped writing in the library. And smiled. The novel was finished. And already the next plot was forming in his head. The next plot, that is, for his 35th novel. Another blockbuster.
