For Rye Gavin Gardiner (best book club books for discussion TXT) 📖

commencing, and guests soon filled the auditorium to just over half capacity. The auctioneer, a round, grey-haired man, stepped onto the stage and towards the podium. To facilitate remote bidding, a trio of officials manned telephones at a desk to the side of the stage.

‘Ladies and gentleman,’ the man at the podium began, ‘thank you for being here, and our deepest gratitude to everyone who made this event possible. As you’re all undoubtedly aware, today is the orchestration of a very special young woman.’ He looked at Sandie. ‘I’d like to add, having worked with her father in various charitable events such as this, I regard Mr Quentin C. Rye as one of the most generous, noble individuals I’ve had the pleasure of working with. Is there anything you’d like to say before we begin, Miss Rye?’

Sandie leapt up.

‘It’s so cool to be back in Millbury Peak,’ she said, entering performance mode. ‘What we raise today will go to the valiant victims of that lamentable accident involving Daddy’s production crew. They’re messed up pretty bad, so I’m really hoping this’ll get them, like, plastic surgery, or something. Anyway, there’s someone else that deserves a mention.’ She motioned to Renata as if unveiling a prize pig. ‘My friend, Miss Renata Wakefield. I couldn’t have done it without you!’ Sandie’s perfect white teeth spread into a beaming grin. Her crop top slid higher up her stomach as she stretched her arms excitedly. ‘Give it up for Renata Wakefield!’

There was ripple of hesitant applause.

‘Right, yes. Indeed. Thank you, Miss Rye,’ said the auctioneer as Sandie took her seat. ‘Let us begin.’

Amongst the items up for auction was a replica of the emerald green dress from the cover of Horror Highway. Renata flinched at the sight of it. There was also the typewriter Rye had used to write his first novels, the gun he’d controversially had ‘loaded’ and stuck in his daughter’s mouth on set (‘Daddy’s a nut!’ she’d said when an attendee in the lobby inquired as to her feelings on this), and unreleased nitrate film stock from his archives, locked in flame-retardant crates. Renata had overheard chatter indicating there were mixed feelings towards the nitrate film’s inclusion. Aside from the endless safety checks that had been required, the auction was raising money for an incident caused by nitrate film. Not in good taste, she’d heard over and over again, as if the lobby had been filled with one-trick parrots. Not in good taste at all. Nevertheless, Sandie insisted the film go on sale, at the very least to rid her father of the stuff responsible for his guilt.

That terrible, terrible guilt.

Damn him.

‘Up first we have an early seventies, German-built Olympia SGE 50M typewriter, used by the man himself to write such early classics as Slaughter in Crimson Manor, Zalikha, and the very first Quentin C. Rye novel, Horror Highway.’

Renata’s fists clenched.

‘Besides the important role it’s played in the horror legacy of Mr Rye, the model itself is somewhat of a rarity, having been in production for only a few years and—’

It was bulky. It looked heavy. It would do.

‘Five hundred,’ a voice barked from somewhere in the audience.

‘Five hundred! Do we have any advances on five hundred?’

Renata raised her hand timidly. ‘One thousand.’

All eyes turned to her.

‘Goodness! An exceedingly generous offer,’ said the man at the podium.

Chatter sizzled through the room. ‘Renata,’ Sandie whispered, ‘check you!’

‘One thousand three hundred,’ the voice contended.

‘Three…thousand,’ she stammered, tugging on a sleeve. A chorus of gasps went up from the audience.

‘Three thousand…that’s three thousand pounds! Do we have any advances on this handsome sum? Anyone?’

Silence descended as the eyes of the audience glanced around for further drama.

‘Going once! Going twice!’

Sandie grabbed Renata’s arm in excitement.

‘Sold to the lady in the front row!’

Applause filled the hall.

‘What a remarkable opening to proceedings! A contribution of mammoth proportions, an absolute…’

Renata turned to Sandie. ‘Excuse me, I’ll be right back,’ she whispered, adjusting her scarf.

Her cane tapped down the aisle as the man at the podium introduced the next item. She stepped into the lobby and stood behind a stone pillar, removing the scarf to rub at the raw red ring around her neck. She redid a couple of pins in her hair, then made her way to the bank of telephones.

‘Good afternoon. You’re through to the Millbury Peak Rye Charity Auction.’

‘Oh, hello. Yes,’ Renata said. ‘I’d like to place a bid, please.’

The typewriter did its duty. Having lost interest in carrying around the Dostoevsky, abandoning it at the hall, Sandie wrestled the bulk of the typewriter under its protective covering up the high street, its weight like a gale slowing her progress.

‘Can’t we just grab a cab, Renata?’

She watched the girl’s legs buckle. The machine was tiring her. Good.

‘We’re not far now,’ Renata said, her cane patting the pavement. ‘Besides, I thought you wanted us to spend more time together?’ They stopped at a pedestrian crossing and waited for the signal to change. The road was empty. ‘It’s so kind of you to help a useless old lady like me.’ Her dark glasses pointed straight ahead. ‘You’ll have to stay for a cup of tea, Sandie.’

The girl leant the typewriter’s weight against a lamp post. ‘I’d love to!’ she panted. ‘But not much further, right?’

Renata turned to the teenager, her eyes piercing through tinted lenses. ‘We’re close,’ she said. ‘Very close.’

The footpath out of town led them between the fields towards the Wakefield house. The weather remained dry until Renata had shown the girl into the now-immaculate lounge, when the patter of rain against the sparkling windows made itself known. The clean-up of the vile house had taken days, during which she’d been careful not to skimp on the bleach and bottled ammonia. A pristine house meant the overpowering smells of