The Smith Manuscript

Ashley Macdougal

First Published 2013

Copyright © Ashley Macdougal 2013

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-4466-5638-9

To Suzy Mac,

my heroin/e

i

Introductory Note

A friend of mine who didn’t want to be named

describes himself as a Bodhisattva - some sort of

Buddhist monk. He sits cross-legged for hours in his

pokey city flat chanting incantations. He once wrote

a proverb in a letter and sent it to me when I was

feeling down. It goes like this:

One summer a Zen master lived by the sea in a small

hut, set on the edge of a flat and barren landscape.

The sea washed warm over the sand and the sand

grains collected and huddled in groups.

In their infinite wisdom the grains of sand formed to

become pebbles.

In time the pebbles became rocks, strong and sturdy

and impervious to the sea.

With an eye to the sky the rocks formed into boulders

and stood proud of the sea and impervious to the

wind.

With the passing of time the boulders became strong

and ambitious and, with an eye to the sun, many

boulders gathered and formed a small mountain.

The aloof sun knew that the mountain would never

reach its own magnificent height, but the mountain,

with the backing of its boulders, rocks, pebbles and

the grains of sand with their infinite wisdom, knew

only of its dreams and expectations and was happy.

Be only like the mountain and never the sun.

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The Zen master who was all knowing and witnessed

what happened took it upon himself to tell the story

of the mountain and the sun.

Maybe my friend (the one who didn’t want to be

named) had smoked too much hash and read too

much Kerouac, but it all made a lot more sense to

me when I found that box buried in the sand on

Spurn Point following the big winter storm in

January of this year. The box had been dug into a

shallow pit in the sand within an old ramshackle hut

that had been used by the shipping pilots years ago,

as described in the manuscript. The storm had

removed just enough sand for the corner to

protrude and Berry (that’s my dog) had been

sniffing and barking and scratting at the corner, and

that’s what drew me over to the box to see what all

the fuss was about. As you’ll find out later, there was

no key for the sturdy lock on the box and so I had

to break off the hinges with a big screwdriver to get

inside.

Inside the box was a bound-up manuscript. Initially I

wasn’t sure what to make of it, and so I contacted

Alison, an editor friend of mine in London. We’d

been in senior high school together and out of all of

us idiots that graduated that year she was probably

the only one who made anything of herself. Not

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some weed-smoking hippy, Alison had done well for

herself and had useful contacts in the publishing

business. Together we tried to find out who the

narrator was and to track down some of the people

who you’ll read about later (but of course not all of

them). In the end we drew a blank, and so in an

attempt to find out who these people were, Alison

recommended publishing the story in its full

unedited entirety, and then maybe someone will

contact me and help solve the mystery. She also

told me to write an introductory note about how I

came to be in possession of the manuscript. So here

it is. I was gonna fill this introduction with all kinds

of adjectives to describe the story but Alison just

told me to “let it be, what it is” and not cast my own

opinions on it. She also told me not to include the

Zen proverb, but I kinda like it so that’s staying in.

Ashley Macdougal

The Manuscript:

Contents

Cannes, French Riviera – Late September 2003: ......... 5

Chapter 1 (Encounter?) .................................................... 5

Chapter 2 (Retreat #1) .......................................................

Chapter 3 (Kronies at 72) ..................................................

Chapter 4 (Entrer la Nuit) .................................................

Chapter 5 (Le Salle) .............................................................

Chapter 6 (Happiness Happening) ................................

Chapter 7 (Retreat #2) .......................................................

Chapter 8 (Opening Up) ....................................................

Chapter 9 (Le Farfalla) .......................................................

Chapter 10 (The Dream) ...................................................

Chapter 11 (Stretching Across Town) ...........................

Chapter 12 (A Small Window) .........................................

Chapter 13 (Figs Forgotten) .............................................

Chapter 14 (Murphy’s Bar) ...............................................

Chapter 15 (Shrinking Room) ..........................................

Chapter 16 (Dunes in June) ..............................................

Chapter 17 (Sur la Plage) ..................................................

Chapter 18 (Synergy) ..........................................................

Chapter 19 (Along the Coast) ..........................................

Chapter 20 (The Swirling Night).....................................

Chapter 21 (Monsieur Dubois) ........................................

Chapter 22 (A New Luck) ..................................................

Chapter 23 (Last Tango in Juan) ....................................

