The Shadow Author. Prologue

——the first installment of an ongoing, Vocal exclusive series——

The Shadow Author

by Jamie Harding

PROLOGUE

West Yorkshire, England, late Autumn, 2017

Phil leads the way, smashing into the Painted Hare and bringing the cold in with him. A table of old boys look up from their beers, their chatter paused by this unwelcome waft of icy November air that has ghosted into the pub. They glower at the culprit, who waits for his two companions to join him, oblivious to the four sets of milky eyes boring into the back of his head as the cold continues to dilute the ‘Hare.

“Shut the bloody door, eh fella, getting bastard cold in here,” says one of the aged drinkers. His request is terse but warmed through with good nature. Phil turns to the men, beams unselfconsciously and in his pronounced, sing-song West Yorkshire tones offers, “Sorry boys, not everyone’s as limber as me…” by way of an explanation, right hand held up—mea culpa, lads—;whilst the left pushes the door wider open still.

The men swap glances as a shared, vague recognition of the chill-bringing perpetrator passes between them. Eyes are rolled, eyebrows are raised.

The others—Marcus and Gary—cross the Hare’s threshold. Phil bows to the old men, and grins widely at Marcus, who shuts the door, muttering curses under his breath.

Marcus turns to the pensioners, intones, “Sorry ‘bout that, gents…” and hurriedly scans the pub for a free table. He spots one over by the fruit machine—sighing huffily at the sight of the only vacant option having a trio of recently abandoned pint glasses laced with dry foam, upon its scratched, lacquered surface.

Not ideal . . . But it will do.

Friday drinks after work. Can’t let the little things annoy you. After all, that’s what Phil was seemingly put upon this world to do.

The trio group at the table. Marcus claims the sturdiest chair, Phil drags the one opposite directly into the pub’s thoroughfare, and Gary takes what’s left. Marcus nods at the desolate pint pots.

“I see the bastard table clearing policy of this place is relaxed as ever. Right then. You. Get me a pint of the distinctly . . .uncrafty . . . Beast.”

Phil, the subject of Marcus’s demand, points at his chest: who, me . . ? Phil smiles as he sees his boss take out his wallet and unfurl a ten-pound note. He raises his eyebrows, flashes his eyes at Gary and back to Marcus.

“Anything else...?”

“Yeah. Nuts.”

Phil grins. “And my reward for slogging my way through the heaving masses, is?” he turns to the bar to demonstrate his point but on seeing that its populace comprises a yawning barmaid, an old timer on a stool studying a twice-folded newspaper and a pair of paint-spattered decorators loudly debating nothing, becomes uncharacteristically lost for words.

“Umm . . .well, anyway . . ." Phil settles for an exaggerated, pleading look.

Anything to get a drink out of Marcus.

Marcus groans and rolls his eyes. “And a pint of whatever shite you clowns are having, whilst you’re there.”

Phil grins broadly and stands. “You,” he says, waggling his finger at Marcus, “are a bloody, bloody good boss, boss. Marcus Rennard Books could not have a better, nor more aptly named, owner than Marcus Rennard himself.”

“Just shut up and get the bloody beers in,” replies Marcus, wearily. “I’ve got a bloody thirst on, here.”

“In that case Mr Rennard, I’m afraid this tenner just won’t do.”

Marcus rubs his eyes in a secretly amused frustration. Knowing what’s coming, he delves back inside his wallet.

“The cost of your beloved Darkened bloody Beast bloody may very well have stuck at one bloody pound twenty since . . . 1932. But I think the additional cost of our lavishly overpriced craft beers will require more than this desultory tenner. Boss.”

“Just get them bloody in,” retorts Marcus, aiming a scrunched-up five-pound note at Phil’s head. He has conceded that the craft beer ‘fad’ has bloomed into an industry, but the sheer mention of its name still manages to rile him right up.

Phil grins like butter wouldn’t melt, scoops up the pair of empties and strides toward the bar.

“Don’t forget nuts,” Marcus calls. “The dry ones!”

Gary, who has done little but smile plaintively since setting foot inside the ‘Hare, speaks up. “He’s a one, hey Marcus?”

Marcus nods his head slowly, wondering just what bizarre and ill-considered strains of ale Phil would be bringing back to the table. Charcoal IPA? Madagascan, cheese on toast porter?

