Postscript, 18 October
2001
3.00 p.m.
Simplest if I stay out of it, I think. What is there to say? You’re holding it in your hands, aren’t you?
I got four phone messages that day. The first was from Violet.
‘Declan for heaven’s sake where are you? I’ve been trying and trying. Why didn’t you tell me he was going to be there? For God’s sake why’d you dash off with that chap in the suit? Who is he, by the way? Is he someone? Someone else? I love Trent. So much . . . energy, you know? But is Harriet . . . well . . .? She seems . . . Anyway the point is both of them couldn’t stop saying how much they loved the script. I don’t know why the fuck you didn’t do this years ago. They want us to go out to LA. You, anyway, but I mean they are going to screen test me in any case . . .’
The second was from Betsy.
‘Declan, hi, it’s Betsy. Call me back when you get this. They like what I sent them. You have finished it, I take it? Anyway they’ve made an offer. Wonderful news. Speak to you soon, you appalling boy. Bye!’
The third was from Penelope Stone.
‘Hello, Gunn, it’s me. I don’t know. I don’t know what. It was good to see you. Do you think anything? I’m leaving my number. I don’t know anything, now . . .’
Not that there isn’t a story from my end. The drying out, the rehab, the sexual health overhaul. (Test results came back negative, by the way. Clearly, there’s no justice in this world.) Still, best that I stay out of it. Not just because the story of the last two months – from the moment I woke in the tub’s cold water, with the sense that, astonishingly, I’d nodded off on the occasion of my own suicide, to the movement of my reclaimed fingertips over these keys – is a tale of metamorphosis all on its own, but because, let’s face it: some personalities, you don’t bother trying to compete.
I’ve had some decisions to make. Some I’ve made. Some I’ve put off. It’s not easy.
I returned all three of those calls.
The fourth one I didn’t.
I guess it was made in a bar. There were a lot of voices in the background – really a lot of voices – but I couldn’t tell whether it was a party or a punch-up. Could have been anything. For a while – since the caller didn’t speak for several seconds – I thought it was a mobile mistake, Violet groping in her handbag, Betsy with her mind on something else. I was just about to delete the message when a voice – at once alien and deeply familiar – said:
‘See you in Hell, scribe.’
Outside, the sky looked exhausted. A wind had picked up. Dust blew in the courtyard. An empty milk bottle rolled around, like a past-caring drunk. The flat was a mess. I felt terrible.
See you in Hell, scribe.
Well, I thought. Probably.