He knew how to make a first impression despite being just over five
foot high. His silent, intense gaze surveyed the room like an x-ray
as he stood facing us at the end of the classroom. Once he was sure
that everyone had arrived he sat down behind the desk. He disarmed us
with a smile but his eyes never left us; it was impossible to stare
too long into them.
Having sat at a convenient desk I unpacked my small rucksack. The
confirmation slip awkwardly stuffed into one of the smaller side
pockets and I fished it out to double check I’d picked the right
room. This amiable, well dressed and bespectacled chap seemed a far
cry from the blurb that had caught my attention in the adult
education syllabus, and he looked to be the last person that could
teach a class on writing horror stories.
Quite what a horror writer was supposed to look like I didn’t know,
but after seeing photo’s of Stephen King; Clive Barker and James
Herbert it wasn’t easy to lump this guy with them; his light curls
made him look more like a sociology teacher. It was hard to make the
connection, but then I suppose they said the same thing about Ted
Bundy.
I made sure that I was in the right classroom by nervously looking at
the number on the still open door. The man noticed by nervousness,
smiled and nodded once as if to reassure me. This one was not
disarming though, it was slightly cold and calculating as if he was
measuring my every gesture like an undertaker.
It felt surreal sitting in the same classroom, albeit fifteen years
later. Ironically this used to be where I had was taught English and
I had to resist the urge to sit in my old seat. I had watched as the
other members of the class drifted in and picked their places. Even
though there was no designated seating I was fascinated by where each
person sat and I wondered how much of the choice was coloured by past
experiences and behaviour. No one sat in the front row and few people
sat together.
What if this classroom were suddenly captured and transported into an
alien world, I wondered. Would body language and role types be
determined by the seating arrangements? Would those sitting near the
front of the class be the natural leaders? Would those at the back
–the shy retiring types- be the first to be eaten?
The man at the front looked at his sleek, expensive wrist watch,
walked to the classroom door and, without even checking to see if
anyone else was coming, shut it.
“Are we sitting comfortably?” He asked, his voice warm and
genial, perfectly cultured and reassuring. “Then we’ll begin.”
He was one of Britain’s foremost horror writers with five best
sellers and even a television mini-series, that had starred Peter
Davidson, under his belt. I hadn’t read any of his books and hadn’t
even heard of him before finding the adult education listing in the
local paper.
Upon sitting down again he addressed us all. “Right! Close your
eyes and keep them closed for three minutes. I want you to pay due
attention to everything you hear, everything that you smell;
everything you feel and even any memories that are conjured up. At
the end of the three minutes I want you to write it all down. You’ll
have ten minutes to do that.” He looked at his watch again. “The
three minutes start….. Now – close your eyes.”
I did as I was told: this seemed a strange way to begin a writing
class but once the novelty of effectively sleeping in class subsided
I was surprised by what I could actually hear. There were the obvious
sounds of the fellow classmates, the consciously shallow breaths and
awkward shuffling of feet, and the occasional but inevitable throat
clearing, but I was able to go beyond that. I could hear the wind and
rain whip the exposed windows of the classroom. I could hear the
footsteps in the corridor outside as the person scuffed up the
stairs. There was the sound of scraping chairs from above as a class
finished. There was even the rote mutterings of the class below us, a
bizarre chanting which must have been a foreign language class
–either reciting an alphabet or an ancient creed.
The smells I found harder to quantify; they were more elusive but
proved to be far more emotive. I smelt the classroom of my memories;
the chalk dust and stale sweat odour of the teacher, the stogid,
pungent reek of the canteen which was further down the corridor (the
smells that hung in the memory most were the limp, tasteless cabbage;
the rank tomato and pilchard surprise and the sickly sweet and milky
rice pudding.)
It didn’t seem that many years since I was last in the classroom,
but all the teachers I had known had either left or died and I now
felt like a disembodied spirit. If time had a smell then I guess it
would have been one similar to what I was experiencing: tinges of
lost innocence, past opportunities and future promises, stale luck
and forgotten loves. It’s school where you feel the pressures of
growing up; in puberty you’re no longer a child and each day you
feel the innocence drip away whilst the weight and expectation from
the future threatens to mould and crush you before you have time to
assimilate the multitude of changes that assault you….
