North by East Coast

By John Salinsky

Alvin Green has ‘accidentally’ committed a violent crime and is on the run. The police are after him and so is his victim, bent on revenge. He decides to flee on a train travelling to Scotland. But the 9.35 to from King’s Cross to Edinburgh is no ordinary train; as Alvin soon discovers, it is populated by glamorous young women from films by Alfred Hitchcock who want to draw him into their own plots. In case he needs legal advice there is also a barrister in attendance.

Can this be a real train? Of course not. Alvin and his train are the creation of aspiring novelist Andrew Brownrigg, who is serving a prison sentence for a similar offence to that of his fictional hero. Fortunately for Andrew, Gainsborough Open Prison is about to start a Creative Writing Class: and he soon becomes tutor Jenny Patterson’s favourite student.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Aug 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781787195196

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2. Creative writing class: first impressions

The three men in the Creative Writing class were already seated round the table when Jenny Patterson came in, carrying her brief case and a folder full of forms. She had seen the open prisons in the Isle of Sheppey from the outside and always wondered what they were like inside. So far, her impressions of HMP Gainsborough were very favourable. Her only previous experience of the inside of a prison had been a visit as a local reporter to Holloway Women’s Prison in North London. That had been thoroughly gruesome, with the green tiled corridors, the heavy iron doors, the echoing of keys in locks and the rather unwholesome smells. And those poor girls who seemed more like victims of society than criminals. This place was much less intimidating; more like the more old-fashioned kind of provincial university. When she arrived she couldn’t help noticing that Gainsborough was surrounded by a high wall but there was no broken glass or razor wire along the top. And the entrance was guarded by a simple electronically operated traffic barrier which any prisoner could easily duck under if he felt the urge to escape. Inside the gate there were paths and gardens; separate buildings with signposts to the dining hall, the gym, the library, the chapel, the workshops, and yes, the teaching rooms. Very civilised and humane. But, all the same, it was a prison. And it was really exciting to be teaching writing to prisoners: such a challenge! Her friends said she was awfully brave to be doing it; and she could always use the experience for one of her own novels later on.

What would her pupils be like? She had wondered. All men, of course. She hoped she had made the right decisions about dress: light blue shirt with a bit of embroidery, not too dressy and a not-too-short denim skirt. Perhaps jeans would have been better, so as not to inflame their passions. How long had it been since any of them had been with a woman? Would they try and embarrass her with talk about sex? Or would they be grim-faced and maybe even get nasty if offered a little constructive criticism? They might have personality disorders and be on drugs. But one shouldn’t be prejudiced: they were all human like the rest of us. They had done wrong; but they had also suffered. And they must all have stories to tell, of greed, temptation, desire, even heartbreak. And to have enrolled in her class they must want to tell those stories, although of course, one had to distinguish, even in these days of misery memoirs, between imaginative fiction and straight autobiography. She hoped they would want to write fiction, or at least to fictionalise their experiences. But they would have very little idea of how to tell a story. She would tell them about character and plot and voice. Especially voice! That was so important. But then she wondered, coming down to earth, would their vocabularies be very limited? Would they even be able to spell and punctuate?

Looking round the table, she saw three men, all seeming very civilised in spite of their dark blue prison clothes. One was quite young, with rimless glasses, untidy hair, probably late twenties; one was late thirties, maybe forty, with nice wavy hair and the third a grizzled fellow with a broken nose who must be an ‘old lag’. She wondered what they had done. But that didn’t matter now. The question was: did they have it in them to become writers?

