Ward blinked hard. He was sure he recognised the figure.
Martin Connelly walked towards the front door of the house, disappearing from Ward’s view.
Ward moved away from the window and stumbled towards the stairs. He gripped the banister to prevent himself falling then finally blundered out into the garden and headed for the tall, wooden gate that led out into the drive.
‘Martin,’ he called.
Connelly heard him and hurried over, slowing his pace as he drew nearer.
‘Jesus Christ,’ murmured the agent, his eyes widening. ‘What the hell’s happened here?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Ward wanted to know. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I’ve left God knows how many messages on your answering machine. You haven’t returned any of the calls.’
‘So what else is new?’
‘The last time we spoke was over ten days ago, Chris. What have you been doing? Why didn’t you answer the calls?’
‘I’ve been busy,’ Ward said and he laughed.
The sound raised the hairs on the back of Connelly’s neck.
‘You look terrible,’ he said.
‘Thanks. You drove from London to tell me that?’
‘Can I come in?’ Connelly asked. ‘I need to speak to you, Chris.’
‘Actually, there’s something I need to show you,‘Ward confessed. ‘Come into the office.’
Connelly followed the author up the stairs, recoiling from the smell of body odour that hung in the air.
There were several flies buzzing around inside the office, one of them occasionally landing on a pile of rotting tea bags by the sink.
‘The book,’ said Ward, indicating the manuscript. ‘The book no fucker wants.’
He laughed again. A humourless, empty sound. ‘And this.’ He passed the handwritten pages to Connelly.
The agent took them and sat down on the chair near the window. He read them quickly, a frown creasing his forehead.‘I don’t get it,’ he said finally, offering the pages back to Ward.
‘Neither do I,’ Ward told him.
Again Connelly shook his head.
‘I didn’t write it,’ Ward said flatly.
EMPTY WORDS
Inside the house Martin Connelly watched as Ward poured two large measures of whisky into tumblers. The agent was holding the handwritten pases in one hand, his gaze drifting between them and Ward. He accepted the drink and sipped at it.
‘None of this makes any sense, Chris,’ he said quietly.
‘I know,’ Ward agreed. ‘I’ve read it over and over again and—’
‘Not just that. What’s happening with you makes no sense.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Look, I know things aren’t going too well at the moment but—’
Ward cut him short. ‘Not going too well,’ he snarled. ‘A masterpiece of understatement, Martin. My career’s in ruins, my life’s falling to bits around my fucking ears. Jesus, not going too well. That’s a bit like saying the Jews had a rough time in Dachau. No shit.’
‘You’re not helping yourself.’
‘What do you mean? It’s the publishers who aren’t helping. Publishers who won’t publish what I write. What am I supposed to do? What do you think I can do to help myself, Martin? Beg them to publish me?’
‘This stuff doesn’t help,’ said Connelly, raising the glass. ‘How much are you drinking these days?’
‘If you drove all the way from London to lecture me about my drinking then get in your flash car and fuck off now.’ Ward downed a sizeable gulp of the fiery liquid.
‘You’ve always had a problem with it, Chris, you know that.’
‘Drink is the least of my problems at the moment. Now tell me, why are you here?’
‘I was worried.’
‘Ah, the agent caring about one of his clients, how touching. I’m hardly the meal ticket I used to be, am I, Martin? I’d have thought you could have found more deserving causes. What was the name of that publicity girl at Headline you were shagging? She seemed like a more worthwhile object for your attentions.’
‘Do you want me here or not?’
‘I don’t know what I want. Because I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me.’
Ward slumped into the chair opposite his agent. ‘Things … have been happening,’ he said, realising that what he was about to say was going to sound ridiculous.
‘What kind of things?’
‘Things I can’t explain. Stupid things. Weird things.’
‘Like what?’
Ward sucked in a breath, held it a moment then exhaled slowly. ‘I’ve been having … blackouts. I don’t know what else to call them,’ he said evenly.
‘I’ll fall asleep and when I wake up, there’s part of the book completed.
Stuff that I know I must have written but that I can’t remember. More than a hundred pages of
that novel out in the office, I can’t remember ‘writing.’
Connelly listened intently. ‘Some kind of short-term memory loss?’ he offered.
‘I thought that but there’ve been other things too. I’ve seen things. At night.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Apparitions,’ he smiled humourlessly.‘There, I’ve said it now. I don’t know what else to call them.’
‘But you can remember them?’
‘Because I’m awake when I see them.’
‘Hqw can you be sure? Couldn’t it be a dream? I mean, if there’s something wrong with your mind then—’
‘You mean if I’m going fucking insane?’
‘Do you think you are?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Then get help. Let me help you.’
‘Take me to a doctor? Get me pumped full of happy pills? Job done. No.
Besides, it’s gone too far for that.’
‘Chris, if you get help now—’
Ward got to his feet. ‘Come through to the other room,’ he said, refilling his glass. ‘There’s something I want you to see.’
A TROUBLE SHARED
The camcorder was already set up in the study. The television in the smaller room was on. Ward indicated the small sofa and Connelly sat down, still
holding the five handwritten pages.
‘You think you can help me?’ said Ward, looking at his agent. ‘Tell me again after you’ve watched this.’
As Connelly sat forward on the seat, Ward pressed the play button.
Images began to fill the screen.
SHOCK TACTICS
For long moments Connelly looked as if he was going to be sick. Even after the images on the screen had vanished. He clutched his belly and blew out his cheeks.
‘I told you it had gone too far,’ said Ward, gazing at his agent.
‘You killed that girl,’ Connelly murmured.
‘I did warn you,’ he said. ‘So, what do you want to do, Martin? Ring the police now?’
Connelly put a hand to his mouth. ‘God,’ he whispered, still clutching his stomach. ‘Who was she?’
‘Her name was Jenny. That’s all I know.’
‘What was she doing here?’
‘We’d done business before. I called her.’
Connelly nodded. Understood. ‘Where’s the body?’ he wanted to know.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more, Martin.’
The two men regarded each other silently for what seemed like an eternity.
‘Chris, you’ve got to go to the police,’ Connelly said finally. ‘Tell them what’s happening to you.’
‘I don’t know what’s happening to me. And what if I do go? What are they going to say? “All right then, Mr Ward, as you’ve been having trouble remembering things we’ll just let this matter of the murder go.
Don’t worry about it. People who are losing their minds always cut up prostitutes and film it. Off you go.” Give me a fucking break, Martin.’