as he would have written them – picking up the story from where he had left it.
Richmond reeled back. Had he gone mad? Was he still asleep? A stub of his toe against his travelling trunk convinced him that he was indeed awake. Mad, then, he thought desperately and sat down on his bed.
The typewriter continued typing all through the night, with Richmond tearing out the pages as it went. This was good, he realised, extraordinarily good, better than anything he had written before. Then the fear started to give way to another emotion: excitement. This would be his masterpiece. This book would make him a millionaire. So what if its creation was supernatural? Wasn’t every creative endeavour magical in some way?
He watched as the typewriter tapped steadily away, reading each page with mounting exhilaration. The plot spun its way to a climax that had Richmond weeping with joy, and a final sentence that would have the authors of London on their knees with envy.
Richmond sat back and giggled as the typewriter typed out THE END with a rhythmic flourish, then the keys were still. He gathered up the pages and tied them with a green, velvet ribbon. The Shipping Forecast by Antony Richmond adorned the title page in the typewriter’s sinuous font.
As Richmond was slotting the manuscript into his leather case, the typewriter let out a little burst and then stopped again. Richmond approached it.
In the middle of a new page, in capital letters, was written:
PAYMENT PLEASE
Richmond studied it, confused. Payment? What did it mean? There was no coin slot, he was sure of that. Perhaps it was Zezia’s little joke, or the maker’s, at any rate. Richmond added the paper to his case and promptly forgot it, swept away by fantasies of his new life as Britain’s greatest living novelist. That show-off Graham Greene would be ‘green’ indeed, Richmond chuckled to himself.
Richmond travelled back to London, with the typewriter hugged close to his chest, refusing to put it down even at mealtimes. He didn’t mind the stares. He thought the whole thing lent him an appropriately writerly eccentricity.
The response in London was better than that of his wildest dreams. His publisher suffered a heart attack while reading it and had to be replaced by his son, a news story that created a frenzy before the book had even been printed. And though most of his old writer friends stopped speaking to him because they were so sick with jealousy, Richmond didn’t care, because his new friends were movie stars and jazz singers and members of the royal family.
But one night, following an enormous party at his new house in Eaton Square, Richmond awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of typing. Bleary-eyed, he walked over to Zezia and pulled out the paper.
PAYMENT PLEASE
Richmond looked at the familiar words and for the first time in a while, he felt rather queasy. He screwed up the page and eventually fell back to sleep.
Richmond’s publisher began to ask what the next book would be, as did his new friends, and although he teased them that it was going to be his greatest work yet, Richmond hadn’t a single idea of where to begin. The old fog had descended on his brain, and the Zezia typewriter hadn’t typed a thing except PAYMENT PLEASE since it had finished The Shipping Forecast .
If he was honest with himself, the whole thing was beginning to make him uneasy. Then one night he awoke to the sound of the keys hammering even more loudly than usual. He had moved the typewriter to his dressing room, but the pounding still carried through the door. He approached Zezia tentatively; there were leaves of paper all over the floor, each of them covered in the same two words:
PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT
Richmond reeled back. Had he gone mad? Was he still asleep? A stub of his toe against his travelling trunk convinced him that he was indeed awake. Mad, then, he thought desperately and sat down on his bed.
The typewriter continued typing all through the night, with Richmond tearing out the pages as it went. This was good, he realised, extraordinarily good, better than anything he had written before. Then the fear started to give way to another emotion: excitement. This would be his masterpiece. This book would make him a millionaire. So what if its creation was supernatural? Wasn’t every creative endeavour magical in some way?
He watched as the typewriter tapped steadily away, reading each page with mounting exhilaration. The plot spun its way to a climax that had Richmond weeping with joy, and a final sentence that would have the authors of London on their knees with envy.
Richmond sat back and giggled as the typewriter typed out THE END with a rhythmic flourish, then the keys were still. He gathered up the pages and tied them with a green, velvet ribbon. The Shipping Forecast by Antony Richmond adorned the title page in the typewriter’s sinuous font.
As Richmond was slotting the manuscript into his leather case, the typewriter let out a little burst and then stopped again. Richmond approached it.
In the middle of a new page, in capital letters, was written:
PAYMENT PLEASE
Richmond studied it, confused. Payment? What did it mean? There was no coin slot, he was sure of that. Perhaps it was Zezia’s little joke, or the maker’s, at any rate. Richmond added the paper to his case and promptly forgot it, swept away by fantasies of his new life as Britain’s greatest living novelist. That show-off Graham Greene would be ‘green’ indeed, Richmond chuckled to himself.
Richmond travelled back to London, with the typewriter hugged close to his chest, refusing to put it down even at mealtimes. He didn’t mind the stares. He thought the whole thing lent him an appropriately writerly eccentricity.
The response in London was better than that of his wildest dreams. His publisher suffered a heart attack while reading it and had to be replaced by his son, a news story that created a frenzy before the book had even been printed. And though most of his old writer friends stopped speaking to him because they were so sick with jealousy, Richmond didn’t care, because his new friends were movie stars and jazz singers and members of the royal family.
But one night, following an enormous party at his new house in Eaton Square, Richmond awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of typing. Bleary-eyed, he walked over to Zezia and pulled out the paper.
PAYMENT PLEASE
Richmond looked at the familiar words and for the first time in a while, he felt rather queasy. He screwed up the page and eventually fell back to sleep.
Richmond’s publisher began to ask what the next book would be, as did his new friends, and although he teased them that it was going to be his greatest work yet, Richmond hadn’t a single idea of where to begin. The old fog had descended on his brain, and the Zezia typewriter hadn’t typed a thing except PAYMENT PLEASE since it had finished The Shipping Forecast .
If he was honest with himself, the whole thing was beginning to make him uneasy. Then one night he awoke to the sound of the keys hammering even more loudly than usual. He had moved the typewriter to his dressing room, but the pounding still carried through the door. He approached Zezia tentatively; there were leaves of paper all over the floor, each of them covered in the same two words:
PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT PLEASE PAYMENT
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