Ghost Writer
This is a tale about someone bullied at school finally striking back forty years later. In a way, he loses so much, but he also gains his freedom, and his truth. He can stop living in the shadows and emerge into the light.
I shrugged. ‘So? I lost my rag.’
The duty solicitor glanced in my direction, and went back to his iPad. I sat back in the plastic chair and folded my arms. The two officers interviewing me didn’t seem bothered. As far as they were concerned, it was an open-and-shut case. I had assaulted Sir Malcolm in his office, and had then hung around until first his security, and then the police, dealt with me. Not that the security guards needed to wrestle me to the floor, twist my arms up my back, and sit on me. I was not offering any resistance.
It all went back forty years. Public School and all that entails. The pecking order established there, remains inviolable for life. The Sir Malcolms of this world, who already have plenty, get richer, more establishment, more secure. And those of us who don’t belong in the public-school world, should mind their Ps and Qs, and be grateful for any scraps cast down from their masters’ tables. It didn’t help that Sir Malcolm (not that he was a baronet back then) was in the first XV. Being intelligent, or working hard, gets you no kudos in a Public School. Not coming from the ‘right’ family gets you no kudos in a Public School. My parents never got that they were being sneered at: ‘Oh, really? That’s what you do, is it?’ Mum and Dad spent all their time, all their money, on trying to keep up with the Fortescues, the Winsors and the Barringtons. All for nothing. When Dad worked himself into an early grave, none of the ‘people who matter’ expressed any sympathy. Mum spent her last days in a state-run care-home.
As soon as I could, I left the area. It was easier to go where I was not known, where I could pretend I was not terrified of my own shadow. I became a ghost writer. For all my working life, I lived vicariously, other people’s fame and fortune became my bread and butter. It did gall at times, when yet another celebrity made light of the work involved in producing a book.
‘Oh, I wrote it in three weeks while I was on vacation in the Seychelles.’ While you were in the bloody Seychelles, mate, I was trying to transcribe your ramblings into a coherent story! What to keep in and what to leave out, was a constant headache. After a while, I could tell which of my celebrity ‘authors’ would allow me to say they used to do drink and drugs, and which autobiographies had to omit any mention of illicit substances. At some point there is always ‘the conversation.’ The one where I point out I have been hired to ghost-write their autobiography, not their hagiography. Introducing this complicated word stops them in their tracks. I explain what a ‘hagiography’ is: it’s the sort of biography that mentions no faults, no downsides and makes the subject sound perfect – and boring. That word is the one that terrifies them. Anything other than boring. We can then have a more reasonable discussion. We can say the subject is embarrassed, mortified, or whatever, about a childhood incident, about a girl/boyfriend being badly treated. We can say they wish they could have another conversation with a former friend or a now-dead parent…
It is always a balance: there are very few celebrities who have not trod on someone else’s career to lever themselves to the stars, or discarded someone who helped them on their way because that person was no longer useful to their career. ‘Friends’ are also competitors. Celebrities, successful ones anyway, never forget that.
Of course, there’s negotiation with the truth. Over the years, I have learned what will interest the reader. So, I will include the incident when the police were called. I will write about the drugs, the drink, the rows with mum and dad – or the management. Actually, now I think about it, nobody ever admits to rowing with their current management. But there we are, that’s show business for you. However, back to the main point: the ghost writer will often end up in ‘dispute’ with the Public Relations team.
‘We just need these small incidents removed from the draft.’ they say. They never want a ‘big’ or a ‘major’ change – it’s always ‘small’ or ‘minor,’ even if the requested change involves a complete rewrite of the whole book. It is best to remain calm:
‘You do know I’ve spoken to the other people involved – they know it happened how I’ve written it.’
‘They can be approached.’
‘And the tabloids won’t pay them for “their side of the story?” Or social media platforms won’t amplify what they say?’
‘You will say nothing. You signed the contract.’
‘I won’t have to say anything.’ But the PR team know I’m the ghost writer, and they will know I have talked with the offended ‘other party.’ And they will know I am careful; my contract means I’m not the one who will get sued.
