The Circle: The Circle, #1

By Sam Quarrel

A heart-warming tale of unrequited love, the highs & lows of despair and failed literary ambition, which all comes good in the end when Kevin our luckless hero is pronounced dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wormwood
• Release date: Mar 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201298029

Book preview

‘The Wolf Who Cried Boy’ – a review

Kevin

You write as if English is your third language, with

appalling syntax and grammar that appears to have

been gleaned from the instructions on the back of a

toothpaste tube.

You claim this is the, ‘Final, polished draft’, but sadly,

you cannot polish a turd.

I‘ll have earned a credit on this site for my fortitude

in ploughing through this tosh, but to save others

enduring what I’ve had to endure, I humbly suggest

you abandon forthwith any notion of becoming

writer. Let common sense prevail.

Kind regards, Anne R Sole

(p.s.  You got 1 star because I can’t give you zero)

Description: Star Rating

Kevin read the stark assessment of the latest piece he had submitted to the peer review website: The-Book-What-I-Wrote.com. The comments were harsh and unnecessary and not constructive and encouraging as the moderator of the site urged reviewers to be. But it wasn’t the worst he had ever received.

The thing was Kevin liked writing. He enjoyed the creativity of it – using his imagination to tell a story. It whiled away his time when at work lost in his own creative bubble. He always felt he had something to say to the world even if seemingly the world wasn’t interested in listening.

He was frustrated. He had run the piece through the ‘Spelling & Grammar’ check on Word, but Ms Sole still reckoned that the grammar wasn’t correct. But Anne R Sole doesn’t actually say in her opinion why or what exactly was wrong. That was the problem Kevin had found with these faceless internet posts. There was no two way dialogue to get tips and advice. Often the reviewer’s massive ego prevented a fair assessment, belittling other’s efforts, believing their own unpublished novel was but a literary agent’s phone call away from blockbuster stardom. More often than not, they were as crap as his were. Not that he recognised his own failings at the outset. He guessed no new writer does.

When he had a couple of short stories under his belt, bursting with pride, he got some paperback copies bound and printed and with the ink barely dry, eagerly dished them out like business cards to friends and family and anyone who wasn’t quick enough to avoid him or were too embarrassed to say, ‘Not for me.’

He waited impatiently for feed-back and literary praise to be duly heaped upon him – but it never came. In fact there was an ominous silence. He tried casually, in a jokey way to prompt his coerced muses.

‘How was ‘The Wolf Who Cried Boy’ at getting your fire started?’

‘I guess my book was useful in sorting out your wobbly table?’

Often these thinly disguised fishes for complements were met with an uncomfortable hesitation or hasty explanations as to why his tours de force had remained not only unread, but also without a page turned.

‘It’s on my list once I’ve finished my current library book – War & Peace.’

‘I gave it to a friend who was quite keen to read it, I think she said, maybe.’

‘I haven’t had the time. I thought I’d save it for when I go on holiday next year, perhaps.’

‘I don’t think it’s my thing. What was it about again?’

As the days past and he hadn’t been lauded as the next Dan Brown or J K Rowling, his disappointment grew. Returning to his work a few weeks later, what previously he had considered to be the word-perfect, polished, pairing of short story masterpieces – the pinnacle of his writing endeavours to-date, twenty copies of which he’d had printed at some cost – was a reality check. Both stories were dreadful. They were cringeworthy – poorly written, clunky, naïve dross.

What had he expected of those who accepted a copy perhaps out of loyalty, or morbid curiosity? To ignore how badly it was written and plough through them regardless? He needed help.

He considered taking an evening class in creative writing. He Googled to see if anything was available in the local area. Being April, the only course he found had begun in January and ended in a couple of weeks in May, meant it was pointless and a waste of money to enrol for the last few classes. He called the tutor who invited him along for a session as a taster, on the basis that Kevin could join the next course in September if he was still interested.

So, Kevin duly went along.

He was the new boy at school again being introduced to the class.

‘Hi,’ he said with a nervous wave.

The tutor suggested he brought a sample of his work to read to the group. To break the ice, he said. To see what level the bar was set. All week long prior to attending, Kevin had been sat at the computer trying to smooth the rough edges off one the least worse sections of The Wolf Who Cried Boy. It read better, but exposing himself to a critical audience with nowhere to hide and no delete button made him lose sleep.

