Monday October 1st
Versions, He Wrote
I
The record was lodged
deep down his throat:
REM’s first album.
Murmur, she wrote.
II
Hairy hobbit foot,
severed. No note.
Who was behind this?
Mordor, she wrote.
III
Stuffed in his mouth,
an inspirational quote:
‘Happiness in execution’.
Goethe, she wrote.
I locked up the shed and came back into the house.
I lay on the sofa. The cat lay on me. A youthful Angela Lansbury appeared on the screen. I looked at the television guide: it was an old version of The Picture of Dorian Gray. She was in the role of Sybil Vane. I started watching the film but must have drifted off. She was on stage, singing old music-hall numbers – ‘My Old Dutch’, ‘When Father Papered the Parlour’, ‘A Little Bit of Cucumber’.
The audience swayed along in time, loving it. All of a sudden, the music stopped and the lights went down. Ghostly chimes began to ring out. The band struck up again but this time their accompaniment was more sinister and brooding. Sybil Vane turned and fixed her eyes on me, and began to sing:
Take a little walk to the edge of town
Go across the tracks
Where the viaduct looms
Like a bird of doom
As it shifts and cracks
I recognised it. It was by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. The song continued. When she reached the words:
But hidden in his coat
Is a red right hand
the stage lighting turned red, thunder rumbled, and a bell tolled loudly. She lifted up her own right hand and pointed at me. It was then that I noticed the rest of the audience; their music-hall high spirits had long since disappeared, usurped by fear and anger. They turned their eyes upon me. Terrified, I shifted back in my seat as they closed in upon me . . .
My shout woke me up. The cat slept on as I groped for a custard cream.
I didn’t bother looking this one up in my Dream Dictionary.
Tuesday October 2nd
They’ll be hard at it right now. Mary will be revealing the secrets of one of her six husbands. Kaylee will be kicking the ass of injustice. Chandrima will be lighting up the moon. And Liz will be making the world go weak at the knees.
I’d toyed briefly with the idea of showing my face but quickly reconsidered as I remembered the look on Kaylee’s.
I thought about them all gathered together and redoubled my efforts.
Wednesday October 3rd
DI Lansbury and Sergeant Tuck were back again. Mrs McNulty can’t have seen them approaching this time as I could hear her sawing busily next door. DI Lansbury’s beard sparkled with freshly shampooed lustre.
‘Sorry to disturb you once more, sir,’ he said, ‘but we were wondering if you’d given any more thought as to whether you knew of anyone who might harbour ill-feelings towards Mr Salt.’
‘Oh, still missing, is he?’ I said casually. ‘No, I really can’t think of anyone. Hard to imagine him being given a second thought, to be honest. He was a bit of a nonentity.’
‘You’ve not noticed anyone exhibit strange or erratic behaviour around him. Say, at one of those poetry festivals he’d go to.’ He paused then shot me a quick look. ‘In Saffron Walden, for instance.’
Our eyes locked briefly before I shifted my gaze quickly away. How on earth did he know about that? I fumbled for a reply but his attention had been grabbed by my diary, which lay open at my desk. He leant towards it and read aloud a line from it:
‘ “I wondered whether Liz has ever caressed Toby Salt’s magic flute.” ’
He flicked through more of its pages and then scrutinised its Hello Kitty cover.
‘Is this your diary, sir?’ he asked with faux innocence.
‘Well, it’s more, er, kind of, yes, it is.’
‘Very useful things, diaries! They help to tell us what happened when – if they’re written truthfully, of course. And they can be very revealing of the inner mind.’
‘Quite.’
‘Any chance we could have a look at it back at the station? See if there’s anything in it that can help us track down Mr Salt? Or at the very least it may help us understand what goes on in the creative mind, so we can put ourselves in the poetic shoes of Mr Salt, as it were?’
‘Well, no, actu—’
‘Wonderful! Thank you very much. Tell you what, you’ve only got a few pages left in it so why not keep it for a few more days and we’ll pop by and collect it next week? In the meantime, Sergeant Tuck can see about picking you up a new notebook. We wouldn’t want your writing to suffer while we take this one into custody!’ he said, amused at his own joke.
After they left, I sat back down, closed my eyes, and silently cursed the day – 1st January – I’d started to write this stupid thing.
Thursday October 4th
Last year I spent National Poetry Day wrestling with a pivot table. This year, I am waiting for the dishwasher to be fixed. This is the humdrum, unglamorous side of poetry that is often hidden from ordinary members of the public. Many people have the notion that writing poetry is all about striding across meadows, notebook in hand, or quietly observing the world from coffee-shop windows. It is indeed mainly these things but with unfathomable pivot tables and blocked dishwasher pumps thrown in.
