Murder Your Darlings Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Titles by Mark McCrum

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acknowledgements

  Titles by Mark McCrum

  Non-fiction

  HAPPY SAD LAND

  NO WORRIES

  THE CRAIC

  CASTAWAY

  ROBBIE WILLIAMS: SOMEBODY SOMEDAY

  GOING DUTCH IN BEIJING

  WALKING WITH THE WOUNDED

  Fiction

  THE FESTIVAL MURDERS *

  CRUISING TO MURDER *

  MURDER YOUR DARLINGS *

  * available from Severn House

  MURDER YOUR DARLINGS

  Mark McCrum

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2019

  in Great Britain and 2020 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2019 by Mark McCrum.

  The right of Mark McCrum to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8993-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-668-5 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0366-3 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ‘If you here require a practical rule of me, I will present you with this: “Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it – whole-heartedly – and delete it before sending your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings.”’*

  Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch

  On the Art of Writing (1916)

  ‘Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.’

  Stephen King

  On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft (2000)

  *his italics

  She felt a little giddy, but that was OK – just the heat, probably, or her pre-brekky espresso. She picked up the ladle, swung it towards the silver bowl and filled it to the brim with water, then lifted it carefully, meniscus shimmering, not spilling a gorgeous drop, over to the glowing orange coals. With a twist of her wrist she turned it, then laughed like a child as the steam foamed up into the little cabin, the heat just behind it, like sound following light.

  Two more minutes, that would do it, don’t be silly, deep breaths, feel that rasp of heat on the back of your throat. Ah, how she loved it! Heat, heat, heat, right through to her bones, chilled as they were from her refreshing early dip in the pool outside. And with the heat, the scent of lavender, from the blue glass bottle of Neal’s Yard essential oil she had brought out with her from home. It reminded her of long-ago summer holidays in the South of France, lying in the hammock in the barn in her bikini, après-déjeuner, waiting for one of those nice young men to come and pay court to her. Annoying Anthony, now there was a chap she’d given a bit of a run around to. Hey ho, was it her fault he’d felt he had to kill himself? Absolutely not. His life, his decision. I wasn’t that marvellous. Or was I? Later, of course, the crazy trips abroad. India in ’66, Morocco in ’67, long before the dreaded scourge of ‘backpackers’, when it had been a novelty to be a traveller, when there was adventure to be had, spliffs to be smoked, gurus and Berbers to be seduced and all the rest of it. She hadn’t been that nice to boring Bobby in Essaouira, had she, or humdrum Harry in Kashmir for that matter, but what was life for if not for living, as her dear Papa always used to say. ‘Look before you leap, but don’t look for too long, or you may never leap.’ That had been another of his bon mots. She had never, to be honest, met a man to match him. His wildness, tamed by his sheer, impeccable style.

  Another wave of giddiness rocked her. What was going on? She was normally fine for as long as she wanted dans le sauna. OK, time to get back to reality. Far away from desert dreams to the dear little souls of ‘the writing group’. What a funny bourgeois bunch they were, tedious as burnt toast most of them, but still, maybe she was learning something. Francis the tutor had a twinkle in his eye, it had to be said. Were she only thirty years younger, and still in possession of the famous ‘body’, who knew what might have transpired? But hey ho, tempus fugit, Anno Domini and all that. This was what you did in your early seventies, when flesh sagged and memory lagged. Studied the art of memoir and stuffed your creaking carcass with yummy nosh. And then – Christ, what was that – got dizzy in the sauna.

  Carefully, putting her hands down on the natural pine planks to steady herself, she lifted her dainty old bottom off her towel and got to her feet. She was short of breath and could feel her heart racing wildly. What was this? Was she having a heart attack or a stroke or something? Desperate now to get out, to gulp fresh air, she reached for the door handle and realized it wasn’t there. What? Where on earth? Oh my Christ, the bloody thing had come off and fallen to the floor. How had that happened? She’d used it, surely, to get in, how else would she have opened the door? But hang on, the outer one was still there. Mocking her from the other side.

  She reached down to pick it up and almost fell over. Hands shaking, she got to it, grasped it, held it up to the square fixing on the door. But no. It didn’t, wouldn’t engage. Where was a decent man when you needed one? She staggered sideways on her feet, reached out with her other hand for the bench. She felt like a woman on a ship in a storm. Like she’d felt on the Santander ferry with David the Dreary, why had she wasted even a minute of her life with him? Was she about to be sick? Oh Christ, those prawns must have been off last night.