Not a natural orator, it didn’t help when nerves got the better of him and he began to fluff his words and lose his place, the rhythm and flow of the piece lost in the hesitations and ‘er’s.

The class listened attentively, and when Kevin stumbled through to the end of the piece, they truly damned him with faint praise.

‘A bit more work and it might at some point have potential. Polish! Polish! Polish! Unusual theme though.’

‘We all have to start somewhere.’

‘It’s a learning curve, and it’s steeper than you think.’

‘Keep at it if you find it a pleasure. What you write doesn’t have to be for others to enjoy.’

Regardless of their comments, Kevin decided the course next term wasn’t for him. Seemingly, the evening class focused on writing short, twist-in-the-tail stories for mainly women’s magazines, accreditation for these, if published, being a portal to getting an agent and a serious writing career.

His writing ambitions were more, well, ambitious. Pushing the boundaries of story-telling themes. The Wolf Who Cried Boy: the story of the soul of a young man trapped in the body of a wild dog. Timmy might have fallen in the well, but if he tried to raise the alarm, as the saintly Lassie would do, he wasn’t rewarded with a bone and fussing, but risked being scoped in the cross-hairs of a twelve bore.

Kevin approached the tutor at the end of the class.

‘Look,’ he said hesitantly, ‘I don’t suppose –– ’

The tutor’s hand shot up instantly to stop him going any further – a reflex action, knowing what was coming.

‘Let me guess, Can I read your work and offer free editorial advice? I’m sorry. I make it a rule. Go on line, there are plenty who offer their services.’

Kevin knew that, and he knew they charged a fortune.

He caught up with one of the class members strolling down the corridor.

‘Hi. How long have you been writing then?’

The man, of an older vintage, grey-haired and with droopy eyelids that gave him a doleful look slowly turned to Kevin.

‘Years.’

‘Anything published?’

A wistful smile crossed his face. ‘Some.’

‘That’s great,’ said Kevin, keen to get a steer from a real-life published author to help pilot his rudderless ship. ‘Novels? Short stories?’

‘Harrow Road Allotment Association Newsletter.’

‘Oh.’

‘Well received, I believe.’

‘Oh. Satirical?’

The old man snorted. ‘Courgettes and runner beans don’t lend themselves much to comedy.’

‘No. I guess not. Anything else?’

‘Nah. This is more of a social thing for me. Gets me out of the house comin’ ‘ere.’

‘I don’t suppose . . .’

‘I don’t read much neither. When you’re as old as me, you can’t waste your time reading.’ He gave Kevin a sideways glance. ‘Especially if it’s rubbish.’

‘No,’ Kevin said deflated. ‘I suppose not. Anyway, good luck with your newsletter thing.’

With a wry smile, the old man shuffled on his way.

2

Kevin was never slow to let it be known to those who came within his sphere the direction he sort in life.

If asked, he described himself as a landscaper for which he had ample qualifications and sounded rather grand, but his work mainly consisted of keeping the gardens of local elderly widows neat and tidy – ‘‘His Ladies’’ as he called them. Primarily it was lawn mowing, weeding beds and borders, keeping hedges in check, pruning branches and shrubs, tidying rubbish, cutting down the occasional tree. It was his bread and butter income that paid the bills. This loyal band of pensioners he worked for on a two-weekly basis in the summer, six weekly during winter were all probably sick to death of him banging on about his new found passion – Kevin didn’t let them forget, with regular briefings on a new project’s progress, updates on word count and the inside track on the developing plot – spoilers included – the twists and turns of his character’s often tortured journey through the epic tale.

Some listened patiently, if absently, while some, although seemingly stone deaf otherwise, swore they heard the postman knock, or chronic arthritics who suddenly discovered the athleticism to dash off claiming they had left something in the oven.

‘Oh, that sounds interesting,’ some would say, or others, ‘You must have a good imagination.’

But sadly, these comments were never followed by, ‘I think I’d like to read that.’

A new client always gave him a chance to extend his fan base – double it, if truth be known. Currently, Kevin’s mother was the extent of his dedicated readership, or so she made out, being quite sketchy on detail if pressed for specific comment on his work.