The idea it will be their celebrity getting into trouble usually makes them think. Sometimes, they are prepared to pay a person off and I then alter a story to fit the new ‘facts.’ Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn’t: the other party tells their side and there is a media storm. Of course, given the time it takes for an actual book comes out ‘IRL’ (In Real Life), the furore has usually died down; but an eagle-eyed journalist (possibly primed by a ghost-writer, possibly not) is there to ask awkward questions about the memory. Then, if the PR team have done their job, the celebrity in question will be primed with a half-decent apology. Usually along the lines of ‘it was so long ago, and of course I’m terribly sorry if they are offended, but I do hope we can still be friends. I have tried to be as honest as I can in my book.’ No celebrity has ever complained to me about being in the public eye.
Generally, when negotiating the content of the book, my line is we all have things we’ve done we’re not proud of. I tell the tale of getting my first police interview at the age of ten when I trespassed on the local railway line. Not my finest hour, but as my younger brother knows all about it, I can hardly gloss over it if I was to tell my own life-story, can I? There are other things I could say, but I don’t. I say just enough to get, and then keep, the celebrity on board. Despite what I’ve said above, most of the jobs are interesting and fun. I would never want to be ‘a celebrity.’
How I failed to identify Sir Malcolm, I do not know. I can’t blame anyone else. Each ghost writer is a one-man/woman band, and most of us live from one contract to the next: that is, we can’t afford to be picky. So, even though this was to be an autobiography of an industrialist rather than a celebrity, I went through the opening moves on auto-pilot, glad there was another pay-day in the offing.
At school, he’d been Mallinson. Most of the time, it was surname only. However, as we became more senior, one invited close friends to call one by one’s Christian name. (Back then, even Khan had a ‘Christian’ name – Rishab – by the time he got to sixth form. Now, of course, we’d say ‘first’ or ‘given’ name; but they were different times). Popular boys, sporty boys, boys from rich families, were granted this honour earlier. Mallinson became Philip, even among the staff. No-one ever called me Steven.
Perhaps at first, I thought, even if Sir Malcolm Mallinson was from the same family, he would have been no more than distantly related. Why would the school bully want me to write his book? Certainly, the overweight, red-faced, balding figure wheeled out to issue his ‘hard truths to work-shy Britain,’ looked nothing like the shock-haired, trim, muscular, six-foot athlete I recalled from school. How was I supposed to know ‘Philip’ was his middle name, and was the name the family still used? It was always ‘Philip,’ by the way, never ‘Phil.’ Within the family, as I now know, Sir Malcolm was the fourth Malcolm Mallinson, so they differentiated with nicknames, or middle names.
Before the contract is signed, I am careful how much research I do – just in case the deal doesn’t happen and I don’t get paid. As the opening salvoes from his side focussed on his industrial work, I did do some basic research into the companies he’d run, taken over, decimated and sold on. Yes, I also had an idea about his fortune, and his three wives. His children – not all by his wives – were yet to be approached. Equally, I had not talked with any business associates. However, I had discovered he was not considered very ‘clubbable.’ I assumed that meant (in a lower-class setting) he wasn’t the sort to go down the pub for a friendly pint or two.
As for finding out who he really was, even the initial online searches didn’t help me. He emerged, fully fledged at eighteen on his way to Oxford: where I reckoned he did not get a first – it merely said he graduated with honours and a rugby blue. Later, when it was too late, I discovered he was embarrassed by his schooling. Yes, it was a Public School, but it was a provincial Public School – not Eton nor Harrow. Amazing what people want to hide, isn’t it?
‘Well, well. The little queer turned up. Got your quill ready? I suppose scribbling away at other people’s lives is about your level.’
The sneer in his voice did what all my research hadn’t. He hadn’t even invited me to sit. Like the naughty little schoolboy I felt myself to be, he had me standing in front of his desk while he looked me up and down. The dark, hostile eyes had not changed, nor had the malicious smile.