  Without the handle, she couldn’t get out. She could see the tantalizing little steel catch that was holding the door shut, keeping her in, like a prisoner. Even as she stared
at it, it swam out of focus. The handle, too. The whole cabin was a blur. She threw herself against the glass but nothing moved. Ouch. All she’d done was hurt her shoulder. Don’t panic, she told herself, as she hammered on the door with both her fists, then screamed at the top of her voice. Would they hear her? Surely they must, even though the walls were thick and the sauna was deep in the basement of the villa.

  With another wave of nausea she grabbed the bench, gulped at the throat-searing dry air. OK, OK, keep calm in an emergency, that’s what Daddy would have said. It’s hot but not so hot, if you don’t put any more water on the coals the cabin will slowly cool. You can bear it. You can drink the water from the bowl, keep hydrated. Someone will come. It’s breakfast time, for God’s sakes! They will miss you and be here. Fabio will come. To check. Handsome, saturnine Fabio will c—

  She slid sideways past the bench to the floor. As she fell, she was aware of a blurry face in the shadows beyond the door. Shouting at her, as hands gesticulated and fingers tapped loudly on the glass. Rat-tat-tat! Oh mercy be, thank the heavens, was she saved? No. The fingers didn’t reach downwards for the handle. They pointed up, and around, wildly, as the gaping mouth yelled on …

  ONE

  Monday 24 September

  ‘It’s not that I particularly dislike her,’ read Poppy, ‘although I have to say I do. It’s more that she dislikes me. Hates me, in fact, and makes no secret of it. It’s been the same since we were teenagers, though the sad thing is we were tremendous friends as children.’

  A flicker of regret crossed her features, like the shadow of a cloud covering the sun; but almost before that had fully registered, Poppy had pulled herself together. She looked up from her trembling oblong of A4 and round at the attentive group, with that same mischievous, yet undeniably superior smile that had been troubling Francis all week. Not just Francis. All the guests at the villa were finding her irritating, with her grand manner and constant namedropping.

  ‘Tremendous friends,’ she repeated with emphasis. ‘Games of hoopla. Dressing up. Running into the woods to build dens. We were most ungirly girls, really. The trouble was, of course, the house. Framley Grange. The most beautiful house in Wiltshire, people said. Though growing up, we took it totally for granted. My father had improved it, of course, beyond measure, but it had always been lovely, with the tall, spreading cedars over the great lawn at the front and the surprising wildflower meadow at the back. The twinkling trout stream beyond. The mill house that was now the summer house. The natural pool, far superior to those vulgar blue pools that were to blight the landscape later. Where we could bathe naked, nunga punga as my father used to say, in the argot he’d picked up as a young officer in India during the war. Ah, how we loved Framley! Even before we were old enough to realize how famous or important the constant stream of visitors often were. Cabinet ministers, judges, my father’s top brass army colleagues. All lured by my father’s legendary dry wit and my mother’s generosity of spirit. But then, when we came to understand that it was to be I who was, in the end, to inherit the place, things started to go wrong in our sibling relationship. I could never put a finger on it directly, just little things. Minty would help herself to my party frocks without asking, for example, knowing how much that irritated me. Was I prettier than her? Perhaps I was. Was I cleverer than her? Perhaps I was. Did it seem unfair that I should get the looks and the brains and also the house? But that was life, as my dear father often used to say, shout sometimes. “There’s no such thing as fairness in the human condition, whatever the bloody Commies like to think …”’

  When she’d finished, five minutes later, there was the usual short silence. Which Francis, as writing tutor, was honour-bound to break with some comment or remark. He liked, generally, to be as positive as possible, before pointing out, perhaps, a few things that could have been done better.

  ‘That was very strong, Poppy,’ he said. ‘Very strong,’ he repeated, playing for time. ‘The point of this exercise, which as you know I jokingly call “Murder Your Darlings”, is to be as honest as possible about someone close to you – and you really succeeded in that.’

  There were murmurs of agreement from around the table and Poppy beamed back, smugly.

  ‘It’s not easy, telling it how it is,’ Francis continued, ‘so well done. I got a very clear picture of your sister, and your father. And also of this wonderful house you lived in as a child—’

  ‘Still live in,’ said Poppy.

  ‘Still live in, great, and you gave us some nice details of that. The cedar trees, the mill house, all very atmospheric. I almost wanted more. Did anyone else think that?’

  This was always a good trick, to throw things open to the table. However good, bad or dreadful they were as writers, most of the group were coherent critics.

  Liam, the scruffy, middle-aged Northern Irishman, was the first to dive in. ‘Not sure I wanted more about the house, though it does sound rather splendid. Like one of those Anglo-Irish mansions the IRA used to enjoy burning out in the Republic.’ He chuckled, loudly. ‘But the sister, and the father. I got a sense of them, but it wasn’t powerful. What did they look like? What did they smell like? I’d have liked a more objective picture, to be fair.’

