David desperately wanted to be an author, a writer of novels, and he’d learned the hard way that no agent or publisher would accept a hand written manuscript.  They all seemed to want the same format, type written, with double-spacing between the lines.  He made up his mind and entered the shop. He would take a closer look at the machine.

    The man, behind the security barred counter, removed the typewriter from the window and set it down on the polished wood in front of David.

       “There’s a sheet of paper in already, if you want to try it out,” he said.

      The typewriter was, David supposed at least thirty or forty years old.  Its frame, made of cast iron was shaped like a cash register.   ‘Imperial Typewriter’ was written on the machine in flowing, gold-leafed scroll, outlined in red, which was partly worn away.

      The typing paper was held in the correct position by two spring-loaded metal arms that each had tiny wooden roller set into its tip.   It was crude but, he discovered, quite effective once the rollers were in contact with the paper. Using his index fingers to type his name, David also learned that a light touch would get you nowhere with this keyboard.  You really had to hit these keys before the letters would rise up and strike the paper with a sound that sounded like a slap.

     Eventually, there and embossed on the sheet of paper was his name, ‘David Harrington’, typed in black, and in a neat mixture of upper and lowercase letters.  He tried not to look too pleased and made pretence of thoroughly examining the machine, although he’d already decided to buy it.

         The typewriter took one of those black and red ribbons which ran from the spool on the left to the one on the right.   On the body of the machine was a chrome- plated lever that reversed the direction the ribbon travelled, so that as you typed it rewound.  The paper was raised or lowered between rubber rollers, but the most distinctive thing about it were the keys.  They were round with the letters, numbers and other characters painted in white against a jet-black background.  Each key was rimmed in silver metal and they were set in rows that were mounted at different levels, a little like the seats in a cinema or football stadium, with the highest row at the back and the lowest at the front.  It was magnificent, he thought, and after paying the man the five pounds, David became the typewriter’s new owner

        David christened the machine, Big-Bertha, for she was heavy, so heavy, that he almost did himself an injury carrying her home.   Bertha was also too much of a lady to complain about his amateurish fumbling as he struggled to type a complete sentence, without getting two or three different keys all jammed together and wedged up against the ribbon.

       From day one, Big-Bertha got far more of his time and attention than did Helen, his long-suffering wife.  So it was that David began to work on his novel, a thriller he’d titled, “Kill Me Again”.  He knew that his book was destined to be an all time best seller, and the film version of the novel would gross more money at the box office than any other film, ever.

       He established a routine.  He would get up an hour after Helen had driven out of the drive on her way to work. Then, after he’d showered, shaved and dressed, David would enjoy the breakfast that Helen had prepared ready for him.  At eleven-thirty he would start to write, breaking off for lunch at one. He would read the mail and his paper until two-thirty, and then work on his book until four before finishing work for the day. David would have a couple of ready meals waiting in the microwave for when Helen returned at five-fifteen.  Sometimes he felt a slight twinge of guilt when Helen left home again to go to her second job, but needs must when the Devil drives, he thought.  The bills have got to be paid.

       It only took six months for him to complete the first three chapters of his novel and with a feeling of excitement; David posted them off to an agent.

       He met Helen at the door when she arrived home.  “Don’t take your coat off,” he said.  “I’m taking you down to the pub and we’ll have a meal to celebrate.”   She looked puzzled.

    “I’ve posted the first three chapters of, ‘Please Kill Me Again’, to an agent,” he explained.

       “Oh,” she said.  “Let’s hope they like it, but  I can’t take a night off work, though.  They might fire me if I did.”

       “Look, I’ll phone in and tell them that you’re sick …”

      “No, David, we need the money,” she said sharply but then her expression softened and taking out her purse she gave him a twenty pound note.  “You go.  You deserve a drink after all that hard work.   Look, when the agent accepts your novel we’ll have a proper celebration, a party. OK?”

       “Yes, all right,” he said taking the money and wondering why he hadn’t noticed how old looking, Helen had become.  She’s really let herself go, he thought.  No wonder they hadn’t done any sex lately, the way she looked.

       It was after midnight when he left the house where Jo was renting a room.  He’d met her in the Red Dragon after she’d partnered him in a game of pool.  She was studying English literature at the university, and although Jo, at nineteen, was less than half his age, she’d told him that she really fancied him.  Her love making was wild and exciting and he arranged to meet her the following day at his house. They planned to spend the day making love while Helen was out at work.

