He rested his head in his hands. All his life, he had steered himself away from confrontation. He didn’t like difficult conversations, let alone violence. But there was no avoiding it this time. If he didn’t finish his book, he was screwed.
The first thing was to pull himself together.
“Can I have a cup of tea?” he asked.
“Of course. You writers like your tea, don’t you?”
She took a few steps towards the kitchen, then stopped. “No, I think we need to delay gratification. You can have your tea when you’ve finished the first chapter. Procrastination isn’t an option, Jock.”
“But I’ve told you, I can’t write!”
Yara frowned. “Sometimes you need to suffer for your art,” she said, leaning over to him to adjust the size of the font. Her voice dropped dramatically. “I’ll make sure you do.”
“I really can’t write,” he said in a small voice.
“Stop saying that!”
To his astonishment, she smacked herself, good and hard in the head. “Just look around you, man! This is real. You can write about this experience. You can write about me. Embellish it all you want. Make it interesting. Think of all the different possible outcomes. There’s a book for you right here!”
“Can’t I just go home?”
“Not until I have my book,” she said. “And I want you to dedicate it to me. You can say anything you want, just as long as it has my name in it.” She put her finger to her lips. “Kenneth doesn’t have to know.”
She undid the strap on his left arm, but did not undo the one on the right. He fiddled with it for a moment, but she slapped his hand away.
“Concentrate,” she warned him. “Or I’ll put the other one back on.”
Jock stared at the computer in front of him. It didn’t appear to have any other programs on it, other than the word processor Yara had installed for him. There were no other icons or browsers. There wasn’t even a mouse. The computer looked too old for WiFi and he couldn’t see a modem or any other way to connect it to the internet. There was no way to communicate with the outside world.
He took a deep breath and lay his fingers on the keys. Often, he didn’t even know what he was going to write until he began. He wasn’t the sort of writer who could work with a plan or an outline. For him, writing was all about being in the moment. He had no idea where the story was going to go. He just began.
Yara clapped her hands with glee and bounced around the room like a hyperactive two year old.
“Oh god, this is so exciting! I can’t wait to read it!” she screeched.
“Don’t get too excited,” he grunted. “I’m not used to working under pressure.”
His fingers worked away for a few moments, setting the scene.
A writer is trapped in his neighbour’s flat, a flat he never even knew existed. The door had been hidden from view, like a secret entrance way. He had assumed it was just a supply cupboard for use by the caretaker. He had never imagined that anyone could actually live down there in the basement. But then, one cold February morning, he ran out of toilet paper….
He couldn’t believe he had written ‘toilet paper’. He didn’t want toilet paper in his novel. He didn’t want people to think about him going to the loo. His fingers slowed as he tumbled back into the real world, and his imagination crumbled once more to dust.
“You’ve stopped!” Yara’s voice was accusatory, as Jock faltered, wondering what to write next.
“I’m thinking.”
“There’s no time to think,” she said, slapping him across the wrist. “Keep writing, you naughty boy. You’ve got work to do.”
His own flat was directly above this one, he realised.
“Dylan! Robbie!” he yelled.
Yara lurched towards him and pulled a scarf around his mouth. He wriggled frantically as she tied it behind his neck. He could still make noise, but his words were more muffled now, and he wasn’t sure anyone would hear.
“Back to work,” she said sternly, pointing at the screen.
He stared at it. His anger fought with his urge to create. Because Yara was right. This was the first time in ages that he’d felt such raw emotion. His body was weak and damaged, yet his heart pumped with adrenaline. It was invigorating, like taking a cold shower. He had never been more alive.
He wrote down his fears, his fingers flying over the keys. Yara wanted him to write her a book, but he’d wasted the last eight months doing anything but writing. What if he had lost the knack?
He looked around again, this time his eyes landed on the ceiling, which had all kinds of strange scrapes and bumps on it. It looked as if someone had used porridge to plaster it. The rest of the room had been freshly painted in a brilliant aquamarine, but why hadn’t she had the ceiling fixed? Or did she like it that way?
The iron railings on the window caught his eye. What were they there for? There were no bars on any of his windows in his flat upstairs. Had they always been there, or had she added them herself?
His wrist stung, but he pretended not to feel it. He looked around the room and typed a description of the things he saw. There was a vase of tulips, slowly dying on the mantlepiece. Several of the petals had come away and lay scattered around the chimney breast. Where did she get tulips at this time of year? A pair of men’s slippers poked out from under the sofa, Kenneth’s no doubt, and then there was the large foam hand on the wall, its fat fingers pointing towards the door. It taunted him, that hand, reminding him of how badly he wanted to get out.
For a few minutes, nothing mattered but the words. He finished the first chapter in record time, feeling free, despite the fact that his head ached and his left arm was still strapped to the chair.
“Print it,” Yara said, when he sat back.
Obligingly, he pressed Ctrl P. The printer churned it out at lightning speed. He looked at it, impressed. His own printer spat out words like a sick cat, begrudging each sentence it spewed.
“Hot off the press!” she chirped, when it was ready.
He reached for the pages, but Yara grabbed them first, her eyes rapidly skimming the story.
