When are you seeing the Sontik governor?’
‘I have a plane waiting to take me to Ubesia.’
At the car, he looked at Ofo and said, ‘Belinja tells me you used to write poetry at the Defence Academy.’
‘Still do.’
‘Who’s your favourite American poet?’
‘I’d say Robert Frost.’
‘Give me a poem,’ said Penaka. ‘Any poem.’
Ofo shrugged. ‘“Fire and Ice.”’
‘Okay. I’ll give you a treat from the mouth of the American president. He’s scheduled to address an Island Nations conference next month. Tune in to that speech on CNN; I’ll give you a practical demonstration of my skills as a presidential ventriloquist.’
Ofo kept a polite smile on his face, but as soon as they drove through the gate, he shook his head and joined in the general laughter. Belinja alone was silent.
HUMPHREY CHOW
Lower Largo, Scotland | 15th March, 2005
‘I think I have a solution,’ I said quietly. ‘What if you refunded their money?’
‘I have a cash flow situation here,’ he replied.
‘Let’s say you refunded it; would they still come after you?’
‘Of course not; it’s a bloody business. Once their books balance, we’re quits.’ His eyes widened. ‘You’ll write me a ten-thousand-quid cheque?’
I had to smile at that. The week before, Grace had cut out a job advert for a dog walker and left it on my laptop. I raised my hands. ‘Not so fast. I am a short story writer. I’m sure my agent can get me a decent advance on the basis of your story.’
‘You’ll do this? Just to save your banger?’
‘Not to talk of the innocent people you planned to kill.’
The sarcasm washed over him. ‘How quickly can you raise it?’
‘You’ll have to keep running for a few more days, if that’s what you mean.’
He looked at me suspiciously. ‘You can get an advance of up to ten thousand?’
‘Sure,’ I replied bravely.
He continued to look me up and down. ‘Are you any good? I never heard the name “Humphrey Chung” before.’
‘Chow!’ I moved in polite circles where people snapped their fingers and claimed to recognize my name whenever I introduced myself as a writer, although I was sensible enough never to ask which of my stories they had read.
‘Have you actually published? Never heard of a Humphrey Chan . . . of your Humphrey before.’
‘Yes.’ He was going to persist, so I continued, ‘But then again, nine years of grappling with law exams doesn’t leave much extra time for fiction, does it?’
‘But are you any good?’ he pressed on, refusing to be insulted. ‘How fast can you write it?’
I shrugged. ‘If I’m flowing, three to four hours.’
He stared at me suspiciously. ‘If it was so easy to make ten thousand bucks, we’d all be writing stories, wouldn’t we?’
‘And passing law exams as well,’ I suggested, ‘but then you also need hard work and intelligence, talent and . . .’
His nostrils flared as he shrugged off his rucksack. His face was flushed: I had overdone the sarcasm. I hoped it would be a punch rather than an explosion, but he was only trembling with a renewed greed for life. ‘This bomb pack costs another five hundred pounds,’ he wheedled. ‘I could destroy it. Will you pay for that as well? That would help with my train fare to Lee . . . back home . . .’
I shrugged noncommittally.
It was good enough for him.
* * *
‘I GET the general point,’ I said, stopping him a mere half hour into the story of his life, which seemed an endless succession of drunken nights, vindictive law professors, and stinkers written to his hapless dad. I switched off my Dictaphone and switched on my laptop. We both stared at the blank Word page for several minutes. I cleared my throat. ‘Ah . . . there’s a TV upstairs. Should be more interesting . . .’
He studied me suspiciously. He had found a comb in one of his combat pockets and was grooming his beard. ‘You write better alone, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘War correspondents manage to write well enough with bombs exploding around them . . .’
‘But then again, I’m not a journalist.’
‘You said writers were like journalists.’
‘In our pursuit of facts, not in our writing style. Newspapers are read for a day. My short stories will still be read a hundred years from today.’
He muttered something inaudible into his beard. I chose not to seek clarification. Eventually, he said, ‘Can I see any of your books?’
‘Don’t have any here.’
‘You’re ashamed of your stuff, aren’t you? I know this guy . . .’
Mentally I rolled my eyes. ‘Only new writers carry their books around.’
‘How can I trust you to write my story if I’ve never read one of your books?’
‘You’ll never read anything else either if you don’t stop pestering me! Your killers are probably circling the airport right now!’
He rose with alacrity. ‘Fine, I’m going upstairs. But I’m trusting you with my reputation.’
‘Not to mention your life,’ I muttered.
‘Don’t write me into a monster. Even terrorists are getting good press just now. That Bantu vigilante in Nigeria, he’s all over BBC, isn’t he, and it’s not all bad. I’m just a regular law student who suffered a depression. D’you know how many students break down every year?’
Frankly, I said to myself, I don’t give a hoot.
‘And don’t forget it was my idea to disable the bomb,’ he added, jabbing at my laptop. ‘Write that in as well.’
I ignored him, and he finally got the message. He turned to go, reaching for the rucksack. ‘Leave that!’ I said, too stridently.
‘Why?’
‘I need it . . . for inspiration.’
He hesitated, but I