“Three minutes are up!” He said, breaking me out of my reverie.
“Pick up your pens and write down exactly what you smelt, tasted
and felt. I’ll ask you to stop in ten minutes.”
I had never realised that three minutes could feel like that. On the
one hand it was fleeting, over before I’d even drawn breath, but on
the other hand I had lived and experienced every moment.
That was the first time that I met Daniel Paige and he taught me more
in those three minutes than the whole school had in the all the years
I had gone there as a pupil.
I went to his evening classes for a further three years after that
initial term. The syllabus was exactly the same, year on year, the
pieces of paper he used as lesson plans became more dog-eared and
thumbed, but the classes were always fun, informative and helped
serve as a refresher for me.
In that time Daniel never changed, not in any literal sense. His hair
style differed: long and curly, short and frizzy or short and
straightened, slicked back; but he was always affable, charming and
as confident as ever.
The second year I went back to the class he remembered me. The class
only ran for ten weeks but he could still remember details about me,
even after a year.
The other members of the class could never understand what such a
well renowned author was doing running an adult education class. To
me it was obvious: he was gathering material for his characters. Here
he could study the minutiae of someone’s personality, their
mannerisms, ticks and traits that only close scrutiny can reward. My
theory was proven about a year later when I finally picked up his
latest horror novel “Spoken”, which was about a case of supposed
demonic possession of a young girl by a deceased serial killer. One
of the consultants in the book had a surname of Sampson (which was
also my surname). Was this a co-incidence? Not when the character
shared many of my own behavioural ticks, even down to the way that I
become overly animated when I’m excited, or chew on my pen when
agitated. All of that Daniel could have easily noted on that first
night I met him, but he had the rest of the ten weeks to hone that
character.
(I must admit I was flattered by that and actually own an autographed
copy of it with an inscription “To Dr Sampson, all the best
Daniel”.)
After the last class had finished I rushed out and bought a couple
more of Daniels best sellers and voraciously read them. I now wish I
hadn’t.
The central idea to his novels was always unique and breathed life
into a somewhat one-dimensional genre and the plot was always sound.
But it seemed to me that Daniel was always trying so hard to keep
away from the clichés that were associated with slasher fiction,
that they became a parody themselves instead.
If the cliché was having an innocent virgin survive then he would do
his utmost to kill her off in a particularly nasty fashion in the
first fifty pages. In a way they became formulaic, the stories were
cold and calculating –like his killers.
Daniel was always brilliant at setting the scene, describing in vivid
detail the murders and the ensuing crime investigation, it was almost
meticulous. But, for me, the story and characterisation always let
the novels down. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand human
psychology; he could observe it and wrote down perfectly what he saw,
but he couldn’t deduce motivation from that or get to grips with
any real emotion, except for the nasty side of life.
I never told him how I felt, obviously. I was in a minority, but that
was fine. I was also unsure how he would react to my opinions and
might actually consider it extremely presumptuous (not to mention
extremely rude). Although I suppose that many people would have
jumped at the chance to prove their worldliness, superiority and
vulgarity by carping on, but not I.
Years later I would become the hypocrite, but in completely different
circumstances, and with greater conviction.
I read four of his horror novels, each one as predictable as the
last. He made a habit of never revealing the killer at the end of the
book –an act designed to thwart the machinations of the pessimistic
reader- but by unmasking the antagonist with up to fifty pages to go
it often meant a long, bland summation and exposition where even the
most asinine detail assumed gargantuan significance.
However I still went back to those wonderful evening classes. But,
like everything, they soon ceased and after five years we lost
contact with each other.
At the end of those five years I had actually written my own novel
which had even been published. Admittedly, it had been a
self-published affair, sold only to a few local bookshops, but Daniel
somehow found out, insisted on buying a copy and wanting it both
inscribed and signed.