The repair man didn’t turn up until 4pm. All that waiting around in the house for his arrival meant that I couldn’t pay a visit to the shed today. But after yesterday, that was something of a relief.
I note that Toby Salt had been due to give a talk about the nature of poetry today at the Royal Festival Hall in front of four hundred people. Only he won’t be doing that now on account of him being dead.
Probably.
Friday October 5th
crimeweave
upon retiring
from the mafia,
Don Corleone
wove aquatic mammals
out of raffia
i learnt this news
when he made me an otter
i couldn’t refuse
I was shuffling around in my dressing gown when there was a knock on the window. It was the Man at Number 29. He gestured towards the top of the street with his thumb. There was the bin lorry and I’d forgotten to put my bags out. Five frantic minutes later, I collapsed back inside following a successful carpet-slippered pursuit of the lorry. How the mighty have fallen!
After that, I couldn’t settle to much. In the end, I accepted my fate and curled up on the sofa with the cat, watching films all day – Godfather I and II, The Wicker Man and Ring of Bright Water – drifting in and out of sleep and yet more unsettling dreams.
Saturday October 6th
Quite why Dylan wanted to visit Buckingham Palace, I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to say goodbye to his English ‘heritage’ before he left it all behind. Or perhaps it was more personal than that; a subconscious impulse triggered by buried memories of childhood bedtime stories. He used to love it when I’d read A. A. Milne’s The Christopher Robin Versebook to him; his favourite poem was ‘They’re Changing Guard at Buckingham Palace’ and we’d often talked of going there although we never quite managed it. Until now that is.
The palace was being renovated; there was scaffolding everywhere and many of the staterooms were closed for refurbishment. The extravagance and opulence that remained only served to make the whole place shabbier somehow and it seemed like an apt metaphor for the state of the nation. By the end of the visit, following my running commentary on our surroundings, I felt Dylan had made real progress in viewing what he’d seen through more cynical and jaded eyes.
On the bus back, we took it in turns to give A. A. Milne’s poem an update:
They’re renovating Buckingham Palace –
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
Past understaffed wards and cash-strapped schools,
‘The Sèvres Porcelain sounds really cool,’
wrote Dylan.
They’re renovating Buckingham Palace –
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
The queues were as long as those for food banks,
‘There’s Vermeers, Van Dycks and even Rembrandts,’
wrote Brian.
They’re renovating Buckingham Palace –
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
Outside, the homeless were all moved along.
‘The Grand Staircase, I’ve heard, is cast from bronze,’
wrote Dylan.
They’re renovating Buckingham Palace –
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
‘You know so much ’bout the palace and grounds.’
‘Got a book from the library before it closed down,’
wrote Brian.
Getting home, I considered whether I should renovate my diary, too; give the entries a fresh layer of plaster, slap some paint over them. But unless I ripped the whole thing up and started again, I knew DI Lansbury would see through the cack-handed restoration to the grime underneath.
Sunday October 7th
On Locating the Poetry Section in a Bookshop
Poetry? Let’s see . . . yes, fourth floor.
No, I’m afraid there’s not a lift.
We used to keep them all down here
but they’re ever so hard to shift.
All those gloomy meditations
on the meaning of life and death!
Putting customers off, they were.
Now it’s all celebrity chef
and lifestyle books – they’re selling like
warm focaccia. But, as I say,
fourth floor – sandwiched between Transport
and Religion – out of harm’s way.
I’d rather have bought a book on erectile dysfunction. But the job is done and now I have it (This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave, that is, not erectile dysfunction).
It took me a while to find the poetry section, which had been relocated since I was last in the bookshop and now resided in the quietest corner of the uppermost floor. There was a stack of signed copies of This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave on the table, left over from the aborted book launch. I slipped one discreetly into the middle of the pile of books I was carrying, which included Dante’s Inferno, G. K. Chesterton’s The Innocence of Father Brown, Ian McEwan’s Atonement and a couple of self-help guides on how to beat insomnia.
At the counter, I made it very clear to the bookseller that Toby Salt’s book wasn’t for me but an uncle who I didn’t like very much.
Monday October 8th
How to get Pikachu onto a Bus
Above all, be gentle.
Explain why the journey is necessary
in calm and reassuring tones.
Remember, Pokémon are not natural bus travellers
preferring instead to hide
in the overhead luggage compartments
of high-speed trains.
A double-decker is best.
Boarding a minibus or local ‘hopper’
may result in feelings of claustrophobia
and cause Pikachu to evolve prematurely into Raichu,
particularly should a passenger
be carrying a thunder stone.
Remember to ensure
you have the correct travel documentation
as anime restrictions may be in place
upon designated routes.
If all else fails,
lay a trail of apples to the door
and then quickly bundle him in,
being mindful at all times
of the risk
of electrical discharge.
