The Fictional Man

by Al Ewing

  After a minute, the phone went to voicemail. Niles reached out, found the message, and deleted it without listening, as he had the three others. He had nothing to say to Bob.

  He put the phone back down on the coffee table and tried to concentrate on the pitch. After a moment, it began buzzing again – he scowled to himself, cursing Bob under his breath, then picked it up. Obviously the man wasn’t going to take voicemail for an answer.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” he said curtly, then ended the call.

  A moment later, the phone started vibrating in his hand.

  He lifted up the phone and swiped his thumb again, accepting the call. “Fuck off.”

  “Niles, come on...” Bob’s voice. Niles wondered if it had always had that wheedling tone.

  “I told you, I’ve got nothing to say.” He was surprised at how tired and miserable his voice sounded, how much bitterness he could hear. Maybe now would be a good time to write a children’s book.

  “Look,” Bob said, in a calm, reasonable tone which made Niles want to rip his teeth out with a rusty pair of pliers, “I just don’t want to leave things how we left them, okay? I figure we owe each other that, at least.”

  “You know what, Bob? You’re right. We really shouldn’t leave things like that,” Niles snarled, “we should leave them like this: fuck off.” He ended the call and put the phone down. Almost immediately it started buzzing again. He picked it back up. “Jesus Christ, Bob, is it ‘fuck’ you’re finding so confusing, or ‘off’?”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  Yes, and after this he’d need another. “None of your fucking business. Listen, don’t you have anything better to be doing at the moment? You could be failing to get a job as the voice of a ghost on Scooby-Doo, maybe. Or moaning endlessly about how you wish you hadn’t come out of a fucking tube – you know, your big brother Robert found a neat solution to that one –”

  “Niles, that’s too far –” Bob said, sounding hurt. Niles ignored him.

  “Hey! Here’s a thing you could be doing! Fucking my ex-wife!” He screamed it into the phone – let the fucking neighbours talk – and slammed it face down on the coffee table. It took a second of Bob’s plaintive whining coming out of the speaker for him to remember that phones didn’t actually work like that anymore. He picked it up again and ended the call. “Fuck off, Bob.”

  He stared at the thing for a second, daring it to ring again. It’d go straight in the washing machine on a 60˚ spin cycle if it did – wash the stubborn little skidmark away.

  Bob wouldn’t ring again, though. Not after that, surely. He wouldn’t dare. Niles stared daggers at the plastic. “Just try it, you little electronic prick,” he hissed. “Try letting that call through. So help me...”

  Nothing.

  After a few long seconds of silence, Niles allowed himself to breathe out. All right. Interruption over. Time to get back on with the –

  The phone rang.

  Niles grabbed it and swiped his thumb so hard he thought it might break. “FUCK,” he screamed – face red, spit flying, eyes and veins bulging – “OFFFF!”

  “Mr Golan?”

  It wasn’t Bob.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling that deep sense of calm he’d always supposed people felt just before they drove their car onto the pavement and mowed down a bus queue. “I was expecting a call from someone else.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded like a middle-aged woman – oh, God, he thought, please don’t let it be Meadow again. But it wasn’t her – the voice was a lot more refined, upper class even by LA’s rarefied standards. Niles had a vague feeling he’d heard it before, months ago, but he couldn’t place it.

  He looked at the phone. New number. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

  “It’s Aline Zuckerbroth, Mr Golan. I understand you worked for my husband?”

  Niles winced. He remembered now.

  At some early point in their relationship, Maurice had invited him over to the house for a barbecue. Maurice’s wife had been there, a tall, willowy and supremely objectionable woman whose face was locked in a permanent expression of mild surprise – the work of one of the many different plastic surgeons she’d been to in her quest for the best face money could buy. The woman had skin like a spacehopper.

  She’d spent the whole occasion sniping subtly at everyone who came in range, and a few weeks later, when Maurice had mentioned the divorce proceedings, Niles had quietly thanked whoever was up there that he’d never have to see or talk to her again. And now here she was on the other end of his phone.

  Well, he’d told her to fuck off, at least. That was one to cross off the bucket list.

  “I think technically he works for me,” he said, peevishly. “He’s an agent, I’m his client. His fee is a percentage of mine – that’s how agents work.”

  “Oh,” Mrs Zuckerbroth said, expertly conveying in one syllable how little she cared. She’d been practicing that oh for years. “Well, I was just ringing round all of his employees –”

  “Clients,” Niles muttered.

  “– to let them know that the funeral was this Wednesday. One o’clock sharp, at the Mount Sinai Mortuary on –”

  “Wait, hang on,” Niles said, sitting up. “What do you mean, funeral? Did something happen?”

  “I thought you’d been informed. My husband was murdered several days ago.” Mrs Zuckerbroth delivered the news in the tone of someone commenting on how simply dreadful the greenfly were this year.

  Niles blinked. “I’m sorry, Maurice is dead?”

  “Beheaded on Van Ness Avenue. It took them a day or so to identify the body, but after that all of his important employees were notified by the police,” she said idly, not stressing the word important in any way.

  “Clients.” Niles rubbed his temples, as if trying to massage the information into his brain. “I’m sorry, Mrs Zuckerbroth, I’m having some trouble processing this – are you saying that your husband was murdered by the Sherlock Holmes killer?”

  “I’m not sure why you’re so surprised,” Mrs Zuckerbroth murmured, “it’s been all over the news. I’ve no idea how you could have missed it.” There was the lightest possible patina of reproach in her voice, which Niles frankly didn’t appreciate.

  “Things have been a little hectic the last few days,” Niles muttered.