Chapter 24 (Back in the Cannes) ...................................

Chapter 25 (Le Farfalla Fella) ..........................................

Chapter 26 (Pursuit Resumed) ........................................

Chapter 27 (Into the Bellybutton) ..................................

Chapter 28 (An Insidious Tic) ..........................................

Chapter 29 (In and Out) ....................................................

Chapter 30 (Over and Out, Retreat #3) .......................

Chapter 31 (Over) ................................................................

Spurn Point, East England – February 2004: ..................

Epilogue ...................................................................................

The Smith Manuscript

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Cannes, French Riviera – Late September 2003:

Chapter 1 (Encounter?)

In my nightmares I see a man with a

distinctive tattoo. The tattoo is a serpent - inked in a

black tribal style - and it rises up his neck from the

right side of his shirt collar. The serpent’s murderous

intent is obvious, its head is in profile and is

contorted into a chilling sneer with fangs clearly

visible. The man is dressed immaculately in a crisp

white suit and, with the exception of the tattoo,

looks every part the respectable businessman.

With absolute certainty I know that this is

the man who has wrought unbelievable suffering on

my family - a suffering that has compelled me to

find him and bring an end to the nightmares, and

hopefully find peace and perhaps some sort of

justice – whatever that means. The question of my

own teetering sanity had raised itself, with the

decision to come to Cannes on a whimsical

supposition that this was where the tattooed man

would be. That decision appeared now to have been

completely justified.

The exact same tattoo of my tormented,

recurring nightmares was clearly visible on the neck

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of a man who was standing less than ten feet away

from me. He was dressed as in the dreams. He

looked happy and strolled along the seafront away

from me now, with what looked like his wife or

lover. They held hands, gazed at the yachts moored

out in the bay and moved with such nonchalance

that they appeared to occasionally stagger

backwards before progressing lazily onwards. They

seemed so carefree. The sun beamed from the

highest point in the sky and cast the blackest

shadows onto the concrete slabs beneath them.

They exchanged penetrating glances and giggled

without a word being uttered. The midday

promenade was a fluster of activity and teemed with

sun-worshipping tourists, transiting to and from the

beach. Some yachty types in comfortable deck

shoes, slacks and polo shirts buzzed around a

restaurant menu display.

With the random ebb and flow of the

beachside brigade serving as an adequate visual

filter against my own lanky appearance, this allowed

me to pursue the man with the tattoo of the dream

unabated, although I dropped back about thirty

metres or so to be certain of evading discovery once

I was sure it was the tattoo. A little further up the

couple crossed the Boulevard de la Croisette and

stopped at the window of a small jewellery store on

the corner of Rue François Einesy, presumably to

admire an array of flawless offerings presented on

miniature crushed velvet cushions. A couple of

The Smith Manuscript

7

minutes passed and then, with an eager leap, the

girl grabbed the man’s arm and they both

disappeared into the store.

Having not yet crossed the boulevard I

perched myself on the promenade wall and

observed from a distance, waiting for the couple’s

reappearance. I hadn’t at this point thought about

how to approach them. I just knew that it had to

happen. Seeing the tattoo that had filled my

dreamscape for so long back in England, and within

just a few short months of arriving in Cannes, had

filled me with a sense of dread. However riding

shotgun with the dread was a feeling of mitigation

at having made the right decisions in pursuit of such

powerful and overwhelming apparitions.

Nevertheless, sitting there on La Croisette in the

bright midday sun knowing where the tattoo finally

was had engulfed me with a nauseating panic. It

was a feeling I had experienced a couple of years

earlier when foolishly agreeing to do a bungee jump

at a local park near my home in England. A drying

of the throat as the crane hoisted the small cradle

into the air; the man going through the routine of

checking the harness and clipping on the bungee

cord to the leg straps, like an executioner coldly

running his final point-checks. I remember seeing

the treetops around the park, way below the level of

the cradle, and yet it kept going upwards. Then the

cradle’s ascension slowed and stopped, and then

just silently rocked to-and-fro in the air. When it

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came to the crunch I couldn’t move. I remained

routed to the spot looking down eighty metres or

so towards the small patch of grass below and the

tiny pink faces of the crowd. With the cradle still

swaying gently and calmly in the breeze the most

awful feeling of nauseating panic swept over me.

