Diary of a Somebody Read online

  ‘Well, it’s more, er, kind of, yes, it is.’

  ‘Very useful things, diaries! They help to tell us what happened when – if they’re written truthfully, of course. And they can be very revealing of the inner mind.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Any chance we could have a look at it back at the station? See if there’s anything in it that can help us track down Mr Salt? Or at the very least it may help us understand what goes on in the creative mind, so we can put ourselves in the poetic shoes of Mr Salt, as it were?’

  ‘Well, no, actu—’

  ‘Wonderful! Thank you very much. Tell you what, you’ve only got a few pages left in it so why not keep it for a few more days and we’ll pop by and collect it next week? In the meantime, Sergeant Tuck can see about picking you up a new notebook. We wouldn’t want your writing to suffer while we take this one into custody!’ he said, amused at his own joke.

  After they left, I sat back down, closed my eyes, and silently cursed the day – 1st January – I’d started to write this stupid thing.

  Thursday October 4th

  Last year I spent National Poetry Day wrestling with a pivot table. This year, I am waiting for the dishwasher to be fixed. This is the humdrum, unglamorous side of poetry that is often hidden from ordinary members of the public. Many people have the notion that writing poetry is all about striding across meadows, notebook in hand, or quietly observing the world from coffee-shop windows. It is indeed mainly these things but with unfathomable pivot tables and blocked dishwasher pumps thrown in.

  The repair man didn’t turn up until 4pm. All that waiting around in the house for his arrival meant that I couldn’t pay a visit to the shed today. But after yesterday, that was something of a relief.

  I note that Toby Salt had been due to give a talk about the nature of poetry today at the Royal Festival Hall in front of four hundred people. Only he won’t be doing that now on account of him being dead.

  Probably.

  Friday October 5th

  crimeweave

  upon retiring

  from the mafia,

  Don Corleone

  wove aquatic mammals

  out of raffia

  i learnt this news

  when he made me an otter

  i couldn’t refuse

  I was shuffling around in my dressing gown when there was a knock on the window. It was the Man at Number 29. He gestured towards the top of the street with his thumb. There was the bin lorry and I’d forgotten to put my bags out. Five frantic minutes later, I collapsed back inside following a successful carpet-slippered pursuit of the lorry. How the mighty have fallen!

  After that, I couldn’t settle to much. In the end, I accepted my fate and curled up on the sofa with the cat, watching films all day – Godfather I and II, The Wicker Man and Ring of Bright Water – drifting in and out of sleep and yet more unsettling dreams.

  Saturday October 6th

  Quite why Dylan wanted to visit Buckingham Palace, I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to say goodbye to his English ‘heritage’ before he left it all behind. Or perhaps it was more personal than that; a subconscious impulse triggered by buried memories of childhood bedtime stories. He used to love it when I’d read A. A. Milne’s The Christopher Robin Versebook to him; his favourite poem was ‘They’re Changing Guard at Buckingham Palace’ and we’d often talked of going there although we never quite managed it. Until now that is.

  The palace was being renovated; there was scaffolding everywhere and many of the staterooms were closed for refurbishment. The extravagance and opulence that remained only served to make the whole place shabbier somehow and it seemed like an apt metaphor for the state of the nation. By the end of the visit, following my running commentary on our surroundings, I felt Dylan had made real progress in viewing what he’d seen through more cynical and jaded eyes.

  On the bus back, we took it in turns to give A. A. Milne’s poem an update:

  They’re renovating Buckingham Palace –

  Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

  Past understaffed wards and cash-strapped schools,

  ‘The Sèvres Porcelain sounds really cool,’

  wrote Dylan.

  They’re renovating Buckingham Palace –

  Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

  The queues were as long as those for food banks,

  ‘There’s Vermeers, Van Dycks and even Rembrandts,’

  wrote Brian.

  They’re renovating Buckingham Palace –

  Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

  Outside, the homeless were all moved along.

  ‘The Grand Staircase, I’ve heard, is cast from bronze,’

  wrote Dylan.

  They’re renovating Buckingham Palace –

  Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

  ‘You know so much ’bout the palace and grounds.’

  ‘Got a book from the library before it closed down,’

  wrote Brian.

  Getting home, I considered whether I should renovate my diary, too; give the entries a fresh layer of plaster, slap some paint over them. But unless I ripped the whole thing up and started again, I knew DI Lansbury would see through the cack-handed restoration to the grime underneath.

  Sunday October 7th

  On Locating the Poetry Section in a Bookshop

  Poetry? Let’s see . . . yes, fourth floor.

  No, I’m afraid there’s not a lift.

  We used to keep them all down here

  but they’re ever so hard to shift.

  All those gloomy meditations

  on the meaning of life and death!

  Putting customers off, they were.

  Now it’s all celebrity chef

  and lifestyle books – they’re selling like

  warm focaccia. But, as I say,

  fourth floor – sandwiched between Transport

  and Religion – out of harm’s way.

  I’d rather have bought a book on erectile dysfunction. But the job is done and now I have it (This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave, that is, not erectile dysfunction).