DI Lansbury’s beard appears to change with the seasons. Today I detected autumnal reds, yellows and oranges within it, hitherto unnoticed. I wondered whether it might sprout snowdrops in January.
He was here again with Sergeant Tuck to pick up my diary.
‘Don’t worry, sir, we’ll have it back to you in a few days once we’ve given it a good read through. Sergeant Tuck has got you this to keep you going in the interim.’
Sergeant Tuck had wrapped it up as if he were giving me a birthday present. The new notebook had a cover which featured some kind of creature from Japanese anime; yellow with red cheeks, black-tipped long ears and a lightning-shaped tail.
‘Sorry about that, sir,’ said an apologetic Sergeant Tuck. ‘They were all out of “Hello Kitty” ones and that was the nearest I could find.’
DI Lansbury picked up my old diary from the desk to put in his briefcase but not before he’d noticed the folder that was underneath it. It was a manila folder, plain and unremarkable, except for a label in the top right-hand corner upon which was written the words ‘Project Death’.
He stared at it for about ten seconds.
‘Ah, would you mind if we also borro—’
‘Go right ahead. Just take it,’ I snapped. ‘Take it all.’
Tuesday October 9th
The thought of DI Lansbury and Sergeant Tuck making free and easy with my diary feels like a violation of my private space. The forensic nature of their scrutiny unsettles me, the embarrassment of a life examined and found wanting.
Wednesday October 10th
How to Read a Poem
Always have a drink in your hand,
preferably a large one
(the drink, not the hand).
Before commencement of reading,
delicately frisk the poem.
It may contain an incendiary device.
Begin at a word of your choosing.
proceeding methodically through the others,
or haphazardly, according to taste.
Wring the meaning from it,
being careful not to cut yourself on a metaphor.
Rinse and repeat several times.
Dispose of it safely on completion
in your nearest radioactive waste depository,
or on a local bookshelf.
I made a start on This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave.
It is only sixty pages long and contains sixteen poems. I had expectations of finishing it by lunchtime but, by the time I put it down this evening, I’d only managed to make it through the first two poems. I have re-read each of these approximately thirty times in an attempt to understand them. This is proving to be a futile exercise. They have now become just a series of unconnected words floating around the page. Two hours alone were spent on:
your bright kimono face and lacquer box remonstrations
in courtly Zenobian tones of sepia. The door closes.
Use me not as your plinth.
I’m finding it harder work than The Guardian Bumper Christmas Cryptic Crossword. I hope there will be a prize for finishing it.
Thursday October 11th
Baby on Board
This badge proud-pinned to my lapel
may proclaim ‘Baby on Board’ but it fails to dispel
the mistrust that sits around me. Suspicion crams
itself into the carriage. They’d rather see me hang.
Me! With my aching back and Monday morning sickness,
these need-to-go-to-bed eyes, and a belly that thickens
beneath my shirt like the skin on a rice pudding,
and causes my trousers to involuntarily unbutton.
Me! A clearly pregnant man in his forties, unshaven
with three days’ stubble who is experiencing unruly cravings
for pistachio ice cream and shredded wheat.
But no, not a single ‘please, DO have this seat’.
I suppose that’s what happens in these post-truth days;
No one believes anything another says.
Inside, I feel something stirring.
I clutch at straps for the remaining journey.
I was standing on a tube train, six months pregnant. No one offered up their seat to me in spite of the badge pinned to my lapel clearly stating my condition. My fellow passengers shifted uneasily in their seats, staring at their feet, not wanting to catch my eye. I glanced down again at my badge. It now read ‘Murderer on Board’.
I studied my fellow commuters more closely. I realised I knew them all; Dave, Martin and Marvin, Mrs McNulty, Tomas, Darren, Dylan, Sophie and Stuart, everyone from Poetry Club and book group, DI Lansbury and Sergeant Tuck. And there in the corner of the carriage, sat next to the only available seat, was Toby Salt. He was caked in blood, head dangling at an impossible angle, while he read the latest issue of Well Slaughtered: The Quarterly Magazine for the Discomfiting Murder Victim. He looked up, smiled strangely at me and gently patted the seat next to me. The train roared into a tunnel, and as a sudden blackness engulfed the carriage, I woke up with a shudder.
I consulted my Dream Dictionary. The dream’s significance seems clear: don’t take a job which involves a lengthy commute.
Friday October 12th
The phone rang. It was DI Lansbury.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but we’ve been reading your diary and we just wanted to ask you a few quick questions.’
Deep breath. Here goes, I thought.
‘Sure. Fire away.’
‘We were struck by the absence of limericks. Is there any reason for this?’
‘Um, not really. They’re just not my thing, I suppose.’
‘He said, “They’re just not my thing, I suppose”,’ repeated the inspector. I could hear Sergeant Tuck scribbling in the background.
