Ghostwriting Read Online Free PDF Page B

made me cross the room and pick it up, gratified that Beauregard should have chosen this volume from the hundreds of others.
    As I flicked through the pages, I became aware of marginalia scribbled in biro on each page. I carried the book towards the lamp, sat down and studied the tiny handwriting. It seemed that Beauregard had closely read almost a hundred pages, and every one of them was crammed with questions, exclamation marks and bold underlinings.
    Simplistic rationale, read one note, and another: This simply doesn’t work – why would she react like this, when on the previous page she agrees to accompany him? I turned a few pages and read: The characters of this story are manipulated by the author to propel the improbable plot.
    At the end of each story was a neat summation. In one quick reading Beauregard had seen through the artifice of plot to the tale’s fundamental weakness. It was a humbling experience to have the faults of one’s hard labour so expertly dissected. At the end of one story, on the remaining blank half page, he had written: Why the compulsion to achieve such artificial completeness? If art is to reflect life, then in literature a story should not be wholly resolved; there should be threads left which beguile the reader’s intelligence and imagination with tantalising and inexplicable possibilities. Charrington’s work is yet another reflection of his crass, obsessive-compulsive materialism...
    I returned the book to the floor, my face hot with a strange mix of emotions. Beyond rage at the desecration was the beginnings of a shame I found difficult at first to admit to, for while Beauregard’s marginalia might have been cruel, not to say callous, it also approached an unpalatable truth.
    I retired to my room. It was a long time before I felt myself drifting into sleep, my mind considering Beauregard’s words. I hoped that he would not bring up the subject of my literary failings in the morning. I had survived for years with the knowledge of my inadequacy: I told myself that my work was not literature, but entertainment, and that it was popular. For a long time I had salved my conscience, and excused my laziness, with the fact that my work sold, and I enjoyed writing it: I would leave literature to minds finer than my own.
    I was awakened in the early hours by a sound emanating from the study. I regained consciousness slowly, wondering if I had indeed been woken by a scream, or if I had been dreaming. As I listened, I made out the occasional raised voice. I climbed from bed and pulled on my dressing-gown. As I left the room and descended the stairs, I made out a pulsating blue light leaking from beneath the door to the study.
    Still half asleep, I moved towards the door. I paused and listened. I had not been mistaken: I made out two voices. One was a woman’s, the other a man’s – Beauregard’s, I guessed, though he was speaking in so low a tone I found it hard to recognise.
    I could only make out the occasional word.
    “Then... here ... impossible!” said the woman. I could not discern the reply.
    I reached for the handle and turned, meaning to open the door a fraction and peer inside. However, though the handle turned, the door would not open: it appeared to be prevented from doing so by something placed against it on the other side. Frustrated, I considered knocking and enquiring what was going on. However, something stopped me – some inchoate fear that I would not like what might be revealed if he answered my summons.
    Presently the voices ceased, the blue light diminished. I stood for a time, undecided as to what to do next, and finally retraced my steps to bed and soon fell into a deep sleep.
    I awoke at eight, as usual, and it was some seconds before I recollected the events of the night before. I recalled finding my book covered with Beauregard’s caustic comments, and then I remembered getting up in the early hours... But had I? In the cold light of day it came to me that the