A few months before that I had spoken to him about a scene I had
written in which the protagonist had visited a seedy brothel. The
character in the story was at the last edge of desperation and needed
to reach out to someone, anyone. (in an ironic way I had been in a
similar situation, so this was art imitating life for certain.) He
was a great exponent of “Write what you know” and asked me,
conspiratorially, whether I had indulged in that particular
experience. When I replied in the affirmative he seemed pleased that
I had followed through and showed the “testicular fortitude”
needed to be a writer and go that extra mile. I wondered how far he
had travelled down that particular route himself. However in amongst
the obvious confirmation of his teaching ability there was also a
hint of sadness in his eyes.
After a while I lost my drive to become a published writer and soon
my ability to turn a polished phrase dried up, save for writing in
greetings cards or the occasional speech. I became fascinated with
photography after discovering a talent hidden in various holiday
snaps. Buying a digital camera furthered my creative ambition and
within a year I was exhibiting a selection of my best photo’s in
the local library.
Two years passed, one national prize winning photo, and two further
exhibitions later, I browsed the shelves of one of the many charity
book stores that lay strewn like the illegitimate children of our
town.
“Dying Tonight is a real Paige turner.” Read the reviews of
Daniel’s latest novel. It wasn’t a huge departure from his
previous genre of writing: he had shifted from the writer of gory
slasher novels to the, slightly more subdued, who-dunnits. I’d not
seen him in a number of years and had totally lost track of his
exploits after the writing classes.
“Dying Tonight” was an intriguing title. I read the synopsis and
checked the author photo on the back, and taking the book home I
vigorously devoured every page of it. Daniel had taken yet another
overtly clichéd genre and breathed fresh life into it.
The story was written from the point of view of a would be murderer
who had planned the death of his boss. When the time comes for him to
actually commit his crime he is horrified to discover that someone
has actually beaten him to it. The man is already dead, murdered in
exactly the same way he had planned, but with all the evidence
pointing to him. He has to find out exactly who framed him before he,
himself, is arrested.
It’s a masterpiece of storytelling where the readers loyalties are
confused between being on the side of the would be murderer, knowing
him for what he is, and the actual murderer.
I was actually disappointed upon finishing the novel so quickly –I
wanted more. Gone were all the traits that bored me so much with his
slasher novels, instead there was depth of maturity and an
understanding of human nature that was non-existent with Daniels
earlier works.
On the biography on the back cover was an email address to contact
Daniel: paigeturning@stab.net. This was an ironic homage to his
writing roots. In fact, the subject matter hadn’t really changed,
it was still death and murder, just the emphasis and perspective had
shifted.
I had to email him, if only to congratulate him on a masterful piece
of storytelling. It would be doubtful that he’d remember me after
such a time though. I was careful to keep my email short and succinct
and didn’t want to appear overly gushing. I knew he had an
irreverent sense of humour, like mine, and did my best to play to
that. I began the email: “Dear Boss.”
To my surprise he replied the very next day. There was the same
warmth and humour that I remembered, but the email seemed hesitant as
if he was expecting me to ask something of him. The tone was one of
trepidation, the humour measured.
He asked after me, enquired after my writing and wanted to know
whether I had published any more novels. I was pleased he had
remembered me and I fought the urge to reply straight away. I didn’t
want to appear too eager. If he did have apprehensions about talking
to me then I didn’t want to fuel them by incessant emails.
I
replied two days later and dropped the formalities completely and
began with “Yo!” –he always liked colloquialisms and I thought
that would make him chuckle.
I told him of my photography and even attached a couple of my
favourite photo’s. I asked him when his next novel was going to be
published and wished him well. I didn’t hear from him for a couple
of weeks and wondered if I had pushed too far this time with over
familiarity. Then one morning I received a black envelope with my
name and address written in silver ink. Inside was a very smart and
ominous invitation to the book launch of Daniel Paige’s latest
novel “Dying To Meet You”. The invite was for a couple of weeks
time and included in the envelope was a map with directions to the
venue and a small written note: “Yo! Apols for the short notice but
would love it if you could come. All the best, Daniel!”