‘Next. Did you know that the second line of your haiku for Scorpio on 31st January actually has eight syllables?’
‘No. No, I didn’t.’
‘Sergeant Tuck spotted that. He suggests you may simply want to change that line to “experience angers you”.’
‘Does he? Right.’
‘Another thing, the poem “Bloodshed” on August 27th. Do you realise that the initials of the poem’s murderer, “BB”, as well as standing for “Bible Butcher”, might equally be seen as an abbreviation of your own name?’
‘That’s a coincidence.’
‘He claims it’s “a coincidence”.’ I heard more scribbling. ‘And a very extraordinary one at that! Finally, is it true that you have a tattoo of Enya on your arm?’
‘What on earth has that got to do with your investigation?’
‘Nothing at all, really. We were just curious. But I think we now have our answer! Anyhow, we will be back in touch once we’ve done some deeper intertextual analysis. Goodbye!’
He hung up. I tried to put the conversation out of my mind but it was too ridiculous. All these questions about my diary. It’s as if it’s become a set text for an English ‘A’ level paper.
Questions for Further Study
1. Consider the poem The Day My Dog Spontaneously Combusted.
What does the dog’s tragic death tell you about the author’s attitude towards animal welfare?
2. Discuss how Bilston plays with form and structure in a number of his poems.
Present your answer in the shape of a pipe.
3. How believable is the character of Mrs McNulty?
Use crystals to divine your answer, but please remember to show your workings.
4. ‘I think that I shall never meet / A poem lovely as a tweet’
Discuss Bilston’s attitude towards social media. Answer in no more than 280 characters.
Saturday October 13th
Stuart was back. He arrived with Dylan and then mooned around on my doorstep, grinning broadly. It was World Smile Day today, he told me. But, then again, why shouldn’t it be every day?
‘Not only does smiling spread happiness,’ he went on, ‘it’s physically good for you! It boosts your immune system by decreasing cortisol in your body!’
By this time, I was in full grimace mode. He looked at me, then slapped me on the shoulder and carried on regardless.
‘Cheer up, Brian! Did you know that it takes seventeen muscles to smile but forty-three to frown?’
I began to do some calculations in my head to work out how many it would take to hit him but before I’d finished, he took his leave.
‘Can’t chat all day, I’m afraid! Things to do! Bungee jump! Abandoned poodles!’
Back inside, I saw Dylan eyeing up my Smiths records. I took Hatful of Hollow out of its sleeve and placed it on the turntable.
Sunday October 14th
Tomas called me up and we went for a walk. I told him of Toby Salt’s disappearance and the police’s unhealthy interest in me; how I felt as if they were trying to trap me; how I was worried I might find no way out.
Tomas cogitated for a while.
‘You know,’ he said eventually, ‘Wittgenstein once declared that “a man will be imprisoned in a room with a door that’s unlocked and opens inwards; as long as it does not occur to him to pull rather than push.” ’
‘What are you suggesting?’ I asked. ‘Are you saying that I should investigate what’s happened to Toby Salt?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s up to you. But if you were able to find out what had happened to him, then maybe you will have opened the door.’
‘Tell me, Tomas, do you have a Wittgenstein quote for every occasion?’
He shrugged once more. ‘When we can’t think for ourselves, we can always quote.’
‘Wittgenstein again?’
He nodded.
Monday October 15th
I watched an episode of Sherlock to get myself into an investigative mood.
I thought about Sherlock’s famous precept: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. After that, I started working my way through all the impossible – and mildly thrilling – reasons for Toby Salt to have disappeared: abduction by aliens; time-transported to a Stalinist labour camp; mauled by dinosaurs; carried off by stoats; turned into an actual pillar of salt by a modern-day witch or wizard; and before I knew it, it was time for bed.
Tuesday October 16th
DI Lansbury was on the telephone again.
‘Good afternoon. You do realise that “yurt” is a noun not a verb, don’t you, sir?’
‘Yes, of course. Why on earth are you asking me that?’
‘Everybody Yurts. 29th July. Sergeant Tuck pointed it out. Doesn’t really make sense, does it? People don’t yurt. They stay in yurts.’
I sighed. ‘Is this why you’re calling me?’
‘Ah, no, not really. That was just something that’s been on my mind, that’s all. I was calling because I was wondering whether Sergeant Tuck and myself might pop round again. We have a few more questions to ask you in connection with the investigation.’
‘What kind of questions?’
‘Oh, nothing to worry about, I’m sure. Just a few gaps and other things in your diary that we’re a little confused about. I’m sure it can all be easily explained.’
‘I see’.
‘How about tomorrow morning? About eleven?’
‘Yes, OK.’ He hung up. I took a deep breath then gathered up my cleaning equipment and headed out for the shed.
