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—a flute in the symphony—as a foot trod on my hand； and something was torn away。
Surely one of the most inadequate words in the English language is “winded；” suggestive as it is of something light and fleeting—a graze； perhaps； or a touch of breathlessness。 But I hadn’t been winded。 I had been whumped and whacked and semiasphyxiated； knocked to the ground； and humiliated。 My solar plexus felt as though it had been stuck with a knife。 Sobbing for air； I was convinced I had been stabbed。 I was aware of people taking my arms and pulling me up into a sitting position。 I was propped against a tree； its hard bark jabbing into my spine； and when at last I managed to gulp some oxygen into my lungs； I immediately started blindly patting my stomach； feeling for the gaping wound I knew must be there； imagining my intestines strewn around me。 But when I inspected my moist fingers for blood； there was only dirty London rainwater。 It must have taken a minute for me to realize that I wasn’t going to die—that I was； essentially； intact—and then all I wanted was to get away from these good…hearted folk who had gathered around me and were producing mobile phones and asking me about calling the police and an ambulance。
The thrill of having to wait ten hours to be examined in casualty； followed by half a day spent hanging around the local police station to make a statement； was enough to propel me out of the gutter； up the stairs； and into my flat。 I locked the door； peeled off my outer clothes； and went and lay on the sofa； trembling。 I didn’t move for perhaps an hour； as the cold shadows of that January afternoon gradually gathered in the room。 Then I went into the kitchen and was sick in the sink； after which I poured myself a very large whiskey。
I could feel myself moving now out of shock and into euphoria。 Indeed； with a little alcohol inside me I felt positively merry。 I checked my inside jacket pocket and then my wrist： I still had my wallet and my watch。 The only thing that had gone was the yellow plastic bag containing Senator Alzheimer’s memoirs。 I laughed out loud as I pictured the thieves running down Ladbroke Grove and stopping in some alleyway to check their haul：“My advice to any young person seeking to enter public life today…” It wasn’t until I’d had another drink that I realized this could be awkward。 Old Alzheimer might not mean anything to me； but Sidney Kroll might view matters differently。
I took out his card。 Sidney L。 Kroll of Brinkerhof Lombardi Kroll； attorneys； M Street； Washington； DC。 After thinking about it for ten minutes or so； I went back and sat on the sofa and called his cell phone。 He answered on the second ring： “Sid Kroll。”
I could tell by his inflection he was smiling。
“Sidney；” I said； trying to sound natural using his first name； “you’ll never guess what’s happened。”
“Some guys just stole my manuscript？”
For a moment I couldn’t speak。 “My God；” I said； “is there nothing you don’t know？”
“What？” His tone changed abruptly。 “Jesus； I was kidding。 Is thatreally what happened？ Are you okay？ Where are you now？”
I explained what had happened。 He said not to worry。 The manuscript wastotally unimportant。 He’d given it to me only because he thought it might be of interest to me in a professional capacity。 He’d get another sent over。 What was I going to do？ Was I going to call the police？ I said I would if he wanted； but as far as I was concerned bringing in the police was generally more trouble than it was worth。 I preferred to view the episode as just another round on the gaudy carousel of urban life： “You knobed one day； mugged the next。”
He agreed。 “It was a real pleasure to meet with you today。 It’s great that you’re on board。 Cheerio；” he said； just before he hung up； and there was that little smile in his voice again。Cheerio 。
I went into the bathroom and opened my shirt。 A livid red horizontal mark was branded into my flesh； just above my stomach and below my rib cage。 I stood in front of the mirror for a better look。 It was three inches long and half an inch wide； and curiously sharp edged。 That wasn’t caused by flesh and bone； I thought。 I’d say that was a knuckle…duster。 That lookedprofessional 。 I started to feel strange again and went back to the sofa。
When the phone rang； it was Rick； to tell me the deal was done。 “What’s up？” he said； interrupting himself。 “You don’t sound right。”
“I just got mugged。”
“No！”