‘Good morning,’ said Jenny. ‘Welcome to our first class in Creative Writing! I am so pleased to be here, it’s a real privilege I can tell you, and I am really looking forward to the work we are going to do together. First off, I’ll tell you a little bit about me. I am Jenny Patterson. I went to Dorchester University where I did a degree in English Literature. Then I went on to do an MA in creative writing. That was a three year course and very hard work, I can tell you. But it was brilliant. I emerged feeling that I had learned my trade. By the end of the three years I had had my first novel accepted and since then I have written and published another one! In fact, in case you are interested, I have brought along a few of my books. Now I know you don’t have much money in here so I shall not be charging you; you are welcome to take the books for free. All I ask is that, if you like them, you should tell your friends so that when you are all at liberty again, I can expect a big increase in my sales. Ha! Just kidding.’

Oh God, I’m talking too much. Seems to be going down all right, though. They’re smiling and looking interested. Press on. Get them to introduce themselves.

‘OK, now it’s your turn. I’d like you to introduce yourselves and tell the group a bit about where you are as far as writing is concerned. And reading. What sort of books do you like? And what sort of writing are you hoping to produce or even working on already.’

The young guy spoke first. He said, ‘My name’s Tim.’ He had fair, floppy hair and was quite thin with a bit of a facial twitch. ‘I’ve always liked writing. At school, I used to write stories and poems for the school magazine (well-spoken, Jenny noted, probably a Public School) and the English master encouraged me. But then I got in with the wrong crowd and the drug scene. My A-level results were rubbish so I didn’t go to university. But I kept on writing stuff when I could. So now I’d really like to learn more about how to write well and get published.’

‘Anything on the go at present, Tim?’

‘Well not exactly on the go, but I’ve got some ideas about a novel on teenagers in today’s society. Trying to find themselves in a world of internet, social media, and instant gratification. And then there’s no jobs, poverty and inequality thanks to the bankers and politicians who are screwing everyone. Sorry, I’m not putting this very well but I feel I’ve been there and I’ve made mistakes, I don’t deny it, but my experience has helped me to see what needs to be done if we are going to get out of this mess. And I’ve met all sorts of interesting characters who are all in my head, simply begging to be written about.’

He has an engaging smile, thought Jenny. Quite a nice boy, really. What a disaster for him to end up in prison. Terrible for his parents. But perhaps they weren’t there for him, when he really needed guidance. His ideas are a bit all over the place. But very earnest. And at least he’ll be able to write a sentence.

‘Thank you, Tim. Thank you very much. Some exciting ideas in development there.’

The Old Lag was putting his hand up and waving it around.

‘Yes, it’s – ’

‘Barry. Nice to meet you, Jenny. Unlike young Timothy here, I’ve never had a proper education.’

(He talks like an old lag too, Cockney accent or is it ‘Estuary’?)

‘I left school at 16, did various labouring jobs, building sites, working on roofing with my brother, learning as I went along. Spent some time in the motor trade too, servicing, crash repairs, used car sales. Found I could make some real money there, won’t go into details but I had quite a good life-style till the Old Bill started to catch up with us. But the thing is, I always liked reading. And I mean proper books. I spent a lot of time in libraries and I met an old fellow who used to talk to me about literature and philosophy, all sorts of things. History. He fancied me a bit, as he was of that persuasion, know what I mean? I wasn’t having any of it but he didn’t mind. He got me to enrol on some courses at the WEA. And then, in the prison system, I’ve done courses too: philosophy, ancient history, bit of law (comes in useful) but not creative writing till now.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jenny. ‘You know, reading is so important for a prospective writer. You need to soak up everything you can: good, bad or indifferent. So who are your favourite writers, Barry?’

‘I like the Victorians, Jenny. Hardy, George Eliot. Middlemarch, what a fantastic book! And Mill on the Floss; that really tugs at your heart strings don’t you think?’

‘I certainly do, Barry.’

(This is great. Would never have guessed it to look at him. Just shows, you must never judge; people have these inner resources…)

‘But Dickens is my favourite. All human life is there, Jenny.’

‘Well, absolutely. And tell me, Barry, have you made a start on any writing yourself, while you’ve, since you’ve been here. Or before you…’

‘Before I was detained at Her Majesty’s? Well, I’ve written bits and pieces before, but for the last two years I’ve been working on a modified version of my memoirs. With names changed, to protect the guilty, you might say.’