Wednesday October 17th
DI Lansbury pointed at my diary. ‘And how do you explain these missing eleven days?’
I gave him the line I’d rehearsed on the cat the day before.
‘I ran out of things to say. Writing in a diary every day takes its toll. Especially with all the poems.’
He raised an eyebrow. His right one. Sergeant Tuck was writing away.
‘Not that many poems. You’d intended to write one every day.’
I sighed. ‘It was harder than I thought it would be. Things kept getting in the way.’
He looked disappointed in me.
‘But why then rip the pages out in September? You didn’t do that earlier in the year when you’d had that spot of bother with your new shed and you couldn’t write.’
‘I didn’t like the idea of all that white space in my diary.’
DI Lansbury’s beard looked sceptical.
‘You do know that this is exactly around the time that Toby Salt disappeared, don’t you?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Anyone who might have seen you coming and going during this week? Someone who could confirm you were just going about your normal business.’
I thought about Mrs McNulty. She must surely have seen me going back and forth from my shed.
‘No. There’s no one I can think of.’
DI Lansbury looked over at me. ‘Anyway, what’s that you’re writing?’
‘Today’s poem.’ They both came over and pondered it. It read:
my calendar is a colander
the numbers collect
in the bowl
while
time
itself
drains
through the
holes
‘It’s like your poem “Leak-end” on 13th May,’ said Sergeant Tuck, ‘but not nearly as successful. That original poem, although perhaps a little crass in its construction and naive in its worldview, at least had a semblance of novelty in its mimicry of the slow drip-drip of time. This one here is covering exactly the same ground but in a far less interesting way.’
‘It’s not finished yet,’ I replied testily, ‘Anyway, like I said, it’s not very easy to write a poem every day.’
I saw them out the door and then ripped up my poem. Perhaps if the police spent more time catching criminals and less time analysing poetry, the world would be a safer place.
Thursday October 18th
First, I checked Toby Salt’s Twitter feed. There wasn’t much to get excited about. Promotional tweets mainly, plugging his new book and various festival appearances. A new poem published in Poetry Today. A link to a piece in Speculum concerning the role of political metaphor in contemporary Iranian poetry. Pseudo-intellectual banter with other priests of high culture, deploring the democratisation of the art form. Retweets of praise from Django at Shooting from the Hip. And then, from 5th September, silence.
Next, I called Liz. I had slim hopes that she’d reply. But to my surprise she did:
‘You’ve got a nerve. Have you got our money yet?’
‘I’m working on it,’ I told her. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I messed up.’
‘Not for the first time.’
I let that pass. I asked if she had any thoughts on what happened to Toby Salt.
‘No idea. I haven’t really spoken to him since that evening he was so obnoxious and you tried to punch him but fell over.’
‘Do you think he’s dead?’
‘Maybe. He’s not the kind to hide his light under a bushel for long.’
‘Do you think I killed him?’
‘You?’ She laughed. ‘No, I don’t! Remember, I’ve seen you in action, Brian.’
I let that pass, too, but I sensed a thawing.
Friday October 19th
My Life: A Footnote
* Even in the pages
† of my own biography,
‡ my life would be nothing
§ but a footnote
¶ at the end of chapter 3.
The autumn issue of Well Versed: The Quarterly Magazine for the Discriminating Poet flopped apologetically through the letter box. As I turned to the competition pages, it was a relief not to have to endure the usual metamorphosis of blind hope falling away into eye-opening despair. I was delighted to see that, for once, Toby Salt had not won. Nor had he even been listed among the shortlisted. He had so dominated those Well Versed pages that it seemed at last as if there had been some rebalancing in the poetic cosmos.
I flicked through the rest of the magazine. There was an article on Toby Salt’s disappearance on pages 2 and 3. Pages 6 and 7 were given over to a review of This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave. It got five stars. On pages 13–15 was a transcript of a lecture given by Toby Salt earlier in the year entitled ‘Beauty and Didacticism in 1950s Hungarian Poetry’ and on page 24 there was a feature on his new role as Poet-in-Residence for the BBC. This article, in turn, referenced page 31, where a new Toby Salt poem was displayed, commemorating his appointment.
It didn’t seem fair somehow. Not when I would have given my right arm – and that’s my poetry arm – for a mere mention in a footnote.
Saturday October 20th
Poem for World Sloth Day
He’s snoring as he dangles
from his special branch
by his toes, hanging loose:
he’s tree-hugging and nap-taking,
a long-limbed recluse.
It is World Sloth Day, according to Twitter. Dylan and I celebrated the occasion by watching nature documentaries whilst working on our sloth mindset. Not once did he pester me to go out for a walk or to help with his revision. It would seem that my son is finally doing some growing up.
