OFF WITH THE OLD AND ON WITH THE NEW

OFF WITH THE OLD AND ON WITH THE NEW

Just before seven found me peering through the glass doors of the reading room at the library. A pretty innocuous crowd in there: a couple of grey-haired old codgers scanning the newspapers and somebody who resembled a tramp looking for a bit of warmth. No danger to me. In the past I'd often found work through the small ads in local rags and I hoped it'd be the same here.
But this time the story begins differently. The woman picks me up. Usually I did the picking up and not in a library for goodness' sake. Pubs, clubs or discos were the norm. She was different to the others as well: this was an upmarket tart, well not a tart at all really, and she was a good bit older than the others.
'The Writers' Circle Meeting's in this room over here. If that's what you're looking for'. She was one of those women whose attraction lasts through the decades and is not really dependent on looks - though she wasn't bad in that department either. Was she nearer fifty or sixty? Difficult to say with her creamy complexion, hair the colour of a fox's brush and a dramatic style all of her own.
'I'm Foxy Barber. President of the 'Writers' Circle.' Her expression as she looked at me from beneath lowered lids was definitely flirtatious. ' Because of the colour of my hair. Some do say, though, that I'm also a very foxy lady.'
I told myself my luck was definitely in. She was good at interrogating and I was happy to fill in the details. It took her only seconds to discover my name, that I was indeed new to the town and that, strangely, I too was a writer. Ah Ah! That's a new one as well.
'Not a professional yet, you'll understand. I'm a musician by trade but I'm taking a year out, living on my savings and writing a novel. What luck meeting you. I only came in to do some research.'
Quick thinking what! Unwittingly she had given me the new identity I so badly needed. I'd arrived in Wakebury that afternoon after dumping the stolen car under water in a quarry near Sheffield. The rest of the trip I'd done by train.
Now even my best friends, if I had any, would not recognise me. I'd got into the big smart city centre hotel through a back door and in a third floor bathroom my blonde hair had changed to black and my brown eyes to blue blue thanks to the aid of coloured contact lens. New, thick soled shoes had added at least a couple of inches to my height. Didn't register in that hotel, of course, but later found a suitable down-market bed and breakfast place.
'Well,Tony Smithson, ' my new aquaintance said,' you arrived on the right night. We have a good guest speaker and I think you'll enjoy what he's got to say. Afterwards we could pop into the pub next door for a drink. If you'd like, that is.' Linking her arm into mine she drew me into my new life.
Would I! I didn't know then that she was in the habit of adopting protegées. I came to understand later what it meant when people said it was a case of off with the old and on with the new for Foxy. That night I was the new. As a matter of course she wrote down my details. 'Merely for circle record, of course,' she assured me.
A well-meaning member told me the old had experienced enough and had gone to write his poems in Chile. 'So,' he warned, 'you'd better watch out, lad'
Saturday evening my new mobile 'phone rang. 'Oh, poppet I'm sitting here in the dark. Something's gone wrong with my electricity. Can you come and rescue me?' Surprise, surprise. By the time I arrived it had miraculously restored itself.
A week later it was a window-cleaner she desperately needed, then her car washing, and as spring turned into summer, a grass cutter. No pay, no rewards in kind either. I wondered sometimes why I let it go on, yet inside me I knew.
She was that kind of woman, I guess, and like all who had gone before I was flattered as I moved on from poppet, to sweetie, darling, pet and to my angel.
Besides it was fun and as well, thanks to her, I was now installed legitimately in Wakebury. She introduced me to all her contacts - writers, artists, publishers and other folks she met at one or another of the writers' festivals or get-togethers she went to. Edinburgh, Ilkley, Swanwick, Bridlington. I never saw her write a word, but as President of the Wakebury Circle she certainly got around.
She was so busy gadding, in fact, that as time went by she delegated most of her circle duties to me. Nobody complained when she nominated me Secretary, then Programme Organiser followed by Social Secretary. And when the Silver Anniversary Dinner loomed I automatically became Events Organiser.