       Jo strolled over towards him towelling her hair, beads of water from her shower gleaming on her skin. She stood at the foot of the bed smiling down at him, and David reached for her again. She stepped back out of his reach and laughed.

       “I have to go,” she said. “I have an evening lecture to go to, and anyway I don’t want to risk, Helen finding out about us. It’s a pity you’re already married, I would have been a good wife to you.”

       “But you’re going back to Pakistan, once you’ve graduated…”

       “Get real, David. My parents would make me marry someone they chose, and when they found out I’m not a virgin, they would throw me out, or even have me killed for bringing disgrace upon the family. No, I’ll just have to find a husband, but,” she grinned. “There’s no rush, I have another couple of years before I graduate.”

       Thirteen weeks later David’s returned manuscript fell onto the mat by the front door.  He tore the envelope open and frowned at the small compliment slip that the agent had pinned to the first page.

            “We suggest that you either study English grammar or alternatively obtain the services of an editor.  There are far too many mistakes in your sentence construction, spelling and punctuation on the first page, for this manuscript to receive our attention.”

            David felt gutted, as though someone had taken a knife to him, but then he showed it to Jo.

            She, looked at him from over the top of the page she was reading.  “Except for your bad grammar this story’s amazing,” she said.  “It just needs editing.”

            “Will you do it?  Edit it for me?”

            She smiled and stretched seductively.  “I would but I’d need to be near you to discuss any changes that you need to make to your manuscript.  Why don’t I just move out of that dump I’m in now and move into your spare room?”

            “Helen won’t be too happy, but I can talk her into agreeing to anything,” David said.

       Jo, looked at him thoughtfully and then nodded.  “All right,” she said.  “I’ll move in but someday you’re going to have to tell, Helen about us.”

       Helen wasn’t too pleased about Jo moving in with them, but she understood that David needed Jo to edit his book, and was forced to agree that her monthly rent cheque would be useful.

       Three months later, Jo, had rewritten the first five chapters of David’s novel as well as a synopsis and sent them to another agent.

       “I’ve got a surprise for you,” David said, six-weeks later, while carrying Jo upstairs and into the bathroom. She stared at the magnums of champagne in surprise.

       “What’s going on?”

       David laughed and popped a cork spraying her and emptied the rest of the bottle into the bath. “We’re going to make love in a bath of champagne,” he said. “I’ve got a hundred-and-twenty-five-thousand-pounds advance for my book.”

       “You’ve had what?” Jo stood open mouthed for a second or two then snatching up a full bottle she began to unfasten the cork.

       Helen, looking worn out, entered the kitchen and stared at them in shock. David was sitting in a chair wearing nothing but his boxers, while kissing and fondling a naked Jo.

       “What…”

       “What does it look like, you old bag,” Jo laughed. “David and I have been an item for months, but you were too stupid to notice. He’s getting rid of you and marrying me, we’re engaged, look!” She flashed the diamond ring on her finger.

       Helen seemed to shrink, her shoulders slumped and her eyes brimmed with tears.

       “How could you, David, after all I’ve done…”

       “After all you’ve done?” David mocked. “All you’ve done is to let yourself go and grow old.” Now with the cheque safely banked into a new account that Helen didn’t know about, David felt superior to the worn out wreck that used to be Helen.

       “I want a divorce,” he said. I’m swapping you for a new model, and I’m going to marry, Jo.”

       With a sob, Helen turned and fled from the kitchen, and a few second later they heard her drive away.

       They were in bed celebrating when, less than an hour later, the police came. Helen was dead. Apparently, she’d driven her car into a tree at seventy miles an hour. Strangely, despite his initial shock and sorrow, David felt relieved that it was all over, that Helen was gone.  Jo knew how to console him though, both in and out of bed.

       Six months later, David placed Bertha on a shelf in the garage.  He’d bought a new computer and wouldn’t need her anymore as Jo was into word processors.  ‘Kill Me Again’ was a best seller and being made into a film. He paused for a moment before covering it with the dust cover and gazed at the old typewriter one last time, before putting her away forever. 

       He frowned.  There was a new sheet of paper inserted into the machine and upon it a few words had been typed.    Before he could read the words the rollers turned of there own accord, startling him.  The ejected paper fluttered down onto the concrete floor.  David bent down to read what had been written and glimpsed Bertha’s carriage slamming itself against the wall.   Before he could react the machine toppled off the shelf and plunged down.   His skull crushed by the impact, David collapsed.  The words written on the piece of paper burned themselves into his dying brain.

       “You ain't not swapping me for no new model!”