by Al Ewing
“The secret eBay,” the officer said, grimly. “There are quite a number of his bits on there now. We’ll never recover them all. Of course,” he said, looking the author over admiringly, “your dismembered corpse would fetch far more. The brain that penned The Moon Comes Out As Bright As Day: A Kurt Power Novel is probably worth several million dollars.”
The author nodded soberly. He knew criminals would stop at nothing to procure his precious organs.
Niles shuddered. “What is wrong with you?” he muttered to himself, reaching for his laptop. At least he could do a bit of research while he waited for Bob to call.
Typing ‘The Doll’s Delight’ into a search engine brought back about eight pages of results – it was the name of a small British chain of dollhouse furniture shops, each with their own poorly-crafted website, two club nights for BDSM groups, an indie band, several dozen slash fiction stories about an old Joss Whedon series, and a porno movie from the early ’nineties involving women in very tight rubber clothing pouring cold tea on each other and rolling around in cream cakes, which Niles watched for several minutes, trying to decide if he felt aroused or just mystified. He settled on mystified.
Buried somewhere in the middle of it all was one blog post from a collector of ’fifties ephemera and one eBay listing, both of which referred to “The Doll’s Delight, by Henry R Dalrymple, Illustrations by Mervyn Burroughs.” Niles – still a little spooked by his daydream of the ‘secret eBay’ – checked the blog first. It was a sparse entry. A tiny, blurry photo of the cover – involving what looked like a number of glassy-eyed homunculi playing in the moonlight next to a dead child – and some meagre publishing information (Aspidistra Press, 1951), and the single word “Weird!!!!” sandwiched between a dangerous-looking Atomic Energy Lab play set and a Schwinn bike, both of which got several paragraphs and a crystal-clear Instagram.
Warily, Niles turned to the eBay site, which informed him tersely that there was a ‘rare children’s book’ – no photo – which he could BUY NOW for $120 from an entity named needleblissss74. Apparently, for an extra postage fee of ten dollars, he could have the book in his hands in a mere two to four days’ time.
Although couldn’t he do without The Doll’s Delight? He had everything he needed – a starting point, an idea that was bound to win him an Oscar, and Mr Doll on his hard drive for reference. Why should he spend over a hundred dollars on a children’s book from more than sixty years ago?
At the premiere, the author tried to relax in his seat, but he couldn’t help fidgeting. Liz, sat next to him in her McCartney evening gown, gave him a curious look, as if to ask what might be wrong, but the author only shook his head. He couldn’t burden her with it, not only ten minutes into the film. And yet, he could already see what was wrong.
It wasn’t the direction – that was marvellous, meticulous, Nolan at his very best. The score pulsed threateningly over the speakers in a tone of existential dread, the acting was superb, particularly Mr Dalton Doll himself... and yet, there was something about that central performance, something that didn’t quite work. Some subtle quality that the author had failed to include in the screenplay, leaving the persona of the leading man missing a tiny, yet vital spark.
It was the want of a nail, the author thought, burying his head in his hands. Slowly, the others in the audience began to notice the subtle flatness of it, and began to grumble, rest their feet on the seat backs, throw popcorn. Eventually, they walked out, first one or two, then a trickle, then a flood. Even Nolan became visibly disinterested, shrugged, and walked out with the rest. The author looked around for Liz, but she too was gone. Only Dalton Doll was left, sat in the front row, clapping like a small boy.
The author was left alone, staring at the empty, hollow spectacle unfolding before him, the idiot man-child applauding it all. He felt a great weariness come over him – the understanding that all this, his greatest failure, the end of all his hopes, stemmed simply from a lack of proper research at the pitch level, from failing to glean every last glimmer of insight possible.
But then, he hadn’t wanted to spend the $120...
“$130,” muttered Niles, “including postage.” He fumbled for his wallet.
