Michael Aylwin - IVON

Michael Aylwin is a sportswriter and an award-winning, bestselling author. This is his first novel.

Crowdfunding is an increasingly popular path to publication, with good reason, but it does rely on the generosity and faith of potential readers. I hope Ive already thanked profusely those who pledged their hard-earned towards Ivon without seeing so much as a dust jacket, but you cant be thanked enough. So, thanks again. The phrase it wouldnt have been possible without you is a staple rhetorical device in acknowledgements, but to crowdfunders it applies literally.

All books, whether crowdfunded or not, need publishers. Many thanks, then, to Clare Christian, Anna Burtt and Heather Boisseau at RedDoor for agreeing to take on Ivon with such energy and creativity. Your hybrid model, marrying the selectivity of traditional publishing with the democratising verve of self-publishing, provides a much-needed outlet for those books that might not fit easily into any of the mainstream genres. I think it will prove as important a development in the publishing industry as crowdfunding.

Readers are important, too, even before publication. My thanks, then, to James Perry, Richard Warlow, Dan Morrish and James Cunningham for their comments on the early drafts of the all-important opening pages. And, for their comments on the early drafts of the full manuscript, still more to Hugh Godwin, Gilbert Simmons and Ben Roome, in particular the latter, who read it twice, apparently of his own accord.

This book was also expedited to its current state by Richard Beard and his class of happy (sometimes) scribblers at the National Academy of Writing: Lesia Scholey, Sally Hodgkinson, Eamon Somers, Laura Ashton and Sue Blundell. Its a curious experience to have your work pulled apart line by line by a randomly thrown-together group round a table and, of course, never easy. Friendships are forged or killed at birth by it. Im so pleased were all still talking, let alone such good friends. See you at the Pineapple.

Finally, thanks and undying devotion to Vanessa, Max and Francesca. They say families are the death of creativity and theres no doubt they can get in the way but neither is there anything like a noisy, loving house for seeing how people tick. Writing this book would have been possible without you, but it wouldnt have been as much fun.

Deep in the corridors of Parliament, Dusty is ushered into a long, wide conference room overlooking the Thames. The Prime Manager of England, Marcus Apollo, rises from his seat.

Dusty Noble! he cries. Come in!

Apollos smile is warm. He raises his hand, which Dusty takes, their thumbs interlocking. Apollo pulls Dustys hand towards his breast, then Dusty pulls Apollos to his.

Welcome to Parliament!

Around the long conference table are seated members of the Cabinet. Sunlight filters through the solar molecules of the window wall, burnishing the Managers with a lustre that Dusty finds affecting. He recognises a lot of the faces the Managers for Football, Rugby, Tennis and Hockey are as recognisable to citizens of England as the Prime Manager himself. So too the Manager for Cricket, Lana Defoe, his old friend. She nods at him. Dusty is surprised to see a smile force its way across her face.

Statesmanship comes naturally to Apollo. He stands imperious in the magenta of the managerial class and addresses the Cabinet in his resonant timbre. Comrades, it is rare indeed that we acknowledge the achievements of an individual, for we are all but the products of commune and country and to celebrate achievement is to look back into the Past, which runs, of course, contrary to the Primacy of the Next Match. Nevertheless, I think we here, in the corridors of power, knew instinctively when Dusty Noble was finally decommissioned two weeks ago that we were witnessing the end of a long and extraordinarily productive career. And it so happens that our instincts are correct.

Apollo turns to the bank of screens on the interior wall, each showing a live stream of a sporting contest somewhere in the country at this time of the morning, contests of minor significance, secondary level, possibly tertiary. The screens go blank for a moment, before an image of Dusty as a young man is projected across them, as high as the room, a rendition of the perfect Perpetual Era athlete. He recognises the image as of him, yet somehow not not quite the face in the mirror, not quite the body. Younger. And an exquisite longing tugs at him, which he fears would overwhelm if lingered over too much. He doesnt understand these irregular feelings. They go against everything he was taught in diminishment training. He is afraid of them.

If there is one sector of society that is more keenly appraised than we are of the goings-on on the field, of how each match is won or lost, continues Apollo, it is the scientists at the Institute of Improvement. The Eye-Eye have alerted us to the extent of Dustys contributions for commune and country. Thirty-one years as a batsman at elite level, 95 133 runs, 2015 matches. These figures make him the most productive batsman London has ever known and one of the three most productive England has. The amount of energy raised by his runs alone amounts to 113.08 terajoules. His cover drive has been placed on the national curriculum, and his memory bank of strokes is on order for upload to the archives when he reaches stasis.

Dusty does not move. Thirty-one years has it been, 95 000 runs, 2000 matches? The last of the statistics melts into his image across the screens. Face-to-face with the young man he used to be, his disquiet does not diminish. Dusty Noble, London and England, 211344 the display reads across a chest of perfect symmetry, beneath a face of clean lines and confidence for the Next Match, above a waist of economy, and legs that are slim and muscular in the green day suit of the elite class.

The longing gives way, finally, to what seems like pride, just as he used to feel for London when they were at the peak of their powers. Only this time, as in his dreams recently, it is pride not for his commune or his country but for himself , Dusty Noble the individual. As if those statistics were his, as if that aptitude, too; as if he were an independent entity, alone responsible for who he is and what he has achieved. And not an asset, bred, reared and owned by the Commune of London.

Dusty Noble, you have always been held in the highest regard by Parliament and the scientific community. I know it is not the Perpetual way, but when an asset of sufficient value is decommissioned we in Parliament, who can perhaps see beyond the Next Match, we want to express our thanks. It is an indulgence, but happily those very few assets we feel inclined to honour are by definition the ones invulnerable to corruption. Weaker citizens might suffer in the glare of veneration, but a batsman with 95 000 runs?

Apollo places a powerful arm across his chest and laughs. Dusty looks at him properly for the first time, as laughter rises from those around the table. The face is wide and strong, made bold by generous eyebrows and a head of shining black hair. This is the first time he has met Marcus Apollo, and yet he knows the face well from countless morale-casts and info-docs. Seeing it in the flesh is a curious experience. He finds himself instinctively liking Apollo, despite having never shared a wicket stand with him or a sessions training.

When the laughter dies down, Apollo adopts a solemn air. He turns to his assistant briefly, then back to Dusty. We would like to present you with the Iron Joule for services to commune and country. It would not surprise me if you chose never to wear it in public, such is your sense of solidarity with your comrades, but whether you choose to wear it or not the point is, you have earned it.