Peter Lovesey - The Circle

The man with the hairpiece said, 'My gardening column in the parish magazine, if you can call that a success.'

'Of course it's a success, Basil,' Miss Snow said. 'Everything in print is a success.'

'It's about runner beans this month.'

That was it for the successes. They went on to discuss the next item on the agenda: opportunities. Good psychology on someone's part. Leaflets about poetry competitions for cash prizes were handed round. Bob doubted if his rhyming would qualify.

'The report from the chair is next. I don't have much to report,' Maurice said. 'We've been thinking about the programme for the next six months. We can afford another speaker, I think.'

'Get someone better than Blacker, then. He was a conman,' the man with the sonorous voice said on a rising note. A Welshman, Bob decided.

Basil, the gardening expert, said, 'That isn't very kind. He's only just died.'

'Doesn't mean we have to praise up his talk. I agree with Naomi. It was crap. He spent most of the time talking up his tinpot publishing business and the rest of it telling some of us we could make a fortune.'

'He offered to come back.'

'For another fat fee.'

'Not at all. I'm sure he meant to come for nothing. He saw the potential here. Publishers need writers, you know. We're the creators.'

'The talent,' Jessie the success said.

Bob looked around at the assembled talent. To their credit some of them were grinning. Thomasine winked.

'I wouldn't mind hearing from a literary agent,' said a woman who had been silent up to now.

'Wouldn't we all?' Thomasine said.

'I meant as a speaker.'

'Dagmar, my dear, that's an excellent suggestion,' Maurice said. There was skill as well as tact in his handling of the meeting. 'But it isn't easy to get an agent to come along. We tried before.'

'Can't blame them,' Thomasine said. 'They know they'd leave here with a sackful of scripts. The Bournemouth circle had an editor from Mills and Boon.'

'Waste of time,' the Welshman said. 'How many of us write romance? Two, at a pinch.'

'What's your suggestion, then?'

'Me. I'd save the money and organise an outing.'

'Where to?'

'We could visit Kipling's place, Bateman's.'

'Been there.'

'Not with a bunch of writers, you haven't. We could use it as a topic, something to write about.'

'I'd rather like to visit the Jane Austen house at Chawton,' Miss Snow said.

'Each to his own, my dear. Personally, I've had it up to here with rich young men pursued by virgins on the make. If the rest of you want to go to Chawton, fine. "Ship me somewhere east of Suez.'"

'What?'

'A quote. I was quoting Kipling.'

'What about our youngest member?' Maurice the chair said. 'Do you have a preference, Sharon?'

'Wouldn't he love to know? Dirty old man,' the Welshman murmured.

The blonde shook her head. She had spent the entire time scribbling on a pad. Bob had assumed she was writing, but now she'd moved her arm he could see that all she'd produced was a page of doodles.

Maurice decided on a show of hands and the circle agreed that a visit to Bateman's would be arranged later in the year. If it was successful, he added with diplomacy, they might try the Jane Austen house the following year.

'So we come to the exciting part of the evening, our work in progress.' Maurice turned to Bob and almost brought on a seizure — but only to explain, 'We usually take it in turns to say where we are with our writing. If possible, we read something aloud and invite comments. Honest comment, no holds barred.'

'Cliche.'

'What?'

The man with the bow tie said, 'No holds barred. It's a cliche.'

With restraint, Maurice said, 'Would you care to suggest an alternative, Anton?'

'You said it already. "Honest comment."'

'Thank you for that.' It was spoken in a tone that drained it of gratitude. 'Perhaps, Anton, you would like to open the batting.'

'Cliche.'

Everyone except Anton smiled.

Anton said, 'Since the last meeting, I have not done any writing owing to pressure of work.'

Someone murmured, 'Cliche.'

'If you like I could give you ten or twenty minutes on the curse of the cliche in modern English.'

'Another time, perhaps. I happen to know there are members bursting to read out their latest work and I think they should have their opportunity. How about you, Zach?'

To Bob's right there was a movement. The young man with the earring had sunk low in his chair during the early part of the meeting and seemed to be falling asleep. He braced himself, reached into his rucksack and took out a thick, dog-eared sheaf and placed it on the table. So this was Zach. Without any preamble he began to read with extraordinary intensity. 'Gripping the great, razor-sharp, double-bladed axe forged in fire by the ironmaster of Avalon, Madrigor the fearless strode across the narrow causeway that led to the ancient castle on the mount, ignoring the savage east wind fanning his black velvet cloak and the icy sea-spray whipping his leathery calves. He had one objective and that was to vanquish the stinking hordes within and recover the mazarin stone of his ancestor, Godfric, and put its magical powers to noble employment, arming him for the ordeals to come. Not even the massed ranks of the Querulinda would stand in his way now. He was transformed, invincible, super-strong. His green eyes gleamed and his teeth flashed in the glow of the setting sun. If the gods were with him he would prevail over his enemies. True, the opposition were vastly better equipped than he with their vats of boiling oil and their flaming arrows. What did it matter, the terrifying din they made by beating on their shields and chanting war-songs? The archers stared down gimlet-eyed from the battlements, crossbows at the ready, impatient for him to come within range. They were dressed in chainmail and helmets. Madrigor spurned even a shield, relying on his agility, his innate sense of timing, to avoid whatever the enemy cast in his direction. Within himself, he relished the challenge. .'

While the tide of words poured over them, Bob glanced around the table. Not everyone was listening. Opposite him, Thomasine rolled her eyes upwards and gave a slight smile. The owner of the bow tie was looking at a competition leaflet. Two, at least, were rehearsing for their turns, scanning their scripts, their lips moving. Maurice leaned back and checked his watch.

I'm having a ball, Bob thought. This is like nothing else, this bunch of strange people united only by their desire to write. I can't wait to hear what each of them will read out. What sort of book has the chairman written and almost got into print? The doodling blonde? Thomasine, with the twinkle in her eye?

'. . the salt of his own sweat stinging his lips, he hauled himself higher up the rock face without heeding the damage to his bare hands. Another stream of boiling oil hit the outcrop above him and splashed, sizzling behind him. He swayed to one side to avoid a flaming arrow. Having got this far, almost to the great granite wall of the citadel itself, he knew with glorious certainty that the gods had chosen to favour him this day. Without their aid, he would assuredly have been struck down before getting so far. The encroaching darkness, evening's gift to the oppressed, would help him now. He still had to scale the bare wall and surmount the bastion. .'

Maurice the. chair said, 'Perhaps at this point-'

But the torrent couldn't be halted in mid-flow. '. . above which his enemy waited to engage him.'

'Thank you, Zach.'

'Lanterns had been lit along the parapet.'

'I'm interrupting you there because we could run out of time. Speaking for myself, I wish we could go on. You've reached an enthralling part of the story.'

Zach's lips were still moving, though his voice had tailed off.