For Rye by Gavin Gardiner (books for 10th graders txt) 📗

ear interrupted him. Renata peered round the corner and watched his breathing quicken, his chest puff.

‘YOU WERE NOT MEANT TO GO ANYWHERE NEAR HER.’

This time, she suspected, the silence was not accompanied by a voice in his ear.

She took a step back, eyes wide, mouth dry. Whoever he was speaking about – not me, surely can’t be me – she was sure she wasn’t meant to be hearing this. Her hand found the banister, her feet the staircase.

‘I’m sorry, Sandie. It’s just…I have to protect you. I can’t let anything happen to you, you’re too important to…’

Quentin’s voice faded as Renata quietly returned to the upstairs living room and perched herself on the edge of the couch.

She was clawing at the palms of her hands, the words going through her head again and again – you were not meant to go anywhere near her you were not meant to go anywhere near her you were not – when Quentin plodded back into the room. He kicked off his crocodile skin shoes and set down a jug of water. ‘Straight vodka as ordered,’ he said. ‘Those stairs are a bitch. Knew I should have gone for a B&B.’

He emptied the carrier bag onto the coffee table before collapsing into the couch. Renata got up as he sat down, then stepped slowly to a framed photo of Sandie on the bureau. She had to know more.

The teenager’s eyelashes fluttered out of the frame. Renata picked it up. ‘She’s so pretty,’ she said, probing, watching for his reaction.

The breath caught in her throat as Quentin leapt from the couch and stormed towards her, snatching the frame from her hand and shoving it into the bureau. He slammed the drawer shut, then lumbered back to the couch.

Renata stood silent, mouth agape. She remembered him practically dragging Sandie from her at the film set. Was he trying to keep his darling daughter from her, or could this simply be put down to a grossly overprotective father?

you were not meant to go anywhere near her you were not meant to go—

‘I’m sorry,’ Quentin said, his face warming. ‘I just…Ren, I worry about her, okay? Jumping on flights by herself like that. She’s still just a kid, y’know?’

‘And yet you had a live weapon stuck in her mouth for a movie,’ said Renata. The words slipped from her mouth like soap from wet fingers. She stood frozen.

He shot a glare at her. ‘Don’t question my methods.’ There was the hint of a tear forming in his eye. His love for the girl was uncontainable. ‘She’s my world. I love her more than you could know.’

She swallowed. ‘I’m sure you do. What about your flammable film stock? What do you think of the men in that truck?’ She threw a hand over her mouth, then watched his eyes fall to the floor. Where had that come from? ‘I’m…so sorry, Quentin. I didn’t mean to—’

‘This isn’t the first time my methods have been called into question, and it won’t be the last.’ He sighed as light played on the lenses of his glasses. ‘The gun wasn’t loaded, despite what I told everyone – her included. I could never put her in harm’s way. The goddamn film stock in that truck was the real loaded gun, and it finally went off. Nearly killed two men in the process.’ He lowered his head. ‘Was only a matter of time, I guess.’

‘Why the publicity stunts, Quentin?’ She sat next to him. ‘I may not be the biggest fan of your work, but I see a man overflowing with creativity. That notebook, it’s hardly ever out of your hands. You bleed for your art. Isn’t that enough? Can’t your work speak for itself?’

His eyes locked on hers.

‘Truth,’ he said. ‘It’s all about truth, Renata.’ He leant in, then motioned to the piles of books littering the room. ‘These pages, these stories, every one of them is trying so damned hard to say something with nothing. What was it you said? Saying so little with so much?’ His fists clenched. ‘It’s trash, all of it. Mine especially. Tepid fucking trash. Storytelling is the search for truth through a lie. All these stories – their books, our books, the whole goddamn lot – fiction is meant to be the vehicle in pursuit of truth, not this watered down tripe.’ His eyes deepened. ‘Whatever we write, Renata, it’s for the truth.’

Her body tensed. She’d inadvertently coaxed out the core of this man’s creativity, and it was explosive. They seemed to have hit upon his reason for being – besides his treasured daughter – and he was happy to elaborate.

‘Those stunts were nothing…’ His voice rose. ‘…Nothing but a means by which to drag the truth from what I do.’ A smile crept over his face. ‘The gun: to strike true fear into Sandie. The nitrate film: to place the threat of fire on my actors and audiences. True fire.’ The smile faded. ‘But you’re right. They’re publicity stunts, nothing more. That’s clear to me now. But I haven’t given up. I believe I’m on the cusp of a work that’s infused with the very essence of all storytelling.’ A bead of sweat ran down his brow. ‘Pure, inescapable truth. And I’m going to get there. With your help, Renata, we’re going to get there.’

They worked into the night.

Quentin’s explosive explanation of his work should have left Renata on edge, as had the baffling telephone call, but she was in awe. He’d spoken with furious passion, as if his pursuit of this ‘truth’ was but an inch away, yet somehow still outside his grasp. A floodgate seemed to have opened following the outpouring. The intensity with which he discussed the script was now crystalized into pure drive. No more quips, no more comedic interludes. The notebook was now permanently out, his hand scribbling