Ghostwriting Read Free

on the snow-covered fields, but his thoughts lost in the past.
    “And?” Russell prompted.
    He blinked. “I read the first few chapters very quickly, and enjoyed them, and a few hours later, on the wireless belonging to my landlady, I heard on the news that Wells had died.”
    Russell’s nodded, wondering if there might be a story in this.
    Ashworth went on: “I thought little of it at the time, merely remarking upon the coincidence to my landlady.”
    Seconds elapsed. The train roared through the winter-still countryside. “And then?” Russell asked.
    “I finished the Wells. I enjoyed it sufficiently to try another novel, but it was some time before I read an article about Machen’s The Hill of Dreams in a Sunday paper. That week I withdrew it from the local library. I read the first fifty or so pages, and then...” He stopped, his words catching in his throat.
    Russell was aware of his heartbeat, while at the same time his mind was rationalising the old man’s experience as nothing more than coincidence.
    Ashworth turned his head, staring directly at Russell. “The following morning I read in the paper that Machen had died the day before.” He paused, licked his lips. “I was scared, Mr Russell. I cannot begin to tell you how scared I was. I told no-one, frightened that they might think me mad. I kept my secret to myself and resolved, from then on, to read only dead authors.”
    Russell opened his mouth, but thought twice about trying to convince Ashworth of his naivety. The old man continued: “I was badly affected, Mr Russell. I was very badly scared. I thought myself in possession of some terrible power... You cannot begin to imagine my fear and guilt.”
    Ashworth took a long breath, gathering himself for the next part of his story. “I tried to put the past, and the experiences, from my memory. I applied myself to my work, finished my apprenticeship, and was taken on as an engineer by the same firm. I worked hard, and steadily gained promotion. The years passed. I married a wonderful woman – who fortunately had no interest in contemporary fiction. When I was thirty, in 1961, I thought back to 1946 and ’47, and what I’d experienced. I considered myself worldly-wise by now, and considered the reading of those books and the consequences as no more than unhappy coincidence.”
    “So you read the Hemingway?”
    “And within hours I heard on TV that Hemingway had shot himself.”
    A silence came between the two men, notwithstanding the rhythmic drumming of the wheels on the track.
    “And in 1991?” Russell said.
    “I was foolish. I should have learned from the errors of the past and contented myself with the classics. I should have known what strange and singular power I possessed.”
    “But you rationalised what had happened?” Russell suggested.
    Ashworth nodded. “Thirty years had elapsed. I began to wonder if, perhaps subconsciously, I had heard about the deaths and only then read these books. I was fooling myself, of course. I knew what had happened. But God knows, I wanted to be rid of the curse.” He fell silent, and then said: “So, knowing full well what I was doing, and fearing the outcome more than you can imagine, I selected an author old and nearing the end of his life... and began reading The Heart of the Matter .”
    “And how long after that–?” Russell began.
    “That very afternoon I heard on the radio news that Greene had died in Switzerland.” He smiled bitterly. “From that day to this, I have read no work of fiction by a living author.”
    Russell let the silence stretch, then said: “You do realise that what you experienced, though appalling, were nothing more than terrible coincidences?”
    Ashworth glared at him. “ Four times ?” he said.
    Russell went on: “Four times is nothing. Three of the writers you mentioned were old and nearing the end anyway.”
    “And Hemingway?”
    “He was profoundly depressed at the time, maybe even mentally unstable. Believe