Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

“It’s fair enough. Although”—she looked at the table setting— “in retrospect, I probably should have told you when there weren’t knives to hand. Just remember, the only people who read reviews are the authors themselves, and other writers.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” I said, then admitted, “I was hoping I’d fit in a little better.” It sounded childish, but I’d been worried about it since the invite. All the other invitees had published multiple books or had multiple accolades; they were writers. I’d simply been at a place where a bunch of people had killed another bunch of people and been the one to write it all down. I’d already felt like an imposter; now I knew for sure that at least one of my contemporaries considered me one. I figured it wouldn’t be long before the others joined the chorus.

“You haven’t even met everyone yet—”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know if I deserve to be here.”

There was more to it than that, of course, but that was the best way of saying both of my concerns in the same sentence. It was about as much as I was ready to admit to, in any case.

“Hey! Your book’s just as good as any of theirs. Besides, we’ll be out of mobile reception in a few hours. No one is even going to see—”

“Copped a pasting from the old Scot, I see.” The man in rainbow suspenders whom I’d suspected of being Alan Royce stuck out a hand and proved me right. “Alan Royce. Mind?”

He didn’t wait for an answer or a shake, wriggling his way into the seat across from Juliette with a grunt. His blocky frame did not sit comfortably in the little table booth. His bulbous ears had more hair than his head, protruding antennae of such length that I decided he could hardly be unaware of them and likely they served some function similar to a cat’s whiskers, considering his peripheral vision was reduced by his tiny teddy-bear eyes. When he got himself settled, he looked around, or perhaps his ear hair thrummed, and he snapped his fingers at Cynthia. Embarrassment flooded through me: now she’d definitely think we were a table of snappers.

While he ordered, I noticed he’d placed the little notebook he’d been carrying around open on the table. It was a cluttered mess of notes, but I caught that he’d written in all caps: KEEP THE MURDERS TO A MINIMUM and next to it the word TITLE? Underneath that was a list of names, including both mine and Juliette’s, and dot-point descriptions. Next to my name he’d written: cherub-esque face: wide-eyed, often confused, unacademic. Next to Juliette he’d written: out of his league. This is probably why I’ve focused so much of my own description on his ear hair. Authors are a petty bunch. He also had a list of notes about the train, which you’ve already read in my own descriptions. There are only so many ways to describe the carriage: emerald-green carpet; in case of emergency, pull here; axe; barramundi = 75 kgs. He’d even nicked Juliette’s joke, having written: fuel coupon.

He caught me reading and flipped the notebook over. Authors are a protective bunch, too.

“You write forensic thrillers, don’t you?” Juliette attempted to change the topic away from my review.

“My protagonist is a forensic pathologist, if that’s what you mean. Dr. Jane Black: eleven books, three novellas.”

“I used to love CSI,” I said.

Alan rolled his eyes. “I prefer to think that I write novels about society, depravity and humanity, and the crime itself is just the engine for a more . . .”—he paused in obvious affectation—“enlightened conversation around some real-world issues. I find all that CSI stuff quite”—his lips curled into a cruel smile as he deliberately chose his next word—“ghastly.”

This was all a bit rich coming from someone who, I’ve since researched, has a novella in which Dr. Jane Black travels back in time and conducts a forensic investigation on the murder of a dinosaur. But witty comebacks are capably served by both hindsight and Google, and given I had neither at the time, I could only respond with an unacademic glare.

“You know, what you want is a one,” Alan rolled on, oblivious to my bristling. “Or a five, obviously. Because you can use both for publicity. A two, blah, that’s just bad news. But a one: that’s a history-making calamity. People will be inclined to check it out just to see how bad it is.”

“This may surprise you, Alan, but you’re not making me feel any better.”

“You know Wyatt Lloyd rejected my first manuscript four times before he agreed to publish it?” That did, actually, help my spirits a little. “It’s all part of the game.”

“You got McTavish-ed?” A female voice joined in, speaking as its owner slid in beside Alan. She’d been looking at me when she spoke, which meant she’d also seen the review. “Ernest, right?”

I nodded.