Authors: Alexander Hammond
A WORK OF QUALITY
The editor looked at his watch with relish. Seven minutes to go. Seven minutes before he had to put up with that vile little man for the last time. That man whose very presence offended his sensibilities so deeply he felt the need to shower after their encounters.
He was going to cut him from the list and he was going to enjoy doing it. He’d not graduated a first in the classics at Oxford in order to read the wretched outpourings of a prurient scribbler. Writing was, after all, the great pursuit. It was an elegant and creative endeavour undertaken by conscientious and eclectic thinkers. People who wove their stories with skill and precision, artistes who played with language as a composer conducted an orchestra. Not that he wrote himself of course. He was an editor. His effete mind and intellectual snobbery persuaded him that he was able to critique that which he was unprepared to attempt himself. After all, he consoled himself, someone had to be the guardian at the gate. Someone had to ensure quality and high standards. And of course he did understood high standards. His lecturers had taught him well. He understood their exacting assessments and now their standards were his. He could accept no less.
Sadly, employment within the world of publishing was not the foregone conclusion he’d anticipated. After graduation he was astonished to have had to undergo the embarrassment of protracted interviews by individuals who were inferior to him in every way. And, they talked relentlessly about commercialism and profit which he felt was simply bad manners. Finally it took a quiet word from one of his former masters to a college old boy to ease his way into his chosen profession.
Four years in, he was relishing his environment. He savoured the ritual humiliation he was able to pour onto the new manuscripts that arrived on his desk. He took extreme pleasure in delivering his withering critiques to aspiring novelists and basked in the glow of his own importance as they thanked him for it. Yes, life was good. And now he was about to dispose of his most irritating author. He rubbed his hands in anticipation.
The man he was about to see wasn’t exactly enamoured with the editor either. A seemingly modest and inoffensive character, he earned a living doing what he enjoyed most: writing horror novels. That alone was enough to pique the editor’s ire. As far as the editor was concerned, it wasn’t a genre, it was only a step away from children’s comics and unworthy of his attention. When he’d ascended to his lofty position he was stunned to note that this author was still on their list. The reason he was became apparent from studying the records. The man’s books sold just enough to turn a modest profit. Under the gentle tutelage and guidance of his predecessor the man had been just able to make the grade. Of course when he’d taken over his first task had been to undermine the writer relentlessly. He heaped scorn on his stories and attacked his grammar like a rapid dog. He studiously ignored phone calls and steadfastly subjugated the poor man to re write after re write. The resultant manuscripts were so poor they never had a chance. Even the man’s most ardent fans drifted away.
His last book had bombed. The contract said that they had to at least consider one more. Certainly the editor mused, he’d consider it and then reject it out of hand. Problem solved. With the wretched man out of the way he could concentrate on more substantial works. He eagerly anticipated creating a withering torrent of invective when he gave his assessment of the soon to be delivered final manuscript.
The meeting was shorter than he’d expected. The man shuffled into his office reeking of cigarette smoke and slapped his new manuscript down on the table with a resounding thump. “You’re not a very nice man,” he said to the editor. “This is my last book for you. It’s a work of quality; I wrote it especially with you in mind.” Before the editor had time to laugh the man had gone, closing the door softly behind him.
Sitting down at home that evening in his favourite Chesterfield, he felt deep regret that he hadn’t been able to execute the coup de grace himself. He felt somehow robbed. He vigorously stoked his fire and with a sniff of regret he lit a thin cheroot, took a sip from a large balloon of brandy and picked up the manuscript as if it were a used tissue.
Consoling himself this was the last time he’d have to endure the mans infantile and childish endeavours, he opened the manuscript with a heavy heart and started reading.
By the time he’d reached the end of page three, he felt his heart begin to race as his eyes scanned the horrific description being outlined in front of him. By the time he’d reached page ten his forehead was shiny with perspiration. He wasn’t just shocked, he was revolted. The next two paragraphs were enough. He dropped the manuscript and ran to the bathroom, where he vomited. As he knelt before the toilet he felt rocked by the depravity he’d forced himself to read. When he eventually cleaned himself up he quickly poured himself another brandy. Christ, he had a legal obligation to read and critique this awful document. He steeled himself, sat down and again started reading. As he turned each page slowly wave upon wave of horrified fascination assailed his senses. He wanted to stop reading but he couldn’t. There was something about the structure of the work that demanded he keep reading and yet the awfulness of the descriptions he was absorbing hit him like a sledgehammer. As his revulsion grew so did the dread, the dread of turning to the next page, the dread of reading yet another scenario laced with such primordial evil it made his flesh crawl.
