Gentlemen, We Have A Winner
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: A reunion that goes awry.
_____________________________________________________________________
‘And so it is my great honour to present this year’s Plymouth Fiction Prize to Andy McDonald.’
The applause was loud as he took the stage. He tried to ignore it. He gripped his story, three double-sided sheets of A4, more tightly. He shook hands with the man at the microphone, but he couldn’t remember his name. Nerves. Getting through this might be more difficult than he imagined.
He waited for the noise to die down, his eyes fixed on the words he’d scribbled on the cover.
‘Thank you all,’ he said. ‘It isn’t often I’m in England. Whenever I am, it’s only to get a connection up to Scotland. I want to thank the judges, of course, and everyone working here at the Institute. You’ve made me feel very welcome.’
More applause. Some of the people standing against the walls flashed cameras at him.
He scanned the audience.
She wasn’t here, he could see that.
‘I believe it’s customary for the winner to read their story,’ he said. He hoped his disappointment didn’t show. He suddenly wanted to get this over with quickly. ‘Mine is a bit long,’ he said, ‘and I’m sure you don’t want to listen to my voice droning on for the next twenty minutes. I know I don’t. I’ll just read the ending. I’m usually very suspect of people who explain their stories. The story is what the story is. If it needs explaining, then there’s something wrong with it, so please indulge me while I give you the preamble.’
She wasn’t here, damn it.
‘The story is about a middle-aged man who is obsessed with a woman, a girl, he knew years ago. He goes back to the college where they met. While he is there, staring up at the room she used to have in the halls of residence, he falls victim to a hallucination. If it’s about anything, it’s about how people should leave the past alone. I’ll start from the point where he comes back to reality.’
He liked reading his stories in public, but he couldn’t enjoy this one, even if they had deemed it worthy of such a large prize. He looked up at the end of each line of dialogue. They were watching him, following him, staying with him, staying with the story, but she wasn’t there. The girl. The story was nothing more than a description of something that had occurred. The fact that it was autobiographical he would deny until he was blue in the face when they asked him, which they would, eventually. They did that with all his stories. The girl was real, or had been. He had rekindled a correspondence with her a while back, then ended it. It had quickly got to the point where something serious, something emotional was happening. This had been the seed for the visit to the college. Whether or not it had caused the hallucination was anyone’s guess.
Like an idiot, he had sent her a message to tell her about today.
If she wasn’t here, this was a waste of time. They had his address. They could have posted the cheque.
He finished. He waited, a true professional, for a count of five.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Applause. He left the stage and was immediately cornered by a stocky man whose hair couldn't have been dyed any blacker. The material of his suit was expensively thick. 'Oh, bravo, Mr McDonald!' he said, and offered a hand.
Andy didn’t take it. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Dickson Wordsworth,’ said the man. ‘If I may be so bold, er, Andy – representation?’ He enunciated the word as if hoping to punt something nefarious to a trusted friend.
Andy laughed quietly. ‘I represent myself,’ he said. ‘Very successfully, as it turns out.’ His eyes skated the peak of the man’s risible quiff. Where was an exit when you needed...
She was there, on the other side of the room, clutching a glass of wine and smiling at him.
‘...my card, if you’d...’
‘No, thank you,’ said Andy.
The man touched him. ‘...pop into the office for a cup of tea...’
Andy leaned in. ‘Fuck off, you leech,’ he whispered. ‘My Muse is waiting.’ It was no big deal; Andy McDonald, Writer, had a reputation. He moved across the floor, he didn’t know how, he couldn’t feel his legs. ‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ she said. Christ, she was beautiful. After all this time. More beautiful than before. ‘I liked your story.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. Did she realise he had written it about her, because of her? ‘Did you drive down?’
‘No, I got the train,’ she said. She looked at her watch. ‘I can’t stay long, the last one leaves...’
‘I don’t want you to leave,’ he said.
‘No, I have to get back...’
‘I want you to spend the night with me,’ he said.
Her face reddened. Her lips parted. Her teeth. It wasn’t anger.
‘Stay with me,’ he said.
‘But...’
‘Tell him you missed the train,’ he said. ‘I have to be with you.’
