Death of a Unicorn

I cut him another large slice, found a tumbler and filled it in a greasy little hell-hole of a kitchen. I felt in danger of getting emotionally side-tracked. Ronnie clearly needed taking care of. He was teetering on the brink of that pit of non-coping into which old people so suddenly can fall, and from which there is so little chance of recovery. It shouldn’t be a long-term commitment. If the tenants were as badly behind with their rent as he said there should be no problem about getting them out. He could then sell the house well enough to buy a sizable annuity and could find a small modem flat somewhere . . . But that wasn’t what I’d come for. Later, perhaps. Meanwhile I’d have to find someone to keep an eye on him. But he had a daughter, didn’t he, damn it? Ask about her later. First things first. I was an hour behind schedule already, but still felt I couldn’t afford to rush straight in.

‘How’s the book going?’ I said as I sat again. ‘It must hold things up not being able to get out and see people.’

‘Doesn’t make any bloody difference. The book’s kaput.’

‘Oh, Ronnie!’

‘The editor I’d set it up with moved on to another publisher. The fellow who took over farted around for a bit looking for an excuse to cancel.’

‘They can be swine, can’t they? It happens again and again.’

‘Yes.’

No wonder he was depressed. No wonder that the pit had opened for him, too. Even in the slight backwater of Night and Day Ronnie had given the impression of living in the rushing midstream, like one of those fish native to Alpine rivers. Events and people had been his element, much more so than we had at the time realised. I remembered his liveliness on his visit to Cheadle, his sense of excitement with the projected book, and realised now that that had been a chance—very likely a last chance—to get out not exactly into the main stream again, but at least into waters where some current flowed. Not this stagnant and decay-smelling mud-hole. Something about the dullness of his last reply—about his whole attitude to my visit—struck me.

‘Was I the excuse, Ronnie?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes.’

‘Oh, God!’

‘They took the line that the book wasn’t worth publishing unless it contained important new material on Brierley, and they weren’t prepared to risk that if you were likely to come down on them with a ton of writs.’

‘But you needn’t have mentioned me. I thought I’d made that clear.’

‘They wouldn’t see it. As a matter of fact there was a complication. Apparently the editor who’d taken me over had had a scrap with you in some previous firm. I gathered you’d given him a mauling. Name of Eric Martleby.’

I remembered the specimen only too well. Handsome in a lanky, strawy, drawly way, but with the soul of a little blue-chinned thug. What they used to call a whizz-kid, which seemed to mean whizzing from one firm to the next, leaving a trail of mess and breakage.

‘Oh, Ronnie, I’m sorry. I suppose he wanted his pound of dirt, and if you couldn’t give him that he wasn’t taking anything.’

‘Maybe. You couldn’t have known. But they were looking for an excuse anyway. If it hadn’t been you it would probably have been something else. It’s not all loss. I got a third of the advance, and I can salvage two or three articles about the early days, Graham Greene and that gang. I could probably put together something on Brierley. Might even make a TV piece. Lots of shots of planes flying in and out of airports to pad it out. It’s just that I haven’t felt like starting.’

And wouldn’t again, ever, if he didn’t do something soon. Suddenly his needs and mine seemed to coincide.

‘That’s what I came to ask you about,’ I said.

‘Oh?’

‘I want to know more about Mr B for reasons of my own. Nothing to do with writing or journalism. When you came to Cheadle you told me you had a lead which you’d never followed up. I would very much like to know what it was. In exchange, provided you promise not to involve me or my family, I’ll tell you enough to get rid of your airport shots and replace them with something worthwhile.’

‘Oh, God!’ said Ronnie. The wickerwork squealed as he tried to slump even further. I seem to have spent a lot of my life coaxing or bullying men into doing what they don’t feel like, so I paid no attention.

‘I’ll start,’ I said.