The Man Who Never Read Novels
Simon Russell met the Man Who Never Read Novels on the train from York to London. It was a bitingly cold day in February and he was due to deliver his latest novel, a suspense thriller entitled The Devil Takes All, to his publisher. He thought it the best of his dozen novels to date, the book which, despite its title, he hoped would bring an end to his being categorised as a horror novelist. It was about a man who, when confronted with a series of supposedly occult events, works gradually towards a rational conclusion.
Russell himself was a rationalist, a man for whom there was always a scientific explanation. And if some phenomenon could not be explained scientifically, then it would be only a matter of time before science came up with the answer.
Carstairs, his editor, often laughed at the paradox that a man of Russell’s unbending materialism should make a living from writing horror stories. Russell, somewhat shamefacedly, defended himself by saying that he had started in the genre as a young man in the ’Eighties, when he had been impecunious and impressionable, and needs must when the Devil drives...
But with this novel, he told himself as he boarded the train, he would break the mould.
~
The carriage was almost deserted. He took a window seat and, as the train rolled from the station, stared out at the frozen river and the frost-shocked trees in the park.
He always looked forward to his London trips. He led a quiet life with his wife Fiona, a university lecturer; long hours alone at the keyboard during the day and calm evenings over leisurely dinners discussing their work. London was an opportunity to meet like-minded individuals and talk shop. He had booked into a comfortable hotel in Kings Cross, and tonight he would make his way to the Groucho club, where he was bound to know someone among the writers and editors who were members.
He opened the novel he was currently reading, an early Graham Greene, and settled back into his seat. The Greene was a much anticipated reward for having ploughed through the manuscript of a good friend, the thriller writer Edmund Perry. Edmund wrote what the media termed techno-thrillers, and while Russell liked the man very much, he found that the novels were too loaded with crass action sequences to make them enjoyable. This, however, seemed to be what a certain section of the public wanted these days, so Russell limited his criticism to faults of plot and characterisation. He had finished the Perry manuscript late last night, with a vast sigh that the labour was at last completed, and he looked forward to beginning Greene’s Stamboul Train aboard, appropriately enough, the 12.02 to Kings Cross.
At Leeds, a dozen passengers boarded the carriage and one of them seated himself across from Russell, who refrained from establishing eye contact and continued reading. He sincerely hoped that the man was not one of those people who considered a journey ill-spent if unable to chat to strangers about whatever superficial subject came to mind. While normally affable and willing to strike up conversations with total strangers, Russell considered certain pastimes sacrosanct: reading was one of those.
As the train pulled out of the station, his mobile went off. He had set it to vibrate, loathing its irritating, pre-loaded jingles, and he answered the summons with reluctance. He was always self-conscious when using the contraption. He felt the stranger’s gaze boring into him as he said: “Hello?”
“Simon. Edmund here. Hope I’m not interrupting anything. I was wondering if you’d got round to reading the latest...”
Russell’s heart sank as he explained that he had finished it last night and would write a report on the novel when he got back from London. He hoped Edmund didn’t want a blow by blow account of the book’s strengths – and failings – over the phone.
“You’ll be in London tonight? Excellent. I’m up to see some film people in the morning. How about a drink at the Groucho and something to eat later on?”
“That sounds like a good idea – but don’t quiz me about the book, okay? You’ll have to wait for the report.”
“That’s fine. Meet around eight?”
Russell agreed and cut the connection, cheered by the thought of meeting his friend. He returned to his book – Greene was expertly introducing the train’s many passengers – and settled himself for a long, enjoyable read.
“Excuse me,” said the man sitting opposite.
Russell looked up. “Yes?”
“I couldn’t help but notice that you’re reading one of the very few modern novels I myself have read.”
Russell stared at the man. “Is that so?”
He was taken aback by the contrast between the man’s obviously educated accent and well-heeled appearance, and the content of his admission. He was perhaps seventy, severely thin but in the full flush of health, and dressed in an old-fashioned pin-striped suit. Something about his face, though, his darting, pink-rimmed eyes and thin-lipped querulous mouth, suggested eccentricity.