  With each disparaging word, you could see irritation spreading across Poppy’s features. Though this whole exercise of writing and then reading out loud was intended to provoke criticism, none of them really liked it when it came, however politely couched it was.

  ‘I agree,’ said Zoe, the self-styled ‘Hampstead Jewess’, adjusting her half-moon specs on the bridge of her nose, then looking down to consult a scrawled page of notes. ‘So you were honest, Poppy, almost too honest, I’d say, about how clever you’re supposed to be. But there wasn’t enough specific detail. You talk about your father’s “legendary dry wit”. But even if it was legendary, with whom was it legendary? And isn’t “dry wit” a bit of a cliché. Wouldn’t it be better to see examples of it, Francis? Show not tell, and all that.’

  There was no denying Zoe, who would always drag him in to her spiky takedowns. She was usually right, which made it worse.

  ‘It’s a first draft,’ he said emolliently. ‘It’s an exercise, and there’s lots to work with here. Trying to remember specific jokes is obviously more difficult than talking about a “legendary dry wit”. But that’s what we have to do. As writers. We have to work hard to yes, show not tell, as Chekhov famously said. The point is, I’m holding you all to a very high standard here. I don’t imagine Dan Brown would redraft a phrase like that …’

  ‘“Legendary dry wit,”’ repeated Poppy. ‘Is that really Dan Brownish …?’

  The scorn in her tone indicated that she saw herself as a cut above the international bestseller.

  Scottish Diana, never one to allow discord, now chipped in. ‘I thought it was jolly good, Poppy. If I’m allowed an opinion.’

  ‘Of course you’re allowed an opinion,’ Francis said. Christ, the passive-aggression of this woman knew no bounds. Her accent reminded him of the old joke about Edinburgh ladies of a certain background, gossiping over morning coffee. ‘What’s it called when two cars run into each other in Morningside? A crèche.’

  ‘It’s so hard to be honest about one’s feelings for family members,’ Diana went on, fixing the group with her large, sincere, if rather troubled blue eyes. ‘I mean, I found my father rather tricky to deal with at times, but I don’t imagine I would ever want to write about that.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Liam.

  ‘Far too personal.’

  Liam chortled. ‘What would you want to write about,’ he asked, ‘as a matter of interest?’

  ‘What do I write about, Liam?’ Diana replied. ‘What I see in front of me in my daily life. Little quirks of other people. Unusual stories that I overhear in tea shops and restaurants. That sort of thing. But never anything about people I know personally. And nothing too negative. There’s enough negativity in the world without us having to read about it all the
time, isn’t there?’

  ‘That’s a point of view, for sure,’ said Liam. ‘What did you think, Sasha?’

  He turned to the young mixed-race American, who lay on the big blue beanbag in a white top and jeans, a fuchsia scarf around her neck, frizzy golden-brown hair framing her pretty, thoughtful face, like some alien goddess dropped into this coterie of geriatrics. She had booked the course on the Internet with apparently little idea what she was letting herself in for, except that it was ‘in Italy’, a place she had wanted to see, she had told Francis, ever since reading E.M. Forster’s A Room With a View.

  ‘I thought it was great,’ she said, and laughed boisterously, as she often did just after she’d spoken. ‘I’m so in awe of you all, with your stories, and your experiences. I wish I had a tenth as much to write about.’

  ‘You will, dear,’ said Zoe. ‘All too soon you will.’

  ‘I’m sure you do already,’ said Liam. ‘You just have to access it.’

  ‘And on that upbeat note,’ said Francis, ‘let’s break for our mid-morning coffee.’ It was exactly eleven o’clock and he had been saved by the notional bell.

  The group shifted themselves at varying speeds. They left the long table under the vine and made their way out into the bright sunshine of the gravelled courtyard. The main bulk of the villa was to their right: pale-blue shuttered windows set in a façade of honey-coloured stone, undressed and wonderfully higgledy-piggledy, if you looked closely. The first door you came to led into a little piano room, where there were also shelves of fluffy toys, for the families who stayed here over the summer; then there was the main front door to the hall, with its worn black and white tile squares; the third door along led into a room with an oblong marble dining table and an open fireplace. At the far end of this was an industrial-sized Gaggia machine, where guests could make their own coffees. Here the writers formed a loose queue, politely offering to help each other with the tricky practicalities of tamping and squirting and frothing. ‘Careful, Poppy!’ cried Diana, as she turned on the steam wand before she was ready with the jug of milk. ‘Or you’ll scald yourself!’