The former counter terrorist said nothing.
‘I will show you,’ said the boy.
Doyle could see that he had something gripped in one hand.
Only as he drew closer could he see that it was a Stanley knife.
PROGRESS
Twenty-two pages. Ward counted them, numbered them and placed them with the rest of the manuscript. He moved like a man in a trance, touching the pages almost warily, carefully scanning the words on each one.
Then he sat and gazed at the blank screen. And the keyboard. And the box of white Conqueror paper that fed the printer.
The top sheet was slightly discoloured. Crinkled at the bottom, like parchment. Ward picked it up and rubbed it gently between his thumb and forefinger. He gently folded it then dropped it into the waste bin beside his desk.
The bin needed emptying.There were pieces of paper, sweet wrappers and other discarded items spilling over the sides. Some of the rubbish even lay on the carpet around the bin. He looked down at the mess, realising that he should clear it up.
The waste bin near the sink was in the same state. Tidiness was not one of Ward’s strong points.
Neither, it seemed, was memory. He could not recall having come to the office the previous night. Could not remember sitting and writing another twenty-two pages of his book. In fact, he had little recollection of much of what he’d produced during the past month.
Drink destroyed memory cells. Depression also interfered with the brain’s recollective processes.
He looked at the manuscript, now swollen to almost three hundred pages. Was it possible he could have forgotten so much? If not, what was happening?
He ran a hand over cheeks that needed the attentions of a razor blade and gazed once again at the screen and the keyboard.
As he looked down at the squares and their letters and symbols he shook his head gently. He touched one of the keys and held it down.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Ward ran his fingertips over several others, feeling the outline of the symbols as if he were working on some kind of braille machine.
He sat back in his chair and exhaled deeply. He closed his eyes.
The phone rang.
Ward jumped in his seat and looked at the device as if it were some kind of venomous reptile, then he shot out a hand and picked it up.
‘Hello,’ he said.
Silence at the other end.
‘Hello,’ Ward repeated.
Still nothing.
‘You must have got the wrong number,’ he said and hung up.
He sat at the desk a moment longer then got to his feet, switched off the monitor and made his way out of
the office. As he paused to lock the door he looked down.
There were several deep furrows in the wood both at the bottom and around the handle.
They looked like scratch marks.
SEEKING OBLIVION
Ward slumped in the armchair with the bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand and a crystal tumbler in the other. He poured himself a large measure and drank it in one fierce swallow.
Another followed. Then a third.
He switched on the television and gazed blankly at the screen.
It was another hour before he dragged himself to his feet and wandered out to the hall. He picked up the phone and jabbed out a number. It rang and rang until an answerphone clicked on.
Ward pressed down on the cradle and searched the small notepad beside the phone for another number. He dialled that and waited.
When the robotic voice at the other end informed him he had reached the voicemail of that particular mobile phone he almost hung up again but, despite himself, he hung on. ‘Martin, it’s Chris Ward. Call me when you get the chance. It doesn’t matter what time it is.’
He hung up and returned to the sitting room. There was no telling what time his agent would ring back. If he did.
Ward poured himself another drink.
And waited.
WAITING GAME
It stayed light until well past nine o’clock. Ward finally got to his feet and drew his curtains at about 9.40.
A moment later the phone rang. Ward caught it on the fifth ring.
‘Hello, Martin?’ he said, expectantly.
‘Yes,’ Martin Connelly said. ‘Are you okay, Chris? I just got your message. I would have rung earlier but I’ve been out for a drink with—’
‘Just listen to me,’ Ward interrupted. ‘When was the last time we spoke on the phone?’
‘What?’
‘When was the last time we spoke on the phone? It’s a simple enough question, Martin.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Today? Yesterday?’
‘I called you two days ago. We were talking about work and—’
‘But I haven’t called you? We haven’t spoken since then?’
‘What’s this about, Chris?’
‘I need to know.’
‘Are you pissed?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Listen, is everything all right?’
‘My career’s crumbling around my ears, my life’s being destroyed. Why shouldn’t everything be all right?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No, Martin. I’m not sure I know anything any more.’
‘Listen, come down to London, we’ll have lunch. I’ll pay. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’
‘Thanks for calling back,’ said Ward.
A STRANGE CALL
Ward sat in his large kitchen and ate the sandwich he’d made from three-day-old bread and ham that was perilously close to its sell-by date.
Music drifted from the compact sound system that stood on one worktop. Ward hardly heard it. He finished his sandwich and put the plate in the sink.
The phone rang. As he crossed the room to it he looked at his watch. 6.15 p.m.
Who the hell would be calling him at this time?
He picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ he said wearily.
‘Hi, Chris, it’s Jenny,’ said the voice at the other end of the line.
‘Jenny?’
For a moment he could not recall.
‘What time do you want me to come round tonight?’ she asked him.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You phoned and asked me to come to your house.’
‘What the fuck are you going on about?’
‘You rang …’
‘When?’
‘Earlier today.’
‘What time?’
‘I can’t remember exactly. Does it matter? You just didn’t say what time you wanted me—’
‘What time did I ring?’ he demanded.
‘I said, I don’t know.’
‘Morning, afternoon? When?’
‘It was this afternoon. Look, everything’s all right. I spoke to one ot the other girls and she said she’d come along. It’s going to cost you though. A hundred for me and the same for her. Her name’s Claire. She’s gorgeous. Long, dark hair, slim. She’s done this kind of thing before so—’
Again he cut her short. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t ring you.’
He heard a deep sigh from Jenny.
‘All right, just tell me what time, will you?’ she said.
‘I don’t want you here tonight,’ he said.
‘But I’ve arranged it with Claire. I told her—’
He slammed the phone down. As he backed away, his heart was thudding hard against his ribs.
Ward turned and headed for the sitting room. He needed a drink.
NOWHERE TO RUN
Ward sat looking at the phone for what seemed an eternity.
Had he really called Jenny? Asked her to come to the house. And with another girl?
Making phone calls without being able to remember them. Writing lucidly and productively, then failing to recall doing so. What was this? Drunkenness?