by Stuart Keane
89
A Psychological Thriller
By
Stuart Keane
Copyright © Stuart Keane
Cover art copyright © MB Design
Published: 29 February, 2016
Publisher: Stuart Keane
The right of Stuart Keane to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement or the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
‘89’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information about the author, please visit www.stuartkeane.com
For more information about the cover artist, please visit www.michaelbrayauthor.com
Also by
Stuart Keane
Available on Amazon Kindle and Print
Author
The Customer is Always…
Charlotte
All or Nothing
Whispers – Volume 1: A Collection
Cine
Grin
Whispers – Volume 2: A Second Collection
Author/Editor
Carnage: Extreme Horror
(With Jack Rollins, Kyle M. Scott and Angel Gelique)
Editor
Undead Legacy
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Neil for editing 89, and thanks to Julia for proofing the book. For the first time, I had my dream team working on the same project, and it looks superb. Thank you!
For 89, I want to thank my vast roster of fellow authors. The inspiration for the (fictional) events of this book came from our daily shenanigans in and around the business, and I couldn’t have constructed the story without most of you. Every day is a learning curve as an author, and I thank you guys/gals for being the ones to teach me.
A special mention, and thank you, to Matt Shaw. Without him, I wouldn’t have experienced a convention at this point in my career, which was the solid backbone for this story. I would also like to thank anyone who takes the time from his or her busy convention days to come over and say hello, have a browse, or simply chat. Meeting readers and horror fans is one of the best aspects of this career, and makes it totally worthwhile.
As usual, thank you to Stephen King, Richard Laymon, James Herbert, Lee Child, Shaun Hutson, and Clive Barker for putting me on the right path to horror/thriller fiction. Without them, I doubt I would be doing this.
Finally, I wish to thank my readers, many of whom I talk to, chat with and communicate with online. You’re the reason I write, so never forget that. Feel free to get in touch on Facebook, Twitter, or my website www.stuartkeane.com.
Enjoy!
For anyone who commutes, uses public transport, or simply doesn’t feel the need to drive.
This story is for you.
ONE
Greg Irving scratched his stubbly chin with the back of his right hand. Pulling away, he lifted his coffee mug to his lips and drank, flinching when he realised the bitter brew was stone cold. After a long second, he drank the dregs anyway, emptying the cup with a single gurgle, hoping the cold liquid would give him a much-needed boost. He swished it around his mouth, felt it tickle his tongue and coat his teeth. He sighed loudly.
Not long now. You’re on the home stretch!
Greg blinked several times to purge his eyes of their stifling fatigue, their lids heavy with the comforting temptation of sleep. As he did so, he spun in his desk chair, a full circle, his legs stretched beyond him. He wheeled himself into the centre of the large office and continued to spin. After a few rotations, he planted his feet slowly onto the slick floor, hardly scuffing his bare soles on the wood. The feeling was refreshing, invigorating, sent a tickling tremor up his spine. He rolled back into position and returned to his desk, new life and vigour brewing in his veins.
The words on the screen were no longer blurry.
A trick he learned many moons ago. A literary second wind, so to speak. Or a third or fourth, depending on the man-hours. He smiled, ran a hand through his long hair, and cracked his fingers.
Back to work.
He was just coming off the end of a very productive writing day. Over fifteen thousand words in one laborious sitting, a record even by his high standards. It’d taken him nine hours of solid typing and button bashing, not to mention gallons of coffee – in small cups, gradually – to get him there. Greg’s arm reached for the cup and lifted it to his mouth, and remembered it was empty. He rolled his eyes, the lack of coffee a familiar feeling.
I’ll get another in a moment, he thought.
He yawned loudly, an action that cracked his jaw and made his face sore. It felt like the taut edges of his mouth, the creases between his lips, were going to tear. The stench of coffee slipped from his mouth, making him recoil. His finger danced across his mouse and clicked save, storing his work to his portable hard drive. Out of habit, he unplugged it, severing the connection, leaving it on the desk.
Greg stood up and walked from his study to the kitchen. Placing his empty cup on the counter, he leaned on the granite surface and pushed, easing his muscles with a slow, long stretch. He groaned loudly, enjoying the feeling in his tense limbs. Subtle cracks and creaks emitted from his exhausted body.
He looked up and glanced through the window, the view obscured by specks of misty condensation. He realised the sun was already rising. The dark sky began to brighten, the emerging blue streaked with magnificent shades of purple and red; the panorama provided the most wonderful glow to the chilly dawn below. Birds chirping broke the comforting silence in his home. The whole scene reminded him of a beautiful painting he’d once seen, in a grand museum or on the television. The name of the artist eluded him.
He checked his watch. Six a.m.
Shit, I’ve been up all night.
Nice going!
