Frankie Styne & the Silver Man Read Free Page A

remember me mentioning the Hanslett Award when we met before Christmas?
    Christmas? No, he didn’t. These days her letters were typed by a machine that made them look virtually published. The clear black type, absolutely even, made it difficult to believe that anything she wrote was less than definite or could ever be wrong. Misspelled words had an authority which made them unsettling and difficult to challenge with any confidence. Frank abandoned the letter and went to replenish his cup of coffee, standing by the machine while the dark liquid leaked fitfully out. He adjusted the kitchen blind to make the light softer. The blind was very pale yellow and made from extremely narrow slats, with a rod at the side. It was the best you could get. Frank had a special attachment for cleaning it. In his mother’s day the window had been covered with a plastic gingham curtain. She said it was practical, but in fact it had attracted mildew at the bottom, and it felt dreadful to the touch, damp and smooth, like a sick person’s skin.
    He had waited for eighteen months after her death. Then he had gutted the house. The floral wallpapers were replaced with simple stripes, pinstripe-fine; the textured ceilings were plastered smooth. He had spotlights and wall lights and dimmer switches, integral shelving; he installed a new kitchen, heating, a shower, the blinds. He stayed with his mother’s friend Marjorie while it was done, and came back to find the place unrecognisable, as he had hoped. He had lived it out day by day and he had been loyal to the end—what choice, after her faithfulness? But after, he had wanted to forget; and to be only, and thoroughly, Frank Styne.
    Returning to his chair he forced himself to read on:
    It’s a new and substantial prize, likely to carry a great deal of publicity. The prospectus says it is intended for
    The type slipped effortlessly into italics.
    â€” daring and experimental work at the cutting edge of contemporary fiction.
    Of course, no one knows what that means, especially first time around! But I must confess that although I’ve long felt your work to be underestimated, it never occurred to me to press Cougar to enter To the Slaughter for the Hanslett! I have it from P. Magee, however, that a member of the judging panel is a great fan of yours and has called for TTS to be considered. And of course the kind of post-modern, ironic horror you are so well known for is certainly at the “cutting edge”!
    Cougar are delighted, though not sure quite what’s hit them. Naturally, if you win, it may in the end mean some kind of deal with a more literary house. The shortlist (rumour has it that you are on it) will emerge this week—coinciding almost exactly with publication of TTS— and the result comes out in early May. Even at this stage I think there could be considerable interest from the press. I’m sure you’ll be as delighted as I am. I may well be able to give you further information when we meet for lunch next Wednesday, 3 April. Fingers crossed!
    He’d never much cared for the loose generosity—or was it arrogance?—of the way Katie Rumbold could fill any available space with her signature, and now, suddenly, he detested it. He had never, ever, thought of—let alone wanted to win—a literary prize. Postmodern? Ironic? I don’t even want to be in the running, he thought. I write pulp . The plot of The Procreators, for instance, was nothing but, though it did differ in one respect from his previous work. His editor at Cougar, Pete Magee, had recently told him that it was time he included detailed sex scenes in his books. Times were changing. Television was to blame. It was, he had said, virtually obligatory nowadays to include some sexual action, and he expressed his complete confidence that Frank could take it on. But if not, perhaps just an outline, and someone in the office could do it, and slip it in? Frank could just