A Ladder to the Sky(75)

Nicholas sat by my bed for more than an hour, reading sections from The Go-Between in a quiet voice. I’d told him once that this was my favourite novel and he’d remembered, which was sweet of him. Whenever he took a break from reading he held my hand. He told me that I’d helped him enormously with his work and he hoped that I would recover. He said that the afternoon we’d spent together remained very special to him, that he’d never spoken about it with anyone including, he pointed out, me.

Still, it touched me that he visited. None of the other students did. I wonder what they were doing, what they were writing, who they were reading. I wonder whether any more of them have secured agents or publishers. I won’t be there to read my name in their acknowledgements, will I, Maurice? I bet you take a few of them under your wing, though. That would be just like you. You’ll identify which ones are the most likely to make it and attach yourself to them as a mentor. And they’ll love you for it.

Which brings me to my last visitor, my agent, Adele. She came to see me and cried a little before talking.

‘You were such a wonderful writer,’ she told me. ‘I think you would have been magnificent if you’d had the chance to live longer. I knew when I first read Fear that I’d found someone special, the kind of young novelist that every agent hopes to find. I only wish we’d received something more from you. You told me that you were writing in Norwich—’

I was, Adele.

‘You said you’d been working on a novel for the last two years—’

I was, Adele.

‘But it seems that you weren’t being honest with me, were you, dear? You could have told me the truth. That you were blocked. Frightened about being unable to repeat the success of Fear. Maurice told me everything. How you’d been struggling and felt that a year being around creative young people might help you. But it only made you worse.’

And you believed him, Adele?

‘I hope you don’t mind, dear, but we went through your laptop, looking for something, anything that might be salvageable. But there was nothing. Just notes for stories and all the old drafts of Fear. And a blank Word document titled NOVEL 2. I opened that file with such hope and when I saw that it was empty, that’s when Maurice told me the truth. He was very upset about it, poor man. But at least we have one novel from you, and I’m going to make sure that it stays in print for as long as possible. And, my dear, I don’t know if you can hear me or not, but I think you’d be pleased to know that Maurice himself is about to have a great success. I read a proof copy of The Tribesman last week and it’s simply magnificent. Easily the best novel I’ve read since … well, since yours, in fact. It actually has a little of you in there, I think he must have picked up on some of your style, which is a lovely epitaph.’

If it sounds like me, it’s because I wrote the fucking thing!

‘He’s dedicated it to you as well, did you know that? The first words you see after the title page: To my darling wife, Edith. Without you, this novel would never have existed. Isn’t that lovely? I know I’m not his agent – Peter Wills-Bouche is so lucky to have him on his list – but I’m going to do everything I can to see that the book is a success. It will be his success, of course, but at least it will be a testament to you. For ever.’

Things feel very different today, and I’m not sure why. There have been more nurses coming in and out, and a lot more doctors. Mum was in again earlier, crying, and this time when she left she kept telling me over and over how much she loved me and how she always would. There was a lot of talk between unfamiliar voices, and various checklists were being attended to.

And now you’ve arrived. You’re standing over me, looking down, holding my hand. I can see you, Maurice. Handsome as ever. More handsome, perhaps. Almost everyone else is leaving and now there’s just you and one doctor left and he’s asking whether you’d like a moment alone with me and you say yes.

What is it, Maurice? What do you want to tell me? That you’re sorry? That you love me? That if you could go back in time, none of this would ever have happened?

You lean down and whisper in my ear:

I’m going to be the greatest novelist of my generation.

That’s it? That’s what you wanted to say, you fucking idiot? Jesus Christ! Did you ever love me, even for a moment? You must have, once, because when we met you were the famous one and I had barely started out. There was nothing in it for you then. You must have loved me once. You must have.

You’re calling the doctor back in now and nodding at him. But why? He hasn’t asked you anything. I can’t see him, he’s disappeared to the left of the bed, where the machines are. Where everything becomes too blurry for me to focus.

I can hear switches being turned and the wheezing of an artificial breather as it starts to slow down, and that’s when I realize. You’re turning me off, aren’t you, Maurice? You’re turning me off. You’re killing me. To protect yourself and, more importantly, to protect your novel. My novel. Your novel.

I see you.

You’re reaching down and taking my

that thing at the end of my arm

holding it now

your fingers



ginfers



nifris

I can’t see you any more

there’s no light



no sound