Greg leaned over and flicked the switch on his coffee machine. He rinsed the cup out while waiting for the device to power up. The familiar electronic beeps and churning of the wonderful black stuff were music to his ears.
One more cup, two thousand more words, and I can go to bed.
Bloody deadline.
You’ve made a huge dent tonight, though.
A rewarding smile crept across Greg’s face.
He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the long locks off his forehead. His back and arms were sore and cramped and stiff from his leather chair. The chair had cost a fortune, but he doubted the technological wizard behind the posture-assisting technology would recommend sitting in it for nine hours straight, or thereabouts.
And now? The typical dawn routine, one rife with familiar signs.
Yes, he knew the signs.
The elevating warmth in his eyes, the sagging in his extremities, the straying of eyes from the monitor, the urge to edit his words rather than add more. The temptation of social media. The call of the busy author.
Bed was beckoning.
Soon enough, he thought. You’re nearing the end of a record day. Finish the work first.
His eyes settled on the beautiful mornin
g outside, and Greg began to wonder if the chill was worth a quick walk around the back garden. The crisp air, the refreshing tingle on prickled bare skin, the revitalising feeling of breathing deeply. He reached for the door, but stopped when the coffee machine whirred to life. The coffee started to percolate; a slow, steady drip began to dribble into his mug. The kitchen echoed with the noise of the machine going to work. The wonderful aroma of fresh coffee made Greg smile.
The best sound in the world, he thought. The best smell too. Aside from a bakery at seven in the morning.
The idea of popping out for some fresh baked goods tempted him. A flaky sausage roll, maybe a croissant or two. The thought was tempting but he restrained himself. He pinched his nose between his fingers and realised he was too tired. He still had some words to write before hitting the sack.
Maybe later.
No more distractions.
Croissants keep until lunch. They didn’t pertain to a particular meal.
He chuckled and glanced at his mug, which was now half-full, and read the chipped blue print on the smooth, rounded ceramic. It had been a gift from his ex-wife Natalie, years before she left him due to the substantial demand of his profession, when he was all but a rookie working two part time jobs to fund his dream. He sighed when he read the words aloud for probably the thousandth time.
World’s Best Author.
Greg had no illusions of grandeur. He knew he wasn’t the world’s best author, and he knew of many who eclipsed his talent. The thing that separated him from most authors was simple: Greg was dedicated to achieving his life-long dream, and he strove harder than any author he knew. For years, he lived on five hours of sleep for weeks at a time, putting in regular sixteen-hour days, including the day job and writing. Dedication to the cause, essential for people who simply want to achieve their dreams. Paying his dues.
His lifestyle suited the profession too.
In theory, he was a content loner, with few friends outside of the Internet – the way he liked it. His solitude enabled him to think meticulously, organise his life according to no one but himself, live on a schedule that bothered no one but number one. If he wanted to stay up all night, he would, could, and often did. If he wanted to walk around naked, if the urge so took him, so be it. Writing thousands of words a day was a simpler task without the burden and hang-ups of a normal life.
He found that friends were, much like anything else, a distraction.
Sure, he had other author friends, people who shared their strained careers with kids, spouses, mortgages and social lives. Others were simply not as motivated, or not dedicated enough, many of whom wasted their precious time on Facebook or Twitter, or gave in to the temptation of games consoles, promiscuous women, or the next ‘best’ show on TV.
Despite the fact he hated television, and saw it as mere distraction, Greg had trouble breaking away from this potentially crippling habit, at first. He knew many who succumbed to this vice, people who lost their creative edge because they were addicted to serial dramas or crime or horror, willing to let someone else write the stories while they sat on theirs, letting their talent go to waste. Greg still remembered the day two authors he deemed the future of their genre disappeared off the creative radar, and promised himself that he wouldn’t be next.
In fact, he wished he could hear from them again.
John and Kevin. Excellent authors. Good people who gave in to their addictions, despite following him down the same path.
He wouldn’t go the same way; it was too simple to stray.
So, Greg established a code – three specific rules in order to remain productive. He treated them like a religion.
Write 5000 words a day, minimum, no excuses.
Shut off the Internet during this time.
Take Sundays off, do your own thing.
Following these rules enforced strict discipline. These rules helped him write his first full novel in five months. Two months later, he sold it to one of the Big Five, making him a household name overnight. It paid him a generous advance and the resulting sale of the film rights paid for his home.
Greg didn’t stop there.
Now halfway through his third novel, Greg was on the fast track to becoming a bestselling author, despite a few bumps in the road. Lack of sales in certain areas of the world, a minor dip in exposure, figures that went against the high expectations of his publisher. His first two novels were currently in development with a huge film studio, and he’d just completed his first major television interview on The Graham Norton Show. Both books hit a resurgence in sales following the announcement of their adaptation to film, so things seemed to be back on track.
