The Storyteller's Muse

  ‘And why did you start playing saxophone, Billy?’ Peter posed.

  Billy nodded, conceding his point. ‘Yes, all artists aspire to leave a legacy that will inspire those who will follow, but when I’m dead I don’t plan on possessing others to keep doing it.’

  ‘That’s because you plan to rest in peace, Mr Boyle,’ Peter speculated. ‘But for some reason Em cannot rest in peace. Perhaps some injustice was done her that has not come to light?’

  Billy cocked an eye. ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that. Perhaps you’re right. If I couldn’t rest in peace, I’d probably be looking to bring to light the reason why. Still, it doesn’t detract from the fact that Em has quite possibly murdered in order to achieve that end. You just be careful, my lad.’

  It was unclear to Peter how he could take precautions in this instance, but he agreed with Billy nonetheless. Perhaps the whisky was getting to him and making him feel all philosophical, but Peter had to wonder if, when he looked back on this instance at some future date: would he feel pride in his persistence, or regret his naivety?

  WRITERS’ GROUP

  It had been inspiring having Billy stay a few days, and Peter felt Fabrizia and Gabrielle would be thrilled that he’d collected enough information to at least tell them the ending of 4 Kismet Way.

  Throughout Billy’s stay, Peter’s sleeping hours had continued to be haunted by dreams of Em trying to lead him somewhere and enlist his help for something, but the details of the quest remained hazy. If only he could speak with her in his waking state, then perhaps he would get some good solid leads. Fortunately Billy had slept soundly — perhaps Em didn’t recognise him, or felt him too old to be of service to her any more? Peter did intend to seek out and visit the residence at 4 Kismet Way as Billy had shown him exactly where in the city the dwelling was to be found. He didn’t really expect to find any clues still residing there, but it would be good to just feel the atmosphere of the place where he suspected Em’s story had unfolded.

  Peter had literally just walked in the door of Penelope’s house after dropping Billy back to the home, when the phone started ringing. ‘I’ll get it!’ he called to save pulling Mrs Eddington from whatever she was doing.

  ‘Hello?’ Peter was getting used to the weighty handset of the antique phone now and rather liked it, as you never wanted to stay on the line for very long.

  ‘Peter?’

  ‘Yes, Peter Lemond speaking.’

  ‘Peter, it’s Denise Yin. I hope you don’t mind me chasing you down, I got this number from Fabrizia.’

  ‘Not at all, Denise. I’m delighted you would call. What can I do for you?’ Peter was quietly dying of excitement while attempting to sound completely casual about the fact that an award-winning, international bestselling author was giving him a second thought.

  ‘It’s about our little writers’ group. We’re getting together for dinner on Thursday and wondered if you might like to join us?’

  ‘I certainly would!’ Peter was overwhelmed; when she’d made the offer at the funeral he didn’t actually think she’d make good on it.

  ‘Congratulations on landing yourself in Fabrizia’s stable, by the way, very well done.’

  ‘I’ll say, considering I haven’t actually written a word yet.’ He felt more than a little uncomfortable about that.

  ‘That must have been one hell of a synopsis!’ She laughed.

  ‘I didn’t even realise I was doing a pitch.’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing with Fabrizia, anything you suggest or do may be commissioned as a book.’

  ‘I am honoured in any case,’ Peter allowed, ‘both with my new agent and your lovely invitation.’

  ‘So pleased. There’s this wonderful little café bookstore down from me, called Caf-fic. We all love it because you can buy books at all hours.’

  ‘Fantastic.’ Peter jotted down the name. ‘What time?’

  ‘About six?’

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  ‘Splendid. See you then.’

  Peter was suddenly very thankful that Penelope had insisted he buy some decent clothes. Speaking of which, he really did have to do something about moving his things out of his old rental apartment and winding up the lease, not to mention handing in his resignation at the hospital — that would be the next few days blown. But after that, and dinner with the writers’ group, there wasn’t anything on his agenda and he intended to keep it that way. He planned to lock himself in the library and he wasn’t coming out until he nailed at least the first twenty pages of this story.

