Cassandra 3

 3 ecch

After a few moments of panic spawned by concerns over spilt tea frying the the laptop, which I hastily power down by pulling the battery, the implications of Carol Reid's letter start to permeate my mind. I've dealt with agents. before and I've seen both sides of them, the  obsequious grasping after a cash cow and the supercilious dismissal dished out to hopefuls.  To say they're not my favourite people would be underestimating the level of my contempt by a factor analogous to describing the residents' of Mai Lai's encounter with the US army as, unfortunate. My immediate concern is the non existence of Cassandra Wheatfield, the cynicism that had given rise to her and her companions, had not been so thorough as to prompt me to consider the implications should any of their submission actually be accepted. Sure I had a vague plan that I could place myself as some sort of intermediary that I hadn't really though but now the short comings of my perfunctory attention to those details where coming home, especially in the light of the publisher's request for a meeting. The other aspect of the letter that was causing me concern was the seemingly irregular manner in which Reid had made the submission for review to the publisher, whose identity she'd carefully withheld in her letter. I admit I've no real insight on how these dealing are handled. I suppose Reid could have been scraping the barrel to garner interest from this publisher and in desperation fell back on Cassandra submission, not a scenario that holds much conviction for me, a mystery that's will need further inquiry.

For a few  moments I consider staying in and mulling over the situation but I decide I might tackle the problems more effectively after I've cleared my thoughts and decide to make my way to the snooker club. I grab my coat and sunglasses. My intense photophopbia makes the low winter sun particularly uncomfortable and the snooker club lies to the south, so shades are a must even on a November Sunday morning.  My dependence on such eye wear arouses the amusement of the occasional prick who decides the sight of someone in shades in winter is too good an opportunity for ridicule to pass up. In my younger days I've left more than one them regretting their ignorance, nursing a blood sodden nose on an impromptu trip to casualty or depositing their last meal on the pavement after I've delivered a swift massage to their solar plexus with my fist. I'm a bit cooler now, not that I don't still feel the urge to deliver the odd swift lesson in street etiquette, it's just that I'm a bit warier of the consequences of giving my not inconsiderable temper free reign.

Outside a slight breeze has picked up, stirring the leaves that the street sweeper's missed, not enough to give them flight as they're still a bit sticky from the rain. I get to the end of my road and stop at the curb, to wait for the cars to pass, only they're not there. I don't know how long exactly I've lived here, more than a couple of decades and I've never managed to negotiate the junction at the end of my road with out stopping for traffic. This phenomenon has been a constant since I've lived here, doesn't matter if I'm out at 3:00 am trying to walk off insomnia or its a Xmas day visit to the graveyard. If there's only one car on the road in the entire country it'll be here to make to stop at this junction. There a child on the side of the road, a toddler no more than four or five, he's with grandma it looks like. He chuckles as he sees me, no doubt he's party to the circumstances that have caused habit to make me pause for traffic that isn't there. He waves, his carefree amusement at life strires my spirit, I smile spontaneously and return his wave, something which causes the witch accompanying him a certain consternation. Can't have the joy the children give the world freely dished to strangers I suppose, have to guard it jealously like a spiteful miser. She tugs his arm and admonishes him, "Why are you waving at strangers?" she spits her poison into his ear with her nectar coated tongue. Now I'm the one who feels sick enough to leave his breakfast on the pavement, ecch.

I climb the old viaduct to get a view of the river on my journey, the weed growing between the discarded sleepers and ballast is only the bit greenery left round her too. It's a favorite with dog walkers, who can't be bothered to scoop the poop, so you need to watch your feet.  There's a few of 'em ahead, stationary, something in the river has caught their attention. They're strangers to me but one of them accosts me, a woman walking a pointer: "Do you know what's happening?"

"Sorry?" I reply.

"There are men water just there." she gesticulates towards towards the water, and I follow her finger. The glint of the sun on water is too much for me to see any detail but I just make a few animated figures after a while.

"Dunno, perhaps there's been an accident with a boat or something last night." The scene doesn't hold the same compelling interest for me as the dog walkers, maybe because my sight of it isn't as refined as theirs, so I leave them to it and bother with my own concerns.

