SNEAK PREVIEW - A ROPE MADE OF SAND

Here's the opening scene from my latest work-in-progress, a novel entitled A Rope Made of Sand.

Log line: A loner with a dark past is made a bizarre offer: pretend to be a rich businessman’s missing friend, adopt his entire persona, go and live under his roof, and receive untold riches.

In recent years, I've got a little bored of being this side of the typewriter all the time, so I've given myself a role in the book, a la Michel Houellbecq in The Map and the Territory or Paul Auster in A City of Glass. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the extract:

1

Even though he was in a hurry, Arthur couldn’t help but notice the well-dressed stranger across the street. In a dashing pinstripe suit, he looked so different from the other pedestrians, the doddery OAPs, pram-pushing single mums, and the odd disaffected hoodie with his head down and his hands thrust deep in his pockets. But it was more than just this man’s appearance that stood out. It was the purposeful way he pushed past people, his eyes fixed firmly on Arthur, the way he ducked right and left, craning his neck, clearly looking for a gap in the traffic so he could cross the road. 

      “Neil! Neil!” he shouted out, as he made a reckless dash for it, narrowly avoiding a speeding delivery truck.

       For politeness’ sake, Arthur came to a stop, to tell this man that he wasn’t called Neil, that it was a case of mistaken identity, but his manner was so effusive, his words so scattergun, he didn’t get the opportunity.

      “I – I can’t believe it! After all these years, and I bump into Neil Randall by chance.” And he grabbed Arthur and embraced him, hugging him so tightly, Arthur found it difficult to breathe. “I thought you were dead. I never thought I’d see you again.”

      Relinquishing his grip, he took a step back and looked Arthur up and down, as if he was a rare, treasured antiquity.

      “You look great, Rand, you really do. Not aged one bit, still got those boyish good looks, not the hint of grey hair at the temples or suggestion of the old middle age spread.”

      He grinned and playfully jabbed Arthur in the stomach.

     “What a stroke of luck! What a coincidence! I mean, what the hell are you doing here, in a backwater town like this?”

     “Look,” said Arthur, “my name’s not Neil Randall. I’m not your old friend. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

    The man’s beaming smile momentarily fell in on itself, then he threw back his head and let out such a booming burst of laughter it visibly startled a few passing pensioners.

     “What are you talking about, you old kidder, you?” And he slapped Arthur on the back. “It’s me, Jimmy Howard, you’re talking to now. God, how I’ve missed your sense of humour, that look of pure piss-take incredulity you always used to flash when you were having someone on. Times we used to have, Rand. You haven’t changed at all.”

      “No, seriously,” said Arthur, as sincerely as he possibly could, “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not trying to have you on or anything like that. I guess I just look a lot like your old friend, that’s all.”

      “What?”

     Clearly confused now, he blinked eyes that had a few seconds ago been brimming with joy, as if the possibility of the man standing before him not being who he thought he was had finally started to register.

     “But you – you look just like Neil, you talk just like Neil, you move just like Neil. Christ, you’re the same sort of age, height, build. There’s no possible way you can’t be Neil Randall.”

     “I’m terribly sorry, sir. But my name’s Arthur. I’ve only just moved to the town. I start a new job today. And I – I don’t want to be late, so I really am going to have to go now.”

     Stepping to the side, Arthur made as to walk away.

     “Wait.” Howard grabbed his forearm, halting his progress. “Come on now, Neil, the time for jokes is over. I like a laugh as much as the next guy, but this has gone too far.”

     “Look, sir, like I said, I’m not having you on, or playing a prank or anything like that. Here.” He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his wallet. “This is my identification card, if you don’t believe me. See. I’m not Neil Randall.”

     Leaning very close, Howard studied the card carefully, intently, as if taking in every detail, every last letter and digit. This went on for so long, Arthur couldn’t help but feel unnerved, worried that he may really, truly be late for his new job, that he’d make an awful impression, that he might even risk getting sacked on his very first day.

     In time, Howard lifted his head and stared hard at Arthur.

    “Then I can only apologise, Mr Ronaldson,” he said. “I’m not a man used to making mistakes. Only it’s uncanny, your resemblance to a very dear old friend of mine, someone I haven’t seen in many a year.” Looking disproportionately upset, close to tears, he took a deep intake of breath and slowly exhaled. “Sorry to have wasted your time.” He bowed his head. “I bid you good day.”