By the time he’d read half of the book he’d also finished off the brandy. With a shaking hand he lit his last cigar. He had to see it through. He rubbed his eyes trying to focus on the words before him. As they cleared he felt panic rise up inside as he turned to a new page. Each paragraph tore at his veneer of civilisation and challenged his ability to endure the prose in front of him. His concentration was total. He’d long since stopped going to the bathroom to throw up, it took him away from the book. He retched where he sat, hardly noticing the smell. He already realised, in the small part of his mind that was trying to hold onto realty, that he would be changed forever as a result of this document. The dread grew within him as he continued to turn the pages. He now stopped reading frequently to look behind him in the now darkened room. His clothes were soaked with sweat. He made to retch again but he was empty. The awfulness of the next few paragraphs threatened to overcome him. He burst into floods of uncontrollable tears at the depths of this naked obscenity. He stood up, shouting in outrage and fear. He looked fretfully around the room again then, sobbing with terror, he returned to the manuscript.
The horror storywriter looked at the new editor and thanked him for his time. He was a kindly scholarly type who knew how to stimulate talent. He was delighted the man had bravely decided to keep him on after his last few failures. Such a refreshing change after the previous incumbent’s unexpected suicide. The writer was almost disappointed that the remains of his last manuscript had been found in the burning embers of the man’s fire. Such a waste…and the only copy.
- The End -
THE HOTEL AT THE EDGE OF FOREVER
At the sound of high heels on marble the bored bellhop looked up quickly. The rapidity of his response rewarded him with an uninterrupted view of the new guest as she made her entrance. Twenty years spent assessing the nuances of those he unctuously served enabled him to judge that this woman was not a big tipper but definitely a class act. Normally such an assessment would have made him lose interest immediately but he kept on looking. He had to. Her deportment demanded it.
The woman strode confidently towards the check-in desk. The look she gave the receptionist was designed to establish superiority in terms of femininity, beauty, unavailability and wealth. The receptionist, a striking woman in her own right, was immediately intimidated. The new guest noted this with no satisfaction; it was simply the way things were. It was the way they had always been.
She snapped her black Amex card onto the counter, completed the signing in paperwork with deft brevity, turned heel and made her way to the elevator clasping a modestly sized Louis Vuitton overnight bag. The bellhop, who scurried over to her was halted in his tracks by her withering gaze and scuttled back to the concierge’s desk like a nervous dog. ‘Men,’ she thought. ‘Cowards or bullies’. She had no time for the former and she loathed the latter but was well able to use either if the need arose.
The suite was smaller than those in the cities she normally frequented. Nonetheless, she mused, it would do for the purpose at hand. She opened the door to the balcony and walked out into the blustery late evening. An uninterrupted view of the beach revealed an angry sea and an iron-grey sky. A few seagulls braved the elements and soared over the white tipped waves in search of food.
She surveyed the bleak scene without the slightest hint of emotion, then returned to the suite. As she entered she caught sight of herself in a full-length mirror and gazed approvingly at the refection. At thirty-six she had a figure that would have been the envy of women half her age…and normally was. Her clothes, studiously understated, reflected one of Giorgio Armani’s more inspired days, and the application of her make up would have challenged the most professional of artists. She turned away bored, the brief uplift of seeing her reflection now lost.
She picked up a hotel brochure lying on a low table next to an extravagant bowl of fruit. She was briefly annoyed that she couldn’t quite read the name of the town in which the hotel was located. That she couldn’t identify the town was not the cause of her annoyance, it was the fact that she presumably needed an eye test and was perhaps less perfect than she desired. She picked up the phone.
The receptionist’s bright tone answered. The woman enquired the name of the town. When the receptionist responded the woman couldn’t quite make it out. Upon asking again she had the same difficulty. Not wishing to appear anything less than in control, the woman snapped a curt “Thank you,” and replaced the receiver. She still found it strange that she didn’t see the name of the town on her way in. She consoled herself it had been a long drive.
She picked up her overnight bag and made to put it on the bed, and froze. A sense of unusually strong déjà vu assailed her senses. So powerful was the experience she was rooted to the spot. The doorbell rang. She knew it would.
Feeling slightly apprehensive (a rare occurrence for her), she strode across the room towards the door. Still in the grips of déjà vu, she knew a tall man would be standing in the doorway. She hesitated for a second, then, gathering her confidence around her like a cloak, opened the door. Indeed, a tall man stood in the doorway. She had no idea who he was
.
