'Oh my poor, poor child!' Mrs King was in tears.
'I would advise', added the psychiatrist, 'that your son lead a more isolated life.'
So Quentin's parents started calling their son by his middle name, Thomas. His bedroom was stripped of all offending posters and all the books, of course, for how could they check every one? Only the simplest picture books were allowed, and even these had to have certain pages torn out. Thomas was not
allowed out to play, and none of his friends could visit, except under the strictest instructions, and then only for a few minutes at a time.
At first, the Kings found it hard not to say the dreaded letter in their son's presence. Quixotic, query, quincunx, quoits, quotidian; these words, and others - quaff and quiff, quiver and quagmire and quantum mechanics - all had to be forsaken. Eventually, however, they became expert at their task. They would read to Thomas, see the dreaded letter coming up, and with a deft turn of phrase, substitute the offending word with a more suitable one. By this technique, Thomas received an education of sorts, and even started to write his own stories; magical tales they were, and not entirely because of the restricted vocabulary.
Even in their own private, intimate conversations, and without thinking about it, Mr and Mrs King found themselves avoiding the letter Q. In this avoidance, strangely, they found a renewal of their love for each other.
When Thomas was seven years old, the good Dr Crombie brought news of a new treatment. 'I must warn you,' he said to the parents, 'the drug is still in its experimental phase. Basically, if you agree to his being treated, your son will be a guinea pig. It will not cure him, please take note of this. It will only hold the reaction at bay. If he should desist from the treatment'
The Kings signed the required paperwork.
The medication turned out to be a cloudy liquor, pale green in colour. Thomas took two portions a day, every morning and evening. Without cease, this washing of the tongue. Until, on one fair spring day, a trembling nine-year-old boy wrote these words in his diary: 'My name is Quentin Thomas King.'
There was a slight quickening of the pulse, a flush of heat to his forehead, a nervous twitch in his arm.
And then a smile, a play of sounds in his mind, on his lips.
At the age of eighteen, Quentin King joined a self-help group called Word Up Positive. They met every Thursday evening, in a room above a public house in the centre of Manchester. At any time there could be between twelve and thirty-nine members present. They led a more or less normal life, thanks to the continuous intake of certain drugs, but at these weekly meetings, all use of the medication was banned. Instead, they talked in their own tongue, feeling more natural doing so, and not wanting to lose the gift it gave them.
The language they used was entirely dependent on which particular members were present. Sometimes, when the gathering was sparse, it was almost English they spoke. Other times, when the room was crowded, they could hardly speak at all, with so many letters dangerous. Even then, they managed to hold real conversations, expressing more in those two hours together than they had all week in more liberal company.
Thirteen of them were writers of fiction. Quentin King, led by their example, became the most successful of them all, with three best-selling novels to his name. The critics praised the 'majestic restraint' of his prose.
At the age of twenty-four Quentin married another member of the group, Molly Unwin, who could not stand the letter U. One year later their first child was born, a boy, a completely normal, healthy boy.
They called him Charles Gordon Alexander King.
ALPHABOX
Eventually, about two months after she had last seen him, the carrier turned up again at the cafe. He was looking very tired. He clattered the box down on the table, with none of his former loving care. And when Donna asked him what was wrong, he said:
'It's the writer. He's driving me mad. He's desperate to finish his book, you see. His last great masterpiece, he calls it. He's dying. He's got me carrying two, sometimes even three letters over in one day. I just can't manage it.'
'Put two letters in at once,' suggested Donna.
'Two letters in the box! At once! Are you crazy? They would mate. Have you ever seen the offspring of a G and a P? It's a horrible sight, let me tell you. No, if I'm to keep this job, I must work harder, that is all. Look, I only came in to say, well, I won't be around much any more.
I have enjoyed our conversations, but'
'Don't worry, I understand.'
'Perhaps when this story is over?'
'Yes. Let's.'
The man picked up the box, and left the cafe. Donna finished her meal, hardly knowing what to think. Suddenly, the idea of returning to the shop didn't appeal. But she had to make a living. On the way back, there was a crowd gathered on the corner of Deansgate Boulevard, and the traffic had come to a standstill. As Donna got closer, she realized there had been an accident. Pushing through the crowd, she saw the man's body on the ground, somebody kneeling over him. A car had mounted the pavement.