  By Thursday evening Peter was exhausted from moving house; fortunately he was a bit of a minimalist and didn’t own much furniture. His apartment had always been just somewhere to crash between shifts, and it wasn’t exactly an inspiring atmosphere in which to create a novel. At Penelope’s place he’d have to beware of just the opposite: it was so peaceful and away from it all, the temptation was to just sit back and enjoy. There was no deadline to race against — the only pressure to write this novel at present was the one he was imposing on himself and that pressure was immense, and growing with every day that passed without a word being put to paper. Despite champing at the bit to get started, and despite his exhaustion, Peter was really looking forward to hearing some wise words and writing tips from well-seasoned authors — any advice at this point would not go astray.

  At the chic little late night café, Denise and two other writers had arrived ahead of him and had already been shown to a table. Denny greeted him warmly, and he was surprised to see that her hair had changed in colour from red to pink since last they’d met, but it too served to highlight her deep green eyes. Denise introduced him to Tamar Ruban — a sweet, unassuming little woman who wrote historical fantasy, and Joe Jackman, who wrote eco-thrillers and was dressed all in denim.

  ‘Boo!’

  Peter and Denise were startled by a gentleman who crept up behind them. ‘And this is Spooky Burns. You’ll never guess what he writes?’

  ‘I know what he writes.’ Peter shook the hand of the dishevelled-looking fellow who, even in his expensive clothes, managed to look like a vagrant — his long, greying hair and scruffy beard had a lot to do with that. ‘Horror. I’ve read you, and watched every TV series. Sorry to sound like a crazed fan, but I am really.’ Peter shrugged off any embarrassment.

  ‘Well, it’s good to have a newbie at the table; we’ve not had a chance to eat one of those in a while.’ His Scottish accent, combined with his gruff voice, made Peter smile as the horror master winked and moved on to greet Joe and Tamar.

  ‘He’s kidding,’ Denise assured Peter as they finally took a seat at the table.

  ‘Where’s Books?’ Spooky asked.

  Spooky was not the man’s real name, it was a nickname he’d picked up from telling creepy tales as a kid, and it had stuck with him for so long that no one knew his true name.

  ‘Fred’s just finishing a scene, he’ll be along presently,’ Denise explained.

  ‘Fred E Books?’ Peter gulped. Books was only the most popular dark fantasy writer to emerge in the last ten years!

  ‘Yes indeed.’ Denise confirmed Peter’s awe. ‘He’s on a deadline, but he hasn’t ever missed one of our dinners.’

  ‘I do believe Fred has cut the E out of his name now. Due to the advent of e-books, it all got too confusing,’ Joe was amused. ‘Books claims he’s quite honoured to have had an entire industry named after him, but he hates the idea of reading for pleasure off a screen.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Spooky agreed. ‘Long live the paperback. I wonder who Books is killing, then?’ He looked for a waiter and flagged one over to order a drink. ‘He’s worse than I am, and my characters are lunatics and demons, usually.’

  ‘The only person more murderous than Fred is probably Tamar,’ Joe suggested and they all agreed.

  The sweet little woman gave a sly grin and shrugged. ‘I have two teenage boys who are constantly challenging me,’ she explained. ‘So once I get them out t
he door in the morning, I indiscriminately take out my angst on my characters. First character I meet once I’m in is a dead man.’

  ‘Good technique.’ Peter was immediately fascinated.

  ‘Nothing like a bit of murder to make one feel all shiny and new.’ Tamar sat up tall and smiled proudly. ‘Call it writer therapy.’

  ‘I think we’d have double the number of murders and villains in the world — or in Joe’s case eco-terrorists,’ Spooky allowed and Joe nodded to graciously accept the exception, ‘but half of us just became writers instead.’

  ‘So what’s your poison, I mean, genre, Peter?’ Spooky brought the conversation around to him. ‘Or have you yet to be pigeonholed?’

  ‘It’s a little hard to be pigeon-holed when I haven’t written a word yet. It’s just an idea that I’m researching. I actually plan on leaving here this evening and making a start first thing tomorrow. Do you all have any advice for me?’

