Read Online Murder by the Book by Eric Brown - Free Book Online Page B

…’
    Lassiter laughed; a sound utterly without humour. ‘Good idea. Only trouble is, I’m contracted to my publisher for another three of the wretched things. They take me three months to write, another couple of months to rewrite, and then I have some time off to recover my sanity. Christ, I’ll be at it for another two years.’ He rose to his feet, leaned over to the bar and called out, ‘Another double in this one, Rosie!’ Then he slumped back down beside Langham, rocking the precarious table. ‘I had a nightmare the other night. All I could hear was someone reading out my prose … It was just: “He said, she said, he nodded, she opened the door and ran, he was aware of his heartbeat as he raised the gun …” Jesus Christ! I awoke in a sweat, terrified. Think it was my subconscious, telling me something.’ He twisted his mouth around another slug of whisky and looked at Langham. ‘How do you do it, Donald? How do you wake up in the morning and face another ruddy day at the typewriter?’
    Langham shrugged. ‘We’re different people, Nigel. I …’
    Lassiter focused on him blearily. ‘What do you mean by that? “We’re different people”. I know that, man! But what do you mean ?’ He was tipsy, and a note of aggression had entered his studied Oxbridge tones.
    Langham wondered how to explain what he meant without depressing, or insulting, the man. ‘I think it’s something to do with our backgrounds, Nigel. I left school at sixteen. I never made it to university. To me, writing books was always something other people did, people with an education. So when I began writing and getting published … well, I didn’t think it my right … And I still don’t.’
    Lassiter held up a fleshy hand. ‘Stop. I know what you’re saying. You’re saying … I’m privileged, Winchester, Oxford and all that. I tossed off my first novel when I was twenty-two and it did well, and since then it’s always come easily. And now I’m still cranking them out without care or concern, and I hate myself for doing it … hate my lack of integrity. Is that what you’re saying?’
    Langham frowned. ‘Well, I wouldn’t phrase it quite like that.’
    Lassiter stared at him. ‘And you know what?’ he said. ‘You’re exactly right. Spot on. Comes easily because it always has, and in consequence it means nothing to me … Nothing. Christ, I need another drink.’
    â€˜Let me get these.’
    â€˜You’re a gentleman and a scholar, old man.’
    Langham took the empties and escaped to the bar. Only when he was easing himself back through the press of bodies did he recall what Lassiter had said about a business proposition. What on earth had he meant by that?
    A depressing thought dawned. What if Lassiter wanted him to write the next Nigel Lassiter title?
    He slid Lassiter’s whisky across the table and sat down. ‘You mentioned something about a business proposition?’
    â€˜And so I did! Old brain’s grinding to a halt.’ Lassiter leaned back and regarded him. ‘Occurred to me the other day, reading your latest … I had an idea.’
    Here it comes, Langham thought. How do I say that I’m quite happy writing my own books, and really don’t want to ghostwrite the latest ‘Nigel Lassiter’?
    Lassiter leaned forward and said with the maudlin sincerity of a seasoned drunk, ‘Why don’t we – you and I, Donald – why don’t we collaborate?’
    Langham’s heart sank. If anything, the thought of collaborating with Lassiter was even more dreadful than the idea of writing a ‘Lassiter’ novel solo. ‘You mean, write a book together?’
    Lassiter guffawed. ‘Not together! Not together as such , Donald. Christ, it’s hard enough living with my wife these days. The thought of