She moved her wrist. ‘I don’t...’
‘What time does it leave?’ he said.
The glass was at her mouth, hovering. ‘Ten o’clock,’ she said.
It was half past eight.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said.
There was a little Greek place round the corner from the guest house. She let him order. Nothing too heavy. Kalamari and a few sardines. A side order of olives and feta.
He gestured for another bottle of wine. He had drunk most of the first one.
She looked at her watch for the hundredth time.
‘Phone him,’ he said.
She went outside. He could see her through the window. It was a short call. She returned the phone to her bag and lit a cigarette. She looked at the pavement till she finished it.
He’ll come and pick her up, he thought.
She sat down. She undid something at the back of her head and her hair fell around her shoulders. She filled her glass. ‘That’s all sorted,’ she said. ‘He’s stuck in a meeting with his inferiors. The au pair put the kids to bed an hour ago.’
With difficulty, Andy stripped the last sardine.
‘Where did you...’
‘He didn’t even ask,’ she said.
He fumbled with the key. He had to wave an arm to make the security light come on. She laughed. She was drunk, but she knew what she was doing, even if he didn’t. He had let his imagination get the better of him, he had imagined everything up to the restaurant. He hadn’t dared imagine anything else.
The lamp was on. The room hadn’t been cleaned. His clothes were strewn over the bed. It showed, he hoped, that this wasn’t a foregone conclusion.
‘I need to use the loo,’ she said. He found the light for her. She left the door open. He tidied up, trying not to listen. What the hell was he doing? She came back into the room. She looked around for a moment then sat on the bed. ‘I’m not drunk, if that’s what’s worrying you,’ she said.
‘I’m not worried,’ he said.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘You look it.’
He sat next to her. ‘I’m not,’ he said.
She lay back and pushed her hands into her hair. Her skirt had ridden up. He could see her underwear, a furrow of dampness. He touched her.
She laughed. ‘God, you’re so romantic,’ she said.
He didn’t...
He removed his hand.
‘You are drunk,’ he said. ‘We both are.’
‘Just a bit,’ she said. ‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘It could be better.’
‘Do you want to fuck me?’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s...’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t.’ He didn’t. What did he want? He wanted to look at her. He didn’t want to fuck her. He didn’t want that.
‘I want you to fuck me, Andy,’ she said. She sprang off the bed. The expression on her face. She wasn’t the girl he remembered. She was a woman. She pulled him upright by his belt. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got,’ she said.
Andy knew what he had. He knew how it would compare to a man with inferiors whose kids were put to bed by an au pair while their mother...
He knew what he didn’t have.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
She cupped his groin. ‘It’s time to find out,’ she said.
He gripped her wrist.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said. ‘Have you never done this before? Have you never cheated on your wife?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘So what the fuck are we doing here?’ she shouted. ‘I thought...’
‘I didn’t,’ he said.
‘This was your idea,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t a very good one.’
‘You bastard,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘You weren’t the first person to have sex with me,’ she said. ‘Was that your hallucination?’
It used to be, he thought.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I worked that one out years ago.’
‘ “People should leave the past alone”,’ she said. ‘You hypocrite.’ She pushed him hard. ‘Call me a taxi.’
‘But where...’
‘Oh, I’ll find somewhere,’ she said.
‘My phone doesn’t work over here,’ he lied. ‘Call one yourself.’
Her legs buckled. He tried to catch her, but gravity was on her side. She crawled against the bed. He had wanted to look at her, but not like this. ‘I’m sorry for getting you involved in this madness,’ he said.
She gnawed words through fingers that shone wet. ‘My life bores me,’ she said. She looked up at him. ‘Your obsession is nothing more than a diversion for me. Don’t kid yourself.’
He left her there. He went to the bathroom and closed the door. He locked it, too. He looked at his face in the mirror. He was old, or getting there, but he was here. So was she. He would make coffee. They would drink coffee and talk. They would talk until the sun came up. Perhaps they would talk about stories, his stories, and where they came from.
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: A reunion that goes awry.
_____________________________________________________________________
‘And so it is my great honour to present this year’s Plymouth Fiction Prize to Andy McDonald.’
