By Sarah Pinborough
t's hot in here."
The writer pulled his tie a little looser, his shirt already sticking to the expanse of belly escaping from his trousers. The sweat stained the red dark silk in patches as if blood was leaking from his pores. God, he needed a drink, a stiff one. How had he got here? And just where was here? His head ached trying to remember. It all seemed vaguely familiar, like the hint of a smell long ago forgotten, a sour scent lingering in the stifling air, teasing him with knowledge.
A lazy smile stretched across the tanned Mediterranean face of the man on the other side of the large desk. His manicured fingers drummed out a tango on the worn leather surface as his dark eyes penetrated the writer's flabby cheeks, looking past the network of broken veins spreading like maddened spiders' webs, seeking out his soul. "You'll get used to it." The voice was slick; like its owner, smooth and dark. Somewhere outside a gun spat out its load and a woman screamed.
The tiny reflection of the room distorted in the bead of sweat trickling from the balding writer's scalp, a world within a world, its beauty unnoticed. He didn't like this place. It wasn't what he was used to. Not any more.
"Why am I here?" He resented the whine he heard in his words and his leg beginning to twitch beneath him, he scanned the room in search of liquor. Whiskey, rum, gin; shit, even sherry would do. He'd long ago given up pretending to be choosy. When you were worth what he was, you could afford to drink them all. You could afford pretty much anything you wanted when people would pay to read your shopping list if you decided to publish it.
His head swum momentarily and then he found himself seated in the creaking chair behind the tired desk that now bore an old Royale typewriter and a tidy pile of clean, white paper. It was the DTs. Had to be. This whole surreal mess was a hallucination.
The Mediterranean lounged on the desk, cool in linen. "Why am I here?" He chuckled, repeating the words, tasting them. "Isn't that the ageold question? So dull and unimaginative. So human. You're all so unsatisfied, aren't you? Always thinking you deserve more. Why can't just being be enough?"
Sighing, he stood up, moving like fluid mercury, all ease and sinews, and the writer felt the searing heat of the man's breath on his face.
The man wore snakeskin shoes. They suited him. He gazed out of the small nailed down window, unaware of the scurrying people so far below. A lifetime away. "You really threw it all out, didn't you? You could have left your mark. You could have touched people, made a difference, but it was all just too much hard work, wasn't it? So, instead you took the easy road and filled the world with more meaningless words for the masses. What a waste. What a failure."
The writer snorted, jowls wobbling. "My books make millions worldwide. My readers love me. I'm one of the biggest successes of the twentyfirst century. Hardly a failure."
Still, the words rankled, making a place deep inside him smart and flinch.
A dark eyebrow arched as the man turned back to him. "Shit sells, baby, shit sells." His teeth sparkled. "And you chose shit over substance. That's why you're here. That's why you'll be forgotten in two years." He snapped his fingers. "Resigned to the bargain bins."
The writer's mouth felt too dry for a hallucination. "What do you want?
"What I want," he pulled a cigar from his top pocket and lit it, the aromatic smoke absorbing the last of the moisture in the heavy air, "is a short story."
The writer laughed, relief flooding through him. A story. A short one at that. He'd be out of here in twenty minutes. He hadn't been quite sure what the man would ask for... but this, this would be easy. He used to write short stories all the time when he was a kid. Before he realized there was no real money in it. He giggled again, and for a moment almost forgot the increasing need that was itching at him.
"What did you think I was going to ask for? Your soul?" The amused words drifted towards him from the other side of the room. The man was walking towards the door. With one hand casually tucked into his pocket, he turned and spoke. "But I don't want shit. I want a story that is true to you. Remember your youth? When your dreams were of Bookers and Pulitzers instead of blondes and Porches? I want a story that will entertain me. I want it to be perfect. I want it to be art." He paused. "And when you satisfy my criteria, then you can have that drink you need. In fact, you can have several. Anything you want. As much as you want."
Watching the man's tapered fingers reaching for the door handle, the writer licked his lips. "Could I have a small one first? It helps me to write. I... I..I need it." The words were out, his tone as imploring as his eyes. Just one. That's all he needed. Just one long swallow.
For a brief moment he shut his eyes, almost tasting the fiery liquid, imagining it slipping down his tight throat. When he opened them, his thirst teased alive and unforgiving, the man had gone. More worrying than that, so had the door. The space it had occupied was now just tatty, chipped plaster, blending with the rest of the wall.
The writer's giggle held less humour now, the sound jarring against the emptiness. This craziness was getting weirder and he wondered if he'd finally cracked. One drink too many. One drink too little was probably more apt, considering the way his hands were shaking. The keys of the typewriter seemed to blur as he stared at them, but still he took a sheet of the crisp paper and fed it through the roller. A short story. How hard could it be? I want it to perfect. I want it to be art. The words echoed in his head. A few plotlines sprung to mind, but he rejected them all. Each one was straight from one of his novels. If he was being honest, then each one belonged to several of his books, reworked slightly and churned out over and over again. Still, how does that saying go?
If it ain't broke don't fix it. That formula had worked just fine for him.
He bit his lip to stop himself prevaricating. This wasn't getting him anywhere. A small slice of life, that's what he needed. A teasing glimpse into another existence. No subplot. No back story. Just one small dilemma in need of resolution. But what? His fingers flexed, brushing the old white on black letters. A siren wailed somewhere down in the real world, and for a few minutes he pondered on a crime situation. A dead body discovered. Why and by whom? Maybe the policeman did it? Maybe he's a serial killer on the side? The thin plot was boring him already and he slammed his hand on the desk in frustration.
Okay, he calmed himself, the idea will come. The promise of a drink at the end of this would bring on a plot, of that he was sure. Maybe if he decided on his characters that would help. He let out a long breath. Male or female or a couple of each? No more than four or he'd end up writing a novella. No. No women; including those would turn this into a cliche love story and that wasn't the kind of thing this customer was looking for. He didn't seem like the romantic type. Two men, that's what he needed. Two very different men tied together in a strange situation. Slowly the writer started to smile. The story was coming to him; it was so obvious he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before. But how would it turn out? The ending was just a dark hole in front of him, and try as he might he couldn't fill it. Well, the ending could wait. If he was lucky it might just take care of itself.
Still hot as an oven, the room was getting darker and he glanced at his watch. It seemed to have stopped, none of the hands moving, time frozen at 2:20 p.m. How long had he been here? He needed to get started soon or he wouldn't be capable; he'd be far too busy climbing the walls. His hands were poised over the old machine, ready to take care of their work.
So. How to start? Dialogue, that was always an easy way in. Take the audience straight into the action and set up your characters all at the same time. Two birds with one stone. Feeling pleased with himself he started to type, careful not to let his damp fingers slip between the keys.
"It's hot in here."
As he let the words flow, the world shimmered around him, spinning and twisting until it disappeared into itself, taking him and the typewriter and the words with it.
The devil tapped out a tango on the worn leather desk as he smiled at the writer who twitched for a drink, sweating like a pig just as he had the last time and the time before that and all the countless times previously through the frozen eons of eternity. The devil noticed a small bead of sweat forming on the nervous man's balding head. A world within a world. Perfect. The writer spoke.
"It's hot in here."
The devil studied the exploding veins on the writer's sallow face. No matter how many times they replayed this little scene, those veins never ceased to fascinate him.
"You'll get used to it."
Somehow though, he didn't think the writer ever would.