And so we sprawled on the sofa all afternoon, dunking custard creams into mugs of hot tea, as scenes unfolded involving very different kinds of life on Earth: an iguana pursued across rocks by sinister racer snakes; an Emperor penguin, protecting his egg through the long, bitter winter; and a sloth itself, clinging to his branch as if his very life depended on it.
Sunday October 21st
Poem for World Sleuth Day
Exploring all the angles,
he’s from Special Branch
and his tie’s hanging loose:
he keeps slogging, it’s back-breaking,
this long skim for clues.
It is World Sleuth Day, according to me.
For the modern detective, sleuthing is no longer about dusting for dabs, finding toothpicks in hedges and acting on hunches. That’s old-school. Nowadays, it’s surfing the net for potential clues while trying not to get too distracted by adverts on how to remove stubborn stains from your shed floor.
Toby Salt’s disappearance is getting to be big news: there are features in all the major newspapers. It is widely conjectured that Toby Salt has snuffed it, most likely in suspicious circumstances. Fuelling this view was DI Lansbury:
‘There is one particular line of questioning we are pursuing vigorously,’ he was quoted as saying. ‘A certain gentleman is helping us with our enquiries.’
And a certain diary is helping them, too, no doubt.
Annoyingly, most of the articles go on to mention how well This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave is selling. This strikes me as ghoulish, the way people are rubbernecking at his words like that, while his head lies smashed on the steering wheel at the crash scene that is his poetry collection.
I mean that metaphorically, of course.
Monday October 22nd
Conspiracy Theories
But let us consider this poem more closely.
Given the steadiness of the author’s hand,
it seems clear that it cannot have been written
from the location of the grassy knoll,
as often supposed, but more likely
from the vantage point of an upstairs window,
perhaps even multiple windows. The theory
that there may have been several authors
involved in its composition should not be ruled out
at this stage. For more on the poem’s capacity
to summon evil spirits when recited backwards,
please refer to my YouTube documentary.
Some have questioned whether this is a poem at all
and argue the existence of another poem – a better poem –
that didn’t make it onto the page we see before us.
It is hard to refute these claims.
DI Lansbury and Sergeant Tuck arrived unannounced this time and asked if they could take a look in my writing shed. They believe it may be ‘pertinent to the enquiry’.
‘Well, I’m afraid you can’t,’ I told them. ‘A writer’s shed is his castle. You’ll need a warrant.’
DI Lansbury sighed. His beard rippled gently like a field of wheat in a late summer’s breeze.
‘OK, then, sir. If you’re going to be like that, we’ll get one.’
‘How’s the case going, by the way?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ he replied tetchily. ‘We have a couple of theories that we’re in the process of validating.’
‘Such as?’
‘One is that Mr Salt has been murdered in a crime passionnel. A sudden fit of rage from a rival, jealous of his literary acclaim.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, with as much indifference as I could muster. ‘Although it seems unlikely that anyone could get themselves worked up over Toby Salt. What’s your other theory?’
‘It’s Sergeant Tuck’s, actually.’
Sergeant Tuck stepped forward. ‘Have you ever read Fight Club, sir?’
I sighed. ‘No. You know very well I haven’t.’
‘Well, in Fight Club there’s this character called Tyler Durden. He’s brash and popular and the book’s narrator finds himself in thrall to him. Anyhow, it turns out that Durden himself isn’t real but merely a projection of the narrator’s mind! Durden is simply an imaginary construction who incorporates all the qualities that the narrator would like to possess had he himself been blessed with that kind of talent and self-confidence.’
‘So your second theory is that Toby Salt doesn’t actually exist?’
‘. . . Yes.’
‘Then why are you looking for him?’
There was a long silence, during which DI Lansbury looked at Sergeant Tuck with mounting irritation.
‘We’ll be back on Wednesday with the search warrant,’ he said.
Tuesday October 23rd
I have now reached page 17 of This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave. If information scientists were to conduct a study of my reading habits, they would formulate a law which states that:
The strength of enjoyment derived is inversely proportional to the quantity of words on the page.
Page 14 contained no text at all; my joy was unbridled.
But I continue to persevere: my long-term future at book group depends on it. Also, I can’t help thinking that somewhere in this book is the key to help me unlock the mystery of Toby Salt’s disappearance.
Wednesday October 24th
While they rummaged around in my shed, I continued my online scavenging for clues. I became distracted and was in the middle of creating a poem out of suggested Google searches when they returned.
Sergeant Tuck, in particular, seemed most interested in what I’d written so far:
How can a poet make money?
How far can the human eye see?
How can I fill my dog up?
How soon is now? Search me.
Why does Gatsby stop giving parties?
Why am I always hungry?
Why is the carpet all wet, Todd?
Why do goats faint? Search me.