The applause was loud as he took the stage. He tried to ignore it. He gripped his story, three double-sided sheets of A4, more tightly. He shook hands with the man at the microphone, but he couldn’t remember his name. Nerves. Getting through this might be more difficult than he imagined.
He waited for the noise to die down, his eyes fixed on the words he’d scribbled on the cover.
‘Thank you all,’ he said. ‘It isn’t often I’m in England. Whenever I am, it’s only to get a connection up to Scotland. I want to thank the judges, of course, and everyone working here at the Institute. You’ve made me feel very welcome.’
More applause. Some of the people standing against the walls flashed cameras at him.
He scanned the audience.
She wasn’t here, he could see that.
‘I believe it’s customary for the winner to read their story,’ he said. He hoped his disappointment didn’t show. He suddenly wanted to get this over with quickly. ‘Mine is a bit long,’ he said, ‘and I’m sure you don’t want to listen to my voice droning on for the next twenty minutes. I know I don’t. I’ll just read the ending. I’m usually very suspect of people who explain their stories. The story is what the story is. If it needs explaining, then there’s something wrong with it, so please indulge me while I give you the preamble.’
She wasn’t here, damn it.
‘The story is about a middle-aged man who is obsessed with a woman, a girl, he knew years ago. He goes back to the college where they met. While he is there, staring up at the room she used to have in the halls of residence, he falls victim to a hallucination. If it’s about anything, it’s about how people should leave the past alone. I’ll start from the point where he comes back to reality.’
He liked reading his stories in public, but he couldn’t enjoy this one, even if they had deemed it worthy of such a large prize. He looked up at the end of each line of dialogue. They were watching him, following him, staying with him, staying with the story, but she wasn’t there. The girl. The story was nothing more than a description of something that had occurred. The fact that it was autobiographical he would deny until he was blue in the face when they asked him, which they would, eventually. They did that with all his stories. The girl was real, or had been. He had rekindled a correspondence with her a while back, then ended it. It had quickly got to the point where something serious, something emotional was happening. This had been the seed for the visit to the college. Whether or not it had caused the hallucination was anyone’s guess.
Like an idiot, he had sent her a message to tell her about today.
If she wasn’t here, this was a waste of time. They had his address. They could have posted the cheque.
He finished. He waited, a true professional, for a count of five.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Applause. He left the stage and was immediately cornered by a stocky man whose hair couldn't have been dyed any blacker. The material of his suit was expensively thick. 'Oh, bravo, Mr McDonald!' he said, and offered a hand.
Andy didn’t take it. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘Dickson Wordsworth,’ said the man. ‘If I may be so bold, er, Andy – representation?’ He enunciated the word as if hoping to punt something nefarious to a trusted friend.
Andy laughed quietly. ‘I represent myself,’ he said. ‘Very successfully, as it turns out.’ His eyes skated the peak of the man’s risible quiff. Where was an exit when you needed...
She was there, on the other side of the room, clutching a glass of wine and smiling at him.
‘...my card, if you’d...’
‘No, thank you,’ said Andy.
The man touched him. ‘...pop into the office for a cup of tea...’
Andy leaned in. ‘Fuck off, you leech,’ he whispered. ‘My Muse is waiting.’ It was no big deal; Andy McDonald, Writer, had a reputation. He moved across the floor, he didn’t know how, he couldn’t feel his legs. ‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ she said. Christ, she was beautiful. After all this time. More beautiful than before. ‘I liked your story.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. Did she realise he had written it about her, because of her? ‘Did you drive down?’
‘No, I got the train,’ she said. She looked at her watch. ‘I can’t stay long, the last one leaves...’
‘I don’t want you to leave,’ he said.
‘No, I have to get back...’
‘I want you to spend the night with me,’ he said.
Her face reddened. Her lips parted. Her teeth. It wasn’t anger.
‘Stay with me,’ he said.
‘But...’
‘Tell him you missed the train,’ he said. ‘I have to be with you.’
She moved her wrist. ‘I don’t...’
‘What time does it leave?’ he said.
The glass was at her mouth, hovering. ‘Ten o’clock,’ she said.
It was half past eight.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said.
