CHAPTER 7

 

Grose dropped his briefcase onto the table and turned to survey the class. He flashed Jenny a quick smile and then looked towards the back of the class. Slater was there, his eyes hidden behind impenetrable RayBans. The students fell silent. The overzealous ones already had their fingers poised over their laptops, ready to take down his every word. “I hope you’re all progressing with your work,” he said, taking off his glasses and polishing them. “Because that is what this course is about. It’s only by putting one’s work up for peer review that one can improve. And a writer who doesn’t improve will stagnate and die. So criticism is not to be feared or even resented, it is to be welcomed with open arms.” He put his spectacles back on and looked up at the back row. “So with that in mind, is Mr Slater now ready to share his work in progress with us?”

Slater put down his notepad and pencil then stood up and looked around the lecture hall, like a gladiator surveying the Coliseum. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said.

“And is it still titled The Bestseller?”

“It is,” said Slater. He bent down to pick up a backpack and took out several sheets of paper held together with a large bulldog clip.

“I admire your confidence,” said Grose. He sat down, crossed his legs, and motioned for Slater to begin.

Slater took a deep breath, lifted his chin, and began to speak. “I’d kill to write a bestseller,” he said. He spoke loudly and clearly and his words carried across the lecture hall but most of the students frowned as if they weren’t sure what they had just heard. Slater paused for effect before continuing. “I can write. I know I can write. But being a writer isn't enough for me. I want to be the best, the most successful, the most commercial. I want to sell a million copies. I want to be famous, all around the world.”

He paused again and looked at Grose, then smiled. Grose stared back impassively.

“But what I need to succeed is a gimmick,” Slater continued. “A unique selling point. Something that will seize the public's imagination. I have that unique selling point, I know how to write a book that will sell like no other book has sold before. I will - literally - kill to write a best-seller.”

“Mr Slater, what is this?” asked Grose.

Slater ignored the interruption and carried on reading. “So here's what I'll do. I'll choose a victim, someone at random. I'll write about her - yeah, it'll have to be a girl - then I'll kill her. Not for pleasure, not for the kick, but for the book. The bestseller.”

Several of the students began whispering among themselves and those at the front were twisting around in their seats to get a better view of Slater.

“I'll describe everything in the book. What I did, how I did it, but I won't say who the girl was or where the body is buried. But there'll be clues in the book, clues that'll tell where the body is.”

“Mr Slater!” said Grose. “What are you doing?”

Slater looked up from his papers. “What?”

“I said what are you doing?”

Slater frowned. “I’m reading my novel.”

“That is not a novel.”

Slater put his head on one side. “It is. It’s what I’ve been working on.”

“But it’s not a novel. It’s…” Grose threw up his hands. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a novel.”

“It’s my work in progress,” said Slater. “It’s setting the scene for what comes next.”

“But the narrator is you, correct?”

Slater shook his head. “No.”

“I’m confused, Mr Slater. The narrator is talking about writing a bestseller?”

“Yes.”

“And that he’s going to kill to achieve that aim?”

“That’s right.”

“But that’s not you?”

“The narrator? Of course not. Can I carry on?”

Grose waved a languid hand but didn’t say anything.

Slater took a breath, and began to read again. “The trick, of course, is to get everybody talking about the book. Word of mouth is what sells. A buzz, they call it. And what better way to create a buzz than to tell everyone that I’ve committed the perfect murder. I’ll reveal everything. I’ll explain how I chose the victim, how I carried out the murder, and how I disposed of the body. I’ll describe my feelings, I’ll explain what goes through your mind when you take a life, what it feels like to see a human being die in front of you. I still haven’t chosen the weapon. A gun is too easy, too quick, too impersonal. It doesn’t take any skill to kill with a gun. You point and pull the trigger and the technology does the work. A knife maybe. A knife is personal. You have to get close, so close that you can look the victim in the eye as their lifeblood drains away. And the victim. That’s the really important choice, of course. Who do I kill? Whose life do I take?”

“Enough, Mr Slater!” shouted Grose. He got to his feet and walked up the stairs to where Slater was standing.

“What’s the problem?”

Grose took the sheets of paper from Slater. “This!” he shouted. “This is the problem!”

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” said Slater. He sat down and folded his arms.

“You were supposed to be writing a novel,” said Grose. He removed the bulldog clip and held up the papers. “This is garbage. A novel is a work of fiction. This, this is… I don’t know what this is.”

“It is a novel,” said Slater. “First person narrative. Maybe it’s the structure you don’t like?”

“It’s not about structure. Good God man, what are you thinking?” Slater didn’t answer. “You’re supposed to be writing a novel. A story with a beginning, a middle and an end. This isn’t a novel. This is….” He struggled to find the right word. “Sick,” he said eventually. “This is sick.”

“The narrator’s sick. That’s the point.”

“The point?” echoed Grose.

“The point of the book. The narrator’s sick.”

“But you’re the narrator.”

“What?”

“It’s your voice. You’re the narrator.”

Slater shook his head. “I’m the writer,” he said. “Writing with the narrator’s voice. It’s like American Psycho. Bret Easton Ellis.”

“I know who wrote American Psycho, Mr Slater,” said Grose. “Terrible book.”

“It sold millions, though. And it was written from the viewpoint of a psychopathic serial killer.”

“So that’s what you’re doing, copying another writer’s story? There’s a word for that, Mr Slater. Plagiarism.” He handed the papers back. “Can I suggest you rethink this, Mr Slater. The purpose of this course is to produce quality work, work that one day might be publishable. You’re wasting your time, my time, and the class’s time with this drivel.”

Grose was about to walk back to his table when he spotted Slater’s notepad. It was open at a drawing. Grose frowned and picked up the notepad. Slater tried to take it from him but Grose moved the pad away from him. It was a caricature. A man in a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows sitting at a typewriter. Above his head was a balloon filled with question marks. The man had a weak chin and lines across his forehead and heavy bags under his eyes and he looked tired, as if the world was treating him badly and he expected the treatment to get worse. Grose felt his heart began to pound but he resisted the urge to snap at Slater. Everyone was looking at him and he’d gain nothing by losing his temper. “Very amusing, Mr Slater,” said Grose, tossing the pad down. “Perhaps if you spent more time writing and less time doodling you’d be able to produce better work. But somehow I doubt it.”

Grose walked back to his table, feeling the eyes of his class boring into his back. He took off his glasses and turned to face them. He forced a smile. “Right, who else has something they want to share with the class? Hopefully something more akin to a novel this time.”