Bronte’s Inferno XV (Gaga By That Time)

The Editor-at-Large was wearing his military greatcoat, jodhpurs and boots again. However, this time he had outdone himself by adding a white shirt, bootlace tie and and a rather foppish silk waistcoat whose design I couldn’t quite make out, thanks to his voluminous coat. He reached for an inside pocket and brought out another sheaf of paper with the beautiful script written out on one side of the sheets only.

‘This iss the third time of asking, Mr _______. You will find it an improved offer.’

‘I’m not very good with all that party-of-the-first-part stuff. Why don’t you tell me what’s changed?’

He shrugged and gave a slow nod,

‘Not much. There ain’t no sanity clause, for example.’

The dog-bark laugh was explosive, shattering the quiet of the Brontes’ library. I sniggered, despite myself.

‘No, serioussly, though. It iss a better deal… well, than we have given anyone.’

‘It’s still the same choice though, Fame or Fortune?’

He steepled his hands, something which looked strange as the occasional table was too low and fragile for him to lean his elbows on. He looked like he was going to pray or bow his head and say ‘namaste’, instead of telling me a lie.

‘Well, it iss … and it issn’t…’

‘How’s that?’

‘You will get both, but – let us say – you will have both for a limited period only. Your inningss will be relatively short.’

This was followed by an unsteepling of hands and a rather effete clap.

‘How short?’

‘It could be ass much ass twenty yearss.’

‘How does it pan out? You can’t be famous and suddenly not famous.’

‘Oh but you can, Mr ______. Your deal will be similar to the schoolboy-wizard woman’s, but better, oh yes, but much better.’

‘She’s got that pseudonym everyone knows about though.’

‘Not for long, Sir, not for long.’

‘She’s still famous – well, infamous – now.’

‘I refer you to my previous answer.’

The Editor stood up, went over to some piece of furniture that looked the right age but the wrong design and fixed us both a drink. Brandy, in something the size of a spaceman’s helmet. He sat down.

‘You know, the internet is the finest thing humankind has ever invented. You can be king of the world one minute and -’

He paused to make the inverted commas with his fingers,

‘the devil incarnate the next, before disappearing as though you were never alive. Cancelling. It has been so good to us at Charnel House.’

‘How will my deal be better?’

‘You will be twice as rich and twice as famous as – what’s-her-name.’

Perhaps he had forgotten her name.

‘What’s the catch? There’s always a catch.’

‘No catch, you will continue writing after the fall. It won’t be exactly the same. You’ll be providing celebrities’ murder mystery novels, sportspeople’s autobiographies, politicians’ memoirs, that kind of thing.’

I knew that 20 years worth of fame and fortune would make me 80 years old give or take. I could be gaga by that time. So, just for something to say, I asked,

‘How many of these books would I have to write?

I saw The Editor-at-Large smile for the first time. His teeth were sharp pointed, small and all the same size, as though he’d had implants made in the shape of a gin trap.

‘All of them,’ he said.