It's not long before I reach the snooker club, the club lies under the viaduct, the building occupies one of the spans. There was a stop here too on the old railway  so it's easy to climb the old stairway, which makes the viaduct a convenient route to the club. It's not till I get in the club that my curiosity about the stranger resurfaces. It takes a while for me to get used to light in club after my walk on the viaduct but I can't see any one in the main hall who looks out of place. There are just a few people here today on the snooker tables, mostly punters, one or two players too but it's not that busy. I'm not here for snooker though, so I make my way swiftly to the back after I've deposited my coat on one of the pegs, it's safe to that here as long you keep old Billy happy, he's the guy who look after the place. I'm here for the nine ball tables. I used to play the old game with red balls but that was another life. I make my way past the snooker tables but it's obvious that my arrival has aroused some interest.  No one speaks to me directly but I'm about half way through the snooker hall when I hear it, one of the punters whispers none too quitely to one of his companions, "Cassie Belmont"

Cassandra 2

2 Pssshh

I close the door behind me, rest my back against it and close my eyes. For a few seconds there's the tiniest fear that I know has no rational foundation but I can't help thinking for a moment, that if I open my eyes and turn around I'll see her silhouetted through the dimples of the door class. The Sunday Morning sounds tiptoe through my head as I listen for clues: the beat of pigeon wings, some birds are startled from their perch, a baby cries for mother's milk, a dog barks for an early meal, the bells of some distant church summon the faithful, the blessed absence of stiletto on paving stone.

As I'm eating breakfast the mobile rings, the real one, It's Jack, "Where did you disappear to last night?" he asks.

"Oh nowhere" I consume breakfast while we converse, he knows full well what happened and who I left the night club with. He also knows I'm not going to tell him anything, I don't know why he bothers, after a few minutes of fruitless querying he gets to the point.

"You coming over?" he's not actually asking if we're going to meet up with, he's asking when am I going to turn up. I don't miss a Sunday morning at the snooker club, unless someone's died.

"Of course I am, what do think I'm going to do"

"It's just that it half ten already and there's no sign of you," he patters out with a hint of sarcasm, "must have been a busy night"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be there, don't twist yer knickers over it" it's later than I thought but not that late, he's just being a pain. Last nights activity had taken it's toll though, must be getting old. "I may be a bit later than normal though, something’s come up."

"Don't be too late, we've got a game set up for you," then he hung up, that means there's a stranger in the club, I don't mean a literal stranger, could be someone who's familiar but it'll be someone from outside the club, not a regular. That struck me as slightly odd for a Sunday but I didn't think any further about it.

I threw the coffee into the sink, give the mug a rinse and drown a teabag as soon as the kettle boils, then toast the last of the loaf. I retrieve my laptop from the den, ready to re-familiarize myself with the details of Cassandra's biography. Once I'm comfortable again I sit at the table with my repast and take out Cassandra's letter.

It's an interesting compulsion, this desire to get the words out. I once had a vision of a man standing on the banks of the Thames at Henley, holding a bible and cursing the river at the top of his voice. No one who witnessed the event could comprehend his words, he wasn't sure he did himself. I'd been feeling a lot like that man when Cassandra came along. She was a name I pulled out of the hat, amongst others. Massada Willmot, Beatrice Clattinger were a few of her compatriots, there was even an Angus Moeketsi. Fictional allies I'd enlisted in my efforts to get something published to a wider readership, you know, something a bit further along road to kudos than lining the local cat baskets. Each of these pseudonyms were accompanied by a biography, a suitable tale of hardship, misfortune and woe, something to get the sympathy vote. Some of the trials and tribulations I'd put these hopeful authors through were quite extreme. My imagination took off and I took a some satisfaction in pushing them through ever greater bounds of misery all of which they'd overcome with their outstanding fortitude and strength of character.

As far as I know there are no Wheatfields in the phone book but it sounds a bit like Whitfield so it could be an alias consistent with Cassandra's biography. She's a migrant from Lithuania who's family were all tragically killed while at a picnic site by a swarm of hornets whose natural aggressive instincts had been aggravated by a discharge from a local chemical plant. In an unfortunate coincidence, her children and husband were all fatally allergic to insect stings. The incident had been covered up by the corrupt local officials who conspired with the callous owners of the chemical plant. I'd provided similar such culprits with all the biographies, pandering to prejudices and sentiments I identified in their intended recipients. The actions of the conspirators had driven Cassandra from her native land, that she pined for so deeply while alone, a stranger trying to make her way working as as a mushroom picker, in this foreign and often hostile land called England. Cassandra had struggled, heroically, to overcome her trauma but its legacy had left her with a morbid and paralyzing fear of the colour yellow.