However, many aspects of the profession still worried him.
For example, he was unsure about getting an agent initially – after all, they take a cut, which could be going into his pocket. Now, he didn’t have a choice, it became a necessity to hand the business side of the profession to someone who knew better. Besides, it was nice having someone else do your promotion for you. The time for pushing books on Facebook and Goodreads was a thing of the past. His exposure was solid, gaining him a huge fan base and millions of followers.
The coffee machine stopped, falling into silence. Greg snapped from his reverie, collected his cup, and walked into the hall, bypassing his study for a moment. He walked into his large bedroom, placed his coffee on the nightstand, and sat on the bed. Inhaling deeply, he smelt the scent of clean bedsheets, the cool crisp essence of early morning air. Birds chirped beyond the window, relaxing him. He felt the plush mattress caress his aching thighs, and smiled. He closed his eyes and sighed.
I have to sort my back out.
His shoulders felt constricted, tense. He rolled his arms and they cracked, the muscles were stiff and sore. Pushing down on the bed, he flexed his neck and groaned. He lay back, flopping on the comfortable duvet beneath him.
Before he knew it, Greg was asleep.
TWO
Greg awoke to the dull vibration of his mobile phone.
Lifting his face slowly from the goose feather pillow, sticky drool dribbling down the side of his bristly chin, Greg searched blindly for the source of his sudden interruption. Fighting his way from beneath the tangled duvet, his hands heavily slapped the nightstand, landing on his phone. He could feel it vibrating violently across the wooden surface, as if it were trying to burrow through. Greg gripped it between tired fingers, lifted it gently and dropped it on the bed at the left side of his head. He swiped the screen with a roaming finger. The vibrating stopped.
“Yeah?”
“Greg, it’s Sean.”
Greg recognised the dulcet tones of Sean Wilson, his agent. His voice was smooth, like velvet, rippling with charisma and charm, traits that provided the best possible service for someone in his chosen profession. For some reason, and Greg couldn’t quite put his finger on it, his voice grated on him, it annoyed the hell out of him. He preferred to keep their chats short and sweet, or non-existent. Email was a wonderful tool for that very reason.
But, here he was, calling him at…
What does this prick want?
Greg opened his eyes, suddenly angry. He rolled onto his back, searching for the clock on the wall in an attempt to complete his musing. The numbers came into focus.
09:01.
Where was he?
Bed?
When did I come to –
I sat down, lay back.
Amateur move.
Shit.
“You there, Greg?”
He grunted, rolling back under the duvet. “Yeah … yeah, I’m here. What’s up?”
Three hours’ sleep. What the fuck?
“How’s my favourite author in all –”
“– cut the shit, Sean, what do you want?”
“Someone’s a little cranky,” Sean responded.
“Yeah, I was up all night writing. Didn’t I tell you not to call this early? You know I keep weird hours.”
“I know, Greg.
I’m sorry about that, but I’m calling on an urgent matter, as it turns out.”
“Which would be?” Greg pushed the phone away from his ear a fraction, resting it on the mattress. He buried his face in the edge of his pillow.
Sean didn’t respond straight away. Greg knew it was bad just from that reaction alone. He rubbed his eyes gently, pushing them into his head, irritated, wishing he could go back to sleep. He slapped the phone to his ear, holding it in place with an outstretched palm, wrapped the duvet around him, and pushed down into the plush sheets.
Sean cleared his throat. “I need you to go out of town.”
“Out of town?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“We have a convention in Sheffield. I need you to attend.”
Greg smiled, unsure of what he’d just heard. He was aware of the convention itself, but he knew his attendance wasn’t necessary. Despite being on the fast track to becoming a bestselling author, his name was still finding ground in some areas of the country.
“Sheffield? I thought Mark was doing that one?”
“Yeah, well, Mark had a relapse. He’s back in fucking rehab. Apparently, he downed a bottle of whisky during a threesome with three naked hook … women, and stuck the video on YouTube or something. It got a thousand hits in ten minutes, but that’s beside the point. No publicity is bad publicity, but it still doesn’t sit right with me. There could be a media shit storm over this. I need to maintain damage control. Anyway, he’s out of the public eye for this one, you’re in.”
“I am? You mean I don’t get a say?”
Sean laughed. “Unfortunately not. You’re under contract to us, buddy boy. We paid for the venue and the table. You just have to turn up. A no show would be fucking devastating.”
Greg shook his head. Fucking politics. “When do you need me?”
“The convention starts tomorrow at nine.”
Greg bolted upright, knocking the duvet aside. The coffee on his nightstand toppled, spilling its now cold contents onto a pile of crumpled clothes. The liquid seeped onto the floor, creating a small puddle. Greg didn’t notice. “You need me in Sheffield, for tomorrow. You know I have a schedule today. I need to get some work done.”