Often these new jobs came from recommendation, which in business terms, represented the money spinners for Kevin – the proverbial icing on the cake, especially when an extensive landscaping project was in the offing. It was these lucrative jobs that paid for holidays and his nice car. Not that fancy holidays were a priority any longer, not since his fiancé dumped him.

They had been together five years, two of those engaged, when one day she announced she’d had enough and had met someone else. Kevin hadn’t noticed anything going awry with their relationship, as it had run long very much the same seemingly steady lines since they had met. But perhaps that was the problem. While the characters in his stories led exciting, sometimes hairy and interesting lives, he didn’t. He loved gardening, but his fiance thought it was boring. He was a fan of old black & white films, but she couldn’t get her head round why anyone watched something if it wasn’t in colour. When he reflected back they had few mutual interests. They liked each other, and he loved her, but nothing bound them as a couple beyond their time together and familiarity.

At first, as a backlash, to prove to himself and his ex that he wasn’t staid and boring and women could still fancy him even if he was slightly balding and just shy of forty years old, he dipped his toe into the world of internet dating.

People claim this fast food-style dating was for those with super busy lives who didn’t have the time to go out on the off-chance of finding love in pubs and clubs, or having the social mix in an environment like an office to meet someone special. So, not being a clubber and in a solo working environment, he thought it worth a go.

After a couple of fruitless and surprising encounters – all posted images should have validated date stamps and be scanned for Photoshop editing – Kevin would argue differently. It’s the electronic age equivalent of those always last to be picked for a team in the school playground and he included himself in that number. He may have been unlucky and was perhaps over-modest about his endearing qualities, but the women he met had no such reservations, nor had they cared to upload a photograph onto the dating site that was more recent than fifteen-years ago. It wasn’t a success. He decided to follow the advice of a philosopher:

Love is like a butterfly, the more you chase it, the more it will evade you, but if you notice the other things around you, it will gently come and sit on your shoulder.

Kevin thought it touchingly poetic when he read it, but as yet no matter how much the he looks the other way, there hasn’t been the slightest indication that a butterfly or even a moth was hovering for a discreet landing.

‘Why don’t you join a book club?’ suggested Pam, one of ‘His Ladies’ that didn’t immediately curl up in horror when Kevin began to effuse about his latest work.

‘That’s reading books – I want to write them.’

‘A writer’s circle then?’

‘Yeh, I could, but I don’t know of any.’

‘Go to the library. They normally have a list of clubs and things.’

There was only one that was local: The DS Writing Symposium, which held bi-weekly meetings in the Horse & Hounds pub only a mile or so from where he lived. The DSWS, as was its logo, sounded too highbrow and sophisticated to embrace Kevin’s fledgling writing talents. DSWS had a website.

When he got home he pulled up the site. DS as it turned out was the architect of the group – Derek Staines. He started the circle seemingly with the noble intention of nurturing the talents of local writers. He wasn’t reticent in setting-out his credentials for this selfless task by comprehensively listing his own writing credits, which included three published novels and competition-wise, two short story commendations. Each of these titles were accompanied by a raft of obscure critical acclaim from authors Kevin had never heard of, or provincial free newspapers, usually keener to sell advertising than broadening the cultural horizons of their readership.

Neither was DS shy of minor celebrity judging by his publicity mugshot that appeared on every page of the site – posing pretentiously in semi-profile, pre-war style, as though looking over the photographer’s shoulder, his gaze was choreographed into a thoughtful and enigmatic expression, like a French philosopher – all that was missing was the sepia tint and a cigarette with a curl of smoke rising into the air.

Kevin didn’t think DSWS was for him until at the bottom of the contacts page it said: ‘New writers welcome at any level.’

At ‘any level’, what had he to lose? As long as they don’t laugh in his face or totally rip his work to shreds it was worth giving it a go.

Kevin hardly ever drank in pubs. Compared to supermarket prices buying drinks was prohibitively expensive. Plus due to the solitary nature of his occupation, he had no one to go for a quick pint with after work, and he rarely made the effort to arrange a regular night out with the couple of golfing mates he did have. So, even though the Horse & Hounds was only a brisk twenty-minute walk from his home and he passed it every day in his van, he had never had reason yet to frequent the fine old coaching inn.

Kevin emailed Derek Staines to enquire if it was okay to come along to their next meeting. It took three days for DS, as he signed himself off, to get back to him. Kevin expected a quick:

Okay, we meet at 8pm on Tuesday. How long have you been writing? Is there a particular genre you are interested in?’ etc.