Russell decided that he might chat to the man, after all.
“I read it back in ’91,” said the man. “Ashworth, by the way,” he went on, leaning forward and proffering his hand.
Russell shook the limp hand. It was ice-cold. “Russell. Simon Russell,” he said. “Ninety-one? That’s a while ago...”
“And sadly it was the last book by a living writer that I ever read,” Ashworth said.
“It was?” Russell was amazed.
“And before that,” the older man said, “I read just three modern novels.”
“Three?” Russell echoed, disbelieving.
“The Old Man and the Sea – by Hemingway,” he added, as if Russell was not aware who might have written the book. “That would be back in 1961.”
“And before that?” Russell asked, intrigued now.
The man shook his head, sadly, it seemed. “That would be way back in ’46 and ’47. I read two books: The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells, and The Hill of Dreams by Arthur Machen.”
For a few seconds, Russell found himself at a loss for words. At last he said: “But you do read, don’t you? If not living authors, then the classics, the Victorians?” As he asked this, he wondered at the man’s odd reluctance to read living writers.
Ashworth’s hyphen-thin lips stretched in self-deprecating melancholy. “Oh, I read all the classics,” he said, “the Victorians, and earlier – but I honestly haven’t had the experience of enjoying contemporary fiction...”
Russell nodded, non-plussed, and stared from the window for a while at the snow-bound landscape. He thought of the years of joy that modern novels had given him, the worlds they had opened up, the vicarious experiences and insights gained.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he began tentatively, “why is it that you don’t read living...?” He trailed off as he beheld his companion’s bleak expression.
Ashworth stared at him, as if considering something, and then shook his head. “No... I can’t begin to explain. You wouldn’t believe me, anyway.” And he resumed his brooding examination of the winter landscape.
Russell was about to return to his book when something occurred to him. He thought about the books Ashworth had mentioned, and when he had read them. There was a pattern there that was not immediately apparent... and then he had it.
“You said you read the Wells in ’46 and the Machen the following year? Then in ’61 the Hemingway, and the Greene in ’91?”
Ashworth was watching him, his expression non-committal. “That is correct.”
“I hope you don’t think this a rude question,” Russell said, “but why did you choose to read these books when their authors had died the very same year?” Why, he wanted to ask, was he compelled to read only dead writers?
Ashworth shook his head, as if at a loss to explain himself. Then he lay back his head against the rest and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.
Russell watched the performance, wondering what his words had provoked.
“Are you alright?” he said.
“How did you work it out?” Ashworth asked, staring at him.
Russell shrugged. “I’m obsessive about authors’ lives,” he said. “I read all the biographies. I have a thing about dates. Call it a good memory.”
Ashworth looked stricken, but for the life of him Russell was unable to work out why. “I must admit,” he began, “that I don’t begin to understand why you should be put off from reading living—”
Something in the other man’s cold stare stopped him dead.
Ashworth said: “I have never told anyone, before now, of my reason for not reading living writers.”
Russell nodded, his throat dry, as Ashworth scrutinised him.
The old man went on: “I did not, as you say, choose to read the books of recently dead authors.”
“Then–?”
Ashworth returned his gaze to the frozen landscape, and continued speaking. “I left school when I was fifteen, in 1945, when I was apprenticed to an engineering firm in Leeds. I had been a poor scholar, and to my knowledge had never read a novel – not even at school. In 1946, in an effort perhaps to give myself the education in the arts that I so lacked, I decided to begin reading novels... I picked up Wells’ The War of the Worlds on the recommendation of a workmate.” He paused, his eyes on the snow-covered fields, but his thoughts lost in the past.
“And?” Russell prompted.
He blinked. “I read the first few chapters very quickly, and enjoyed them, and a few hours later, on the wireless belonging to my landlady, I heard on the news that Wells had died.”
Russell’s nodded, wondering if there might be a story in this.
Ashworth went on: “I thought little of it at the time, merely remarking upon the coincidence to my landlady.”
Seconds elapsed. The train roared through the winter-still countryside. “And then?” Russell asked.