Once more I described what had happened。 Rick made appropriately sympathetic noises； but the moment he learned I was well enough to work； the anxiety left his voice。 As soon as he could； he brought the conversation round to what really interested him。
“So you’re still fine to fly to the States on Sunday？”
“Of course。 I’m just a bit shocked； that’s all。”
“Okay； well； here’s another shock for you。 For one month’s work； on a manuscript that’s supposedly already written； Rhinehart Inc。 are willing to pay you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars； plus expenses。”
“What？”
If I hadn’t already been sitting on the sofa I would have fallen onto it。 They say every man has his price。 A quarter of a million dollars for four weeks’ work was roughly ten times mine。
“That’s fifty thousand dollars paid weekly for the next four weeks；” said Rick； “plus a bonus of fifty if you get the job done on time。 They’ll take care of airfares and accommodation。And you’ll get a collaborator credit。”
“On the title page？”
“Do me a favor！ In the acknowledgments。 But it’ll still be noticed in the trade press。 I’ll see to that。 Although for now your involvement is strictly confidential。 They were very firm about that。” I could hear him chuckling down the phone and imagined him tilting back in his chair。 “Oh； yes； a whole new wide world is opening up for you； my boy！”
He was right there。
THREE
If you are painfully shy or find it hard to get others into a relaxed and confident state； then ghosting might not be for you。
Ghostwritin g
AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT109 was due to leave Heathrow for Boston at ten…thirty on Sunday morning。 Rhinehart biked round a one…way business…class ticket on Saturday afternoon； along with a contract and the privacy agreement。 I had to sign both while the messenger waited。 I trusted Rick to have got the contract straight and didn’t even bother to read it； the nondisclosure undertaking I scanned quickly in the hall。 It’s almost funny in retrospect：“I shall treat all confidential information as being strictly private and confidential； and shall take all steps necessary to prevent it from being disclosed or made public to any third party or relevant person…I shall not use or disclose or permit the disclosure by any person of the confidential information for the benefit of any third party…Neither I nor the
relevant persons shall by any means copy or part with possession of the whole or any part of the confidential information without prior permission of the Owner…” I signed 。
I’ve always liked to be able to disappear quickly。 It used to take me about five minutes to put my London life into cold storage。 All my bills were paid by direct debit。 There were no deliveries to cancel—no milk； no papers。 My cleaner； whom I hardly ever saw in any case； would look in twice a week and retrieve all the mail from downstairs。 I had cleared my desk of work。 I had no appointments。 My neighbors I had never spoken to。 Kate had likely gone for good。 Most of my friends had long since entered the kingdom of family life； from whose distant shores； in my experience； no traveler e’er returned。 My parents were dead。 I had no siblings。 I could have died myself and； as far as the world was concerned； my life would have gone on as normal。 I packed one suitcase with a week’s change of clothes； a sweater； and a spare pair of shoes。 I put my laptop and mini–disk recorder into my shoulder bag。 I would use the hotel laundry。 Anything else I needed I would buy on arrival。
I spent the rest of the day and all that evening up in my study； reading through my books on Adam Lang and making a list of questions。 I don’t want to sound too Jekyll and Hyde about this； but as the day faded—as the lights came up in the big tower blocks across the railway marshaling yard； and the red； white； and green stars winked and fell toward the airport—I could feel myself beginning to get into Lang’s skin。 He was a few years older； but apart from that our backgrounds were similar。 The resemblances hadn’t struck me before： an only child； born in the Midlands； educated at the local grammar school； a degree from Cambridge； a passion for student drama； a complete lack of interest in student politics。
I went back to look at the photographs。“Lang’s hysterical performance as a chicken in charge of a battery farm for humans at the 1972 Cambridge Footlights Revue earned him plaudits。” I could imagine us both chasing the same girls； taking a bad show to the Edinburgh Fringe in the back of some beat…up Volkswagen van； sharing digs； getting stoned。 And yet somehow