“BOB? LISTEN... YOU haven’t called. I’m going to assume you’ve got this and you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere, but... look, please call, okay? I’m sorry if I was... I don’t know, late coming out or rude to you or whatever. I’m sorry I took you to see your old make-up woman. Just call me, all right? Anyway, I’m going to the Victoria, so... so that’s where I am. It’s Niles. Bye.”
THE SUN WAS just starting to dip below the buildings when Niles walked into the bar. This time, there was a reasonable crowd, enough that Niles didn’t see Liz until she touched him lightly on the shoulder while he waited for his drink.
“Hello, author,” she said, smiling prettily. This time she was dressed in ’fifties fashions – a polka-dot halter neck dress with a raincoat over the top and white gloves, her hair stiffly lacquered in place under a dotted shawl and a pair of shades. Her accent had warped into some approximation of Marilyn’s best Betty Boop, and Niles had to stare at her for a moment before he recognised her.
“It’s Niles,” he said with a tight smile, before turning back to the barman. “And can I have a pink gin for the lady as well? Thank you.”
Liz leaned forward, smirking, to get the barman’s attention. “Make that a Manhattan, honey.” She grinned at him, showing those white teeth – too white, thought Niles, feeling suddenly very conscious of his own. He’d had a little bit of work done since arriving in LA – you couldn’t not do, not in this town – but nothing like that. If someone shone a UV light, he had a feeling her teeth would start glowing. And her eyes were still the same dazzling shade of clear, perfect green.
He paid for his pint and her Manhattan with a twenty, telling the barman to keep the change. He didn’t know quite why he was trying to impress her, or if she was impressed by that kind of thing. Bobbi had been impressed by things like that – he’d spent money like water around her – but then that was the trouble in the end, wasn’t it? She’d been impressed by everything. He didn’t want that again.
“Aren’t you being a little presumptuous?” the girl asked the author, lifting an eyebrow. “How do you know I’m even interested in you? Your hairline’s getting higher, you’re starting to carry a spare tyre around your middle. You don’t exercise properly. You’re a not-so-thin fat person, and a closet realist. Maybe what this is is me feeling sorry for you. Or maybe you don’t have the first clue about me or what I’m thinking.” She tilted her head. “How long is it since anyone actually wanted you, Niles? And don’t say Iyla, you killed that long before the marriage ended. Perfunctory, last-ditch fucking that ends in tears doesn’t really count, does it? Who was the last person who really seemed to want to have sex with Niles Golan?”
“Let’s not talk about her.” The author’s voice sounded thin and reedy in his own ears, like someone talking on a bad phone connection.
Danica smiled at him, toying with her red hair.
Niles shook himself, grimacing. It seemed like he spent more and more time zoning out, filling his head with these strange, ghoulish fantasies. He’d have to talk to Ralph about it at their next session.
Or maybe Iyla had been right and he needed to see a real therapist. Either way, something had to be done. He couldn’t function like this.
“Oh, look!” cooed Liz, “There’s a table free!” She immediately sashayed over to it, doing her best to copy the ‘jello on springs’ movement of Marilyn – or Betty. To Niles’ eyes, it was an odd, jerky little walk, like a wind-up toy, but he noticed the eyes of a couple of the older men in the bar following Liz and felt a brief surge of something like pride as he sat down next to her.
“Here’s to you,” she grinned, raising her glass. “My author.” That, Niles decided, was definitely some sort of green light. He raised his own glass and clinked.
“There’s somet
hing I’ve got to ask,” he said, flashing her what he hoped was a winning smile. “All...” – he indicated her dress, the shawl and shades – “all this. Every time I see you, you’re – well, you’re dressed so oddly. You never seem to use your real voice. It’s disconcerting. Is it, er, some kind of... ” He took a judicious sip of his beer. He didn’t want to use the word hipster. Or, he decided, Fictional. “Some kind of fashion thing?”
She laughed, loud enough to turn heads. “Do I seem like a character to you, Niles?” There was a look in her eyes he couldn’t quite place. “Well, maybe I am. Maybe I’m one of your characters.” She giggled, leaning in.