I was awestruck and dumbfounded –this was amazing! I had been
invited to an official book launch in Horsely, on the top floor of
one of the local bookshops (which actually featured in the novel). I
felt honoured to be invited and immediately fired off an email of
thanks.
The two weeks trudged passed but I used the time to read up on
Daniels recent past. “Dying Tonight” was actually his first foray
into the who-dunnit sub-genre. The sales of his slasher novels had
gradually declined and for two years he hadn’t written anything.
Then, out of the blue, and with little publicity, “Dying Tonight”
was released. It spread virally through word of mouth and the
internet. Daniel was one of the first authors to really understand
the power of the net. Within weeks it became a hit and Daniel became
a guest on radio stations and chat shows alike, but now all eyes were
on his latest novel “Dying To Meet You.”
On the night of the book launch I was apprehensive and nervous. The
invite was for a “plus one” as well, but I had only recently
moved jobs and didn’t know anyone well enough to invite, so I went
alone.
It had occurred to me that Daniel had always been a successful
novelist and actually world famous, but to me he had been a somewhat
quirky and cool writing teacher, someone I could have a real laugh
with. I was now seeing him in a completely different context now and
I was more than a little star-struck. I now wonder that if I had kept
my feet on the ground whether some of the unpleasantness that came
later could have been avoided.
I’d arrived far too early for the launch and wondered around an icy
and foggy Horsely, but became very cold very quickly and resided to
wait inside the bookshop itself. There was only twenty minutes to go
and I like hanging round in bookshops anyway.
I was so engrossed in perusing the latest novels by Jim Storrington
that I wasn’t aware he was standing behind me until Daniel clasped
me firmly on the shoulder. My “Whatthefuck” outburst amused him
greatly and he said, “Its funny, that’s what people used to say
to me after they finished one of my slasher novels!” I turned round
and shook his outstretched hand. His grip was firm and confident,
mine was clammy and limp. He looked no different to the last time I
saw him except his hair was slightly longer and more curly, but he no
longer wore glasses.
“Contact lenses.” He replied to my unspoken question. “They
make me look more approachable, doncha think?” He smiled and
winked. I laughed rather timidly. I was starting to feel like a
goldfish in a shark tank, a child amongst adults. “Have you ever
thought of wearing contacts?” He asked.
“No.” I replied quickly. “Well… yes, I’ve tried.. but I
didn’t like the thought of having anything touch my eyes… It’s
icky.” Icky? I said Icky? I felt like a schoolboy talking to the
headmaster.
“Indeed.” He replied, smiling. “How are you getting on?” He
asked, genuinely interested in what I had to say. I felt like a fraud
talking to him. I could see people gathering behind him and he was
wasting his time talking to me. I quickly gabbled something about the
exhibition I was preparing for and he seemed really pleased by this
and congratulated me on the photos I had sent him. He noticed the
beads of nervous sweat that had started to coalesce on my forehead
and clapped me on the shoulder before saying, “I’m really glad
you could make it. We’ll have to catch up soon. I may even have a
commission for you.” I didn’t know what to say about that so I
gushed a bit more. He seemed disappointed and simply wished me well.
I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me; I had never acted
that way before. Now that he was a celebratory I felt in awe of him
and somehow second rate yet he was no different from when we first
met those years before, and nor was I.
He was a literary star, on his second wind and had even worked in
Hollywood producing films for Robert De Niro and James Woods.
I was… well, what was I? - An aspiring photographer and a failed
novelist. (Although I hadn’t failed exactly, I never believed in
what I was doing so never followed through on the opportunities that
were handed to me). I couldn’t understand why he’d invited me to
the book launch and gone out of his way to meet and greet me. Surely
I was an embarrassment to him, and I felt embarrassed for him.
