‘I have bodyguards outside,’ he said breathlessly, his eyes widening.
‘Big deal. I’ll empty this magazine into you before they can get that fucking door open.’
‘Doyle, put it down,’ Parker said wearily.
Pressman sat motionless. ‘It’s all you know, isn’t it? Violence.Threats,’ he said, his voice cracking.The country will be better off without men like you, Doyle.’
Doyle took a step towards the politician.
‘You make men like me,’ he growled.
Pressman dropped the file he’d been holding and tried to push himself further back into the chair.
Doyle finally eased the hammer of the automatic down and holstered the weapon.
‘As of now you are officially dismissed from the Counter Terrorist Unit,’
Parker told him.
Doyle looked at him briefly.
‘Stick it,’ he snarled. ‘Stick the whole fucking lot up your arse.’
He moved towards the door then turned and looked at Pressman.
Tell your friends in Sinn Fein you did what they wanted,’ he said. ‘I hope they appreciate it.’
Doyle slammed the door behind him.
‘The man’s psychotic,’ said Pressman, his hands shaking as he reached for his glass of water. ‘I’d go as far as to say he’s insane.’
‘Well, that doesn’t matter any more does it?’ Parker said, looking at Doyle’s discarded ID wallet.
Pressman thought about getting to his feet but his legs were still shaking too much.
‘Fighting the Provos, the Real IRA, Continuity IRA, whatever they call themselves,’ Parker continued. ‘We needed men like Doyle. He was dangerous.
That’s what made him the best.’
That time has passed. His time has passed.’
Parker looked down at the ID once again.
‘I hope to Christ you’re right,’ he said quietly.
THE PHONE CALL
Ward usually unplugged the phone while he was working so that it wouldn’t disturb him. Wouldn’t break his train of thought. It took very little to break his concentration and this meant one less distraction.
However, as very few people rang him these days, he had taken to leaving the contraption alone. So it was a shock when the strident ringing cut through the stillness of the office.
He finished the sentence he was typing then reached for the receiver.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Chris, it’s me.’
He recognised the voice immediately. Martin Connelly had been his agent for the past five years. A born-and-bred Londoner, Martin was sometimes abrupt, sometimes brusque. There were those who called him rude but he had always done his best for Ward and the two men had a good working relationship.
‘How are you?’ asked Connelly.
T feel like shit. What the hell do you expect?’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Look, Chris, I won’t beat about the bush. It’s not good news.’
Ward kept his eyes on the screen. On the words he’d just written.
‘They don’t want to know,’ Connelly continued. ‘I’ve tried five publishers and none of them are interested. But that’s not to say that someone—’
‘Fuck them,’ Ward interrupted. ‘Fuck them all.’
‘I can speak to a couple of other people and—’
‘Forget it, Martin,’ Ward said, cutting him short again. ‘It’s over. I know that. I’m going to put the house on the market.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Don’t I? Then tell me what the fuck I am supposed to do? I’m a writer who no one wants to publish. I write books that no one wants to read. This is all I know. It’s all I’ve ever done. I can’t just say, “Oh, okay then, I’ll pack up writing full time and go back to the day job.” There isn’t a fucking day job.
This is it. This is all there is. And now you’re telling me it’s gone.’
‘There are other things …’
‘No there aren’t. There’s nothing else you can do. Just admit it, Martin.
We’re both fucked. The only difference is you’ve got other clients. You can still collect your twenty per cent from half a dozen other people. I’ve got nothing else.’
Again there was a silence.
‘What did they say?’ Ward finally wanted to know.
‘That sales on the last few books haven’t been good,’ Connelly told him. ‘That their production costs are too high. That they can’t afford to pay you what you want.’
‘Bastards. If they’d given me some fucking support they might have got their money back. Where was the advertising? Where was the fucking publicity?’
‘They say they did all they could.’
‘Well, they’re fucking liars,’ roared Ward furiously.
‘Listen, I know this must be a blow. I’ll call you back in a day or two and we’ll talk about what we can do—’
‘Don’t bother, Martin,’ Ward said coldly. ‘Don’t call me back. There’s nothing more to say’ He hung up.
Ward stood up and walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
DESOLATION
The drive to the local shops took less than five minutes.
Ward found the off-licence and bought two bottles of Jack Daniel’s, a bottle of Smirnoff and a bottle of Glenfiddich. Then he drove home.
He carried the bottles into the sitting room, sat down in one of his armchairs and set about the first bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Less than thirty minutes later, it was empty. Another hour and Ward was unconscious.
REALITY
Clinical depression sometimes causes the sufferer to sleep for abnormally long periods of time. The desire to escape from the cause of that depression is overwhelming and the best way to escape is in the oblivion of sleep. Combined with alcohol or some other form of drug, this state of mind can be dangerous.
Christopher Ward was in danger. He woke briefly at around 11.30 p.m. but immediately fell back into a deep, almost comatose sleep.
THE END
Ward sat in front of the blank screen. His head was throbbing, his mouth was sour. He hawked and spat on the carpet beside him.
If he had been in a position to appreciate it, the irony of the situation might have amused him.
The character he was writing about had lost his job. Ward himself had lost his job.
He rested his fingers on the keys.
Ha, ha. Very funny.
Ha ha.
He began to hit the two letters with increasing force.
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahahahahahahahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhh He slumped forward on to the keyboard.
THE BEGINNING
It was dark inside the office. Ward lifted his head slowly from the desk and blinked in an effort to clear his blurred vision. The only light was the silvery-grey glow coming from the computer screen.
Ward looked at the clock on his desk. 3.11 a.m.
He groaned, his gaze drawn to the screen. The print icon was showing: Print 1
to 30.
Ward pressed the return key and the printer whirred into life.
Pages began to spew from the machine.
Doyle watched as the steam rose slowly from his coffee.
The cafe in Dorset Street was barely large enough to accommodate ten people but, at present, only the former counter terrorist and two members of staff were inside.
Doyle looked down at the scratched surface of the table where he sat.
Obviously no one from the Environmental Health Department had put this place on the list for a visit lately.