“I finished the Wells. I enjoyed it sufficiently to try another novel, but it was some time before I read an article about Machen’s The Hill of Dreams in a Sunday paper. That week I withdrew it from the local library. I read the first fifty or so pages, and then...” He stopped, his words catching in his throat.
Russell was aware of his heartbeat, while at the same time his mind was rationalising the old man’s experience as nothing more than coincidence.
Ashworth turned his head, staring directly at Russell. “The following morning I read in the paper that Machen had died the day before.” He paused, licked his lips. “I was scared, Mr Russell. I cannot begin to tell you how scared I was. I told no-one, frightened that they might think me mad. I kept my secret to myself and resolved, from then on, to read only dead authors.”
Russell opened his mouth, but thought twice about trying to convince Ashworth of his naivety. The old man continued: “I was badly affected, Mr Russell. I was very badly scared. I thought myself in possession of some terrible power... You cannot begin to imagine my fear and guilt.”
Ashworth took a long breath, gathering himself for the next part of his story. “I tried to put the past, and the experiences, from my memory. I applied myself to my work, finished my apprenticeship, and was taken on as an engineer by the same firm. I worked hard, and steadily gained promotion. The years passed. I married a wonderful woman – who fortunately had no interest in contemporary fiction. When I was thirty, in 1961, I thought back to 1946 and ’47, and what I’d experienced. I considered myself worldly-wise by now, and considered the reading of those books and the consequences as no more than unhappy coincidence.”
“So you read the Hemingway?”
“And within hours I heard on TV that Hemingway had shot himself.”
A silence came between the two men, notwithstanding the rhythmic drumming of the wheels on the track.
“And in 1991?” Russell said.
“I was foolish. I should have learned from the errors of the past and contented myself with the classics. I should have known what strange and singular power I possessed.”
“But you rationalised what had happened?” Russell suggested.
Ashworth nodded. “Thirty years had elapsed. I began to wonder if, perhaps subconsciously, I had heard about the deaths and only then read these books. I was fooling myself, of course. I knew what had happened. But God knows, I wanted to be rid of the curse.” He fell silent, and then said: “So, knowing full well what I was doing, and fearing the outcome more than you can imagine, I selected an author old and nearing the end of his life... and began reading The Heart of the Matter.”
“And how long after that–?” Russell began.
“That very afternoon I heard on the radio news that Greene had died in Switzerland.” He smiled bitterly. “From that day to this, I have read no work of fiction by a living author.”
Russell let the silence stretch, then said: “You do realise that what you experienced, though appalling, were nothing more than terrible coincidences?”
Ashworth glared at him. “Four times?” he said.
Russell went on: “Four times is nothing. Three of the writers you mentioned were old and nearing the end anyway.”
“And Hemingway?”
“He was profoundly depressed at the time, maybe even mentally unstable. Believe me, it was mere coincidence that you should have read these books when you did.”
“Coincidence? But every time? Can you imagine the effect it had on me?”
“And your superstition and fear would have been multiplied every time the appalling coincidence manifested itself.”
“I always wanted to believe it was coincidence. The rationalist in me truly wanted to believe that, but the frightened child in here...” He gestured vaguely towards his temple.
Russell leaned forward and laid a hand on Ashworth’s knee. “Think about it,” he said soothingly. “How could your reading of these novels result in the deaths of their authors, miles away? There could be no reason, no linkage, no cause and effect. The only rational, scientific explanation there could be is that it was coincidence.”
“Which is all very well in theory,” Ashworth said. “But impossible to prove...”
Russell let the words hang in the air. He thought for a while. “I don’t think so,” he said at last.
Ashworth stared at him. “What?”
“I’m a rationalist,” Russell said, “a believer in science. I’m also a novelist.”
At the word, Ashworth opened his eyes wide and said: “I don’t see...” he began.
Russell reached into his bag and pulled out the large manilla envelope containing his manuscript. He laid it upon his lap.
“I’m confident your experiences were no more than horrible coincidence. Please, so you can gain peace of mind, read this. At least, begin to read it.”
“I couldn’t!”
“There have been greater coincidences,” Russell began. “Four times is nothing...”