“I can read it to you if you like,” he offered, knowing the words would sound better, pronounced as he had intended.
“This is no good,” she said, screwing up the precious pages.
He leaned back in exasperation. “I told you, I can’t write. I’ve lost it.”
“I’m feeding you the ideas!” she screeched. She picked up a paperweight and lobbed it, narrowly missing his head. It left a small dent in the wall beside him.
“Get back to it, and this time I want to see drama, tension and excitement. I want you to keep me guessing.”
“Any chance of that cup of tea?” he asked, wearily.
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
A wave of exhaustion hit him. He longed to curl up and sleep. But he couldn’t. Not with her standing over him. He leaned over the computer and deleted his first attempt. If he was honest, he didn’t think much of it, either. But admitting that, even to himself, didn’t help. He took a deep breath and started again. This time, instead of writing about himself, he wrote about her. Not her, exactly, but someone like her. Someone with an unnatural obsession that they would indulge at any length, even if it meant breaking the law. She would be his villain and his first chapter would be from her perspective.
This time, he did not take a break until the entire chapter was done. He stopped typing and printed it off for her, not even attempting to touch the pages. He held his breath while she read it.
“Well?” he asked, wringing his hands.
The girlish smile made a reappearance on her face.
“Better!”
He heaved a sigh of relief. “Can I go now? Now that I’ve begun, I’ll be able to finish this, I know I will.”
“Get back to it! Oh, and Jock? Do you have to call the protagonist Orion?”
“What’s wrong with Orion? I thought it had a nice ring to it?”
>
“I don’t like unusual names, Jock. They grate on me.”
“OK, Yara…”
He sighed and returned to his writing.
“I’m going to take off your other wrist strap now,” Yara said “But if you stop writing, I will put them both back on again. Do you understand?”
He nodded. He knew instinctively that he should use this opportunity to escape, but the novel was like a siren, luring him in with its song. Words flowed from his mind and floated in front of his eyes, rhythmic and magical. He needed to get it all down, whilst it was still fresh in his head.
He held still while Yara released his wrist. It was sweet bliss to be able to move properly again. He stretched briefly, then he attacked the keyboard with vigour. The words were coming, and they were relentless. His fingers pounded the keyboard like rain. Faster and faster they went, hammering out his thoughts and feelings. He had always been a fast typist, but this was the fastest he had ever gone, the thoughts transferring directly from his mind to the screen in front of him. It was like watching a movie, the words appearing too quickly for him to know what was going to happen. He was completely absorbed by his story, and if Yara had opened the door at that moment, he would not have even noticed. There was only him and his writing and before he knew it, he had finished the next chapter.
“Wait, print it out!” Yara commanded, before he could begin the next.
He did as he was told, but all he could think about was the story. The plot had come to life, a complex web of deception and he ached to pull at the threads.
“I love the way you describe my eyes,” Yara said, as she scanned the pages he had printed. “Do you really think the shine like emeralds?”
He nodded. He knew when to be diplomatic. Actually, her eyes were more like olives, with hard pits in the middle. He had tasted an olive once, fresh off the tree. He had expected a taste sensation, something delicious and amazing, but the olive had tasted bitter and foul. He had spat it out and downed a pint of water, but the awful taste had lingered on his tongue, making an unwelcome appearance every time he tried to eat something else.
The next few hours were relentless. He shook with tiredness as the novel flowed from his fingertips. The ideas came thick and fast, and he typed like a maniac, desperate to get them down. He wished his mind would slow down a bit. His fingers ached like crazy as he tapped away at the keyboard, unable to believe that it was possible to write this fast. For hours, he kept at it, with barely any breaks. He had never done this before, and it felt new and exhilarating.
“Congratulations, you’re half way through the book,” Yara told him, as he printed out Chapter Fifteen.
Did she think he didn’t know that? He watched nervously while she read. He wasn’t sure how she was going to take his latest instalment.
“You killed me off! I didn’t see that coming!”
She didn’t look as upset as he’d thought she would. “This is most intriguing. I wonder what’s going to happen next?”
“Any chance of a cup of tea?” he begged. “I’m so tired. Hungry, too.”
“OK. I think you’ve earned it.”
She leaned closer. Too close. He smelled the musk of her perfume, mingled with the slightly fruity scent of her body odour. She placed one arm on his shoulder. Her lips burned like jelly fish on his neck. He jerked away. His skin felt cold and wet where her mouth had been.
He watched out of the corner of his eye as she crept past him, her body low to the ground as she scuttled towards the adjourning kitchen. She reminded him of a spider, the way she moved, her arms reaching out for the walls as she propelled herself along. He glanced furtively at the door. He had seen her pull the bolt across, but had she also locked it with her key?
Yara kept her eye on him as she waited for the kettle to boil. Steam rose from the spout and filled the tiny kitchen. He wondered why she didn’t open the window. Perhaps that, too, was locked. After a few minutes, she returned with a cup of tea and a thick slice of his favourite Battenberg cake.
“Thanks,” he said, begrudgingly. “What time did you say Kenneth was due home?”
“Ten A.M.”