The letter's from an literary agent called Carol Reid, a one man band I think, in one of those offices somewhere near Leicester Square. I've met Carol or rather people like her, in a previous era she would have chain smoked Sobraines from an ebony cigarette holder, today she probably makes do with rolling supply of double strength cappuccino from the nearest Starbucks. As I digest the letter it reads a little on the eager side, not as effusive in its complementary tone as something you'd get from a member of the vanity press but not quite the measured response I was expecting. Still, she's an agent, I think to myself, hyperbole is their trade. Then I read the final paragraph.

During a meeting with a Publisher three months ago your submission garnered positive attention from my contact who complimented your work on it's rare insight and pointed commentary. After such positive feedback I took the liberty of submitting your work for review. You might be aware that opportunities for such a review are rare and submissions to this publisher by new authors are seldom successful. However I received notice last week that the reviewers regard your submission as suitable for publication and have provisionally offered a payment in advance of publication of £4000. This sum would of course be subject to  a 14% commision payable to this office. Please let me know if this arrangement is agreeable so I can arrange to have a contract drafted for your inspection. I hope we can successfully conclude this matter promptly as the publisher has indicated they would like to conduct a meeting with yourself at your soonest convenience.

Onomatopoeia is tricky but I think Pssshh is a suitable rendering for the sound I made when i nearly choked on the toast and the tea squirted over the screen of the laptop.

Cassandra 1.

1 Muzz

"Who is Cassandra Wheatfield?" This one was staying for breakfast, don't ask me why I brought her back to my place, Rule no.1 of The Casual Sexual Encounter Bible: Don't do it at home. It's a rule I've broken a few times and borne the regret for doing so more than once, She was too good a catch to pass up over concerns of the risk of provoking another stalker though. Well, too good a catch last night, considered in the dim light of our evening encounter and the urgings of my libido left unquenched by lengthy drought. She was doing the domestic thing, which was a source of surprise -- I haven't seen that for a while, I thought they'd had all that knocked out 'em. She started as soon she raised herself from her brief bought of slumber, folding my garments I hastily discarded the previous evening, well, she'd either folded them or I've acquired a laundry pixie over night because I found them neatly stacked on a chair when I awoke. I'd regarded the pile of folded garments with trepidation, it was a sign, a sight seemingly left deliberately to greet me as as I awoke, as explicit as a horse's head in its statement of intent. It was the ominous clatter from the kitchen that got me out of bed though.

"Bugger!" Sunday is the only day I bother with breakfast, it's my treat for the weekend, bacon, fried eggs, toast and marmalade if there's any bread left. My exclamation was uttered in concern that the previsions set aside for this weekly treat would be thoughtlessly denuded by my temporary companion. Hastily, I made a grab for the  pile of cloths as I got up but halted myself in favour of fresh ones from the wardrobe, though doing so it would take an extra minute or so to get the kitchen and ease my mounting concerns. I arrived there with a feigned nonchalant air even though I was still tucking my shirt as I did so. "Morning!"

"Oh hi" she smiled broadly as she spoke, briefly I recalled the labours of the previous
night, I'd had a good time too -- then, the light of day brought more prosaic considerations to the fore though. She was sitting at the table sipping black coffee from my mug and helping herself to the last of the bread that she'd toasted, rather too lightly for my taste, and lightly smeared with marmalade. I noted Saturday's mail and a second mug of coffee on the breakfast table as I sat opposite her, she had been a busy girl. That's when she posed her question, just as I was about to take my first sip.

"Cassandra Weatfield?" In all honesty, the name was lost on me within this incongruous context, so my puzzlement as I reiterated her question was genuine.

She handed me an envelope, "Looks official," she said, "has it been delivered by mistake, you think? By the way, there's bacon in the Fridge, I can fry some breakfast if you like?"

Oh dear, that's how it starts, I noted how she's said, some breakfast, not you breakfast, I resented the notion that she could share my hard earned bounty that this implied. I thought on me feet, "Er, yeah, I should throw that out I suppose, found the cat nibbling at it when I'd left it out the other day," I spoke as I examined the brown envelope. For a few moments I was confronted with a genuine mystery, then the light dawned, "Casandra Weatfiedl!" my exclamation was too loud and exited to go without comment by my guest even while she was apparently still reeling in disgust at my remark about the bacon.

