by Shaun Hutson
Take the question of morality. Who is to say
"what is moral? By whose criteria are we to judge this question? That of God? The morality embodied within those commandments that the Bible speaks so proudly of? Those ten rules designed for destruction. Rules that man is incapable of keeping. God issued those rules knowing that those he had created were unable to uphold them. God is a trickster. God wishes his children to fall by the wayside because if they do then they call on him with even greater volume. Their prayers grow more desperate and they rely upon their deities to an even greater extent. A vengeful God. A caring God. The God of cancer and war. The Lord of child abuse and illness. The Holy Spirit of madness and destruction. The Trinity of suffering.
In every man there is the capacity for evil and yet has anyone ever truly defined the meaning of that word? Is it evil to kill? Is it evil to steal? No. I feel it is not. If a man has the strength to commit any act, no matter how depraved then he should be applauded for his honesty. There is a purity in the act of anyone who knows he is answerable to no one but himself. The law is unimportant. Man must live by the law he creates for himself. He must live by a code of honour that he himself invents, not that handed down to him by the church, society or the masses. Man's biggest crime is to lose his identity. Without it he is nothing and that identity is defined by a man's actions. Not as they are perceived by the world at large but by himself. Once that code of behaviour has been established, one that is peculiar to each indi-
vidual, then its rules and parameters must not be broken for the retribution that accompanies such a transgression is limitless.
STRANGE WORDS
Christopher Ward read the words but they made no sense to him. He sat at his desk and scanned the two sheets endlessly.
The only thing he knew was that the handwriting was not his.
DILEMMA
Christopher Ward sat staring at the blank monitor before him then, as if a switch had been thrown somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, he typed:
1. Where is the girl?
2. Did I kill her?
3. Who wrote the words I found today?
4. Hallucinations?
He underlined the last one three times.
5. If I killed the girl, where did I hide the body?
6. What would have made me kill her in the first place?
Ward sighed almost painfully and looked at what he'd typed. He picked up the two handwritten pages he'd found in the office that morning and re-read them. When he'd finished, he placed them gently on the desk to his right, next to the box of printer paper he kept there.
He got to his feet and crossed to one of his bookshelves. He selected a Dictionary of Psychology and flicked through the pages.
'Amnesia,' he murmured to himself as he found the entry. He read it quickly then replaced the book on the shelf. There was nothing worthwhile there. Nothing that helped him.
He switched the monitor off and made his way down the stairs, locking the office door behind him.
Inside the house it was cool, almost chilly, and he shivered as he wandered through into the study. He switched on the computer there and waited. No point in checking e-mails. No one ever sent them any more. He went straight to the Internet and tapped in: Short-Term Memory Loss.
The computer buzzed and whirred. Ward got to his feet and padded back into the sitting room where he retrieved a bottle of Glenfiddich and a clean glass. He carried these back into the study and sat down at the computer once again.
A series of different coloured images appeared before him. He placed his hand on the mouse and waited.
Search Results: 11 matches found
2 in symptoms and conditions 1 in special topics
3 in medical abstracts 5 in drugs
1. Memory loss
2. Stress in childhood
3. Post-cardiac defibrillation
4. Zopiclone (systemic)
5. Temozolomide (systemic)
6. Zaleplon (systemic)
7. Zolpidem (systemic)
8. Dronabinol (systemic)
9. The nature of early memory
10. Memories lost and found — part II
11. Acute traumatic brain injury in amateur boxing
Ward scanned what was before him then clicked on 'The nature of early memory'. He read quickly then took a gulp of his whisky and shook his head.
He clicked on 'Memories lost and found'. He read that more slowly, occasionally reading aloud.
'There are different kinds of memory,' he read. 'Declarative or explicit memory includes learning of facts . . . culture of victimisation . . . may cause patients to deny responsibility for their problems . . . memories can contain varying elements of truth and distortion.'
He sat back in his seat and drank more whisky. In less than an hour, he'd finished the whole bottle.