Niles forced a smile. “Let’s not start that again,” he mumbled. He wondered, again, if he should just come right out and ask her the question.
“Are you a Fictional?” The author asked, quietly.
“Yes,” she said, “and I want to go to bed with you. I, a Fictional, want to sleep with you, a human. I want you to put your penis in my made-up vagina. I want to be your body pillow. Your cartoon horse. Your little wooden girl. Tell me, Niles, how does that make you feel?”
The author threw up.
As he vomited onto the carpet, spewing continuously until he was coughing up chunks of meat and blood, she fixed him with a simmering green gaze. “Let’s tell the world, Niles. Obviously, they’ll burn your books in huge piles and we’ll have to move to Sweden, but what does that matter in the face of love?”
He swallowed. “Are you... um...?” He paused, hoping she’d finish the sentence for him.
Instead, she smiled, leaning back, and moved her sunglasses down over her eyes so she was looking at him through a pair of opaque walls. “I don’t know. Do you want me to be, Niles?” She smiled, in such a way that Niles couldn’t decide whether it was flirtatious or mocking. “You’re the author, after all.”
Niles frowned and shook his head. He should really make that his cue to stand up and walk away – find another part of the bar, or just go home if sticking around was too socially awkward. Liz Lavenza, whoever she was, was definitely not his type. She was... well, a little too manic and pixie-ish for his liking, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that she was playing a game with him, and that was something that brought back unpleasant memories.
On the other hand, he mused, there was something about her – her artificiality, her mystery. Maybe just her green eyes. He took another long sip of his drink and changed the subject. “Have you seen Bob in here at all?”
“Bob?” She looked blank.
“My friend with the beard. Black shaggy hair. He was with me in here the other day – you said you overheard our conversation.” He craned his neck, looking around the bar. He hadn’t seen Bob on the way in – but then again, the Victoria was full of all sorts of nooks and crannies, especially when it was this crowded. Niles took out his phone again, checking to make sure Bob hadn’t called.
“The Fictional,” she said, with another secret little smile. “Do you spend a lot of time with Fictionals?”
Niles could feel her eyes on him, through the black lenses. He took another gulp of beer. “No more than most people in the industry,” he said, guardedly, neglecting to mention that he’d been ‘in the industry’ for less than a week.
“He’s a friend, then? A close friend?” She cocked her head, taking the dark glasses off, and a strand of red hair fell out of the heavily-lacquered do and over her forehead. Niles felt something stir. “How did you two meet?” she asked.
“It’s a long story,” Niles shrugged.
Liz smirked. “I like long stories.”
It had been at a New Year’s party ten years before – soon after Niles had moved to Los Angeles. A friend of Iyla’s had brought him, someone who’d worked with him on one of the Toy Story cartoons – he’d had a brief cameo role as a Black Terror action figure. It had seemed like a pity gesture on behalf of Iyla’s friend – what was his name? Toby? Tony? – and one he had evidently regretted, as he’d left Bob alone the whole evening, in a house full of people he barely knew.
Iyla had been the first to go over and talk to him, Niles remembered. Now that he looked back, that seemed odd, given her realist streak – but then she didn’t really start acting coolly towards him until later, during the aftermath of the business with Justine. Maybe that was when she found out he was a Fictional?
Could that be right? He remembered standing politely on the edge of their conversation – as they talked about voice work, the hierarchies of Hollywood, the impossibility of living in LA without a car, a dozen other subjects – and waiting for his turn to speak. Eventually, he’d drifted over to the canapés, buttonholing the hostess about the plot he was working on for Eye Of The Scimitar: A Kurt Power Novel. They hadn’t been invited back the next year.
He’d seen Bob after that, albeit infrequently. Occasionally they ran into each other at dinner parties or social gatherings, and over time Niles had grown to appreciate Bob’s quiet demeanour, his ability to be a good listener. Still, they were acquaintances, not friends – at least until that business with Justine, when his marriage had almost, but not quite, fallen apart.