  ‘Chocolate,’ said Tamar assuredly, ‘large quantities of it.’

  ‘Easy for you to say, with your waif-like frame,’ Denise jibed.

  ‘Disconnect the internet,’ advised Joe. ‘Which is a little difficult when we’re all meant to do our own promotion these days.’

  Everyone at the table whined in agreement.

  ‘And throw away your mobile phone,’ Spooky added. ‘If you want to be a writer you must not become part of the zombie apocalypse. How can anyone be inspired by life if they never look up from a bloody screen and experience what’s going on in the world around them?’

  ‘Here we go,’ commented Joe. This was obviously a pet gripe with Spooky.

  ‘Well, it’s true!’ He was indignant. ‘Besides, I’m a writer, I don’t want to be found, or spied on by the bloody government. You may as well just carry a personal tracking device everywhere you go! Then you have to charge the bloody things and throw money at them — they’re worse than kids! No offence to you parent types.’ He aimed the apology towards Joe and Tamar.

  ‘None taken.’ Tamar, seated beside him, gave him a squeeze. ‘We all know children are your worst nightmare.’

  Denise considered her response to Peter’s query, as she sipped at her bright pink cocktail. ‘My best advice? Let me see . . . Treat writing like a regular job, have working hours, stick to those hours, and make sure everyone you know understands you are working and are not to be interrupted. If you don’t take yourself seriously, no one will.’

  ‘That’s good advice,’ Joe agreed, holding up the bottle of wine he’d purchased to offer Peter a glass, and Peter gave a nod to accept.

  ‘The only difference between writing and a regular job,’ Tamar held up a finger to stipulate, ‘should be that you can go to work in your pyjamas — that’s my favourite job perk.’

  ‘Alongside being paid to sit around and daydream all day long.’ Spooky got his drink and his spirits clearly lifted.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Denise. ‘My teachers told me that daydreaming would never get me anywhere . . . how wrong were they?’ She held up her glass for a toast. ‘To daydreamers,’ she proposed.

  ‘To us!’ they all responded, clinking glasses.

  ‘Ah, my people!’ Fred Books announced his arrival, spreading wide his arms at the end of the table. ‘How are the merry misfits this evening?’

  Peter was completely awestruck by the charisma of the old gent; you could feel the self-confidence and brilliance oozing from every fibre of his being — you knew immediately you were in the presence of greatness. He was a rather rotund, jolly fellow, who dressed well and obviously enjoyed eating well too.

  ‘And this must be Peter.’ Fred’s attention immediately turned his way.

  Peter was so stunned this legend even knew his name that he rose quickly to address him and knocked his chair over in the process. He wanted to die from embarrassment, but instead, he completely ignored the incident. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Fred; I am humbled that you even realise I exist.’

  ‘Well, when Fabrizia has a premonition about someone, she tells me. It’s a game we play, just to see how often she’s right.’ Fred took his seat at the end of the table, and as a waiter had restored Peter’s seat to its upright position, the embarrassing event was almost entirely unnoticed.

  ‘And how often is she correct?’ Peter sat back down.

  Fred held his hands out to revert the question to all those present.

  ‘Fabrizia is always right,’ they responded in unison, seeming rather pleased about that.

  ‘The sooner you learn that fact of life the better,’ Fred advised.

  ‘Fabrizia is God!’ Tamar stated unequivocally.

  ‘No pressure,’ jeered Spooky, with a laugh.

  ‘Do you have a premise for your yarn, Peter?’ Tamar queried.

  ‘I have,’ Peter ventured. ‘I’m afraid I’m going with the old adage that the butler did it.’ Everyone seemed to find this an amusing comeback.

  ‘An oldie but a goodie,’ encouraged Fred. ‘But don’t tell us anything more. Never discuss your plot lines with a bunch of writers, or anyone bar maybe an editor you trust.’

  ‘Remember what happened to Penelope on her last book.’ Denise nudged his shoulder with hers. ‘It’s not surprising that free-loading bitch was never heard from again. People in this industry have a lot of respect for Penelope, so even if her “co-author” —’ Denise held up two fingers and waved them to imply quotation marks ‘— wrote a masterpiece, no one would publish it.’