"Someone who used to live here then?"

"Er -- no, it's nothing like that" I wiped the knife that lay on the table clean and made to open it.

"Should you do that?" she said with a note of reproach that had a ring familiarity about it that me want to shudder. Now I was really annoyed with her, she beginning to pester me, why the heck should I have to explain to her about Cassandra Wheatfield

"It's for me" I spoke as succinctly as I could and with the minimum explanation, given the constraints of the circumstance. I wanted to tell her to, get lost and mind her own business but I was wary of the peril of spawning post-coital regret.

"Do you have a cat then?" Oh dear, the cogs in my guest's mind where turning laboriously slowly as she now considered my lie about the bacon.

"It belongs to a neighbour," I said as I opened the envelope

"We used to have a cat..." my attention was fixed on the contents of the envelope but my guest's apparent unconcern for the possibility that I might want to read it undisturbed gave her licence to compete for my attention with her aimless recollections, "...Lucky, we called him, he was..."

"Dear Muzz Weatfield..." my inner monologue balked at the salutation, I couldn't recall the detail of Cassandra’s biography but I knew she'd addressed herself as a Miss.

"...he got sick after eating a bir..." she continued while my still sleep sodden eyes flickered over the wording of the letter.

"...Muzz Weatfield... your submission.. .rare insight... pointed commentary... successful... suitable for publication... arrange... at your soonest convenience..."

"...the vet said that she..."

"Yes!!" I shouted, my joyous exclamation prompted by my hasty scan of the contents of the letter was enough to halt my guest's compelling anecdote. Grateful for this cessation and anxious to expedite her departure, I decided it was time to exercise some discretion and ease some charm out of the tap. I used up a good smile on her while I placed the letter back in it's envelope and secured that within the relatively safe confines of my shirt breast pocket. "Oh right --- do you miss her?" I gleaned from the mention of the vet that her precious kitty was no longer with us.

"He!" she said "...it was a he" but my multitasking hadn't been up to the task of providing me with the unfortunate kitty's gender apparently. She greeted my smile with a knowing look, not the fatal look, the one say's you've been found out in your efforts to sneak under the radar. No, this one was the one tinged with suspicion but used to let you know you still have a chance at redeeming your efforts if you try hard enough. I wasn't in the mood for games though, neither did I have the time.

"I know, that's what I said: do you miss him" I lied starkly and batted her look back at her. The incident was trivial enough for her to accept my casual deceit so I took advantage of the opportunity and changed the subject hastily. "By the way, I've got a chance of some tickets to see John Cooper Clark, do you fancy coming?" I smiled as I equivocated glibly, I do have the opportunity of tickets to see Clark this evening but I've no intention of going or a taking her with me. [note: changed tense -- in this sentence] The look she giving me in reply to my query told me she had no Idea who I was talking about, "He's a poet, big a few a years ago, making a bit of a comeback," I prompted, still no light dawning so I tried a different tack, "if you don't like poets though..." that was enough.

"Oh I think I know who you mean, when..."

"Tonight" I Interrupted, "I'll have to pop out soon, pick up the threads from the cleaners."

"Are you dressing up for this?" she asked, "Will it be that kind of thing?"

"Dunno" I replied, "but I'm not turning up without a tie." I reached for my mobile, "Here, take my number and give us as a buzz about three ish, I'll let you let know what the situation with the tickets is." I said, making sure that she was fully aware of the provisional nature of our date. She took the phone in hand and didn't notice that it wasn't the one I was using last night. It was while she was manipulating the phone, something she accomplished quite deftly, I made my move regarding the issue of of her exit from my abode, "Call a cab while you're at it. Don't worry about the price of the tickets, it's my treat, we'll have time to get a meal before too, if you like."  I said, speculating that the prospect of future generosity would waylay any quibbling over the taxi fair. She obliged without protest and after some prompting from me on where to find the cab service number on the mobile she'd booked the cab.

Luckily the cab driver arrived promptly and within fifteen minutes she was out the house. I  walked her to the cab and and put on a faux show of affection for the diver, planting a kiss on her cheek as we parted, a perfectly executed exit I thought to myself, I couldn't help but let out a laugh as i made my way back indoors.

I should have known it couldn't last, things never go that smoothly without the terrier of bad fortune biting you back on the ankle, I'm just not that lucky.