For the next half hour, as the train carried the two men through the winter wastes of the midlands, Russell worked at persuading Ashworth. There was something in his fervour, he realised as he spoke, of the missionary in his desire to enlighten, and save, the fear-ridden old man.
Only once did Russell consider the possibility that Ashworth’s story might be a mere tale, a ruse concocted for some unknown reason – but he soon dismissed the idea. Russell felt that Ashworth was too convincing in his recounting of his abject fear, too honest in his retelling of events, to be a liar.
It took Russell perhaps an hour to persuade Ashworth that the only way to rationally abolish his fears would be to begin the novel.
At last he laid the bulky package upon Ashworth’s lap, like an offering, and said: “Please, read it. You have time to read fifty pages before we reach London.”
“But what if...? I mean, I would have it on my conscience—”
“Superstitious fear!” Russell jibed. “For your own peace of mind, read it!”
As Ashworth reluctantly reached into the envelope, Russell stood. “I’m going to find the refreshment trolley. I’ll leave you to it.”
As he moved off along the carriage, he was aware of Ashworth bowing his head over the bulky ream, and he felt something of the satisfaction of an evangelist having made a convert.
He found the refreshment trolley and bought a coffee. Rather than rejoin Ashworth and distract him, he sat and stared through the window. He would let the oldster read for a while, and then rejoin him. He had never felt comfortable in the presence of someone reading his own work, anyway.
He finished his coffee and lay back his head, and the motion of the carriage lulled him into a light slumber.
He was awoken by the deceleration of the train as it drew into Kings Cross. He was disoriented for a second, and then recalled where he was, and recalled too his strange encounter with the old man. Thinking of Ashworth he stood and hurried back to where they had been sitting, half expecting the man to have vanished, the encounter to have been the figment of a dream.
But Ashworth was still in his seat, inserting the manuscript back into its manilla envelope.
“I hope you enjoyed it,” Russell began, taking his seat.
Ashworth smiled bleakly. “It was certainly... different, but I wanted to read on.”
Russell smiled. “I’ll send you a signed copy when it comes out.”
Ashworth nodded. “I certainly hope so...”
Smiling, Russell said: “How long in the past has it taken for the author to...” he gestured.
“Never more than six hours,” Ashworth said. “I sincerely hope—”
Russell interrupted: “Is there some way I can contact you tonight, after eight, with the good news that I’m still in the land of the living?”
Ashworth reached into the inner pocket of his suit and withdrew a retractable pencil and a notebook. He ripped out a page and in a meticulous hand set down a phone number. “The hotel where I’m staying tonight. I’m leaving early in the morning for Southampton. I’m going on a three month cruise of the Caribbean.”
“I’ll phone you after eight,” Russell promised.
The train drew into the station and the passengers gathered their belongings.
They stood, and Ashworth offered his hand. “Thank you for... for your understanding,” he said, but would not meet Russell’s gaze.
“The pleasure has been mine,” Russell said with a formality that, on reflection, made him smile.
They stepped from the train.
The last Russell saw of Ashworth, the old man was a sprightly, old-fashioned figure hurrying along the platform with his suitcase.
~
Russell checked into his hotel, showered and changed and, at seven, made his way to the Groucho club. A few of his fellow scribblers – Brooke and Ballantyne, among others – were slouching at the bar. He joined them, ordered a pint, and joined in the shop-talk.
Eight o’clock came and went without any sign of Edmund Perry – which was no surprise. Perry was one of the worst time-keepers Russell had ever met.
He glanced at his watch and announced to the group: “Well, I’m still alive.”
Brooke cocked an eye. “Expecting a visit from the Grim Reaper?”
“I had an interesting encounter on the train down,” Russell said. “I’ll tell you all about it later. I have a quick phone-call to make.”
Leaving behind him a barrage of quizzical expressions, Russell stepped into the corridor and got through to Ashworth’s hotel on his mobile. Seconds later he was speaking to the old man.
“Russell?” Ashworth said. “Is that really you, Russell?”
“None other. I thought I’d ring to say I’m fighting fit and never felt better.”
