Kirsti Wishart gathered a fair few fans with her debut novel, the comic-speculative mystery The Knitting Station. She is offering the same surreal delight in her latest novel, The Projectionist set in the strange seaside town of Seacrest. In this extract we are introduced to the dead-not dead film critic Cameron Fletcher.

Extract taken from The Projectionist
By Kirsti Wishart
Published by Rymour Books

We’d left the streets of Seacrest, travelled hundreds of miles south to its polar opposite in style. The bedroom of a drab maisonette in a non-descript cul-de-sac in a suburban Yorkshire town. Even in such uninspiring surroundings, however, the Seacrest spirit was at play. Here an unremarkable man called Arthur Dott was getting into character.

Admittedly, it didn’t look much. Instead of the alchemical process of an actor’s transformation – for Arthur was a trained actor, a promising career having dwindled to the likes of ‘Decrepit Gent in the Woolpack’– it looked like an old man having an afternoon nap, passing the time until Countdown. But in the twitching of Arthur’s facial muscles, his hands, we could tell a change was coming. He was getting into character, creating the man he would play in a few weeks. He was thinking that since he received his invitation to Seacrest, Cameron Fletcher had rediscovered an enthusiasm for life missing for years.

Being dead had suited him, freed him from the constant attention of his fans. He’d filled filing cabinets with their letters asking when his next piece of writing would appear, if any of his scripts were being filmed, if he’d be willing to let them direct one, asking for an autograph, a small piece of a great man. The announcement of his death stemmed the flow yet not as much as might be expected. It seemed his fans believed him capable of evading Death himself, charming the Grim Reaper into a drink before hammering him at chess. When photographs of his funeral were released there were still those who wrote to congratulate him on such an elaborate practical joke but really, enough was enough. When was he going to start writing again?

At first the coffin was comfortable. The afterlife afforded him the perfect opportunity for change. He sloughed off the identity of Fletcher, sold off his books and papers. He’d always envied actors their opportunities for trying out new personalities. He still wrote, had things published under pseudonyms, changing his style whenever doubts were raised over the true identity of Taylor Stannard or Eliot Green. As the years passed though, he began to feel there was something missing. He had cast himself adrift. Being dead was becoming a bore and he began to realise how much he’d enjoyed being Fletcher. Seeing his name out there, being listened to, inspiring others to be as creatively reckless and surprising as his writings.

And then Luke Howard appeared.

At this point Arthur sat up. Although he appeared awake his eyes were as unfocused as a sleepwalker’s. He looked different somehow from the man we met a few minutes ago. The way his shoulders were held, how he got up and walked from the bed to the small desk and chair with an ease we wouldn’t have expected. In front of him were a box of cigars and a neat stack of notes, clippings and photos. From the top he lifted a scrapbook labelled ‘Seacrest’. He started to leaf through it, wearing a smile that was not his own.

With three weeks to go before his first visit to that remarkable town, Fletcher flicked through his scrapbook until he reached an article from the Seacrest Gazette from seven years ago. The year a strange and enigmatic young man arrived from nowhere and gave the town hope. He read:

Although, regrettably, Cameron wasn’t able to visit Seacrest during his life-time, he often wrote about how a number of postcards sent by an uncle there on holiday inspired his early interest in films. He described it in one of his earliest articles as ‘the perfect place for moviegoers – here they take worship of the flickering lights thrown out by the projector as seriously as it deserves to be, building wonderful temples to celebrate this love. It is the place for all those who love to watch and if you count yourself in that number you should make your pilgrimage there.’ I think you’ll agree that it is fitting Seacrest is the new home of the archive of the great man, a living memorial to his work. I am proud to act as its curator.

In the accompanying photograph, there was Luke standing with arms folded in front of the open doors of the van he had driven into the town, a van full of books and photographs, one of those filing cabinets, reels of film and scribbled over scripts. Dressed in black, looking like a young, skinnier Anthony Perkins. An inset photo showed some of the proof, a number of books laid out on a table that caused Fletcher’s heart to twinge: Red Harvest, Nightmare Alley, Kiss Me Deadly opened at the fly-leaf to show the stamp of Fletcher’s personal library, the drawing of a cinema screen framed by curtains and ‘A C.F. Entertainment’ in curled script across it. Next to those, Cameron Fletcher’s death certificate. Every time he saw it, Cameron shivered. Haunted by his own ghost.

The final paragraph was a quote from Dr Jo Ashe, a lecturer in Film Studies at Manchester Metropolitan University, proponent of the theory that Cameron Fletcher was a fake, a forgery: ‘If the artefacts Mr Howard has brought to Seacrest are authentic this has to be counted as one of the most important discoveries in recent film history. Please bear in mind, however, there is still plenty of evidence to suggest ‘Cameron Fletcher’ was the creation of a group of highly creative individuals, a very convincing prank. I’m sure Mr Howard is genuine in his belief these were once Fletcher’s belongings but I think it best for all to keep an open mind.’

Arthur’s shoulders had broadened. He appeared to have gained more weight, more presence. Although he gave up smoking twenty years ago, he stretched for the cigar box, pulled out one of Cuba’s finest. He lit it with a battered Zippo lighter that had arrived with the rest of his new past, Cameron’s past, three months ago.

After he’d taken a few puffs, relishing the rich, dark taste, he tapped the unlit end on the picture of Luke. Instead of his own Leeds accent he spoke in an American drawl, like a man possessed. ‘I’m very much looking forward to meeting you Mr Howard,’ and he laughed wheezily ‘but even more excited about being introduced to you, Dr Ashe. Proving my existence to you will be most entertaining.’

The Projectionist by Kirsti Wishart is published by Rymour Books, priced £10.99.