What?

As quickly as it arrived, the prayer leaves me (the words, the urge to say it, the reason, the will). And I put my hands up to my lips. Both hands. Damp hands. Clammy hands. And I suddenly feel quite … quite sick.

22

Mr Clifford Bickerton

I think some kind of tacit deal’s been struck between me and the Author (Oi! Hang on a sec … Is that an actual word? ‘Tacit’? Eh? Tacit?! A ‘tacit deal’?! … What’s it even mean? Okay, fine, I do know – at least I can guess – what it means, thanks very much, but why would I – she – make me say these things, these arty-farty, stuck-up, pretentious things – shove words and ideas into my head and my mouth – which I don’t honestly have the first clue about? Why?).

And the deal (you ask, eyes rolling)? The ‘tacit’ deal? That she will promise to leave me the hell alone (remember the dog bite? The swan attack?) just so long as I don’t go sticking my giant hooter in anywhere that it isn’t wanted (you may need to re-read this sentence a couple of times; not this sentence, the opening sentence. Then the other one – the one after the bracket – to make any sense of it. Sorry. I’m currently stuck behind the wheel, and half my mind is focused on the road ahead. Which leaves precious little to conjure with, obviously). (‘Precious little’? ‘Conjure’? I’m a farmhand, woman! A country bumpkin! An odd-jobs man with a talent for plumbing! Okay, and I can change the odd light fitment, if push comes to shove. That’s me. That’s who I am. That’s Clifford Bickerton. And you? A ‘professional’ writer – a ‘wordsmith’! So raise your pathetic game, why don’t you? Set a standard and stick by it. Because you’re not making an idiot out of me right now, so much as a fool out of yourself. You’re way out of your depth. You’re drowning. It’s all falling apart at the seams. Not that I really give a monkey’s. This is your story. But a man has his … his integrity … his … his pith, and it’s your job, your duty, as ‘Author’ (as ‘Author’?! I would never, never use that phrase! Never! And yes, I do understand that what we are currently dealing with here is a bracket inside another bracket directly following another bracket) to represent this fact in as honest – as sincere – a way as possible. Isn’t it?)

Just so long as I don’t get in the way – destroy her carefully arranged plot with my shining sword of truth etc.

etc.

etc.

That’s why when I saw Mr Huff standing by the bus-stop in Fairlight, with a bright red face, flapping his arms up and down like a caged bantam, I seriously considered not pulling over to offer him a lift. But after I checked my watch I calculated that it was a full fifty minutes until the next bus arrived.