“My Goodness,” Ashworth sounded overcome. “My word, what a relief! You can’t imagine what I’ve been through. The second I stepped from the station I forgot all about your rational explanations. You don’t know how good it is to hear your voice!”
“It’s been well over six hours now,” Russell laughed. “Take my advice. Go out and buy yourself a pile of good books for your holiday.”
Ashworth sounded as if he were near to tears. “I will. I will indeed. In fact, I’ll find a bookshop first thing and pick up some of your novels.”
Russell smiled to himself. “You do that,” he said.
“You don’t know how much you’ve helped me, Russell. I feel as if a curse has finally been lifted!”
“I’m delighted for you,” Russell said. “Have a great holiday – and happy reading!”
He made his farewells and cut the connection. He was still smiling to himself when he returned to the bar.
“Out with it,” Ballantyne said. “We’re all ears...”
So he filled the next thirty minutes with the story of his odd encounter, and like the beer it went down well.
At nine, with still no sign of the tardy Perry, they decided to adjourn to a nearby Chinese restaurant and left word at the bar in case Perry turned up late. The following morning, after too many bottles of Tsingtao lager, Russell woke up with a thick head and only fleeting memories of the night before.
He skipped breakfast and made his way to his publishers on Fulham Road, his new manuscript a pleasing weight in his shoulder bag.
Carstairs met him in reception and showed him up to his office on the third floor. It was, in essence, little more than a cubby-hole, filled with the publisher’s latest titles and stacked manuscripts. Every square metre of available wall space was taken up with paperback covers and garish posters.
Carstairs sat behind his desk and Russell eased himself into a swivel chair, delving into his bag for the manuscript.
His editor made his habitual performance of rubbing his hands, as if in anticipation of a feast, and pulled the manilla envelope towards him.
“I’ve been looking forward to this one for a long time,” he said. He would have a quick riffle through the typescript, as usual, and then suggest a decent restaurant.
“Well, I hope you won’t be disappointed,” Russell said. “It’s something of a departure...”
Carstairs glanced at the title page, frowned, and quickly turned to the first page. He flicked through the pages, glancing at the headers.
Then he looked up at Russell and smiled. “Have you and Perry decided to deliver each other’s manuscripts?” he asked.
“What?”
Carstairs laughed. “I don’t know how this happened, but this is Edmund’s latest. Wasn’t expecting it till next week.”
“Bloody hell!” Russell said. “I was reading it for him last thing Monday night. I picked up the wrong bloody manuscript...”
He thought, then, of his encounter with Ashworth on the train yesterday – and tried to dismiss the fears that followed.
“I’ll post the manuscript as soon as I get back,” he promised.
“That’ll be fine,” Carstairs said. “How about the Bistro? I have a little project I think you might be interested in.”
“Sounds good to me,” Russell said, an annoying disquiet spoiling his anticipation.
They were leaving the office when the phone rang. “One second,” Carstairs said. “I’ll just get that.”
As his editor returned to his desk, Russell’s heart set up a fearful hammering.
Carstairs picked up the phone. “What?” he said after a second. “My God...” He slumped into his seat, ashen. “When was that? A heart attack? Jesus Christ, poor Edmund.”
Russell clutched at the door-frame, feeling faint.
Carstairs replaced the receiver and stared at Russell. “That was Edmund’s agent. Edmund died last night. Massive heart attack.”
Edmund... dead? But the man was too vital, too larger than life, to be dead.
It couldn’t be, could it, that there was some link to the events of the day before? Of course not – it had to be coincidence. It had to be...
The world was logical, rational!
But Ashworth had read Edmund’s manuscript, and now the writer was dead. He was assailed by sudden wave of guilt, even though he knew it to be irrational.
Only then did he consider what Ashworth had told him on the phone the night before. The room faded and he slipped to the floor.
“I’ll find a bookshop first thing and pick up some of your novels...” Ashworth had told him.
“Russell?” Carstairs called out, rushing around his desk. “Russell? Oh, my God...”
The last thing Russell saw, before losing consciousness, was his editor reaching out to feel for his pulse.