The man, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly who she was. Without a word he threw her a quick nod then walked directly across the room and out onto the terrace. Like the woman, he showed not the slightest emotion as he surveyed the dismal scene.
She shut the door quietly, picked up an orange from the bowl and wandered out to join him. The man continued to scrutinise the horizon and seemed oblivious of her presence. Unused to this sort of treatment, she felt vaguely anxious, cross and unusually out of control. However, nothing on the surface gave even the slightest hint that anything was wrong. She leant nonchalantly against one of the posts supporting the balcony above, rubbing one of her arms with an immaculate hand in an effort to keep warm, whilst smelling the orange she held in the other. She affected a slight smile with a hint of a raised eyebrow in case he should decide to turn around. She desperately wanted to get the control back. A man walking into her room without speaking to her wasn’t going to get the better of years of self-control. In fact just thinking about it in such simple terms enabled her to see the ludicrously theatrical side of what was happening. She felt the power surging back into her and was once again thankful for ‘a good head on a good body’.
The man chose this moment to finally turn around but instead of speaking to her, he made a small gesture showing that he was beginning to get cold and re-entered the room. ‘Alright,’ she thought, beginning to enjoy the game, ‘Let’s see who’s best at it’. She knew how to walk, she knew how to hold herself, she knew how to get attention and she put all of this knowledge into action during the short time it took her to re-enter the room, drop the orange on the bed and cross the room to the bathroom. The man, already sitting in the leather armchair in the corner with crossed legs and joined fingers, the tips of which just covered his mouth, took no notice of her. He didn’t even follow her with his eyes. He appeared deep in thought.
She suddenly gave herself a mental slap round the face. Who was this man and why had she let him so calmly intrude on her space? Why was she even making an attempt to dally with him when she didn’t even know him? There was a reason that she’d come to this place. It was remote enough for her to do what she had to do with no interference. Men didn’t affect her this way. They were one thing in her life over which she had total mastery. She was giving this intruder her time and he wasn’t even paying her for it. As if sensing her frustration, the man murmured, “Alors, comment c’était cette fois?”
“What?” she said. “Oh I’m sorry,” he replied, “It’s English this time, isn’t it? What I asked was, ‘How was it?’” “How was what?” she replied. “All of it, this time around,” the stranger replied making an extravagant hand gesture indicating huge scope. As he gesticulated, she again had the powerful sense of déjà-vu. She knew this man...really knew him, but she couldn’t place him. “I know you,” she stated flatly. The stranger laughed. “I should hope so; still, you haven’t answered my question.”
She looked at him, really looked at him and he met her gaze full on. She saw a man in his late forties, very handsome in almost a Middle Eastern way but difficult to place. He wore a trench coat, an expensive one, which he had unusually buttoned up to the collar. His eyes bored into hers as she scrutinized his. She wasn’t sure what she could see within them. Whatever it was it was calling to her in a way that she found most difficult to deal with. She knew men’s eyes, but she didn’t know his. The déjà vu persisted unabated and was reaching a stage where everything was beginning to feel unreal. She broke her stare and sat heavily on one of the chairs feeling dizzy. The stranger stood up with a smile, “It’s never easy…I know…at least that’s the way you always make it for yourself,” he said.
Feeling too disoriented to talk, she gestured for him to continue. “Very well,” he said quietly, “Do you really believe that a hot bath, a bottle of vodka and a razor blade are going to solve anything?” She looked up sharply. “How did you know?” she demanded. “It is my business to know,” he continued. “It’s what I do.”
She took a deep breath and regained some of her composure. She stood up and smoothed down her skirt, then walked with some dignity to her overnight bag. “Whatever you think I’m going to do next, I need some of this,” she snapped and pulled out a bottle of vodka. As she poured a shot into a glass, the stranger observed, “I’m not here to stop you doing anything; I’m just here to give you a little perspective.”
Despite the bizarre situation the women still couldn’t reconcile the fact that he appeared unmoved by her. This ability was the one constant in her life. Ever since she could remember men were the one thing over which she had total control. Certainly it had been a pleasant discovery when she edged into her teens, but it had soon become a burden. She eventually recognised the uses of her gift and the financial opportunity it afforded her to lead the life of luxury she thought she craved. As time moved on, her loathing of men increased as did the quality of her lifestyle. There had been one or two individuals along the way, men who had managed to keep up the pretence of not being intimidated by her femininity and beauty, but their facades had eventually crumbled into what she hated the most: adoration.
