‘Yes, quite!’ Nat said, encouraged by her partner. ‘And our ideas, the very ideas of our organization, you have misrepresented them. I’m afraid this will do nothing for our reputation as an international society.’
Is that so, Joyce? Sorry, I mean, Natalie. But one never sees oneself as one is. Do any of us? You of all people should appreciate that. Though, as you lack even a shred of self-examination, or anything that could be regarded as reason, apart from the low animal cunning that drives your every move, then you would realize how loathsome, absurd and sinister both of you, and your ‘organization’, truly are.
And in my defence, I think I have rendered my association with your ‘organization’ with an unnerving similitude. And isn’t this what you wanted: my imaginative interpretation of the wonders within your dear Master’s vision, and of his illustrious society of projectors?
Well, that’s what you got: the truth. And the funny thing is, as the Master has always claimed about his own less well-known ‘work’, besides changing a few names and hair colours, everything in my book is also true. It’s all true. I wouldn’t even call it fiction, I’d call it an account of a truly strange experience.
‘I mean,’ Wendy said, her face quivering with the anger that hadn’t abated since she’d arrived at my door that morning, clutching the manuscript to her body, ‘you’ve spent six months . . . Six months while we have waited and waited for this book, and yet you produce this . . . This Yellow Teeth thing? And whose teeth are these that you are referring to?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Well, Wendy, it usually takes me over a year to complete a novel. But due to the extraordinary pressure of a deadline that you imposed upon me, and the abandonment of the book that I was writing . . . Not to mention the very vivid “material” that I have been privy to since making your acquaintance, I have been unusually inspired and motivated to complete this draft. I was also granted an extension by my publisher to fine-tune those details about the teeth, and other things.’
Wendy entwined her fingers into what looked like a bony mace and shook that knot of hand angrily. ‘But you haven’t changed all of the names! I mean, you are in it. You. You put yourself in the story! This book wasn’t supposed to be about you, it was supposed to be about him and his life’s work. This is unacceptable. It’s not what we asked for. It’s not what was required.’
‘No, it’s really not, Seb,’ Natalie said. ‘You’ve really been a grave disappointment to us. In fact, I am uncomfortably reminded of a similar experience that we had with your friend, Ewan.’
‘Quite, Nat. Quite so,’ concurred Wendy, nodding her head to add weight to their position.
Nat’s own gorge rose. It seemed she’d waited a long time to have a go at someone. I don’t imagine it has been easy living with Wendy for decades, and in that wretched hovel in the grounds of the Tor, in the service of him and the alumni of the API, or the Association of Psychophysical Investigation. At least, in the story, I did change the acronym of the API to SPR – not that anyone beyond a handful of people even knew anything about the API. ‘You promise so much, you writers. And we’ve taken such a close interest in you, and we presented you with a marvellous opportunity, and provided access to miracles, and then . . . you produce this? You have assassinated us. You let us down, you let the API down, you let him down, you let yourself down.’
Wendy now looked at Nat with something approaching surprised admiration, though this quickly turned to what looked like resentment, as if Wendy had wanted to say these very things to Seb, but had been upstaged by her subordinate. ‘Thank you, Nat,’ she said in such a way as to prompt the end of her colleague’s participation in the discussion.
I fought to suppress a smile of satisfaction. My revenge had been sweet and all that I’d done was write an accurate account of my recent experiences. But it would have been foolish to goad them any more. Despite the tone of the novel, I was sure that the publishing advance would deter them from taking revenge. There are times when being a disappointment as a writer is advantageous because freedom is the by-product. ‘You asked for an interpretation of my experience of your organization, Wendy, and from the very moment that Ewan reappeared in my life. You wanted me to depict what you have devoted your lives to: him, Hazzard. Well, this is the honest result. I’m afraid I see you in a way that is remarkably at odds with how you perceive yourselves. And I can only write what I feel compelled to write. I’m afraid, as I told you, I cannot write to order. I have more integrity than that. And it’s not as if he can even read it. So be grateful for what you have.’