‘Jack,’ Gormley was patient, ‘do you remember the night of that dinner, how you and I got talking afterwards? I’d had quite a bit to drink that night – too much, maybe – and I seem to remember mentioning things I shouldn’t have. It was just that you seemed so well-placed – I mean, as a headmaster and all. . .’
‘But that’s exactly why I’m calling you now!’ Harmon answered. ‘Because of that chat of ours. How on earth could you possibly know that?’
Gormley chuckled. ‘Call it intuition,’ he said. ‘But do go on.’
‘Well, you said that I’d be seeing a lot of youngsters pass through my hands, and I should keep my eyes open for any that I thought were rather . . . special.’
Gormley licked his lips, said: ‘Hang on a moment, Jack, there’s a good chap.’ He called out to his wife, ‘Jackie, be a love and fetch me my drink, would you?’ And to the telephone: ‘Sorry, Jack, but I’m suddenly quite dry. And now you’ve found a kid who’s a bit different, have you?’
‘A bit? Harry Keogh’s a lot different, you can take my word for it! Frankly, I don’t know what to make of him.’
‘Well then, tell me and let’s see what I can make of him.’
‘Harry Keogh,’ Harmon began, ‘is … one hell of a weird fellow. He was first brought to my attention by a teacher at the boys’ school in Harden a little farther up the coast. At that time he was described to me as an “instinctive mathematician”. In fact he was a near genius! Anyway, he sat a form of examination and passed it -hell, he flew through it! – and so came to the Tech. But his English was terrible. I used to get on to him about it …
‘Anyway, when I spoke to this fellow up at Harden -the young teacher, I mean, a fellow called George Hannant – I somehow got the impression that he didn’t like Keogh. Or maybe that’s a bit strong; maybe Keogh simply made him uneasy. Well, I’ve recently had cause to speak to Hannant again, and that’s how the whole thing came to light. By that I mean that Hannant’s observations of five years ago match mine exactly. He too, at that time, believed that Harry Keogh . . . that he . . .’
‘That he what?’ Gormley urged. ‘What’s this lad’s talent, Jack?’
Talent? My God! That’s not how I would describe it.’
‘Well?’
‘Let me tell it my way. It’s not that I’m shy of my conclusions, you understand, just that I believe the evidence should be heard first. I’ve said that Keogh’s English was bad and I used to urge him to do better. Well, he improved rapidly. Before he left the school two years ago he’d sold his first short story. Since then there have been two books full of them. They’ve sold right across the English-speaking world! It’s a bit off-putting to say the least! I mean, I’ve been trying to sell my stories for thirty years, and here’s Keogh not yet nineteen, and – ‘
‘And is that your concern?’ Gormley cut him off. ‘That he’s become a successful author so young?’
‘Eh? Heavens, no! I’m delighted for him. Or at least I was. I still would be if only … if only he didn’t write the damn things that way . . .’He paused.
‘What way?’
‘He … he has, well, collaborators.’
Something about the way Hannant said the last word made Gormley’s scalp tingle again. ‘Collaborators? But surely a lot of writers have collaborators? At eighteen years of age I imagine he probably needs someone to tidy his stuff up for him, and so on.’
‘No, no,’ said the other, with an edge to his voice that hinted of frustration, of wanting to say something outright but not knowing how to. ‘No, that’s not what I meant at all. Actually, his short stories don’t need tidying up -they’re all jewels. I myself typed the earliest of them for him, from the rough work, because he didn’t have a machine. I even typed up a few after he’d bought a typewriter, until he got the idea of how a good manuscript should look. Since then he’s done it all himself – until recently. His new work, which he’s just completed, is a novel. He’s called it, of all things, Diary of a Seventeenth-century Rake!’