  Tamar shrugged. ‘Karma works.’

  Fred finished pouring himself a glass of wine and held it high. ‘To karma.’

  They clinked glasses and drank to that.

  ‘Now, let’s eat,’ Fred insisted. ‘I’m completely ravenous!’

  ‘You’re always bloody ravenous. That is what the E in his name stands for . . . eat!’ Spooky advised Peter, who wasn’t too sure if he was joking or not. ‘But as it happens, I’m pretty damn hungry myself.’

  With a click of Fred’s fingers, a waiter was at their table to take their order.

  Peter didn’t talk throughout dinner, he was learning way too much by just shutting up and listening to the writers’ group discuss the joys and tribulations of an author’s life. The topics ranged from dealing with film production rights, to royalties, tax, touring and promotion; information that would prove invaluable to Peter in the future — assuming that he could achieve his goal.

  It was as they waited for dessert and coffee that Fred looked to Peter to ask, ‘Well, you’ve listened to us all crap on about ourselves all night —’

  Peter held both palms up to assure the legend, ‘It’s a real education for me, I promise you.’

  ‘But is there anything specifically that you need advice about?’

  Peter thought it very considerate for Fred to ask. ‘Actually there is a question I’d like to put to you all.’

  ‘Shoot!’ Spooky invited, and everyone else appeared keen to help too.

  ‘I was wondering, when you are musing or writing a story, do you dream about it also?’ Peter felt a little odd asking the question until everyone at the table answered with a resounding ‘Yes’, or ‘All the time!’

  ‘I wouldn’t call mine dreams.’ Spooky grinned. ‘I think I’m one of the only people I know who actually enjoys having nightmares.’

  ‘I find sometimes, when I’m stuck for what happens next,’ Tamar piped up, ‘that if I just dwell on it before I sleep, I usually wake up with an answer, even if I don’t remember what I dreamt!’

  ‘Me too!’ Denise concurred.

  ‘Ditto,’ added Joe.

  ‘I’ve perfected the art of lucid dreaming,’ Fred boasted.

  ‘What’s that?’ Peter queried.

  ‘It involves maintaining a semi-conscious state when entering into a sleep state, whereby you are aware you’re dreaming and are able to control the events unfolding,’ Fred clarified.

  ‘Wow.’ Peter was excited; that would help his cause immensely. ‘How did you learn to do tha
t?’

  ‘Yes, that would be most helpful.’ Tamar was also keen to hear more.

  ‘It’s just a matter of training.’ Fred shrugged it off as if it were a simple matter. ‘I’d be happy to send you some links to some exercises I used.’ Fred pulled out his phone. ‘Do you have a private social media page? I’ll friend you.’

  ‘I do.’ Peter’s heart had jumped into his throat and was beating so hard that it was restricting his ability to breathe.

  ‘We should all do that.’ Denise pulled out her phone too, and everyone followed suit.

  ‘Thank you, so much.’ Peter was feeling rather overwhelmed. ‘I really appreciate your advice and interest.’

  ‘Think nothing of it.’ Denise waved off his gratitude.

  ‘You are one of the crew of the good ship Fabrizia now.’ Fred smiled as his dessert was placed in front of him. ‘We all take care of each other.’

  Peter couldn’t help but be a little choked up by their generosity. ‘I rather expected authors would be elitist and self-serving, but you’re not like that at all.’

  ‘Self-promoting maybe,’ Joe allowed, ‘mainly because we have no choice in that matter.’

  ‘I think he has us confused with those literary types,’ Spooky proffered. ‘This is genre fiction, lad, and what we’ve realised is that one writer does not an industry make. Not even Fred can keep all of the people reading all of the time. At best we can churn out a couple of novels a year, and no matter how long that tale may be, my avid readers will chew through it in a day and be wanting the next book yesterday.’

  ‘I know, right?’ Tamar could completely relate.

  ‘What are our readers to read for the other three hundred and sixty-odd days?’ Spooky concluded.

  ‘Best to help one another where we can,’ Denise said as she poured her tea. ‘Then we all thrive.’