The Digested Twenty-first Century (2 page)

For many authors, writing is a lifetime’s career. And like most careers, it has its ups and downs. An author might well follow one great book with a couple of duds before finding their touch again; not least because when a writer becomes a bestseller, their publisher often finds it trickier to suggest useful edits. Publishing is a business; no one would dream of marketing a book with the catchline: ‘Not as good as her last book, but bear with her because she will come good again in a few years time’. Every book by an established author is sold as if the career progression were on a relentless upward curve.

While the Digested Read does have fun – fairly, and yes, sometimes unfairly – at the author’s expense, it is also intended as a corrective to the publishing industry itself: the disparity between the hype with which the publisher is promoting the book and the
reality to which it can seldom live up. Which brings me back to where I started. This collection of the best – or worst, depending on your point of view – Digested Reads from the last 14 years are all books that publishers believed were important. They are the books that came with the big marketing budgets and promotional tours. They are the ones publishers expected to reach the bestseller lists. In some cases they are the books publishers hoped might still be read in a hundred years’ time. So, which of these books will be the
Howards End
or
Swann’s Way
of 2114? You tell me.

Anyone looking around the congregation and its celebrity assortment might have imagined that Clive had been a sociable creature. But the gathering owed more to Clive’s discretion than his friendships, and many household names had been mildly irked on entering the church to discover they were not the sole centre of attention.

Clive had died in Peru and, when a young man dies in unknown circumstances of an unknown disease, the question, ‘What did he die of?’ often assumes a personal dimension for those who remain. Father Geoffrey Joliffe, who was about to take the service, was no exception.

By profession, Clive had been a masseur, but he had interpreted the word generously, and although Geoffrey had little reason for anxiety – his guilt had kept their encounters to minimal bodily contact – his confusion of God with Joan Crawford often was enough to inspire alarm.

As the service neared its conclusion, Father Joliffe had some regrets. Much had been spoken of Clive’s charms, but nothing that he felt truly captured the essence of the Clive he had known.

‘If anyone has any further reminiscences they would like to share, they are invited to do so now,’ he improvised. Various people stood up to extend their thoughts, before Carl stepped forward. ‘I would like to tell you what Clive was like in bed,’ he began.

‘I didn’t know he was gay,’ chorused several women.

‘And when someone that young dies of Aids, it’s time for anger as well as grief,’ Carl continued. The mention of the word that mustn’t be mentioned caused a frisson.

‘He didn’t die of Aids,’ said a young man, named Hopkins. ‘I was with him in Peru. He was bitten by an insect.’

‘They all say that,’ snarled Carl.

‘I’m his doctor,’ ventured a smartly-dressed man. ‘His latest blood test was negative.’

As the congregation peeled away, their hearts were considerably lighter than when they entered. Hopkins approached Geoffrey. ‘I have Clive’s diary,’ he said. Seeing his initials against several dates, Geoffrey laid his hands on Hopkins’ knees. ‘I’ll take care of that,’ he whispered as Hopkins bolted for the door.

Some weeks later there was a knock on the vestry door.

‘I thought, why not?’ said Hopkins.

Digested read, digested:
The Little Book of Revelations.

My name came from a swimming pool. Piscine Molitor Patel. At my first school, the other boys called me Pissing, so when I moved I changed my name to Pi. I’ve spent a lot of my life looking for God. That’s why I’m a Hindu, Muslim and a Christian. I’m not sure why I’ve never converted to Judaism or Shinto. My father ran the zoo in Pondicherry. He really loved his animals, so when the zoo had to close he decided to bring them with us to Canada.

The Tsimstum sank several days out of harbour. My father, mother and brother all drowned. I had been taking a walk on the deck when the ship went down and was thrown into the lifeboat by a couple of sailors. I came to and found myself sharing a boat
with a zebra with a broken leg and a hyena. Shortly afterwards, I made the mistake of helping Richard Parker aboard. Richard Parker was a Bengal tiger.

The hyena started eating the zebra alive. The zebra howled piteously. Richard Parker just looked on. An orang-utan floated by on a huge mound of bananas. The hyena had him as well.

As we all got hungrier I became more anxious. Before long the hyena and Richard Parker were locked in battle. Richard Parker won, and the pair of us began our strange life aboard.