‘Barry, that sounds fascinating. I am really looking forward to hearing you read to us.’

She turned, at last, to the man with the brown hair, and gave him an encouraging smile. ‘You must be –’

‘Andrew Brownrigg’.

‘Welcome, Andrew. Tell us about yourself.’ (I wonder what he has in that blue folder. I’ll bet it’s his novel in progress. Such a nice face he has…)

‘Well, what can I tell you?’ said Andrew. ‘I did maths at University and got into accountancy after that, don’t know why. After I passed the exams I found I could get jobs quite easily, the pay was good and I always found it easy. No, I don’t mean to boast, I know a lot of people find maths difficult, but I just happened to find it easy. Accountancy does get boring though after a while. Perhaps I should have gone into banking. But I’ve always enjoyed reading novels. And wanted to write one myself. I tried a few times but I just couldn’t keep it going beyond about 10,000 words.’

‘That’s always a difficult stage,’ said Jenny. ‘The ten thousand word barrier, I call it. We’ll talk about that later.’

Jenny was finding Andrew rather attractive. He must be what, late thirties? Nice brown wavy hair and an open, she had been going to say, honest, face. But he was in prison. That combination, the open, good-looking, young but mature man with a dark, secret inner life…

‘Thank you, Andrew. Now do you have anything on the go at present? Taking a look at one of the works you left unfinished? Or maybe a new idea?’

‘It’s something new, Jenny.’

She liked the way he said her name. And looked at her. Very bold, twinkling eyes.

‘How exciting, Andrew! Can you tell us, very briefly, what it’s about?’

‘I can, yes. It’s a story about a man who is on the run. He’s committed two crimes but we don’t get to hear all the details to begin with. He doesn’t like flying so he gets on a train to Scotland to be as far away from London as possible. He’s very afraid of the police coming after him so he tries to be inconspicuous, but he’s terrified of giving himself away.’

‘You got it with you?’ asked Barry, leaning forward with interest. ‘In your blue folder? Of course you have. Come on, let’s hear a bit of it. Read it out.’

‘In fact,’ said Andrew, ‘the education officer, Mr Priddie, very kindly made some copies of the first chapter for me. So you can each have one to look at. Will that be OK, Jenny?’

Jennifer nodded, smiling. ‘Of course, Andrew. That’ll be fantastic.’

She felt sure it would be promising, but a little, gauche, lacking in technique. She could see them working on it together. Closely. His wavy auburn hair just brushing her cheek. Stop that, Jennifer! Be professional!

Andrew passed the copies round, coughed nervously and began to read:

There was nothing else for it, Alvin decided. He just had to get away quickly. Go somewhere no one could find him. People talked about it being better to ‘stay and face the music’, but it wouldn’t be music, it would be shame and humiliation. Would he be sent to prison? Did he deserve that? Oh, he had brought it on himself; that was true. But he wasn’t really a bad person. Although Wilson clearly didn’t see it that way.

Andrew continued reading until he reached the point where his character, Alvin, was about to board the train. Then he paused and looked round the table. ‘Shall I go on?’

The others both smiled and nodded and Jenny said, ‘Yes. Please!’

So he went on.

3. NORTH BY EAST COAST

Chapter two

On the train

Just get on the train. Not here, too much of a queue. Good Lord, some idiot is trying to get a double bass on board; podgy fellow having quite a struggle.

Alvin moved down the platform, scanning the doors anxiously.

Now, if I get in here – there’s a table with four seats, all empty. Quick, before someone else gets them. Oh no, it’s reserved. Try another.

Somebody’s coming the other way. Push gently, ’scuse me. Thank you. Ah! No good, these are all occupied with people nattering away or stowing their luggage. Going at their laptops already. Don’t waste a