After that, Bob had started showing up at the apartment occasionally – to be greeted with strained, feigned politeness by Iyla, who must surely have twigged what he was by then – and making a special effort to see how Niles was doing. They began drinking together socially, and as more and more of his friends turned out to have been Iyla’s friends all along – making little excuses not to see him or talk to him, avoiding him in the street – Bob had been there, always making sure he was all right.
Even during the whole sordid, sorry mess with Danica, he’d been there, offering no judgements, no recriminations, just an understanding shoulder. “Some things just don’t work out,” Niles remembered him saying. “Nothing you can do. It’s the way we’re made.”
Niles found himself relating a sanitised version of the events to Liz – drawing a veil over the worst parts, making his indiscretions seem like the unavoidable consequence of a marriage in decline, not mentioning Danica at all. “To be honest,” he said at the end, “Bob’s just about the best friend I’ve got.” He laughed, humourlessly. Bob was the only friend he had left. “In fact, it’s down to him and my agent.”
“And me?” Liz said, resting her chin on one gloved hand, smiling mischievously.
Niles studied her for a moment, finishing his beer. Now that he had a pint in him, his paranoia about her being a Fictional seemed ridiculous. She was just a lively girl with a sense of fun, that was all. He smiled. “Are we friends?” he said, attempting a playful tone.
She smiled. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I’ll get you another drink,” he said, and went to the bar.
HER APARTMENT WAS five minutes away by cab – a dusty, musty place, filled with old books, VHS tapes, cassettes. The ephemera of the past. Even the bed was old, creaking and groaning under them as if it might collapse at any moment.
At first, Niles was aroused by the adventure, by the strangeness of her, the ’fifties clothes, the vintage underwear, the gloves she never took off. Messing up her immaculately lacquered hair felt like breaking some primal taboo.
But at the same time, she didn’t seem to be present. He found himself taking the lead, telling her what to do, how to position herself, moving her like a showroom dummy as she lay back on the bed, the dreamy smile on her face unchanging even as his erection started to wilt and grow soft inside her, and he grew conscious of the flab of his belly slapping against her, the churn of the alcohol in his gut, the fullness growing in his bladder and bowels.
Five minutes later, he gave up, and she stopped smiling.
SHE’D LISTENED TO his excuses – his faltering speech about how long it had been, how he’d been through a terrible emotional trauma, how he was so worried about Bob he couldn’t concentrate – in silence, expressionless. When he found himself saying that perhaps they could try again later, she rolled her eyes almost i
mperceptibly, turned over and went immediately to sleep.
Now he lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, as the sweat dried on his skin. An old air-conditioner chugged slowly in the corner of the room, pushing the air around, but it didn’t seem to be doing much about the oppressive heat. He found himself wondering why he’d gone home with her, this strange girl who he didn’t even really know – why now, after three years of celibacy? And why her? There’d been other women in that time he could have made a play for, surely? What was so special about Liz Lavenza?
Niles realised that he couldn’t put his bladder off any longer. He looked over at her, coiled in the foetal position, and decided against waking her – he could find his way on his own.
The bathroom was behind the second door he tried – a small, cramped-looking space with a shower, sink and toilet, and dozens of hair and beauty products, all seemingly to recreate different eras of the past. The tiny room still stank of hairspray – she must have used up a whole can of the stuff before going to the Victoria. Perched on top of the cistern was a small stack of books – Breakfast At Tiffany’s. The Maltese Falcon. Ubik. Frankenstein. Bath time reading, he supposed, although she didn’t have a bath.
He unbuttoned his trousers, pulled them down to his ankles, then reached, on a whim, for Frankenstein, opening it near the beginning.
Her presence had seemed a blessing to them, but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want when Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents’ house—my more than sister—the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and my pleasures.
Niles blinked.