Looking back on it now, as I write this, I might have offered him an
alternative to the other star-struck fawning fans that dogged his
career. I was a link to a time before he was famous and was able to
see Daniel as he really was, or at least a truer reflection of the
darkened mirror he allowed the public to see. So when I didn’t
offer that to him he was a disappointed. He didn’t need another
gushing fan, he needed a friend. It’s taken me a long time to
realise that, I’m sorry to say.
I tried my best to enjoy myself for the rest of the evening. I talked
to many different people, having a unique perspective on Daniel,
being a pupil to his teacher, but I was still haunted by his
disappointed farewell and went home early.
The next day I sent him an email thanking him for the invite. I
bought a copy of the hardback novel, of course, and he wrote an
inscription inside: “To my star pupil!” I still have the book,
and all those that he signed for me. The email was short on length
and gushing, trying to keep it to the point. I said that I enjoyed
the evening, which was the truth and that I was enjoying “Dying To
Meet You” which was a half-truth.
The novel had started well: Daniel always knew how to hook the reader
and the central premise was strong, but I had guessed who the killer
was within the first fifty pages. I didn’t receive a reply from
Daniel for weeks afterwards, and nor did I expect one. When one did
arrive in my inbox he asked me whether I would like to take his photo
for the next novel.
I couldn’t believe what I had just read and had to reread it twice
before the truth sank in. He liked my photography so much, especially
the portraits I had sent him, that he’d persuaded his publishers to
use me for the next photo-shoot. He apologised in advance by saying
that it wasn’t company policy for the publishers to pay for the
photograph, but he hoped he could make amends by buying me lunch. He
asked me to think about it, and hoped to hear back from me.
Think about it? I didn’t need to think about it, this was a chance
in a lifetime! I whizzed off a reply, thanking him for the
opportunity. I then browsed the web for other author portraits,
paying attention to poses and settings. I knew that Daniel based his
stories around the local towns and knew that the last novel was based
around Horsely so I thought it would be a good idea to build on that.
I loved driving around anyway scouting for locations so knew a few
good places to take his photo. I sent the list to Daniel and was
surprised to find he replied instantly. The email had just three
words: “Leaf Hill. Fab.”
Leaf Hill had been my initial choice, call it a gut feeling. There
were so many opportunities for moody shots: the dense woods leading
up to the top of the hill; the wonderful view from the top itself,
which, being the highest vantage points on the North Downs, boasted
stunning panoramic vistas. And then there was the Tower.
The Tower was an imposing folly built by “Mad James Fillier” on a
whim. No one really knew much about it, but it made a perfect
backdrop with the Weald behind it. The next day he emailed me with
the list of dates he was free and I picked the soonest date which was
less than a week away. It would mean taking a days holiday but it was
more than worth it, as there would be less people walking.
Of course, the weekend before the shoot I scouted around for possible
locations and felt safe in the knowledge that I had made the right
decision: there were so many wonderful spots there that I knew we
would be spoilt for choice.
The morning of the shoot I met Daniel in the car park. Me, standing
in front of my fading Micra as Daniel pulled in with his Aston
Martin.
“A little clichéd.” He said upon greeting me, “but Bond was
one of the main reasons I became a writer in the first place.” He
shook my hand firmly again. I smiled and looked at my watch. I knew
that the best light would be at mid-day, but that still gave us
plenty of time to take photo’s on the way up the hill. The wood
would give us plenty of opportunities.
I was pleased to see that Daniel was wearing his brown leather jacket
as I’d asked him. He also had on a dark navy jumper and black
trousers. I wanted a look that suggested a gritty and earthy presence
whilst remaining contemporary. He understood me perfectly and the
brown leather jacket was the piece-de-resistance. He also had a pair
of shades which added a menacing quality.
We walked up the hill making small talk, my words stumbling out like
an amateur. I’d known him for years, but all that time it had been
as a pupil to his teacher. Now I was the one that was telling him
what to do and how to pose, I felt very uneasy. I know that he wanted
to see me as an equal but I was so insecure I never gave him that
opportunity.