I learned how to provide him with fresh drinking water, and shared the flying fish I caught. I had to work hard to make him accept I was the alpha male. As the weeks turned into months, our food began to run out and we went blind. ‘How are you?’ said Richard Parker. Fancy Richard Parker being able to speak, I thought. But it wasn’t Richard Parker. It was a blind Frenchman in the middle of the Pacific. Richard Parker ate him, too.

Later we made landfall. It was no ordinary landfall, as it was just a floating mass of algae and trees. Richard Parker ate the meerkats. We left when we discovered the island was carnivorous.

After 277 days at sea, we reached Mexico. Richard Parker made a dash for the jungle. I was picked up and looked after by the locals. Two Japanese officials from the shipping company came to find out what happened. I told them, but they didn’t believe me.

‘Would you prefer if I said my family escaped with me, but died on the way?’

‘That’s much better,’ they said.

Digested read, digested:
Johnny Morris goes to sea and returns with the Booker. Or did I dream that last bit?

For the rest of her life, Charlotte Cleve would blame herself for her son’s death because she had decided to have the Mother’s Day dinner at six in the evening instead of noon, after church, which is when the Cleves usually had it.

‘Do I have to be in a book with such a clumsy opening sentence?’ asked Harriett, Charlotte’s petite precocious 10-year-old daughter with the brown bob who bore absolutely no resemblance to the author.

‘I’m afraid you do,’ replied her mother. ‘It’s meant to convey the stultifying claustrophobia of a deeply dysfunctional family from Mississippi. Ever since your brother Robin was found hanged 10 years ago, your elder sister Allison and I have been in a catatonic state, and we’re surrounded by a variety of misfits and inbreds.’

‘Hmm,’ said Harriett. ‘I’d better try to solve Robin’s murder.’

‘Good idea,’ her friend Hely added. ‘I bet it was a Ratcliff. They’re a bad lot and some of them have been in prison.’

‘You’re right. I bet it was Danny. He was about the same age as Robin.’

‘There’s a cage of poisonous snakes at Eugene Ratcliff’s. Let’s steal a cobra.’

Harriett and Hely stood on the bridge. As Danny’s car passed beneath, they tipped the cobra over the parapet.

‘We almost killed Danny’s granny,’ cried Harriett.

‘Never mind,’ said Hely. ‘We didn’t know she was driving the car.’

‘I shure doan trust those kids,’ yelled Farish Ratcliff, ‘an I shure doan trust you. Show me you’ve still got the drugs, or I’ll kill you.’

‘The drugs have turned him crazy,’ thought Danny, as he shot Farish in the head. Danny drove out to the water tower. ‘Just get them drugs and get away,’ he told himself. ‘Gosh, I miss Robin. I sure do wonder who killed him.’

Harriett pulled open some of the packages. She didn’t know what was in them but she knew Danny wouldn’t like it.

‘You brat, I’m going to kill you,’ Danny shouted, moments before he drowned.

‘Get rid of all the evidence,’ Harriet begged Hely from her hospital bed.

‘Poor old Harriett. Fancy having epilepsy,’ murmured her mother.

‘You know Harriett had Farish shot and drowned Danny for killing Robin,’ Hely told his brother.

‘You’ve been drinking too much coke.’

Digested read, digested:
Small girl with big ambitions gets hopelessly confused in a laboured adventure. Still, she was well paid.

He paced through his 48-room apartment, past the Borzoi cage, past the shark tank. The yen had risen overnight. Eric Packer didn’t know what he wanted. Then he knew. He wanted a haircut.

‘There’s gridlock because the president’s in town,’ said Torval, as the stretch limo pulled into the traffic. ‘You’d be better off not using the car.’

‘How do you know we’re in the car and not in the office?’ Eric snarled, staring at his bank of screens.

He glanced out the window. Was that his wife, Elise, the heiress? ‘I didn’t know you had blue eyes,’ she said.

‘When are we going to make love?’ he replied.

Michael Chin got in the car. ‘I know where there’s a Rothko for sale.’

‘I’ll buy the whole gallery.’

The car stopped to pick up his finance director, Jane Melman. ‘Your position on the yen is critical,’ she said.

