The Speechwriter, Martin McKenzie-Murray [distant reading TXT] 📗

of Scissorhands at the Opera House in six months’ time as part of Inmate Month. Which is something to work towards. Something to help define an otherwise grey and irresolute future.

Which means speaking with Goblin. I think I’ve learnt a few things since he almost killed me. I think I’ve become stronger, savvier. And I was a speechwriter, after all. I can focus my tongue. Outside Sunshine, language might have been degraded, but in my new circumstance, I think I can still honour Churchill’s belief that ‘Of all the talents bestowed upon men, none is so precious as the gift of oratory’.

Garry’s afterword

That’s it for Toby’s book. Goblin did him pretty good with a Bic pen. Six entries to the throat. No coming back from that. You can’t usually have biros in here, but Governor Batshit thought them fucken essential. ‘Mightier than the sword,’ he said.

Well, yeah.

He was a dumb cunt, Toby. Shouldn’t have seen Goblin alone. He could’ve brought me along. I would’ve gone, you know. But Toby thought he had a silver tongue, despite all the evidence. And yeah, I know I gave the bloke a bit of shit, but I’m gutted he’s gone. I liked Toby, especially ’cause I knew the cunt wasn’t gonna set me fucken mattress alight while I slept.

I’m no writer, but his publisher promised me a character reference for me parole if I wrote this. Here’s what they asked: ‘We’d like some resolution, Garry. Maybe catharsis. As a man who knew Toby well, can you reflect upon his legacy — and even imagine what the legacy of his book might be?’

Yeah, I reckon I can. Toby’s legacy is that he was a weird cunt who drugged another weird cunt, and the book won’t have a fucken legacy, ’cause no-one will read it. I mean, it’s entertaining in places. But what the fuck does it mean? I’ve got no idea, and I’m fucken in it.

And who gives a shit, anyway? Right now I can hear The Machines buzzing outside the walls. Been getting louder for a week, and I reckon they’re planning something. I’m not scared of much, but I’ve got no shame telling you I’ve soaked me pants thinking about what’s out there. I can’t sleep. So this shit about legacy and catharsis is a real laugh. I miss Toby, but his words were just fucken words.

Acknowledgements

This book began before fatherhood, and well before curfews and months of lockdown. To finish it required the love, guidance and flexibility of my partner — theoretically reciprocal, but we know who got the better deal. I love you.

My editors, Marika Webb-Pullman and Anna Thwaites, substantially helped me to impose relative coherence upon the riotous mess of earlier drafts — as well as suggesting a significant, and hilarious, plot point.

Hearty thanks to Dom Kelly and Sean Kelly for reading an early draft and offering their judgement, and to James Colley — and me ol’ Group Chat — for punching up some gags. Now that I think about it, Ben Jenkins and Rhys Muldoon also generously gave their time to read some work not originally intended for this book but which, in the end, found residence here. I’m obliged to you all.