Free Ghostwriting by Eric Brown Page A

ago the Greenes had moved to the village and spent half a million on converting the old Simpson barn, and Rhodes had been determined to dislike James even before they first met at a pub quiz. To his bafflement, he’d found the big, square-faced southerner more than likeable. Beneath the hale-fellow-well-met bonhomie, Rhodes detected genuine compassion.
    Lillian, a bronzed, blonde woman in a sarong, met them barefoot at the door and showed them through into the back garden.
    James was expertly barbecuing beefsteaks on a portable stove, fork in one hand, a bottle of chilled German wheat beer in the other. He made a performance of juggling fork and bottle, before laying them aside, wiping his hands on his apron and shaking Rhodes’s hand. He kissed Anne on the cheek.
    “And how are my favourite creative types this sunny day?” he boomed. “How’s the scribbling coming along, Steven?”
    Rhodes winced. James knew nothing about writing – or reading, for that matter: his idea of good literature was the latest best-seller – and he was forever exhorting Rhodes to ditch his sensitive stories of mid-life angst and take up thrillers. “Take a leaf out of Dan Brown’s book and try something racy.”
    He held up his right wrist. “Slowly.”
    Anna said, “Steven’s dictating into one of those new-fangled thingamajigs.”
    “Ipods?” James quipped.
    Anne laughed. “Tell him about it, Steven.”
    “I’m sure James wouldn’t find it that interesting,” Rhodes said, earning an odd look from Anne.
    They drank cold beer and ate a little later under an awning in the back garden. James was the life of the gathering, regaling them with village gossip and then imparting a sure-fire winner on the stock market. Making up for my taciturnity, Rhodes thought. James would comment on it, later.
    On cue, Lillian took Anne for a turn around the garden, and James leaned close to Rhodes and said, “Anne’s worried, you know?”
    Rhodes opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came. He was shocked that Anne had had the time to say anything to James since they’d arrived.
    Then he cottoned on. “Oh, right. What’s she been telling Lillian?”
    James wore long shorts and leather sandals, out of which his big white toes protruded obscenely as he stretched out his legs to view his feet.
    James shrugged. “Just that you won’t talk to her about... what happened. That you’re bottling it all up. She thinks you should see someone, or at least talk to her.”
    Rhodes nodded, staring at the label on his beer bottle.
    James went on, “And I think it’d be a good idea too, speaking as a concerned friend.”
    Rhodes almost said, “Speaking as someone who knows nothing at all about what I’m going through,” but managed to hold his tongue.
    Instead, and to his surprise, he said, “I suppose it’s because I feel so bloody guilty.”
    His friend stared at him, a mouthful of beer inflating his cheeks. He swallowed and said, softly, “You’ve no need to, old man.”
    “Haven’t I?” He washed his mouth out with a swill of beer. “I suggested Jane take the main road home. We were in town. I had the car. I said the exercise would do her good. Fact was... I had some plants in the boot, presents for Anne, and I didn’t want the bike in the back in case they were damaged.”
    Silently, James uncapped another beer and passed it to Rhodes.
    “I had a couple of things to do in town. I set off after her ten minutes later. I must have come round the corner just after it happened. I saw her...”
    “Okay, okay, Steven...” James said.
    “So now you know why I feel so damned guilty.”
    James nodded, then said, “Have you told Anne?”
    “Of course. She doesn’t understand. Just says it’s something I have to face.” He shrugged. “That was months ago, just after it happened. I’m probably being unfair on Anne – she wasn’t as cruel as I make her sound.”
    A silence developed. James said, “Still, you really should talk to