Ghostwriting Read Free Page A

me, it was mere coincidence that you should have read these books when you did.”
    “Coincidence? But every time? Can you imagine the effect it had on me?”
    “And your superstition and fear would have been multiplied every time the appalling coincidence manifested itself.”
    “I always wanted to believe it was coincidence. The rationalist in me truly wanted to believe that, but the frightened child in here...” He gestured vaguely towards his temple.
    Russell leaned forward and laid a hand on Ashworth’s knee. “Think about it,” he said soothingly. “How could your reading of these novels result in the deaths of their authors, miles away? There could be no reason, no linkage, no cause and effect. The only rational, scientific explanation there could be is that it was coincidence.”
    “Which is all very well in theory,” Ashworth said. “But impossible to prove...”
    Russell let the words hang in the air. He thought for a while. “I don’t think so,” he said at last.
    Ashworth stared at him. “What?”
    “I’m a rationalist,” Russell said, “a believer in science. I’m also a novelist.”
    At the word, Ashworth opened his eyes wide and said: “I don’t see...” he began.
    Russell reached into his bag and pulled out the large manilla envelope containing his manuscript. He laid it upon his lap.
    “I’m confident your experiences were no more than horrible coincidence. Please, so you can gain peace of mind, read this. At least, begin to read it.”
    “I couldn’t!”
    “There have been greater coincidences,” Russell began. “Four times is nothing...”
    For the next half hour, as the train carried the two men through the winter wastes of the midlands, Russell worked at persuading Ashworth. There was something in his fervour, he realised as he spoke, of the missionary in his desire to enlighten, and save, the fear-ridden old man.
    Only once did Russell consider the possibility that Ashworth’s story might be a mere tale, a ruse concocted for some unknown reason – but he soon dismissed the idea. Russell felt that Ashworth was too convincing in his recounting of his abject fear, too honest in his retelling of events, to be a liar.
    It took Russell perhaps an hour to persuade Ashworth that the only way to rationally abolish his fears would be to begin the novel.
    At last he laid the bulky package upon Ashworth’s lap, like an offering, and said: “Please, read it. You have time to read fifty pages before we reach London.”
    “But what if...? I mean, I would have it on my conscience—”
    “Superstitious fear!” Russell jibed. “For your own peace of mind, read it!”
    As Ashworth reluctantly reached into the envelope, Russell stood. “I’m going to find the refreshment trolley. I’ll leave you to it.”
    As he moved off along the carriage, he was aware of Ashworth bowing his head over the bulky ream, and he felt something of the satisfaction of an evangelist having made a convert.
    He found the refreshment trolley and bought a coffee. Rather than rejoin Ashworth and distract him, he sat and stared through the window. He would let the oldster read for a while, and then rejoin him. He had never felt comfortable in the presence of someone reading his own work, anyway.
    He finished his coffee and lay back his head, and the motion of the carriage lulled him into a light slumber.
    He was awoken by the deceleration of the train as it drew into Kings Cross. He was disoriented for a second, and then recalled where he was, and recalled too his strange encounter with the old man. Thinking of Ashworth he stood and hurried back to where they had been sitting, half expecting the man to have vanished, the encounter to have been the figment of a dream.
    But Ashworth was still in his seat, inserting the manuscript back into its manilla envelope.
    “I hope you enjoyed it,” Russell began, taking his seat.
    Ashworth smiled bleakly. “It was certainly... different , but I wanted to read