But DS took the opportunity within his reply to once again to refer to his writing testimonials while reiterating his desire to nurture local talent and elevate it to the dizzy heights of his own thrice published achievements.

Kevin thought the guy sounded a bit of a twat, but he was desperate for advice. He emailed back:

Thanks Derek, I’ll see you Tuesday. If it’s okay, I’ll bring some of my work.

Following more polishing of ‘The Wolf Who Cried Boy’, as had been urged to do, Kevin slipped the first few pages of his most recent draft into a plastic pouch and set out for the meeting.

Beyond laying bare his soul to what he assumed were literary giants, who sat gathered around a pub table musing over the merits of this year’s Booker Prize contenders, he was concerned over the practical etiquette of joining the group. Should he offer to buy a round of drinks for everyone? If there were ten or fifteen in the circle, as expensive as that would be, that selfless act would surely leverage some credit when he referenced a critique, plus, like a joining fee, cement his place within the circle. He had fifty quid on him. If the round came to more than that, he was in trouble, with the potential for embarrassment all round.

He took a deep breath as he entered the pub. The old coaching inn was everything it promised to be, mirroring its century’s old exterior. The lathe and plaster walls with a multitude of horsey brass paraphernalia and heavily beamed low ceilings didn’t disappoint.

If that was a typical Tuesday night, it was a quiet one. A couple of guys propped up the bar were chatting amiably, while there were some couples who were literally enjoying a quiet drink. They were obviously long time partnered sitting as they did in complete silence like awkward strangers made to share a table.

Kevin always felt self-conscious in new surroundings, especially when meeting people he didn’t know. With DS’s mugshot in his head, he eyed those in the bar. He couldn’t see DS, but if one of the tables represented the other members of the DSWS group, they were desperately short on numbers.

The barman interrupted his recce. ‘Hi. What can I get you?’

‘Oh, actually,’ said Kevin, ‘I’m here for the writers meeting.’

That sounded like news to the barman. ‘Well, there’s a mob in the snug that come here every other week. Probably them.’

‘Could be.’

‘So, what can I get you?’

‘IPA?’

‘Yep.’

With the pint poured, Kevin paid over the money. ‘The snug – that way?’

‘Through the door, but seriously, mind your head on the door frame.’ The broad smile on the barman’s face was a sure indication that the low stout woodwork had cracked more than a few heads in its time.

‘Thanks.’

Eying the beam cautiously as he slid beneath it, Kevin misjudged the dropped step on the other side of the doorway, which the barman hadn’t thought to warn him about. He tumbled headlong into the snug. In a running stagger, he was powerless to prevent a slosh of beer flying out of his glass in the direction of the seated group ahead of him. Heads snapped round at his express entrance only for them to be liberally dowsed in the pubs finest IPA. Desperate to prevent an even more catastrophic arrival and keep what was left of his pint from going the same way, Kevin’s entire focus was on regaining his balance and clinging onto the glass.

It didn’t take much, but now held less firmly, the forward momentum shot the plastic pouch from under his arm. With a smack, it landed squarely in the centre of the table scattering the group’s neatly laid out notebooks and pens.

Creating a good first impression with the members of DSWS could have gone more smoothly, as indicated by everyone going into a horrified, open-mouthed freeze-frame – only made worse by the trickles of beer running down their faces.

Seeing as no hole had opened up for Kevin to climb into, he swallowed hard and said, ‘D – S – W – S?’ Adding as if the possibility was now so remote that it was hardly worth mentioning. ‘I emailed about joining?’

‘Yes, well,’ said the person who Kevin recognised as Derek Staines. DS stood up and pulled a hankie from his pocket to wipe his face. ‘I see. Kevin, isn’t it?’

Kevin offered a flicker of a smile.

The other three members of the group got over their shock and likewise began cleaning up and retrieving their scattered paperwork from the floor.

‘The step . . . sorry,’ Kevin said pointing back to the mischievous doorway.

‘Yes,’ DS said slowly looking him up and down, assessing the credibility of the arrival.

‘I’ll get a cloth,’ Kevin said hurriedly. ‘Can I get anyone a drink while I’m there?

‘Best not,’ said DS. ‘Just a cloth.’

