The Literary Disaster Arrives by Post

The letter from the Lochbarrow Literary Festival arrived on a Tuesday, which was already Callum's worst day because Tuesday was when he reconciled the accounts, and the accounts had not been reconciling for some time.

He read it twice. Then he read the attached cheque amount and read it twice more.

The Rooster's Tooth — named by its previous owner, kept by Callum as a warning to himself about sentimental decisions — had been hosting acoustic nights, quiz evenings, and one deeply ill-advised open-mic poetry evening since he'd taken over three years ago. None of these had moved the needle. The literary festival would rent his function room for a full weekend and bring guaranteed bar trade from what the letter described as "a passionate community of book lovers."

Callum was not a book person. He had mentioned this to his accountant.

"Doesn't matter," said Renata, who had the energy of someone who had long since given up expecting her clients to understand their own best interests. "You're a venue person. They need a venue. Do you own a tablecloth?"

"Probably."

"Then you're ready."

He called the festival coordinator, a man named Bernard who spoke in the slightly pressurised tone of someone managing fourteen things simultaneously and enjoying none of them. Bernard confirmed the dates, confirmed the fee, confirmed that the five attending authors would require green rooms — "just a quiet corner with water, they're not divas" — and then, just as Callum was writing this down, said: "One small thing I should mention regarding the author roster."

"Oh?"

"There has been, historically, some creative tension between the participants."

"Creative tension."

"Nothing that's ever escalated to anything physical." A pause. "At the major events."

Callum put down his pen. "What counts as a minor event?"