I’m writing a thriller and the plot turns on a coincidence. I wonder if you can help me?’
He did not want trouble. He chose the more unalarming-looking of the young, and the more soppy-looking of the elderly, avoiding members of HM Forces, and gangs of either sex. An hour a week was quite enough to give to his odd search. In a fortnight, his job in the bookshop would be up, and he would go into Uncle Bill’s office. Free time would be scarcer after that.
Then, gradually, he learnt that no one is ‘ordinary’.
Every individual he spoke to showed some narrow, delicate, almost colourless streak, personal as a fingerprint, that set them imperceptibly apart from everyone else. Even within the most apparently moulded type there appeared these variations, infant shoots of oddness and individuality. There had been the elderly man who accused him of nosy-parkerism, muttered about a free country, and threatened him with the police. This was the evening on which Arthur nearly abandoned the project. But the embryo novelist heard the shy notes and saw the faint gleams behind the halting sentences and the clichés.
As for stupidity . . . perhaps he did not make enough allowance for the slightly alarming effect of clear dark eyes (notexactly glaring, but magnified by thick spectacles) fixed with severe attention upon the victim. Usually his spiel about the thriller and the coincidence was greeted with an open mouth and ‘Pardon?’
‘Eh? Say it again slower, son.’
‘I dunno what you’re on about.’
‘How very interesting! My nephew writes. He hasn’t had any luck so far with publishing , poor boy, but he isn’t discouraged. So you want to be a writer too, how thrilling ! I wonder if you’d like to meet Andrew?’
‘Coincidences? Funny you should ask me that. Only this morning I was saying to Mrs Bender who lives next door to us no it wasn’t this morning it must have been Monday because I’d just come from the launderette well I was on my way back as a matter of fact and I ran into her just as I was going along Bowie Road . . .’
From the mass of examples collected during one week, there shone out, large and lucent, one jewel.
It came from a tramp, an old man with a flowing beard who was covered, or rather packed into, layers of rags, glimpsed by Arthur on his way home one cold evening as he hurried past a coffee stall.
The handsome, ravaged profile outlined against the lights in the little place caught Arthur’s attention, and he paused; approached; ordered coffee; and addressed the towering ancient with his tale.
There was a pause. Arthur noticed that the old man’s nose was purple and threaded with crimson veins. He was prepared for retreat. Anything: a blow, a roar of rage, a shout of laughter.
‘I know of one,’ said a hoarse voice at last, while bloodshot eyes were fixed dreamingly upon Arthur’s own. ‘It happened in Bulgaria to a man I knew. He murdered his cousin. Wrapped his body in a rug and threw it into the river. But the crime haunted him; yes, it haunted him, and he couldn’t sleep. He used to walk along the seashore at night, up and down, up and down,’ went on the broken, educated voice somnolently, ‘and presently he noticed something dark lying at his feet and rolling to and fro in the waves.’ Pause. ‘I suppose you haven’t such a thing as a cigarette about you?’
Arthur, mesmerized, handed him a nearly-full packet.
‘Ah thank you – very kind – and it was the rug. The body had gone; the fishes had got that; but it was the rug.’
He lit a cigarette shakily, and stowed the packet into his rags.
‘Thanks for telling me,’ Arthur said at last, and the old man gave a mocking wave of a long-fingered hand and turned his back.
Arthur hurried away. It was not until he was nearly home that it struck him that the story might be made up.
He shut the gate of his home with a sensation of safety and relief. The rags, the great beard, the voice: all had seemed to open before
He did not want trouble. He chose the more unalarming-looking of the young, and the more soppy-looking of the elderly, avoiding members of HM Forces, and gangs of either sex. An hour a week was quite enough to give to his odd search. In a fortnight, his job in the bookshop would be up, and he would go into Uncle Bill’s office. Free time would be scarcer after that.
Then, gradually, he learnt that no one is ‘ordinary’.
Every individual he spoke to showed some narrow, delicate, almost colourless streak, personal as a fingerprint, that set them imperceptibly apart from everyone else. Even within the most apparently moulded type there appeared these variations, infant shoots of oddness and individuality. There had been the elderly man who accused him of nosy-parkerism, muttered about a free country, and threatened him with the police. This was the evening on which Arthur nearly abandoned the project. But the embryo novelist heard the shy notes and saw the faint gleams behind the halting sentences and the clichés.
As for stupidity . . . perhaps he did not make enough allowance for the slightly alarming effect of clear dark eyes (notexactly glaring, but magnified by thick spectacles) fixed with severe attention upon the victim. Usually his spiel about the thriller and the coincidence was greeted with an open mouth and ‘Pardon?’
‘Eh? Say it again slower, son.’
‘I dunno what you’re on about.’
‘How very interesting! My nephew writes. He hasn’t had any luck so far with publishing , poor boy, but he isn’t discouraged. So you want to be a writer too, how thrilling ! I wonder if you’d like to meet Andrew?’
‘Coincidences? Funny you should ask me that. Only this morning I was saying to Mrs Bender who lives next door to us no it wasn’t this morning it must have been Monday because I’d just come from the launderette well I was on my way back as a matter of fact and I ran into her just as I was going along Bowie Road . . .’
From the mass of examples collected during one week, there shone out, large and lucent, one jewel.
It came from a tramp, an old man with a flowing beard who was covered, or rather packed into, layers of rags, glimpsed by Arthur on his way home one cold evening as he hurried past a coffee stall.
The handsome, ravaged profile outlined against the lights in the little place caught Arthur’s attention, and he paused; approached; ordered coffee; and addressed the towering ancient with his tale.
There was a pause. Arthur noticed that the old man’s nose was purple and threaded with crimson veins. He was prepared for retreat. Anything: a blow, a roar of rage, a shout of laughter.
‘I know of one,’ said a hoarse voice at last, while bloodshot eyes were fixed dreamingly upon Arthur’s own. ‘It happened in Bulgaria to a man I knew. He murdered his cousin. Wrapped his body in a rug and threw it into the river. But the crime haunted him; yes, it haunted him, and he couldn’t sleep. He used to walk along the seashore at night, up and down, up and down,’ went on the broken, educated voice somnolently, ‘and presently he noticed something dark lying at his feet and rolling to and fro in the waves.’ Pause. ‘I suppose you haven’t such a thing as a cigarette about you?’
Arthur, mesmerized, handed him a nearly-full packet.
‘Ah thank you – very kind – and it was the rug. The body had gone; the fishes had got that; but it was the rug.’
He lit a cigarette shakily, and stowed the packet into his rags.
‘Thanks for telling me,’ Arthur said at last, and the old man gave a mocking wave of a long-fingered hand and turned his back.
Arthur hurried away. It was not until he was nearly home that it struck him that the story might be made up.
He shut the gate of his home with a sensation of safety and relief. The rags, the great beard, the voice: all had seemed to open before
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