'Now poppet, this anniversary thing.' Today she wore green and orange, a gauzy outfit that floated around her as she punctuated her conversation with expressive hands.'We have to make a splash. A real event that creates loads of publicity. I'll ask the Swanwick crowd to come, send invites to a few big names.' Her arms stretched wide, to include everybody she had ever met.
My God, those damned bracelets rattling up and down her arms were beginning to get at me. Was this the beginning of the end? The old migraines had started coming back again and the sound of the metallic tinkling came to my ears like crashing cymbals as her arms cleaved the air.
Most of the time I managed to keep the headaches at bay by popping a few of the tablets that quack had given me a year ago. Needed hospital treatment he'd told me. Didn't know what he was on about.
Proof enough of that that was that I found the organisation of the dinner a breeze, no problem. The short story competition sarcastically suggested by Bert, the Treasurer, gave me more hassle. Still, con man that I am, I managed the task with flying colours. ' Darling you're a miracle worker,' Foxy told me, awarding me with one of those theatrical kisses she was so fond of distributing.
First I conned the Arts Council into sponsoring the prizes. After weeks of discussions it evolved that the competition would be open to any writer in the county and would be for a crime story. Next the local press. They put up a harder fight but eventually saw that it could be profitable for them. They would publish one of the short-listed stories each night for ten nights. The public would vote for
the winner by sending in coupons clipped from the paper. As it was to be a crime
story an obvious Guest Speaker and someone to present the prizes was Detective Inspective Birdsall. He had written a couple of novels himself and realised his presentation could help the police who had just lauched a new initiative in the region.
On the night, the splendid publicity I'd created meant that practically all the members of the circle, with guests, were present. Everybody arrived in their finery as did the Lord and Lady Mayoress and other notables. The top table with Foxy resplendent in off-the-shoulder glitter, scintillated. I was on it as organiser - and as one of the short-listed story writers.
The £750 first prize had tempted me to try my hand. Anyway I had a tale or two to tell, truth being stranger than fiction or so they say.
At abour half-nine the Detective Inspector finished his speil, nothing more than a police PR exercise I thought, though he had spent a fair amount of time bulling up his own stories The lads on the poet's table were well on their way to maudling because of the amount of booze they'd kocked back and Foxy had obviously adopted the newcomer who sat beside her totally overwhelmed.
But I didn't mind. My story was a winner. I was sure of that even though nobody except the Detective Inspector and one or two at the Wakebury News knew the result of the voting. With cash in hand I'd be moving on. Six months in one town was more than long enough and the urge was getting too strong to resist.
The winner was announced. It wasn't me. But I did sit up straighter when the Detective Inspector started talking about a special prize. Something I'd heard nothing about. When he quoted my nom-de-plume and raved on about how intricate my story had been, how true to life, and how he did not understand how anybody could have included so much detail unless...
I realised my luck had run out and not only because of Foxy and her new protegée.
As the Detective Inspector finished talking I felt the cold steel of the handcuffs close over my wrists and the hot breath of the two coppers standing behind me on my neck.
The Detective Inspector continued talking. 'The story was so close to a notorious crime every force in this country is currently investigating that we made a few discrete enquiries. You see it included details only the culprit himself and the detectives on the case could have known. So, Tony Smithson as you are known in
this town, or Brian Forrest, or whatever your name really is, I arrest you as a suspect in the murder of Patricia Cresswell. Anything you say will be...'
I heard no more. I'd shopped myself. Written a full confession. I wondered if he knew about the other six or so tarts I'd topped.
I could see tomorrow's headlines. 'Murderer Arrested at Wakebury Writers' Circle Anniversary Dinner.'
At least Foxy couldn't complain that I'd let her down in the publicity department. She still sat nearby, her mouth a round 'oh' of astonishment but still looking as magnificent as a Bird of Paradise in her finery. In a strange way it pleased me that I hadn't had time to put her light out as I'd planned.

THE END