‘These are all Google searches, you say?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s right. If you type in the first couple of words, Google offers you a list of previous searches other users have made that begin with those same words. I’m selecting the lines for my poem out of those.’
‘That’s quite experimental.’
‘It’s called a “found” poem,’ I told him. ‘That’s when you apply words from a non-poetic context and—’
‘Right, that’s enough!’ shouted DI Lansbury. He looked fed up. His beard was looking slightly bedraggled today. The search of my shed had obviously not gone quite as he’d hoped.
‘Well, your shed all seems to be in order, sir.’
Inwardly I breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Although there were a couple of things . . .’
Inwardly I unbreathed my sigh of relief.
‘It appears you’ve recently had a window repaired. I notice that the glass does not match the frames of the others. Glass broken in some kind of struggle, perhaps? A violent altercation?’
‘Gibbon.’
DI Lansbury laughed contemptuously. ‘With all respect, sir, do you really expect me to belie—’
‘Edward Gibbon, sir,’ interrupted Sergeant Tuck. ‘Author of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mr Bilston threw it at the window on 20th June. It’s in his diary. It was Volume III, if I remember correctly.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said DI Lansbury, even more peeved. ‘Just one more thing. On the subject of books, we found this on your shelves. We thought it a somewhat unusual addition to your garden library.’
From out of his pocket, he produced A Surgeon in her Stocking by Tina Solomon.
My stomach lurched.
‘An unusual book,’ he continued, ‘for someone so apparently erudite as yourself, sir.’
‘Well, we all need a day off occasionally,’ I replied, with a nervous laugh. The inspector eyed me closely.
‘Indeed. Or eleven days,’ he said, putting the book back in his pocket. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take this back to the station with me. I have a feeling this could be important.’
They left. I reached for the custard creams, distractedly.
Thursday October 25th
I was only halfway through This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave but I strode to book group with the unshakeable confidence of a man who knows when a book is unfinishable.
I arrived to find everyone had finished it except me. More than that, they were able to talk about it for three hours. I sat on the fringe of the group, playing with my pistachios, retreating into my shell. Occasional phrases penetrated my outer layer: ‘lyrically fecund’, ‘difficult but enriching’, ‘timeless and yet so now’.
My silence hadn’t gone unnoticed and, when the evening had finished, we all knew it was over for me. ‘Bye, Brian,’ one of them said, ‘hope to see you around some time. Oh, you’ve dropped something.’
I stooped to pick up the postcard that had fallen out of my book, inserted it back between its pages, then walked out of the door and away from book group for the very last time.
Friday October 26th
Pumpkin
he carried a candle for her
and so she would call him
‘pumpkin’
that his head was huge,
fleshy and orange
were further contributory
factors
On my way back from getting some new materials for the shed, I stood back to admire the sight next door. Mrs McNulty’s front garden explodes with pumpkins at this time of year (not a euphemism). The jagged, jarring noise of her wood-sawing temporarily makes way for the restrained and civilised muffle of her pumpkin-carving. She loves Halloween and makes a big effort with jack o’ lanterns, fake cobwebs, skeletons and (what is presumably) fake blood on her driveway.
I always feel a little sorry for her, though. She never gets any trick-or-treaters; parents have long memories and tell their children to give her house a wide berth at Halloween, particularly after what happened to poor Susan Watkins in 2007.
Saturday October 27th
Sangue Sulle Tracce
[translated from the Italian]
Pepe lies dying in the arms of Carlotta by the side of the running track. Enzo’s javelin is embedded deep within his chest. Pepe’s vaulting pole lies forgotten on the ground. The 3000m steeplechase continues around them.
Also, I am bleeding profusely
so please stay for a while
and hold me, my pretty heptathlete!
Be mindful of the javelin
that protrudes from the very heart of me.
How it pierces me so!
Careful! There is blood on your running vest!
You may find yourself disqualified!
The judges are harsh here.
And now for one final time
I must launch myself into the sky.
Oh, do not cry, my little athlete.
I hear them calling you.
It is time for your shot put.
Leave me now and let me jump.
After I’d taken Dylan back home, I met up with Darren. He’d entered a competition and won VIP tickets for a modern opera, entitled The Pole Vaulter of Turin. We watched it from one of the balcony boxes. Our tickets meant we avoided the crowds and the queues and got served first at half-time. Darren pointed to his ticket and said the phrase ‘access all arias’ ten times in the course of the evening.
Neither of us had a clue what was going on. It was like This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave with added wigs, make-up and mezzo-sopranos. The only scenes I vaguely understood were the death ones, of which there were six, although I had no understanding of who was dying, or for what reason.
Everywhere I go, it seems, death is never far behind. It never used to be like this. Perhaps Mrs McNulty is right after all.
