The end of the civilised world

Carrying a single bag the young man is travelling alone at his whim, with no particular destination in mind. It has been a long day, tired from walking he finds a place that sells coffee and sits down. He opens his bag and retrieves a copy of the Writers and Artists Yearbook, opening the well-thumbed pages of publishers.

The last publisher he visited was nearly an hour ago, since when he has simply been wandering the streets, as if hoping to stumble upon a publisher by sheer chance. He goes through the publishers’ pages; twelve have a green tick beside them and each of these ticks has, over the course of the day, been turned into a cross.

As he flicks through the pages he realises that there is one small publisher he missed. He takes out his A to Z. It is nearly 5.00 and will take half an hour to get there, but it is worth taking the chance. He swigs down the rest of his coffee and sets off to the nearest tube.

He arrives at the building at 5.38 pm. The office looks shut, but he rings the bell. There is no answer but he hears noises from the rear. After about a minute a man opens the door. He is middle aged and greying. The young man consults his notes. “I’d like to see Mr Manners, if he’s still here.”

The man laughs. “Mr Manners is the only one here at this time of day.” The man looks at him. “Ah, here to present me with the transcript that will make me a millionaire no doubt,” he says. “Well, come in, before you’re eaten by the rioters.”

The young man is confused on many levels. This is the first time he has got beyond the receptionist, beyond the mantra of “we only take transcripts from agents.” He is also thrown by the reference to rioters. He saw the riots on the TV news the night before, but hadn’t associated it with the London he is visiting, the London of publishers, agents and bookshops. He is also surprised at the implication that the riots are going on now, in late afternoon, rather than in the drink-fuelled hours of the night.

Mr Manners confuses him still further by leading him to a back room, which is clearly set out for a meeting, with a jug of coffee, two mugs and a plate of sandwiches.

“Thank you for seeing me Mr Manners,” he says. “You’re right, it is a ‘transcript’, though it’s much more than that, it’s a novel about the fate of man. I think it has genuine Booker potential.”

“Booker potential, eh?” the publisher raises his eyebrows, “and what’s this masterpiece called.”

“’The End of the Civilised World,’” the young man replies.

Mr Manners laughs. “And yet you claim it’s fiction. Anyway, call me Brian. Help yourself to coffee and sandwiches, I ordered enough to feed an army.”

The young man realises that he hasn’t eaten all day and is intensely hungry. He starts eating a ham sandwich on brown bread, finishing it quickly and without pause launching into a tuna mayo.

“You probably think it strange that a publisher should invite you in for sandwiches and coffee without even glancing at your work. The thing is you’ve caught me at a bad time, well a good time from your perspective. I’ve just finished meeting Justin Nichols. I assume you’ve done your research and know that he’s the only bestseller on my label?” The young man nods.

“Well not for much longer, apparently. I had hoped he was going to sign a new contract, secure my future, but he’s been poached by a bigger club, to borrow an expression from the world of sport. I take it you’re not a sporting man?” The young man shakes his head. “I didn’t think so.

“The great days of literature are finished. Nobody reads, that’s the problem, everyone’s too busy doing their MA in writing, learning to trot out the same clone novels, formulaic nonsense.”

At some point the drink changes from coffee to red wine. The young man accepts half a glass and watched the rest of the bottle drain away in the fury of one-way conversation.

“There is no future in publishing. Bookshops are closing; never mind the independents, we’ll soon be pining for Waterstones and Borders, all we have left are online catalogues and Tesco. Publishers like me are finished, the agents filter out the few good novels for the giants, all I ever get is garbage. There’s no way I can make a living in this environment.

Without speaking, the young man hopefully holds out a copy of his manuscript.

The publisher takes it off him. “Sure, I’ll add it to the slush pile, it may be the million seller I need, the next Harry Potter: not that I’d have published that drivel.”

Eventually Mr Manners sends him on his way, repeating his promise that he’ll read the novel, adding that his company is doomed and that “Thirty years ago, that’s when you should have been a writer.” He follows that statement with a final warning to watch out for the rioters, before shutting the door firmly.

By the time the young man leaves it is past 7.00. He has finally got a publisher to read his novel, but he feels no joy. He can feel the black mood in the streets, a tension like a thousand bad dreams. He is in a strange area of London, where there were riots the previous night. He is a stranger. He becomes aware that the laptop bag he is carrying now marks him out as a potential victim.

He hurries to the tube station, but his worst fears are confirmed. In the short time since he arrived chaos has broken out; the shops beside the station have been smashed and looted, there is glass all over the pavement and an upturned car is on fire. Worst still, the tube station is closed. A cardboard sign points the way to the next tube, ’10 minutes’.

By now the streets are full of youths, young gangs. He heads away from the main congestion of people, and is relieved to see a line of police officers in riot gear. However, they are not there to help him, they are there to cauldron off the road and do not let him pass, even though he pleads with them.

He is forced to turn back and walk towards the mob. For the first time in his life he experiences real fear, he is caked in sweat, his mouth is dry, his legs feel wobbly, it wouldn’t surprise him if he were simply to collapse on the street, but somehow he struggles forward, one step at a time in the direction of the tube. Around him he hears the shouts and crashes, smells, heat and energy of the crowd, for he is now entering the mob, the very thugs and youths he fears.

He plods through them, carefully refuses to look at the pound shop which is currently the focus of the crowd’s attention, hundreds swarming on the store like vultures stripping a corpse. One man brandishes his proud prize, a case of lemonade.

The young man hurries towards the police line at the end of the street, but again he is treated like one of the looters, shooed away and threatened. One of the kinder policemen believes him sufficiently to point him to the tube, a maze of directions that sounds too complex for him ever to reach.

The nightmare continues, step after tortuous step. All thoughts of his novel have left his mind, It is now a burden, it marks him out, he is a stranger with a bag. Maybe he could ditch the laptop and save his life, but it contains the only copies of the book, one on the laptop, a dozen paper copies and two memory sticks.

Thoughts drive through his head. Maybe he’ll die here on the streets, maybe his novel will be published posthumously, his work will be forever linked with a grisly death on a grimy London side-street; maybe a picture of the riots will grace the book’s cover. Would he be prepared to die for his novel?

No, he realises with a shock, he’d take life over that. If needs be he’ll simply ditch the bag and the book and if he survives he’ll write another one.

These thoughts give him a renewed confidence and he strides past a particularly vicious group of youths. Finally, he sees the tube, there is a throng of life around it, not the mob-life he has passed through, but normal people.

Relieved, he walks through the entrance and begins the automated descent to the trains.