  It took me a while to find the poetry section, which had been relocated since I was last in the bookshop and now resided in the quietest corner of the uppermost floor. There was a stack of signed copies of This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave on the table, left over from the aborted book launch. I slipped one discreetly into the middle of the pile of books I was carrying, which included Dante’s Inferno, G. K. Chesterton’s The Innocence of Father Brown, Ian McEwan’s Atonement and a couple of self-help guides on how to beat insomnia.

  At the counter, I made it very clear to the bookseller that Toby Salt’s book wasn’t for me but an uncle who I didn’t like very much.

  Monday October 8th

  How to get Pikachu onto a Bus

  Above all, be gentle.

  Explain why the journey is necessary

  in calm and reassuring tones.

  Remember, Pokémon are not natural bus travellers

  preferring instead to hide

  in the overhead luggage compartments

  of high-speed trains.

  A double-decker is best.

  Boarding a minibus or local ‘hopper’

  may result in feelings of claustrophobia

  and cause Pikachu to evolve prematurely into Raichu,

  particularly should a passenger

  be carrying a thunder stone.

  Remember to ensure

  you have the correct travel documentation

  as anime restrictions may be in place

  upon designated routes.

  If all else fails,

  lay a trail of apples to the door

  and then quickly bundle him in,

  being mindful at all times

  of the risk

  of electrical discharge.

  DI Lansbury’s beard appears to change with the seasons. Today I detected autumnal reds, yellows and oranges within it, hitherto u
nnoticed. I wondered whether it might sprout snowdrops in January.

  He was here again with Sergeant Tuck to pick up my diary.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, we’ll have it back to you in a few days once we’ve given it a good read through. Sergeant Tuck has got you this to keep you going in the interim.’

  Sergeant Tuck had wrapped it up as if he were giving me a birthday present. The new notebook had a cover which featured some kind of creature from Japanese anime; yellow with red cheeks, black-tipped long ears and a lightning-shaped tail.

  ‘Sorry about that, sir,’ said an apologetic Sergeant Tuck. ‘They were all out of “Hello Kitty” ones and that was the nearest I could find.’

  DI Lansbury picked up my old diary from the desk to put in his briefcase but not before he’d noticed the folder that was underneath it. It was a manila folder, plain and unremarkable, except for a label in the top right-hand corner upon which was written the words ‘Project Death’.

  He stared at it for about ten seconds.

  ‘Ah, would you mind if we also borro—’

  ‘Go right ahead. Just take it,’ I snapped. ‘Take it all.’

  Tuesday October 9th

  The thought of DI Lansbury and Sergeant Tuck making free and easy with my diary feels like a violation of my private space. The forensic nature of their scrutiny unsettles me, the embarrassment of a life examined and found wanting.

  Wednesday October 10th

  How to Read a Poem

  Always have a drink in your hand,

  preferably a large one

  (the drink, not the hand).

  Before commencement of reading,

  delicately frisk the poem.

  It may contain an incendiary device.

  Begin at a word of your choosing.

  proceeding methodically through the others,

  or haphazardly, according to taste.

  Wring the meaning from it,

  being careful not to cut yourself on a metaphor.

  Rinse and repeat several times.

  Dispose of it safely on completion

  in your nearest radioactive waste depository,

  or on a local bookshelf.

  I made a start on This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave.

  It is only sixty pages long and contains sixteen poems. I had expectations of finishing it by lunchtime but, by the time I put it down this evening, I’d only managed to make it through the first two poems. I have re-read each of these approximately thirty times in an attempt to understand them. This is proving to be a futile exercise. They have now become just a series of unconnected words floating around the page. Two hours alone were spent on:

  your bright kimono face and lacquer box remonstrations

  in courtly Zenobian tones of sepia. The door closes.

  Use me not as your plinth.

  I’m finding it harder work than The Guardian Bumper Christmas Cryptic Crossword. I hope there will be a prize for finishing it.

  Thursday October 11th

  Baby on Board

  This badge proud-pinned to my lapel

  may proclaim ‘Baby on Board’ but it fails to dispel

  the mistrust that sits around me. Suspicion crams

  itself into the carriage. They’d rather see me hang.

  Me! With my aching back and Monday morning sickness,

  these need-to-go-to-bed eyes, and a belly that thickens

  beneath my shirt like the skin on a rice pudding,

  and causes my trousers to involuntarily unbutton.

  Me! A clearly pregnant man in his forties, unshaven

  with three days’ stubble who is experiencing unruly cravings

  for pistachio ice cream and shredded wheat.

  But no, not a single ‘please, DO have this seat’.

  I suppose that’s what happens in these post-truth days;

  No one believes anything another says.

  Inside, I feel something stirring.

  I clutch at straps for the remaining journey.

  I was standing on a tube train, six months pregnant. No one offered up their seat to me in spite of the badge pinned to my lapel clearly stating my condition. My fellow passengers shifted uneasily in their seats, staring at their feet, not wanting to catch my eye. I glanced down again at my badge. It now read ‘Murderer on Board’.

