Bronte's Inferno IV (All Things Happen for a Porpoise)

‘Your latest book iss magnificent.’

‘So magnificent my publisher doesn’t want it.’

‘All things happen for a purpose.’

It came out like “porpoise”, I stifled a snigger and wondered if anyone had ghosted Flipper’s autobiography back in the day. The Editor’s face changed, the eyes flashed, his cheeks becoming more prominent although I had not thought that possible. Maybe I’d smirked, surely he wasn’t reading my mind?

‘You can make a living from writing. We can help you. We have helped people like you … many timess.’

‘Oh, I get it. You’re one of those vanity publishing scammers. Pretty bold turning up Eye-Are-Ell, fellah.’

He surged forward in the chair; my coffee spilled, the mug rolled off the table and shattered on the tiled floor. Maybe the café had been the Old Fire Station’s lavatories. He sat back just as suddenly and began to laugh. I didn't notice which of Kyle or Amanda cleaned up the mess.

‘IRL – in real life. That iss very funny. No. We are not a vanity publisher. Far from it. We do not want your money.’

He punctuated each word with an outstretched index finger pointed at my heart. Thanks be, it wasn’t loaded.

‘But you do want something?’

I finally found out what “askance” really meant.

‘Well, don’t you?’

If he didn’t say something sensible I was going to be on my toes and back home creating new accounts for everything from Facebook to Fox News. Maybe I’d leave that one be.

‘Everyone wants something. Whether it iss what they need iss another matter. I – We would need you to become invisible.’

‘Oh yes? You know what that would cost in bandages?’

‘You try my patience, Mr ____.’

He used my real name for the second time. No-one knew that the Rafe Sabatini who had written ‘Kyphotic Hall’ and ‘Mississippi Moffat’ was really me, not even the people who worked at Untethered. Most had moved on, and with those that hadn’t I had used a series of cut-outs that Le Carré would have blushed to include in anything about The Circus. No, I was the second best kept secret in publishing, after the mysterious Italian woman who wrote books about not very much. No-one knew me and no-one cared, except The Editor and I – and I wasn’t too sure about me.

‘Mr ____, I think you know very well what I mean. You would be expected to eraisse your on-line life. No profiles anywhere. Nothing. You will become a kind of ghost writer.’

‘How much? I’d need a lot to write a footballer’s autobiography. It’s not the writing, see. It’s the listening to the self-centred struggle to express themselves.’

‘What about a bottlenose dolphin?’ Again that humorless laugh.

‘£100 a click.’

‘I wass joking. No, we will publish your work under entirely fictitious names –‘

‘Been there, done that.’

‘Not like this.’

He stood suddenly. I flinched.

‘Keep the card. You will call me. I can meet you anytime… ’ He looked around. The Arkwrights busied themselves in the kitchen.

‘But maybe not here.’