It eventually becomes impossible to separate what constitutes reality and fantasy. One passes over into another with such ease that to discern their individuality is almost futile. The fine line which is trodden between the world of the imagination and the everyday world becomes indistinct. Sometimes this is a desirable state of affairs but, more often than not, it signals the refusal of the mind to accept reality. It chooses instead to retreat into fantasy. It is a world more comfortably inhabited. In such a state, what was recognised previously as catharsis becomes prophetic. The mingling of worlds is amplified to such a degree that it may be possible to influence the outcome of that which had previously been subject to the whims of fate. And with that comes responsibility. One that does not always sit easily with those who possess it.
I seek a knowledge that others have sought but failed to find. I seek with a ferocity some find disturbing. With a single-mindedness which produces confrontation, but then, what is life but a series of conflicts? Without conflict, life is worthless. Without confrontation, man is nothing. Only
from confrontation can true knowledge come. The battle is fought inside the mind to begin with but then it evolves into a more tangible fight. With the passing of time, one learns to thrive on conflict, to seek it. To welcome it. How tedious to pass the days in silent subservience. How much better to confront. To challenge. To triumph. For without the pleasure of triumph there is no sense in entering into a conflict. One should only do so with the express purpose of leaving it as the victor. Defeat is something to be despised. To be ridiculed. Those who accept it are to be similarly loathed and treated with the contempt one would reserve for lesser beings.
But victory can be viewed in many different ways and from many different aspects. The true nature of triumph is again a personal matter. Man measures his victories against others. Only a man who values victory above all things is worthy to retain his place in the natural order. There are no aspects of defeat that are tolerable or worthwhile. The single overriding factor in the mind of any man should be to stand unchallenged atop the mountain of ambition he has seen fit to climb. To fall short of that summit is to fail. To fail is to show weakness and weakness is the most vile and contemptuous attribute that any man can be cursed with.
are
There
SALVATION
Ward placed the five pages to one side and slumped forward on his desk. He was drifting off to sleep when he heard a loud noise away to his left. It took him a few seconds to realise that the noise was a car horn. A little more time to work out that the sound was coming from the driveway of his own house.
He got to his feet and crossed to one of the velux windows of his office. By standing on a chair he could just make out the bonnet of a car pointing towards the house. Another moment and he saw a figure walk around the vehicle, lean through the open driver's door and hit the hooter three more times.
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 preven
t 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.'
Connelly regarded him warily.
'You're afraid of me, aren't you?' Ward said quietly.
Connelly didn't answer.
'Well, perhaps that's understandable after what you've seen,' Ward murmured. 'I appreciate that you may want to go.'
'I didn't say that. But try and see it from my point of view, Chris. I just watched you murder someone. How the hell am I supposed to feel?'
'Do you think there's a book in it?'
Ward laughed and, once more, Connelly felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
'And this?' Connelly said, holding up the handwritten pages.
'I told you, I didn't write it.'
'Then who did?'
Ward could only shake his head.
'That's different,'Ward said, pointing at the pages.'The words are different. The structure's different. The cadence. Everything about it. I did not write that, Martin.'
Again the two men looked silently at each other.
'Now, are you going to help me or not?' Ward said.
'Help you do what? Murder someone else?'
'Very funny. Give me twenty-four hours. Stay here. In the house. Watch what happens. Watch me.' Ward swallowed hard. 'Things happen at night mainly. Stay here and see.'
'Twenty-four hours,' Connelly murmured.
'That's all I'm asking.'
Connelly nodded slowly.
WATCHFUL EYES
1.06 p.m. Connelly found some tins of spaghetti in one ofWard's kitchen cupboards and heated them. Ward made some toast then the two men sat at the kitchen table and ate.
'When was the last time you went out?' Connelly wanted to know.
Ward could only shrug. 'I can't remember,' he said. 'That's the problem, Martin. There isn't much I can remember these days.'
'You said things happened at night. You mean these blackouts?'
'Not just that. They seem to happen at any time of the day or night,' he murmured. 'No. I've been seeing things too. Hallucinating. At least 1 think I'm hallucinating. If I'm not then things are weirder than even I thought.'
'What have you seen?'
'Things,' Ward said vaguely. 'I don't know what the fuck you'd call them. Apparitions.'
'Ghosts?'
'No.'
'Then what?'
Ward swallowed hard. 'Figures,' he said quietly. 'It's
hard to describe them. It sounds even more fucking stupid sitting here in the middle of the day. In the light.' He ran a hand over his unshaven cheeks. 'They look like apes. I know it sounds ridiculous.'