The photo’s that I took that day count as some of my best work. The
publishers used one of the photos taken in the woods as there was a
sinister undertone to them. As much as I liked those that were taken
atop the hill itself they seemed too exposed, and didn’t suit the
subject matter: Daniel was swamped by the beautiful view. Had the
photo been taken on a foggy morning then it may have been different.
(I silently cursed myself about not thinking about that earlier – a
foggy morning would have been even better for such a shoot)
The day had been useful, but strained. Daniel had bought ice-creams
at the top of the hill and asked a passer-by to take a photo of us
both. He grinned inanely in the photo and attempted to stab me with
his cornetto whilst I guiltily nibbled my Fab-lolly. His smile was
genuine enough, but there was also an element of frustration. He saw
that day as a complete break from his crushing routine, a chance to
chat with a friend and be himself, but it turned into yet another
shade of work.
Of course I was overjoyed when I received the email from the
publisher thanking me for the photo. It would be used as the
promotional image from the next novel onwards. This was, by far, the
highest point of my photography. In many ways I should have
capitalised on it and sent off emails to other publishers asking for
more opportunities, but I didn’t. I’m not sure whether it was due
to a fear of failure or of actually succeeding.
A bottle of champagne was sent by courier from Daniel with a hearty
letter of thanks. The bottle sits unopened in the kitchen as a
reminder of happier times. When the inevitable launch came I eagerly
received my invite and took relish in inviting my, then girlfriend,
Claire to the occasion.
“Dying Solo” was written purely from the victims point of view as
he pieces together the murder scene –in a similar style to Sunset
Boulevard. The novel featured the same Paige turning attention to
detail, especially when detailing the murders, told now from a unique
perspective –that of the dead man, himself. Daniel must have
enjoyed flexing his creative muscles on that one. The attacks were
all visceral and I wondered how he’d managed to write them,
considering one of his maxims was “write what you know.”.
There were far more people at this launch as Daniel was no longer the
“rising literary star”. His last novel had cemented his
reputation as one of the countries leading crime writers. The launch
was held at one of the larger Horsely hotels, out in the country, and
had actually featured in a previous slasher novel of his: “The
Butler Did It” about a series of brutal murders that took place in
a training school for butlers.
Claire was awed by the occasion, but I was daunted by the size. The
venue was twice the size of the previous launch and I really wondered
what I was doing there. I used Claire as a shield so I didn’t feel
quite so insignificant and kept me sane for the night.
I had a hard time spotting Daniel as he crowd surfed, something that
he actually felt uncomfortable doing. He was whirled around by his
agent and publisher, meeting and greeting. No one else would spot the
signs of his discomfort, but I recognised it from some of the photos
I had taken of him. I resided to keep my distance until the book
signings where I hoped he would allow me to take a photo of him with
Claire.
When the time finally came he seemed really pleased to see me and was
only too happy to pose with Claire. Unfortunately none of the photos
from that night came out well, all were way too dark and
under-exposed due to me getting to grips with a new camera.
(Something I bitterly regret now as those would have been the only
photo’s of Claire as the relationship only lasted another two
weeks.) When Daniel signed the novel he wrote “To the world’s
greatest portrait photographer” and we shared a conspiratorial
wink. My photograph was THE publicity photo for a couple of years
afterwards.
Over the next two years we both kept in touch via email. I went to
the annual book launch with a different girl each year, Daniel rarely
batted an eye during the launch but remarked about the change of
scenery in one of this emails. I replied simply saying that it wasn’t
a matter of choice for me, it just seemed that most of my life was
down to a poor choice of back projection.
With “Dying Is Easy” our relationship changed. On one of our many
email conversations I asked him how his latest novel was shaping up.
Not too well was the three word answer. When pushed he replied that
one of his characters was physically disabled and an artist –he was
also under suspicion of being the killer. Daniel wanted to really get
into the mind of the character but didn’t know how to do it, he was
really stuck. As luck would have it, I had a close friend who was
disabled and, bizarrely enough, also an artist. I was sure that if
John was agreeable, Daniel could interview him and possibly even base
the character on him. Daniel was over the moon with this, but it
turned out to be one of the worst mistakes I ever made, losing two
friends in the process.