There was a little Greek place round the corner from the guest house. She let him order. Nothing too heavy. Kalamari and a few sardines. A side order of olives and feta.
He gestured for another bottle of wine. He had drunk most of the first one.
She looked at her watch for the hundredth time.
‘Phone him,’ he said.
She went outside. He could see her through the window. It was a short call. She returned the phone to her bag and lit a cigarette. She looked at the pavement till she finished it.
He’ll come and pick her up, he thought.
She sat down. She undid something at the back of her head and her hair fell around her shoulders. She filled her glass. ‘That’s all sorted,’ she said. ‘He’s stuck in a meeting with his inferiors. The au pair put the kids to bed an hour ago.’
With difficulty, Andy stripped the last sardine.
‘Where did you...’
‘He didn’t even ask,’ she said.
He fumbled with the key. He had to wave an arm to make the security light come on. She laughed. She was drunk, but she knew what she was doing, even if he didn’t. He had let his imagination get the better of him, he had imagined everything up to the restaurant. He hadn’t dared imagine anything else.
The lamp was on. The room hadn’t been cleaned. His clothes were strewn over the bed. It showed, he hoped, that this wasn’t a foregone conclusion.
‘I need to use the loo,’ she said. He found the light for her. She left the door open. He tidied up, trying not to listen. What the hell was he doing? She came back into the room. She looked around for a moment then sat on the bed. ‘I’m not drunk, if that’s what’s worrying you,’ she said.
‘I’m not worried,’ he said.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘You look it.’
He sat next to her. ‘I’m not,’ he said.
She lay back and pushed her hands into her hair. Her skirt had ridden up. He could see her underwear, a furrow of dampness. He touched her.
She laughed. ‘God, you’re so romantic,’ she said.
He didn’t...
He removed his hand.
‘You are drunk,’ he said. ‘We both are.’
‘Just a bit,’ she said. ‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘It could be better.’
‘Do you want to fuck me?’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s...’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t.’ He didn’t. What did he want? He wanted to look at her. He didn’t want to fuck her. He didn’t want that.
‘I want you to fuck me, Andy,’ she said. She sprang off the bed. The expression on her face. She wasn’t the girl he remembered. She was a woman. She pulled him upright by his belt. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got,’ she said.
Andy knew what he had. He knew how it would compare to a man with inferiors whose kids were put to bed by an au pair while their mother...
He knew what he didn’t have.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
She cupped his groin. ‘It’s time to find out,’ she said.
He gripped her wrist.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said. ‘Have you never done this before? Have you never cheated on your wife?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘So what the fuck are we doing here?’ she shouted. ‘I thought...’
‘I didn’t,’ he said.
‘This was your idea,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t a very good one.’
‘You bastard,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘You weren’t the first person to have sex with me,’ she said. ‘Was that your hallucination?’
It used to be, he thought.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I worked that one out years ago.’
‘ “People should leave the past alone”,’ she said. ‘You hypocrite.’ She pushed him hard. ‘Call me a taxi.’
‘But where...’
‘Oh, I’ll find somewhere,’ she said.
‘My phone doesn’t work over here,’ he lied. ‘Call one yourself.’
Her legs buckled. He tried to catch her, but gravity was on her side. She crawled against the bed. He had wanted to look at her, but not like this. ‘I’m sorry for getting you involved in this madness,’ he said.
She gnawed words through fingers that shone wet. ‘My life bores me,’ she said. She looked up at him. ‘Your obsession is nothing more than a diversion for me. Don’t kid yourself.’
He left her there. He went to the bathroom and closed the door. He locked it, too. He looked at his face in the mirror. He was old, or getting there, but he was here. So was she. He would make coffee. They would drink coffee and talk. They would talk until the sun came up. Perhaps they would talk about stories, his stories, and where they came from.
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford is from Grangemouth. His work has appeared in over twenty
publications, including Interlitq, B O D Y (Czech Republic), Gutter, The Ofi Press (Mexico) and The
Athens News (Greece). Andrew's first
novel, Drive!, was published in
2010. He has also written two
collections of short stories, The Next
Stop Is Croy and A Man's Hands. He lives in Greece.