He glanced at the clock on the computer. “That’s in five hours! How can I possibly finish the entire book in five hours?”
She smiled. “Not my problem. Oh, and it has to be full length. None of this novella nonsense.”
She was referring to Wanda, he was sure she was. Wanda was Queen of the Novellas. That was how she pumped out so many books.
He calculated in his mind. He’d written an unbelievable 25,000 words so far, but he was slowing down. At most, he could continue to write three thousand words an hour. But Yara was expecting a full-sized novel – at least 50,000 words. He wasn’t sure it could be done. He rubbed his temples to ease the headache working its way behind his brow. It wasn’t normal for him to work so hard without taking a break. Normally he took lots of breaks. Too many of them, lately. He would often get out of his chair and walk around. Then he would make himself a cup of tea, maybe watch something on TV. Before he knew it, the day was gone and he had barely managed a few hundred words.
Yara lounged back in her chair and watched him type. She was so still, that at one point, he thought she had nodded off. Ever so slowly, he stopped typing and raised his arms above his head. She didn’t say anything, so he slowly inched his bottom off the chair until he was standing upright. Her eyes remained closed and her head lolled to one side.
He moved slowly, careful not to make a sound. He had been sitting so long that his movements were unnatural, like a baby deer learning to walk. He was stiff, and his muscles complained loudly as tried to use them.
He leaned heavily on the walls as he crossed the room to the door. A quick glance back at Yara told him she was still asleep. It was now or never.
The bolt creaked as he slid it back. He pulled at the handle, but it didn’t budge. He would need the key, but where was it? His eyes travelled to the hook by the door. There was a similar one in his own flat, but none of these keys looked like the door key. Where else would she put it? His eyes flicked over all the available surfaces. Had she had a bag, when he’d seen her outside the flat? He didn’t think so. Most likely, she kept the key in her pocket, as he did.
How could he get it off her? If he fumbled in her pockets, he would wake her, and in his weakened state, he wasn’t sure he could win a fight. His eye moved to the large coffee table that took pride of place in the centre of the room. There, beside the stacks of magazines and illustrated books, sat the paperweight she had thrown at him. He picked it up and felt the weight of it in his hands. It was smooth and glassy, a beautiful ornament, but deadly in the wrong hands. He picked it up and walked towards her, his heart pumping in his chest.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Yara barked, making him jump.
In his fright, he dropped the paperweight and it rolled away under the sofa.
“I could really do with another cup of tea,” he said, meeting her olive-green eyes.
“Back to work,” she commanded. “Before I get really upset.”
He swallowed and sank back into his chair. His legs shook from the exertion. The next bit of the story came to him as soon as his fingers made contact with the keyboard. A plot twist. She would never see that coming.
Fighting the Cravings
“Do you suppose Jock’s gone down the station?” Dylan asked, as he and Robbie played a bowling game on the Wii.
“Nah, he’s probably nipped out for more cake,” Robbie said. “He can’t write without cake.”
Dylan shook his head. “No one can. Hey, what was that?”
“What was what?”
“I heard a thudding noise, coming from downstairs.”
“That’ll be her below, doing her aerobics.”
“Are you sure? It sounded quite loud.”
“Definitely aerobics,” Robbie said. “Believe me, you don’t want to get in the middle of that.”
The bowling
game ended, and they moved on to swimming. Robbie liked a nice relaxing swim after bowling. Shame there wasn’t more room in the flat. He would have liked to practise his butterfly stroke.
“You got any beer?” Dylan asked out of the blue.
Robbie was so caught up in his swim, that it took him a minute to remember what Jock had told him. Under no circumstances, was he to allow Dylan beer.
“No,” he said. “No beer.”
He still had at least twelve cans left in his wardrobe. He would have to drink those, to make sure Dylan couldn’t.
“Can’t have it anyway,” Dylan lamented. Then, after a pause, he said: “Got any money?”
“No,” Robbie said again.
Dylan tilted his head. “Are you sure?”
“Afraid so,” Robbie said. He was a bad liar and he knew it. He might not have any money, but he knew where Jock kept his loose change and there had to be at least a tenner in that box.
“So if I were to tickle you, you still wouldn’t have any?” Dylan said, setting down his controller.
“No!” Robbie said. “It’s for your own good.”
Dylan took a step towards him, his fingers wiggling menacingly.
“Stop!” Robbie yelled. “I can’t let you drink!”
Dylan took a deep breath. “No. No, you’re right. I just need to wait it out, and the feeling will pass.”
“Does that work?” Robbie asked.
“Rarely,” Dylan admitted. “Usually, I just go to bed.”
“What if you can’t sleep?”
“Then I think about She-Ra from Masters of the Universe. I picture her herding sheep. She’s surprisingly good at it. I count them all jumping into the pen, until I fall asleep. Maybe I should do that now? It is really late.”
“We haven’t even had dinner,” Robbie objected. “Or is it breakfast? Either way, do you want a cheese sandwich?”
“A cheese sandwich,” Dylan said, testing the idea in his head. “That sounds lush. Will we make one for Jock?”
“Nah, he’ll want something fancy on his, like pesto or something.”
The Perfect Friend Page 5