Sunday October 28th
I know I should be doing all I can to establish my innocence with DI Lansbury and Sergeant Tuck but it feels like I’ve reached a dead end. I left messages with Mary, Chandrima and Kaylee to see if they might have any theories about what may have happened to him but unsurprisingly none of them have called me back.
I reached for the crossword instead. There were still seven clues I had yet to solve. I looked at the most recent words I’d written into the grid from a few weeks ago – APANTHROPY, LOGANAMNOSIS, CLEPSYDRA. I could no longer remember what any of these words meant. I stared at it for ten minutes until the black and white squares began to swirl in front of me like a revolving chessboard and I threw it on the floor in disgust.
Why did I bother with it?
Monday October 29th
Haiku Horrorscopes
| Aries | Virgo |
| That decision not to believe in poltergeists comes back to haunt you. |
You let a vampire into work. Boss furious. Get it in the neck. |
Taurus | Libra |
| You are invited to a skeleton party but meet nobody. |
Your day is awful. Chased by flesh-eating zombies. Leave brolly on bus. |
Gemini | Scorpio |
| Please be aware of the whereabouts of werewolves. Treat with wariness. |
Trick or treaters call. You choose trick. Oh the horror! It’s Mrs Brown’s Boys. |
Cancer | Sagittarius |
| Murderer at large. Eat your cornflakes with caution. Cereal Killer. |
Good news! Islanders want you as their special guest at wicker craft show. |
Leo | Capricorn |
| Is the world a blur? Curse the day that you were Bourne? Possessed by Damons. |
You’re buried alive with your phone. Get top score on Candy Crush Saga. |
Aquarius | Pisces |
| Evil ghostwriter forces you to read his book: Life of Michael Gove |
Morrissey’s ghost calls. His one concern: some ghouls are bigger than others. |
Mrs McNulty has posted her customary Halloween horoscopes through the door. She has highlighted Cancer with a green marker pen. It reads:
At this time, the Moon–Jupiter opposition straddles your natal Ascendant–Descendant and your Vertex lies forebodingly conjunct with Venus. Meanwhile Neptune is conjunct the 9th house cusp and opposing the 3rd house cusp. It may be an idea to start saying your goodbyes to the loved ones around you while you still have the chance.
On a brighter note, Pluto and its associated penumbra is conjunct your antiVertex and you may find yourself being paid an unexpected compliment.
This is the most positive forecast that I’ve received from Mrs McNulty for some time.
Tuesday October 30th
On Tender Hooks
Let me cut to the cheese:
every time you open your mouth,
I’m on tender hooks.
You charge at the English language
like a bowl in a china shop.
Please nip it in the butt.
On the spurt of the moment,
the phrases tumble out.
It’s time you gave up the goat.
Curve your enthusiasm.
Don’t give them free range.
The chickens will come home to roast.
Now you are in high dungeon.
You think me a damp squid:
on your phrases I shouldn’t impose.
But they spread like wildflowers
in a doggy-dog world,
and your spear of influence grows.
To my surprise, Kaylee answered my call.
‘What you been up to, Bri? You been robbin’ the British Legion of their poppy fund?’
I could sense some hostility in her tone.
‘You got our money yet?’
‘Nearly.’
‘Anyway, you got anything important to say or is this just a curtsey call?’
I asked her about Toby Salt and whether she had any ideas what had happened to him.
‘Dead as a doorknob, I reckon.’
‘Why do you think that?’ I asked.
‘Far gone conclusion. His book’s only just published. People want to talk to him about it. He loves himself too much to stay away from all that voluntarily.’
‘What do you think happened to him?’
‘Murdered, I s’pose. Half a million people get murdered every year. That’s one a minute. I know these things. I wrote a poem about it once.’
I remembered. ‘But who could have done such a thing?’
‘Dunno. Maybe someone had taken a dislike to him. Jealous, maybe. Couldn’t stand the thought of him being so successful. Decided to extract his revenge on him. Can you think of anyone like that, Bri?’
She put the phone down on me and I was left alone with the silence.
It was a mute point.
Wednesday October 31st
I opened the door to a vampire, a werewolf and Donald Trump. Dave, Martin and Marvin shouted ‘TRICK OR TREAT!’, holding out their sack, but reared back a little when they saw me.
‘Cool outfit, Brian,’ said Marvin.
I looked down at myself. I was wearing nothing out of the ordinary, although I had slipped a tank top on, as the cold weather had begun to bite.
‘Norman Bates!’ said Martin. ‘Brilliant.’
I was about to correct them but thought better of it.
‘Oh, you know. Halloween,’ I muttered.
I could hear Mrs McNulty cackling next door. I gave them each a small sandwich bag containing a solitary custard cream and was pleased to see their disappointment as I did so.