  I studied my fellow commuters more closely. I realised I knew them all; Dave, Martin and Marvin, Mrs McNulty, Tomas, Darren, Dylan, Sophie and Stuart, everyone from Poetry Club and book group, DI Lansbury and Sergeant Tuck. And there in the corner of the carriage, sat next to the only available seat, was Toby Salt. He was caked in blood, head dangling at an impossible angle, while he read the latest issue of Well Slaughtered: The Quarterly Magazine for the Discomfiting Murder Victim. He looked up, smiled strangely at me and gently patted the seat next to me. The train roared into a tunnel, and as a sudden blackness engulfed the carriage, I woke up with a shudder.

  I consulted my Dream Dictionary. The dream’s significance seems clear: don’t take a job which involves a lengthy commute.

  Friday October 12th

  The phone rang. It was DI Lansbury.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but we’ve been reading your diary and we just wanted to ask you a few quick questions.’

  Deep breath. Here goes, I thought.

  ‘Sure. Fire away.’

  ‘We were struck by the absence of limericks. Is there any reason for this?’

  ‘Um, not really. They’re just not my thing, I suppose.’

  ‘He said, “They’re just not my thing, I suppose”,’ repeated the inspector. I could hear Sergeant Tuck scribbling in the background.

  ‘Next. Did you know that the second line of your haiku for Scorpio on 31st January actually has eight syllables?’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Sergeant Tuck spotted that. He suggests you may simply want to change that line to “experience angers you”.’

  ‘Does he? Right.’

  ‘Another thing, the poem “Bloodshed” on August 27th. Do you realise that the initials of the poem’s murderer, “BB”, as well as standing for “Bible Butcher”, might equally be seen as an abbreviation of your own name?’

  ‘That’s a coincidence.’

  ‘He claims it’s “a coincidence”.’ I heard more scribbling. ‘And a very extraordinary one at that! Finally, is it true that you have a tattoo of Enya on your arm?’

  ‘What on earth has that got to do with your investigation?’

  ‘Nothing at all, really. We were just curious. But I think we now have our answer! Anyhow, we will be back in touch once we’ve done some deeper intertextual analysis. Goodbye!’

  He hung up. I tried to put the conversation out of my mind but it was too ridiculous. All these questions about my diary. It’s as if it’s become a set text for an English ‘A’ level paper.

  Questions for Further Study

  1. Consider the poem The Day My Dog Spontaneously Combusted.

  What does the dog’s tragic death tell you about the author’s attitude towards animal welfare?

  2. Discuss how Bilston plays with form and structure in a number of his poems.

  Present your answer in the shape of a pipe.

  3. How believable is the character of Mrs McNulty?

  Use crystals to divine your answer, but please remember to show your workings.

  4. ‘I think that I shall never meet / A poem lovely as a tweet’

  Discuss Bilston’s attitude towards social media. Answer in no more than 280 characters.

  Saturday October 13th

  Stuart was back. He arrived with Dylan and then mooned around on my doorstep, grinning broadly. It was World Smile Day today, he told me. But, then again, why shouldn’t it be every day?

  ‘Not only does smiling spread happiness,’ he went on, ‘it’s physically good for you! It boosts your immune system by decreasing cortisol in your body!’

  By this time, I was in full grimace mode. He looked at me,
then slapped me on the shoulder and carried on regardless.

  ‘Cheer up, Brian! Did you know that it takes seventeen muscles to smile but forty-three to frown?’

  I began to do some calculations in my head to work out how many it would take to hit him but before I’d finished, he took his leave.

  ‘Can’t chat all day, I’m afraid! Things to do! Bungee jump! Abandoned poodles!’

  Back inside, I saw Dylan eyeing up my Smiths records. I took Hatful of Hollow out of its sleeve and placed it on the turntable.

  Sunday October 14th

  Tomas called me up and we went for a walk. I told him of Toby Salt’s disappearance and the police’s unhealthy interest in me; how I felt as if they were trying to trap me; how I was worried I might find no way out.

  Tomas cogitated for a while.

  ‘You know,’ he said eventually, ‘Wittgenstein once declared that “a man will be imprisoned in a room with a door that’s unlocked and opens inwards; as long as it does not occur to him to pull rather than push.” ’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ I asked. ‘Are you saying that I should investigate what’s happened to Toby Salt?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s up to you. But if you were able to find out what had happened to him, then maybe you will have opened the door.’

  ‘Tell me, Tomas, do you have a Wittgenstein quote for every occasion?’

  He shrugged once more. ‘When we can’t think for ourselves, we can always quote.’

  ‘Wittgenstein again?’

  He nodded.

  Monday October 15th

  I watched an episode of Sherlock to get myself into an investigative mood.

  I thought about Sherlock’s famous precept: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. After that, I started working my way through all the impossible – and mildly thrilling – reasons for Toby Salt to have disappeared: abduction by aliens; time-transported to a Stalinist labour camp; mauled by dinosaurs; carried off by stoats; turned into an actual pillar of salt by a modern-day witch or wizard; and before I knew it, it was time for bed.