THE WRITER, HIS BROTHER AND THE COCONUT TREE

In this exclusive short story from best-selling author Denzil Meyrick resentment and sibling rivalry don’t travel well together

Best-selling crime writer Denzil Meyrick shares an exclusive short story

The mobile phone is on loudspeaker. There are three of us in the room, but the call is for my brother. At the moment, he’s jumping up and down on the spot, clapping his hands. They are close together, as though in prayer. So, in reality, they hinge at the wrists and the tip of his fingers make little clicking sounds. I’ve seen this before. I think it was on Tom and Jerry.

The American, whose voice fills the room, has a southern drawl. It belongs to the boss of my brother’s publisher in the USA. He reminds me of a character from one of the many box sets I’ve watched recently, but I can’t remember which one. I’ll tell you why in a moment. Right now it’s all about Darien – my brother.

A little background here: my given name is Alexander, but as is the Scottish way, it’s contracted to ‘Alec’. The former conjures up visions of a great conqueror. The latter is more likely to engender an image of a man in a flat cap and a raincoat, smoking the butt-end of a cigarette. Darien though, is a perfect name for the man now before me, my brother. Sweeping, ephemeral, he’s adorned by glory and success.

‘So, to cut a long story short, you’ve crossed the million barrier in pre-sales in less than two days. It’s a phenomenal achievement, Darien.’

My brother jumps higher, his stubby fingers clatter like castanets. My sister-in-law manages a smile, but her face is still world-weary. I try to mimic this expression, but a rictus grin, my default when I’m around my Darien, is all I can muster.

‘We have a surprise for you.’

‘What?’ my brother squeaks. He’s had to stop jumping up and down. Darien is a year younger than me, so at forty-nine isn’t fit enough to keep it up.

‘We’re sending you and Judy somewhere special. The courier should be at your door any time now.’

‘Judith,’ she says weakly. But only I’m listening.

“Spending a fortnight with my super-successful sibling dulls this fervour

Mercifully, the call ends. And as though by some predestined synchronicity, the doorbell sounds.

My brother rushes back into the lounge, tearing apart a large manila envelope.

‘It’s Guadaca!’ he roars, eyes wide. ‘For two weeks!’

It turns out that Guadaca is a fabulously exclusive island resort in the Caribbean. It’s the playground of megastars and the wildly rich. One lodge, a top chef, its own white beach, a servant meeting your every need twenty-four hours a day, as you sit back and congratulate yourself for being so wonderful. All of this luxury is under a warm sun, beside an azure sea.

Background: I’m a teacher – physics. I’m off work with stress, hence the boxsets. I won’t go back. My brother is a writer. His books are about a princess in a fairytale land. She has a little dog that’s really a magically disguised dragon. Because of lashings of sex and a thinly disguised take on American politics, his books are hugely successful. Suffice it to say, I’ve never read one.

A TV adaptation on a global streaming channel is in its third season. It would appear to be the most successful show on the planet right now. It’s on the tip of everyone’s tongue. Each episode is more anticipated than the last. Every new book greeted like a major event across the world. As soon as the shelves are stocked, they empty. You know the kind of thing. ‘I can’t go,’ says Judith. ‘Of course you can,’ replies Darien. My sister-in-law is a child psychiatrist – a devoted one. She treats her patients like her own children, and frets over them whenever she’s away. I’ve always admired this.

‘Come on, Judith. This place is beyond heaven.’ ‘No.’ I have the feeling they’ve had this conversation – or similar ones - many times before. There’s no need to repeat the calumny of persuasion. I get the feeling neither of them really cares.

He turns to me. ‘It’s your lucky day, Alec.’

I stand. My mouth opens and closes. Judith makes a face that says, ‘please go with him.’

The take off...

Almost before I know it I’m stepping on a plane. The intervening days have flown by. I’m excited about the trip – goodness knows, I need a break. But spending a fortnight with my super-successful sibling dulls this fervour.

It’s only when we’re in the VIP lounge I realise our travel arrangements are at odds. Darien is travelling ‘Super First Class’. This, I understand, involves a seat that folds into a bed, multi-media screen, limitless drinks and gourmet food.

I’m in economy plus. This means the joy of a sparkling beverage of choice served in a tiny can, a limp sandwich of soggy bread with a filling of indeterminate origin, and a packet of crisps. If I sawed off my lower limbs at the knee there would be plentiful legroom. But though I’m a man of only average height, as we taxi in readiness for take-off, I already feel the onset of deep-vein thrombosis.

After much cramp, an uncomfortable bowel movement in a toilet clearly designed for a toddler, and the blethering of the insane man beside me, mercifully, we land in Jamaica.