The park below began to rotate wildly and before

passing out I clearly remember the man who

worked for the bungee company issuing final

instructions: “Just lean for’ard mate,” he said in a

thick Sheffield accent, “Gravity’ll do the rest. Trust

me. You’ll be fine.”

Further up the promenade I could see Benni

swaggering along towards me with a huge smile on

his face. He’d probably just lined himself up with the

wife of some big shot Parisian antique dealer down

in Cannes for a conference. Benni was a real card

and a good friend. He worked at the Majestic

Barrière Hotel serving up twenty-euro cocktails at

the beach bar. With access to the well-heeled

tourists, he may not have been able to afford the

cocktails he served up, but he did milk the role for

everything he could. The Majestic’s beach area has a

jetty that juts fifty metres out from the shoreline. To

set the scene: the jetty is a hive of lone women

strapped into couture Dior and Chanel swimwear,

soaking up the sun whilst their husbands are either

at one of the conference centres or playing poker in

the casino. Benni called these women “la vedovas di

confinò” which, to us at least, meant widows of the

The Smith Manuscript

9

conf [erence and cas] ino or just confinòs for short.

This shortened version also has a rough translation

of “confines” or “confined”, which kind of ironically

ran against the grain for our free-spiritedness, and

particularly for Benni who could never get to grips

with the “confines” of any long-term relationship.

Any milking of the situation by Benni was usually

played out when he was asked to take a

Cosmopolitan or a Martini down the jetty to one of

the “confinòs”. He would throw them a cheeky

Italian smile and a wink, and this was sometimes

enough to tip them over the edge of their

vulnerability. So when returning to collect the

signature for the room tab, Benni would

occasionally receive an additional slip of paper with

a request for some of the off-the-menu services that

even the hotel manager didn’t know about.

The Majestic was my first residence when I

got into town and was my initial base camp from

which I located my second and present residence,

my apartment on Rue des Fréres Pradignac. Benni

was very much an Italian me, so we got on like a

house on fire from day one. The first time I saw him

I was walking along the same stretch of promenade

with my big leather holdall, fresh off the bus, when

he bounded up to me and said, ‘Hey man, you’re

English - no?’

‘Erm, yes that’s right,’ I replied.

‘Are you looking for a room?’

At first I thought he was just some wide boy

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touting to get me into a hostel to get his

commission, so I lumbered on and tried to ignore

him. And then he cranked up again: ‘My name’s

Benni, I work at the Majestic beach bar.’ He pointed

to the name tag and the Majestic Barrière logo on

his shirt and then held out a hand. He’d managed to

neutralise the situation because I’d heard of the

Majestic Barrière Hotel. It’s one of the big-time

seafront palace hotels and plan A was considering

asking if they had any rooms available, along with

some of the others on the front. Then he came out

with the plum line that reeled me in: ‘I can get you

25% discount on a room and a free Martini at the

beach bar.’ Bingo, full row, left to right. That’s how I

got into the Majestic for my first couple of weeks.

After that plan B was to get something

more permanent, so I started looking for

apartments. Fortunately Benni had contacts and

knew of someone in real estate, who had an

apartment on his books that was way underpriced

for the area. When Benni came along with me to

view the apartment I think he liked it more than me:

‘This is perfect Smith. Bars around every corner and

only two blocks back from the seafront.’ He had a

good point and to be truthful I’d not seen anything

this good for the price, so I signed on the dotted

line, right there.

He came from a working-class family in

Milan, drawn to the bright lights like many of us

moths are. I normally had a lot of time for Benni, but

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11

today I was going to have to get rid of him quickly.

The couple in the jewellery store were still in there

and I couldn’t let them get away – although if fate

had presented me with this chance encounter for a

reason, then I felt sure I would get a second and

maybe a third shot at this, but I still couldn’t take

that chance – maybe they were only in town for the

weekend.

Benni bounded up to me like a big-faced,

faithful pooch and gave his usual wink. He made a

loud double clacking sound with his tongue on the

roof of his mouth, and then to further cement our

comradeship drew an invisible gun from an

imaginary thigh-slung holster, raised it up to hip

level, pointed it towards me and pulled the non-

existent trigger. ‘Ciao Smith, how are you today my

friend?’

I feigned a slow-mo bullet impact to my

right shoulder by throwing it back and covering the

wound with my left hand. ‘Ciao Benni my boy,’ I

replied, trying to keep focused on the store across

the street. ‘You seem in good spirits, and your aim is

getting better. How goes the confinò hunting?’