‘You know, poofter Smith, they say you’re actually good at your job. Which is why you can get away with charging so much. But I’m not some dozy model who doesn’t know her arse from her tits. You’ll do the job for me for half your rates. I want two hundred thousand words on my desk by this time next month. My PA will give you the information you need. Show him out, Annabel.’ He returned his attention to the papers in front of him.
Before Annabel could open her mouth to say ‘this way, sir,’ (I think she would have still said ‘sir’ just then); I had opened my mouth to say one word.
‘No.’
Sir Malcolm’s head snapped up: ‘No? You don’t say “no” to me! You’ll do as you’re damned well told, or I’ll make sure you never work again. And in a minute, I’ll alter the contract so you’re doing it for free!’
‘I haven’t signed a contract!’ I don’t know how calm I looked, but I could feel the cold, clammy sweat trickling down my back and my sides.
Sir Malcolm stood. He was still a big man, even if youthful muscle had been replaced by middle-aged spread. He moved round the desk, slow and purposeful. Unstoppable as a tank. I heard the intake of breath from the personal assistant.
He halted and stood over me. He jabbed a stiff forefinger into my shoulder repeatedly as he said: ‘If I say you will sign a contract, that is what you’ll do. If I say I want your homework on my desk by a deadline, you will produce it by that deadline. Capisce?’
Forty years ago, I would not have dared, but I grabbed his hand and forced it away from me.
‘I said “no.”’
‘How dare you touch me! By God! I’ll have you –’ He was drawing back his arm ready to punch me. Only I got there first, with my fist coming into crunching contact with his nose.
Even if breaking his nose hadn’t been intentional, it was so satisfying. But it was over. Security – alerted by the PA’s screams – had nothing to do, but they did it anyway. They weren’t gentle. I was handed over to the police. The charge sheet was long – it included me going to Sir Malcolm’s office ‘under false pretences.’ They were going to throw the book at me, then throw me in prison and throw away the key.
‘You’ll never survive in there, Smith.’ the detective constable said.
‘You mean, I’ll have the equivalent of half the rugby squad on top of me, buggering me? Been there, done that in the public-school common room. And Sir Malcolm was the one leading the charge and egging them on. You can tell him that’s the story I’ll tell in court.’ Was I exaggerating the abuse I suffered? Yes, but I was making a point.
Despite Sir Malcolm’s provocation, my duty solicitor was all for me pleading guilty and taking the rap. I wasn’t having it. I was going to plead not guilty.
‘But they have the video evidence. You’ve seen it.’ he said, as if that clinched it.
‘Then get the evidence which includes the bit showing he hit me first. Do your job!’
It was the threat of me telling tales out of school that did it. Sir Malcolm decided, most generously, to drop the charges – expecting a pat on the back. He also wanted an NDA, a Non-Disclosure Agreement. I refused. For a long time, Sir Malcolm did not understand I was quite happy for ‘all this’ to go to court. Already my ghost-writing work had dried up: I had become a story and a notorious ghost-writer is a contradiction in terms. No income, and I had Sir Malcolm and his legal team against me. Apart from my story, I had nothing.
The freedom I have found ever since I told my story, cannot be under-estimated. True, there have been lawyers’ letters: threats of legal action if I name certain people, or even the school. I made a virtue out of necessity, pointing out as often as possible I can be named as the person accused of assaulting a well-known businessman, but I cannot name him in return. If I am asked about what happened at school, and things are inferred, I fall back on the tried and tested: ‘You might very well think that; I couldn’t possibly comment.’ They say my imitation of Francis Urquart, as played by Ian Richardson in House of Cards, gets better every time I’m interviewed. My publisher’s libel lawyers will go over my draft of my autobiography with a fine toothcomb, but I’m not worried. After all my celebrity ghost-writing, I am fully versed in the art of implication, without saying anything. Some of the celebrities I wrote for, now I have become a minor celebrity in my own right, have said they’re quite happy to appear in my book; and Sir Malcolm has had so much adverse publicity already for trying to shut me up that he’s gone very quiet. Very quiet indeed.