The heat is like stepping into the oven with the turkey at Christmas. But soon – reunited after our flight – we’re whisked across the tarmac, through the small terminal and into an air-conditioned limousine. Darien smiles, waves and boasts, as I desperately try to regain some feeling in my right foot.

We speed now over sparkling blue waters in a compact but well-appointed cabin cruiser. Guadaca, it turns out, is just less than twenty miles from the Jamaican coast. Darien sips a cocktail garnished with enough fruit to ensure health and happiness for at least a fortnight. Meanwhile, I resist the urge to stick the pink umbrella that also adorns it up his nose.

Before I expect, we draw up at a short jetty. Up a gently winding path on a small rise, sits a house of which Ian Fleming would have been proud. Wide

picture windows sit under a low-pitched roof. Birds sing; the scent of sea, herbs and cooking food fills the air. I spy a coconut tree on the powder-white sandy beach. It leans its frons toward the house in a perpetual bow.

Celestine, a tall, muscular man from Jamaica, is to be our ‘host’. It seems this involves fulfilling my brother’s every whim, night and day. But he wears an inscrutable expression, and is pleasant to me. Nice, most people we’ve encountered so far have behaved as though I’m invisible.

‘The tree, Celestine’, I say, pointing to the beach. ‘Coconut?’

‘It is. A very old one, at that. Not much fruit now. But man, those nuts are big and sweet as sugar.’ He smiles broadly. ‘But don’t worry. You can sit under it. They aren’t due to fall for weeks.’

“Every morning he sits under the coconut tree and taps away on his expensive laptop

My brother instantly decides this is where he will work. The shade of the old tree will help him see his laptop screen.

I smile. But an image of his head just poking out just above the sand as the tide laps closer and closer, crosses my mind. You know, like those old pirate films. ‘What are you grinning at?’ he says. ‘Nothing,’ I reply.

You see, things weren’t always this way. I was the clever one. I went to university, while he became a car salesman. I found the calling of a career in teaching, while he ingratiated his way into a tiny ad agency. He wrote tired bon mots for budgie food and chocolate bars, while I nurtured young minds.

Then came the princess and the dog. Back on Guadaca, I’m to occupy the room normally reserved for children. It has bunk beds. Meanwhile, he is installed in the suite. A bed as big as my lounge dominates the main room, with heartbreakingly beautiful views across the small bay and the blue, blue sea.

Three days of swaggering follows. He bathes in his notoriety. Members of staff are apologetic as they ask for autographs and selfies. I get the feeling that most of the people who come here want to keep themselves to themselves. But Darien is the polar opposite. He signs books, reads from them, answers questions and generally preens.

After a few cocktails, Darien performs an excerpt from his work. He struggles onto his hands and knees and becomes the dragon dog.

A handful of children cheer, women grin, and men fold their arms and nod their heads. The body language says, ‘you’ve made it man, you’ve made it.’

While this goes on, I stare at the tree and remember an experiment I used to do with the first year science class. I won’t bore you with the details, but old maths equations come back to mind.

I’ll give my brother his due, he works every morning. Mind you, it’s hardly a shift down the pit or twelve hours spent as an A&E nurse. But, as regular as clockwork, every morning just after ten, he sits under the coconut tree and taps away on his expensive laptop.

I’m restless, so I wander about a bit at night. I find an old shed. It’s filled with the tools of a gardener. There are spades, shovels, rakes, buckets, sheers – I spy an old ladder in a dusty corner.

It’s day five. I lie in my bunk and listen to the sea lapping on the shore then hissing back over the shingle. Faintly, I hear the tippity-tap of fast fingers on a keyboard.

A scream, then another! I recognise Celestine’s deep voice as he barks out orders. A child cries, a woman wails.

I rush from the villa and look down the rise to where stoops the coconut tree.

Picture a boiled egg. You’ve smashed the top with your spoon. For no reason you can fathom, you’ve placed another egg on top of the first.

This, minus blood, brain and gore, is a reasonable representation of what I see before me. My brother’s head is ruined. A large coconut – it must be almost two kilos in weight, I calculate – is planted firmly atop a shattered skull.

I feign horror and stagger into a fence. ‘Don’t look, Alec!’ shouts Celestine. ‘Get back inside, please. You don’t want to see this!’

I stumble back into the luxurious lodge. But as I cross the threshold, I straighten up and head for the main suite. I flop down on my dead brother’s bed. There’s a book on the nightstand.

Ignoring the commotion outside I pick it up and open a page at random. The grand vizier has just had his genitals shrunk by a potion concocted by his beautiful concubine, apparently on the orders of the princess. He looks on in horror as his bits and pieces disappear in a purple haze, the dragon dog snapping at his heels.

He was a good writer, my brother. Realising this, I open it at page one and begin his first novel.