‘It goes very well Smith. I am making some

good progress with Rosliné. She is from Paris and

her husband plays cards, which is good for me. She

has, how do you say, a drop-dead body. She is

drinking Champagne like a fish and I expect she will

fall under la seduzione potente di Benni very soon.’

He said this with a nod of the head and a cocksure

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semi-grin which all seemed to point toward a done

deal.

‘Well Benni I wish you every success in your

endeavours, you dirty dog. You’ll have to let me

know how things turn out with La Bella Rosliné. For

now, however, I’m afraid I have to attend to other

business.’

‘I too have other business. I have to go to

the Carlton for assistance with re-stocking our

Cristal. It’s been very popular today, with the

Americans as well as with Rosliné.’

‘What time do you finish today?’ I asked.

‘The bar closes at seven.’

‘OK, meet me at Le 72 Croisette at eight

o’clock. I want to hear more about La Bella confinò

Rosliné.’

‘OK. Ciao Smith. See you at eight.’

‘Ciao for now Benni.’

Benni was gone moving down the

promenade and across La Croisette with that

inimitable swagger that made him look like he was

deeply involved in a tune on his iPod, except there

was no iPod, just Italian Benni, swaggering,

inimitably.

I continued to hang around at my lookout

post trying to maintain focus on the jewellery store

across the road, legs feeling like jelly. There was the

continual drone of the traffic and the occasional

blast of a horn. Something I’d always noticed when

coming on holiday to Mediterranean cities when I

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13

was a child with my parents was the excessive use of

the car horn. There seemed to be a fairly simple

mathematical equation at play and you didn’t need

the brains of a NASA man (or woman) to see what

was going on; temperature multiplied by number of

vehicles on the road equals rocketing stress levels

which in turn equals increase in frequency and

amplitude of horn use - therefore the warmer the

climate the more frequent was the sound of

agitated motorists hitting the horn. It does however

seem to carry less weight the more it happens, and

is usually met with an innocuous “what did I do

wrong?” kind of lifting of the hands and shoulders. If

someone toots you in England, the initial retort is

either a one or two fingered gesture, depending on

whether to go with the American singular or the

English plural.

None of these thoughts were particularly

helping with my concentration levels, and after the

initial elation at the sight of the tattoo I was

beginning to get a little frustrated at the lack of

action. There was no apparent movement in the

jewellery store. They must have been in some

serious negotiations back there. Despite my

growing concerns I hadn’t really anticipated making

a move towards the store at this stage, but clearly

my legs had. They were already making their way

towards the pedestrian crossing with body, arms

and head along for the ride. I really had no idea

what I would say. Perhaps just play it cool: ‘Hi - I’ve

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just been following you for the past fifteen minutes,

can I talk to you?’ Yeah right Dufus - maybe an

approach that would allow you to finish the

sentence before getting a fist planted in your face

would be preferential? OK, maybe: ‘Hi there - I’ve

spent the last six months of my life waking up in

cold sweats because of your tattoo and I don’t know

why.’ Better, at least they’ll just run away instead of

resorting to physical violence. I was acutely aware of

the beads of sweat tracing down my forehead now

and dripping off my nose and the insane bouncing

heart in my chest, really insanely bouncing – trying

to get out like a deranged schizoid in a soft cell. I

knew that I wouldn’t have a line prepared by the

time I got there because I was already crossing the

boulevard with a quickening pace. As I zeroed in on

the shop front my pace quickened further, but this

time not out of fear of confronting the couple but

rather out of the opposite – a fear that they may not

be there. No lights were on in the store; there were

no miniature crushed velvet cushions in the window

and a notice taped inside the door unmistakably

read à vendre – for sale. The store wasn’t trading

and clearly hadn’t been for some time. I pinned

myself up against the glass door to take in the

impossible truth; an empty shop and a delusion

fermented in time to create these people that didn’t

exist, hadn’t existed, and then a familiar shockwave

of nausea rushed up from my feet enveloping me.

As I turned to run down the adjacent side street to

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throw up out of public view, the pavement yawed

sadistically, sending me reeling into a crowd of

people, and if that wasn’t bad enough the pavement

then rushed upward to meet me with a clattering

thud before the nausea finally found it’s opening

and very publicly surged out onto the pavement.