I was carrying the typescript with me. I came in and sat down and saw now that he was looking very pale, almost in shock. ‘You’ve heard,’ he said.
I nodded. There were articles in all the newspapers and I’d heard the author Ian Rankin talking about him on the Today programme. My first thought when I heard the news was that he must have had a heart attack. Wasn’t that what most commonly struck down men of his age? But I was wrong. Now they were saying it was an accident. It had happened at his home near Framlingham
‘It’s terrible news,’ Charles said. ‘Absolutely terrible.’
‘Do you know what happened?’ I asked.
‘The police rang me last night. I spoke to a Detective Superintendent Locke. He was calling from Ipswich, I think. He said exactly what they’re saying on the radio – an accident – but he wouldn’t go into any more detail than that. And then, this morning, just a few minutes ago, I received this.’ He picked up a letter that had been lying on the desk. There was a roughly torn open envelope beside it. ‘It came in the morning post. It’s from Alan.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Of course.’ He handed it to me.
The letter is important so I am including an exact reproduction.
1.
ABBEY GRANGE,
FRAMLINGHAM,
SUFFOLK.
28 August 2015
Dear Charles,
I don’t like apologies but I wasn’t on my best form at dinner last night I will admit. You know I’ve been out of sorts recently and I didn’t want to tell you but I might as well come straight out with it. I’m not well.
Actually, that’s putting it mildly. Dr Sheila Bennett at the London Clinic has all the details but effectively I’m about to be killed by the biggest bloody cliché on the planet. I have cancer. It’s inoperable.
Why me? I don’t smoke. I hardly drink. Both my parents lived to a ripe old age etc etc. Anyway, I have about six months, maybe more if I go for chemotherapy and all the rest of it.
But I’ve already decided against it. I’m sorry but I’m not going to spend my last remaining days plugged into an intravenous drip with my head halfway down a toilet and my hair all over the bedroom floor. What’s the point of that? And I’m not going to have myself wheeled around London literary functions, stick-thin and coughing my guts out with everyone queuing up to tell me how terribly sorry they all are when actually they can’t wait to see me go.
2.
Anyway, I know I was pretty foul to you but in a way our whole relationship has been a profound fuck-up and it might as well end the way it all began. When you and I first met, I remember the promises you made me and to be fair to you, they’ve all come true. The money anyway. So thank you for that.
As to the money, there are bound to be rows when I’ve gone. James isn’t going to be happy for one. I don’t know why I’m mentioning this to you as it’s none of your business but you might as well know that the two of us had more or less gone our separate ways and I’m afraid I’ve cut him out altogether.
God! I sound like a character in one of my own books. Anyway, he’s just going to have to live with it. I hope he doesn’t make too much trouble for you.
On the literary side, things didn’t work out quite the way I’d hoped but we’ve talked about that often enough and I’m not going to waste time rehearsing it here. You don’t give a damn what I think about my career. You never have. It’s one of the things I like about you. Sales. Bestseller lists. Those fucking Nielsen charts. All the stuff I’ve always loathed about publishing has always been bread, butter and jam to you. What will you do without me? It’s just a shame I won’t be around to find out.
3.
By the time that you read this, it will all be finished. You will forgive me for not having spoken to you earlier, for not taking you into my confidence but I am sure that in time you will understand.
There are some notes which I have written and which you will find in my desk. They relate to my condition and to the decision that I have made. I want it to be understood that the doctor’s diagnosis is clear and, for me, there can be no possibility of reprieve. I have no fear of death. I would like to think that my name will be remembered.
I have achieved great success in a life that has gone on long enough. You will find that I have left you a small bequest in my will. This is partly to recognise the many years that we have spent together but it is also my hope that you will be able to complete the work of my book and prepare it for publication. You are now its only guardian but I am confident that it will be safe in your hands.
Otherwise, there are few people who will mourn for me. I leave behind me no dependents. As I prepare to take leave of this world, I feel that I have used my time well and hope that I will be remembered for the successes that you and I shared together.
4.
It’s been quite an adventure, hasn’t it? (Why not take another look at The Slide, just for old time’s sake?) Don’t be angry with me. Remember all the money you’ve made. And here they are – my two favourite words.
The End.
As ever,
Alan
‘This came this morning?’ I asked.
‘Yes. You know, the two of us had dinner on Thursday night. I took him to the Club at the Ivy. This is dated 28 August, which is the next day. He must have written it as soon as he got home.’
Alan had a flat in Fitzrovia. He would have stayed overnight and taken the train from Liverpool Street the following morning.
‘What’s The Slide?’ I asked.
‘It was a book that Alan wrote a while back.’
‘You never showed it to me.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be interested, to be honest. It wasn’t a whodunnit. It was something more serious, a sort of satire about twenty-first century Britain, set in a stately home.’
‘I’d still have liked to have seen it.’
‘Trust me, Susan. You’d have been wasting your time. There was no way I was going to publish it.’
‘Did you tell Alan that?’
‘Not in so many words. I just said that it wouldn’t fit into our list.’ An old publishing euphemism. You don’t tell your most successful author that his new book is no bloody good.
The two of us sat in silence. Underneath the desk, the dog turned over and groaned. ‘This is a suicide letter,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘We have to send it to the police.’
‘I agree. I was about to call them.’
‘You didn’t know he was ill?’