Kevin returned with a bar towel and insisted on meticulously wiping the table to make amends. He even offered to give their faces a spruce up, but that was adjudged by all to be as taking penance too far.

‘Okay, right,’ he said hovering awkwardly. ‘Sorry again. I bet that step catches a few people.’

‘I’ve never seen anyone come through that door like that,’ said DS.

Kevin snorted appropriately at DS’s dry sense of humour, but DS’s stony expression gave little indication it was intended to be a humorous remark.

‘Not a good start,’ Kevin said with an apologetic shrug.

‘No.’

‘Come and take a seat, young man.’ One of those seated around the table was a big barrel-chested older man attached to a magnificent handlebar moustache. ‘My name’s Dr Gardner.’ He held out his hand.

Kevin shook it and pulled over a chair while the others shuffled round to make room for him.

Even before further introductions could be made, Dr Gardner leaned over to Kevin and said in a low tone, as though passing on a secret to be guarded with his life, ‘Have you ever been to Kenya?’

‘Er –– no.’ It sounded like Kevin had to think about it, mentally sifting through the raft of exotic locations he had visited around the globe, but when it came to holidays, it was a traditional British affair every time – in Spain. The reason he hesitated was the disparity between the substance of the enquiry and the nature of its delivery.

‘Very poor place,’ continued Dr Gardner. Adding with a despondent shake of his head, ‘Very poor. They need all the help we can give them. Especially the children.’

Kevin didn’t doubt it, but sat uncomfortably wondering what relevance it had to the meeting. He glanced at the others in the group keen for someone to redirect the conversation towards the literary business he had anticipated.

DS sat absorbed in making notes on what appeared to be that evening’s agenda, while an older, grey-haired lady was in animated conversation with the youngest of the group – a girl in her mid-twenties by Kevin’s reckoning, and very attractive. She wore little make-up if any and with her long red hair tied back in a pony-tail. She had a sexy vulnerability about her, as though she didn’t know or lacked the confidence to appreciate how good looking she was. Kevin couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was transfixed until a tug on his arm distracted him.

‘Half of it goes to an orphanage I helped to build in Nyamira.’

‘Er, what?’

‘My book – the proceeds,’ said Dr Gardner. ‘The Needle & The Trowel – my memoirs of practicing in Kenya and my work at the orphanage. It’s very good you know.’

Kevin smiled politely. It wouldn’t exactly be a must read for him. He assumed the doctor had finished self-promoting his work and turned his attention back to the young girl.

A tug on his arm indicated otherwise.

‘I just so happen to have a spare copy. Got it printed myself.’

A copy of The Needle & The Trowel sat on the table in front of Kevin.

‘It’s only ten pounds and five goes directly to the orphanage to help those poor destitute children who so need it to put food in their stomachs and clothes on their backs. Very good value. A cracking read.’

Kevin wasn’t convinced on either score. But what could he say, especially as the doctor had pushed the paperback towards him almost into his lap.

‘Great,’ he said, not sounding greatly enthused. He handed over ten pounds and eyed his purchase. It was clearly self-published with no embellishment of the everyday title font on the plain white cover, or any attempt at a racy ‘elevator pitch’ on the back. It read more like an obituary:

Dr Henry Gardner, who qualified at the Royal London teaching hospital in 1971, practiced in Kenya from June 1976 until his retirement in 2010, when he and his wife returned to this country.

His major achievements in that time . . .

Kevin’s eyes threatened to glaze over. If the rest of it was written in the same flat reporting style, its marketing ought to be directed at insomniacs. Oh well, he thought, it was a good deed done earning him brownie points both with the group and those across the sea.

He glanced around the table. DS tapped a pen on his lip staring into space as if wrestling with an insoluble problem, while the two women seemed content to hold their own meeting. As much as he didn’t want to stare, Kevin was drawn back to the young girl. He glanced at her hand to see if she was wearing a ring and spoken for. It was part of a check list he went through when he encountered a potential new amour for the first time. No ring – good start. Another on the check list was assessing what she did for a living – high-flying London business-types weren’t for him, nor him for them, as a lowly, dirt under the fingernails gardener wasn’t a sophisticated catch. He was quietly assessing her likely occupation when again he was distracted by a tug on his arm.

‘Page thirty-seven is particularly moving.’

Kevin swung round. ‘Er?’

He tried not to show it, but