‘It can’t go any higher,’ he answered, passing her a bottle to masturbate herself.

They stopped by Dr Ingram’s surgery for his daily check-up. ‘Your prostate is asymmetrical.’

Back en route, they passed a bookstore. Eric spied his wife again. ‘You smell of sex,’ she whispered.

‘Have lunch with me.’

‘Is this what I wanted,’ she said, looking at her plate.

‘I need a haircut.’

Eric got back in the limo. The yen had to chart. He was the most powerful man in New York. He made the markets. He was like the famous novelist who could write utter crap and know that neither his editor nor the critics would notice – or dare say a word against him.

They stopped by the apartment of Kendra Hays, his bodyguard. She kept on her Zyloflex body armour while they had sex. ‘Shoot me with your stun gun,’ he said. ‘I want to know how it feels.’

He showed no curiosity when he bumped into Elise again. ‘My portfolio is valueless and someone is mounting a credible threat on my life.’

‘You still smell of sex.’

He hacked into her account and stole $735m. Losing it was the best way of resisting it.’ Why am I not interested in he who wants to kill me?’

‘Because no one else is,’ yawned Torval.

Anti-globalisation protesters sprayed paint on the car and a man set himself on fire.

‘That’s just not original,’ Eric said, while urinating.

The barbershop was closed, but Anthony came to him.

‘Your hair is ratty.’

‘I knew it was time.’

Elise walked through the door. ‘I’ve lost all your money,’ he said, as he straddled her.

‘What do poets know of money? Our marriage is over.’

Eric heard gunshots. He fired back.

‘My name is Richard Sheets,’ said his assailant. ‘I hate you because you made me hate the baht.’

Eric shot himself in the hand. ‘I’ve got an asymmetric prostate.’

‘So have I. But I’ve still got to shoot you.’

Digested read, digested:
A Manhattan journey that is as deadly for us as it is for Eric.

This is not a story about me. But since the task of telling it has fallen to me, it is right I should tell you a bit about myself. My name is Barbara Covett. It won’t mean much to you, I’m sure, but you’ll soon recognise my type. I am the unreliable narrator, the first resort for any hack who wants to be taken seriously as a novelist.

Sheba is upstairs sleeping, so now is a good time to continue. She doesn’t know I am writing an account of last summer’s events.
But I think it will be valuable to document the hysterical prurience her actions unleashed.

I first met Sheba when she came to teach pottery at St George’s. I recognised immediately that she was different to the rest of us – posher, more confident. I kept myself to myself at first. I’d taught at the school for umpteen years and seen many teachers come and go, and I must confess I had my doubts about her.

She later told me of her first meeting with the Year 11 boy, Connolly. ‘He tried to kiss me,’ she said. ‘You must tell the head,’ I cautioned. ‘Oh, no. It was just an innocent advance. It’s over.’

This turned out to be far from the truth, but it was not until some months later that Sheba confided in me that she and Connolly were having an affair. ‘It’s so exciting,’ she said, ‘We’re in love.’

It struck me at the time that it was almost unbelievable for a 40-year-old woman to be so head-over-heels in love with a 15-year-old boy. But then it also struck me as unbelievable that she would have become such good friends with me, a dowdy working-class spinster. Still, it’s only fiction after all.

‘You must stop the affair,’ I urged. ‘You’ll damage your family and your career. Think of your poor son with Down’s syndrome whose purpose in life is to create moral dilemmas and engage the reader’s sympathy.’

Sheba promised she would end it, but her repeated absences suggested otherwise. I must own up here to some envy that she made so little time available for me, and when Brian Bangs, the staff-room Lothario, told me he had a crush on her, I couldn’t resist intimating my knowledge of the affair.

‘I think Bangs knows,’ I later warned her, but by then events were out of control. Connolly, I gather, had tired of the affair, but his withdrawal only spurred Sheba to greater follies. She began
taking risks and before long Connolly’s mother found out and accused her of sexually abusing her child.

Sheba had to leave the school, of course, as did I. Her marriage ended and we now share a house. She is coming downstairs.

‘I’ve found your notes,’ she yells. ‘It didn’t happen like that at all. I’m leaving.’