Not so with this strangely familiar man. Her experience told her that he most certainly wasn’t gay, but the fact that he was uninterested was a jarring and unfamiliar sensation. She didn’t like this feeling. Rejection or disinterest from a man was alien to her and deeply unnerving. It made her feel drawn to his dark beauty. She found herself wondering what he’d be like. Was this how men felt around her she wondered?
His voice pulled her out of her reveries. “So, to the matter at hand. If you want to kill yourself, please go ahead. I won’t try to stop you. That’s not how it works. It’s just that it won’t achieve anything, as you’ll recall the minute you commit the act. As I asked you before, ‘How was it this time?’”
“What do you mean ‘this time’?” She asked, annoyed.
“Your life,” he replied. “This is not the first time you’ve been here, and you’ve reached the same resolution every time. You must be getting a little bored of it by now.”
She blinked at him in amazement. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she shot back.
“I’m familiar to you,” he continued. “You feel it but you don’t understand it. Indeed this whole situation is unnervingly familiar and yet you can’t put your finger on it, can you? That’s the way it’s supposed to be. If you could remember everything you wouldn’t get what you wanted from the experience. It’s your gig, but you’re alarmingly predictable. It’s like you’re stuck in a loop. I’ve tried to help. That’s what I do but you’re very difficult to reach once the game begins.” He walked over to her. She found herself unaccountably trembling slightly at his closeness. ‘Shit,’ she thought. Up close he was seriously handsome.
“You’re beautiful, rich and powerful,” he continued. “That’s exactly what you set out for yourself this time. It’s what you set out for yourself every time but it always ends the same way. You cut your losses and break for the border. What you fail to realise…what you
always
fail to realise when you’re here, is that what you seek is not dependant on these factors. You set these factors out for yourself for a reason. You gave yourself these gifts to provide a scenario, a scenario whereby you would have the opportunity to experience that which you desire to experience. I’ve tried to let you know in so many ways, but you’re very focussed down here; you rarely hear.”
She didn’t fully understand his words but something within her told her that his bizarre monologue was in some way true. In that instant she made a brave decision. She dropped her guard a fraction around a man. For everything there is a first time she mused. “I don’t know who you are,” she confessed. “But I know I know you. I don’t know how but I do. I’m tired. I’m bored. I’m disillusioned. I’m depressed. A quiet afternoon with a bottle of vodka in a hot bath with a razor seems a very appealing way to check out of this mess and stop the hurting.”
The stranger smiled. “Progress, at last. In the past you’ve just ignored me and did what you felt you had to do. Somehow I’ve reached you this time. I know you don’t fully understand what I’m saying, but believe me my only agenda here is you and that which you desire the most. If you do what you’ve done in the past and not listen then it starts all over again. Sure, the scenarios are slightly different every time, but the basic outline is the same. It’s not till you start listening and noticing that you can make the changes necessary to get to where you want to be.
You
chose this scenario and
you
have to resolve it. Until you do you’ll keep replaying it. That was
your
choice too.”
She took a large slug of vodka and savoured the warmth rushing into her stomach. She was about to pour herself a second shot when the man, moving surprising swiftly, grabbed the bottle away from her. “I’d really rather you didn’t. I need your total attention.” She affected a mock pout, one of her best. The stranger didn’t react at all. “You had my attention but you’re talking in riddles,” she said. “Just give me a straight answer. Who are you and why are you here?”
“I am here for you. That is sufficient. I cannot be more specific because that will ruin your careful plans. You were most definite about this. Look on me as a guide if you will, through a difficult maze of your own making. I’m always available if you let yourself look for me. Seek me out in the quiet places in your mind and you’ll find me.”
“More riddles,” she retorted, but not quite so aggressively, “Look, you had what it took to get into my bedroom without reaching into your wallet. Believe me, you’re experiencing very rare air. Yes, I do feel that I’ve done this before but we all get déjà vu.”
“What do you think déjà vu is?” the man smiled.” It’s a crucial point in the game that has been important in previous playings.”
“So,” she said, “I’ve really done this before, but I don’t remember it?”
“You don’t remember it but you do feel it. Trust your gut. You know it to be the truth.”
She’d given up trying to make an impression on him. Nonetheless, as she reached for a cigarette, she couldn’t help but arch her back in manner designed to cause notice. The man smiled kindly. Not the reaction she’d ever engendered before with one of her moves. “What was the best moment of your life?” he asked.