Really. What was wrong with the classic bar lineup? A couple of lagers, a pair of bitters, Guinness, and a cider?

He just wanted his pint. And, nuts.

In the meantime, he would have to deal with the more reticent of his assistants at the bookshop. Gary. Who was about to become the unwitting listener to a favoured, annual diatribe of his.

Christmas shopping.

“Aye lad. Aye. Anyway, moving on from that halfwit… Good week of sales, this week. I call it the ‘Triple C’ factor.

“Oh?” answers Gary.

“Aye. Christmas. Cooking. Celebrities. Virtually every sale we’ve made in the last couple of weeks have been the main C – Christmas. Fair few of them involve the other C’s as well. Celebrity bios. Celebrity cookbooks. Celebrities cooking Christmas dinner. Cookbooks for Christmas-themed celebrities. And what’s more . . ."

Gary listens dutifully as Marcus rants about the pros and cons of being the proprietor of a small town’s only independent bookshop at Christmas. Somehow, this blooms into a tirade against the domination of North Ridgmoor’s printed book industry by Waterstones and WH Smiths and intensifies almost dementedly when his ire turns to the online and ebook markets.

Thankfully—at least from Gary’s point of view—Marcus’s monologue is checked by the reappearance of Phil who presents Marcus with his long-lusted after pint of Darkened Beast, and places two vases of what appeared to be fizzing, chocolate milkshake on the table.

Marcus downs a third of his amber-brown ‘Beast before turning his attention to the ales that the others are now cradling. His face pickles as he shakes his head with savage exasperation.

“And what the bloody heck is that, anyway?” he asks.

“Mammoth Mountain Brown Bear nut-roasted milk porter,” said Phil, his Yorkshire tones inflated by his own high-pitched exuberance.

“And what the bloody hell is a… Brown Mammoth, nut milk porter when it’s at home?” Marcus replies, content to rise to the bait and fuel the back and forth between the two.

Phil breaks out a cheesy grin. “Well, I’m glad you ask, Marcus! Becky Barmaid gave me a tasting card,” he says, slipping a glossy list of the ‘Hares current ales to his boss.

Marcus’s exasperation increases threefold at Phil’s production of the list.

“Fuckin’ tasting card, for beers, in a bloody… pub, seen it all now,” he grumbles, though his crankiness is underlit by enjoyment of being wound up on his pet peeve.

“So, what is this muck anyway… ‘redolent of dark-roasted coffee, rich cacao . . .

This draws from Marcus a theatrical, what strange fruit is this!—throwing of his hands in the air.

“. . . lovingly brewed among the pristine peaks and crystal-clear waters of Mammoth Lakes, nestled in the heart of the mighty Sierra Nevada.”

Marcus looks up to see Phil toasting him, leaving a smudge of sludgy foam upon his top lip, which he has borrowed from the Corny Advertiser’s Guide to Shit-Eating Grins.

“You’d be better off dipping a Mars Bar into a pint of Guinness if you’re that bloody determined to have a pint of chocolate shite, lad.”

Gary giggles along between sips of his extravagant ale. He accepted and enjoyed that his part of these conversations was largely a listening-only capacity. His heart would thump if he was asked to contribute much more than smiles and guarded answers to Phil and Marcus’s sparring and prodding.

The evening ends, and the three disperse home. The shadow author among them. He had had something of his own to tell the other two tonight.

Something, somebody, whose body of work and career path had provided an ongoing argument between the three of them.

The American crimewriter, LJ Denholm, the Shadow Author had discovered, who was to visit their cosy little town next Spring for the inaugural Crime Fiction Fiends’ Festival. The three had reignited the debate about the mega-selling author. Their opinions included: He was a sell-out hack. He was a unique voice with a skill for writing unmatched in the crimewriting world. Crime fiction is shite. Craft beer is double shite.

As he got home, turned the key into his property and repaired to his room, the shadow author smiled. Any debate involving LJ Denholm got his blood simmering, the cogs of his great mind turning with invisible might. It may be several months before LJ flew—doubtless first class—across the Atlantic, was chauffer-driven to North Ridgmoor, and spent a Saturday signing £20 copies of his new book to the simpering dumb masses, but the shadow author has patience.

And he has a plane ticket to Boston, USA, where he flies tomorrow morning.

The shadow author has big, big plans for Mr Denholm.

You can find Chapter One here!