Disclaimer by Renée Knight Read Free Book Online

opposite and watch the comings and goings of the young family who lived there. Off to school in the morning, Mum coming home in the afternoon with the children. Their day was a useful shape for me, it reflected the shape I’d had all those years ago when Nancy would leave for school with Jonathan and return with him at teatime, and I would finish my last sentence of the day.
    I had put the photographs out of sight in my desk drawer, but they were at the heart of the story so I took them out and pinned them to the window frame. They formed a collage of sex and deceit: a kind of mood board. Every time I watched that young family coming in or out of their house I was reminded, by the frame through which I viewed them, of how innocence is so easily corrupted. It kept me focused.
    I didn’t rush it; I spent months copying out Nancy’s manuscript into my own hand. I wanted to know how she had felt when she constructed those sentences; I wanted to get into her head, to see what she had seen when the words appeared on the page. I wrote by hand because I needed to feel the shape of each letter; for my skin to make contact with the paper and feel its smoothness as my hand moved from left to right, slithering across the page. There could be no distance between me and it. Skin, pen, paper, skin – I wanted them to become one. I took as long as I could and enjoyed the rhythm of the words, digesting every one. There were moments when I felt a sentence could be improved on, but I didn’t stop to make corrections at this point; I pressed on, telling myself that only when I had reached the end would I allow myself to look back, like a climber approaching the summit. Don’t look down.
    I remembered how Nancy and I had laughed at writers who made the preposterous claim that they had been possessed by their characters; that it had felt to them as if their book had written itself. For me, at least, this was true. I saw the characters leap from the page, alive, fully formed. Fleshed out and breathing. My hand, slippery yet firm, ejaculating the words as they flowed from Nancy into me.
    The experience was life-giving, opening the door for Nancy to come back to me; her gentle, loving presence returning to our home. At the end of each day’s writing, when my hand ached from it, I made myself tea and toast and read aloud to her, as if she was sitting in her old chair opposite me.
    And then, when I was finally satisfied, I typed it up. Bang, bang, bang went my fingers, nailing each word to the page. Finally it was done. How long did it take? From beginning to end? I spent a year with Nancy’s manuscript, copying it out, but the real beginning of course was years ago, I just hadn’t recognized it at the time. I felt Nancy smiling at me, encouraging me on. She always said that one day my writing would break through.

11
    Spring 2013
    As soon as the front door closes behind Nicholas, Catherine locks herself in the downstairs loo. The weapon being used to torment her had been practically placed in her son’s hand, although so far Nicholas doesn’t seem to realize that he has a direct connection to the book. She hears Robert outside the door and picks up a magazine, rustling the pages to let him know she’ll be some time. She looks down at her knickers hanging around her ankles and is suddenly awash with self-pity. She doesn’t deserve this. Why torment her? And why now? She begins to cry, almost wanting Robert to hear and comfort her. He is standing on the other side of the door.
    ‘Are you OK?’
    ‘Fine, yes.’ She rustles the magazine again then gets to her feet, pulling up her knickers and blowing her nose under the sound of the flushing toilet. She checks herself in the mirror. She looks like shit, but it’s Sunday, that’s allowed. Pull yourself together, you stupid cow. Read the rest of the book, stop putting it off. Face it. Then you will know what to do, what you are up against. She smiles at her reflection, and almost laughs at