Daniel met with John on several occasions, both heartily enjoying
each others company. John and I felt sure that Daniel would show the
physically disabled character in a true and sympathetic light. At the
end John thanked Daniel for the wonderful opportunity but Daniel
stayed strangely quiet.
On the night of the book launch I proudly wheeled John into the
Waterside Bar in Festerham, a new hip and trendy location for such a
literary superstar. We both bought copies of the novel and were
surprised to find them pre-signed. However we were both mentioned in
the credits at the end of the book. We smiled at each other, proud of
our achievements. I was surprised to find that it was no longer my
photo adorning the inside flap of the hardback –I had been usurped.
I had always known such a time would come, but it still came as a
shock.
We left early having missed the opportunity of meeting Daniel. I was
disappointed, but John felt bitter. It had been unbelievably hot and
cramped for him and we had to leave just after the speeches because
of John’s medication.
Three days later I received a text from John that simply said
“Bastard!” I had no idea what prompted that and John wouldn’t
reply to any of my texts or phone calls.
When I finished reading “Dying Is Easy” I understood why.
Daniel had made the character that was wheelchair bound, the same
character that both John and I had worked so hard on, into both the
victim AND the killer. The character was dying from AID’s and
sought to kill all those that had crossed him in his life.
I felt completely betrayed by this and knew that John would never
forgive me. I finished the novel through gritted teeth and then threw
it across the room. I couldn’t believe what I had just read. None
of it made sense; Daniel had disregarded everything that John had
said to him and played to the negative stereotypes.
In a fit of anger I sent Daniel an email and accused him of betrayal
and of being nothing more than a hack, and in the circumstances he
responded well. He couldn’t understand my concerns. Rather than
being a victim, Daniel saw the character as taking complete control
of his life, acting as the worm that turned, and thought of him as a
positive role. He was sorry that I didn’t like the book, but said
that it was only my opinion: other people liked the character and saw
him as strong and independent. I was incredulous about this and sent
him a particularly nasty reply. I never received an answer back.
Do I regret my hastily chosen words? Yes –yes I do. But I regret
more suggesting that John be used as a research subject. I still
consider what Daniel did a betrayal and I lost a damn good friend
because of it, and that I don’t forgive.
Three months passed and I tried putting the whole incident behind me.
I had hoped that John would get back in contact with me and be able
to see that I had been used as much as he had, but that never
happened. I received an untitled email from Daniel one day,
completely out of the blue. There was no apology for what had
happened and what he did, but there was an attempt at putting the
past behind us. He wrote that he truly valued our friendship and
didn’t want it to die like that. Nor did I.
I couldn’t truly forgive him but nor did I want to lose another
friend. I replied and said that I was happy to start afresh now that
this meant a level playing field between us. He replied instantly,
via his Blackberry, and seemed really pleased. He was proud to be my
friend and wished me well in what I was doing. That was the last time
I ever heard from him.
I read on the BBC website that he died three months later from a
cancer condition. I was shocked by this.
He had been dying for months but the cancer was inoperable. He must
have been dying when he wrote “Dying Is Easy” and I wonder how
much of the main characters bitterness was an extension of his own.
He felt crippled by the pain and just wanted to lash out. I know now
that he never meant for us to be caught in the crossfire.
It came to light that all the characters that were killed in the
novel were all based on people that Daniel had known in his life. It
was his way of getting back at the people that had crossed him, and
speculation was rife as to who all the people were.
How do I feel about Daniel Paige now? I feel sad, I think, sad about
missed opportunities. He was a great man, but most of the best bits
were kept hidden behind his writers eyes.
I wish that I’d been more open to him. I let my own insecurity
blind me to a great friendship. But I learnt a lot from him. He was a
brilliant writer who sometimes gave into the pressures of popularity
and convention. And even though I’m not as young any more, I’m
writing now because of the big impression that he made on me.