  “You do sound tired,” Mrs Zuckerbroth intoned, in such a way as to say that she knew Niles had been drinking, she knew he was half-cut and she was disgusted by it, but not so disgusted as to actually lower herself to comment.

  Niles ignored it. He was scrabbling around for the remote. “Do they know who... which Holmes, I mean...”

  “The police are quite baffled by it all – no leads whatsoever. It’s actually rather exciting,” Mrs Zuckerbroth mused, in the voice of a woman relating details of a semi-interesting bake sale. “I’ve had reporters interviewing me constantly. They say Helen Mirren might play me in the movie.”

  “Movie?” The remote was underneath the couch. Niles turned on the news, making sure to keep the TV on mute. The screen was filled with footage of a sneezing baby panda.

  “Oh, yes, they’re already arguing over the film rights – pretty much every studio with a Sherlock Holmes in the race, so to speak. And then there are the Lifetime people, who want to focus on me personally. A Woman’s Struggle. It’s all very exciting.”

  Niles wondered what level of excitement it would take for Mrs Zuckerbroth to actually sound in any way excited. Nuclear war, he supposed. “It’s just a shame about your husband having his head cut off by a maniac,” he muttered dryly. “Aside from that little detail, it sounds like it’s all coming up roses.”

  “Oh, yes, poor Morrie,” she said breezily. “Still, it’s an ill wind. Now, I am sorry, Mr Golan, but there are a lot of other people to ring round, and I should let you get back to your...” – the slightest of pauses – “work.”

  Niles sighed, said as polite a goodbye as he could manage in t
he circumstances, ended the call and turned up the volume on the TV. The sneezing panda – a movie was apparently in the works – was replaced by a story about gridlock in the House, and then one about solar flares. Eventually, the 24-hour news cycle returned to the Sherlock Holmes murders, and a large grainy photo of Maurice’s face filled the screen, followed by Aline – even more orange than Niles remembered – weeping a few crocodile tears for the cameras.

  The screen was quickly filled by another grainy photo – another Fictional, this time. Sexton Blake, the poor man’s Sherlock Holmes. There’d only ever been one of him – his first film, a recent showing with plenty of CGI, had bombed badly, becoming one of those occasional legendary flops that cling to characters like a graveyard stench, poisoning any possibility of follow-ups or reboots. One film and out – it happened sometimes. Blake had apparently taken it badly, bitterly, wandering the streets at night, living off the pension Fantasia had provided him in their contract rather than attempting to find other work. Occasionally, tour groups would find him outside the gates of the studio, angrily begging for change – he was quickly moved on. In the early stages of the investigation, he’d been a suspect – as a sub-Sherlock, he had both motive and ability. But, like any good murder mystery, the chief suspect had now been killed off himself.

  Apparently other Sherlocks were joining the hunt for the killer – the World War II-era Sherlock Holmes created by Global Productions, the Young Holmes that ParaVideo had floated for a TV show, a couple of others. The police were doing their best to keep control of all this, but after making the decision to allow ‘Classic Holmes’ and ‘Action Holmes’ to all but run the investigation, they were in an impossible position.

  The whole thing seemed more and more absurd the more Niles watched it play out. Poor Maurice, he thought to himself. He tried to feel something – grief at the loss, guilt at not making more of an effort to find out what had happened, anger at the futility and stupidity of the whole thing.

  All he felt was numb.

  Admittedly, he hadn’t known Maurice for long – a matter of months – but still, this was someone he’d allowed into his life, allowed to become a part of his life. According to Ralph, that was supposed to be quite a big thing for him.

  At the same time... had he ever really known Maurice? Aside from the barbecue – which he’d only just remembered – had Niles ever been in his life? Was Niles feeling numb and empty because of some deep emotional shock to his system, or was it because Maurice was just an underdeveloped supporting character in Niles’ story, a collection of tropes and tics, on a par with Dean or Mike? Had Niles ever thought of him as a human being with a life and a wife and other clients besides himself, never mind ones that might be more important than him? Or had he only thought of Maurice as comic relief in the unfolding story of Niles Golan?

  He remembered the diner that didn’t have water, Maurice’s rat/cocaine metaphor, Dean staggering back to the table and ranting about bestiality with farm animals. It was the kind of thing they’d have laughed about on the phone a few days later, a bit of banter before business. But now it felt so divorced from Niles’ life – what he had left of his life – as to have happened to a completely different person. Only a few days had passed, but it already felt like ‘the early, funny stuff.’

  The laughs seemed darker now, grim and bitter little cracks directed at himself, at his pretensions and his failures. And the only person left to laugh at them was him.

  Who were his supporting characters now?

  The phone rang.

  Niles picked it up. The act of swiping his thumb across the screen to take the call felt wearily familiar by now. “Hello?” he said, flatly.

  “Mister Golan?”

  “Aspidistra?” Niles found himself smiling. “I was hoping you’d call back. I’ve got all sorts of questions about –”

  “I can’t talk long,” the frail voice said, “my daughter’s running me a bath. Get a pen and some paper, I’m going to give you my address.” She lived up north, in Weaverville, a little west of Redding – it’d be at least an eight hour drive, if he had a car. He supposed he could take a flight. “You can send me the book, and then I’ll send you a cheque in the mail. We’ve got time to haggle a little before she comes down. I’ll give you thirty bucks for it.”

  Niles laughed. “It’s yours for free. But I’d really like to ask you a few questions about it –”

  “I can’t talk on the phone,” Aspidistra snapped, “not for long, anyway. She doesn’t like it. Look, if you want to talk, just come visit me, for gosh sakes. It’ll be nice to have the company. Come by any time – just so long as you bring The Doll’s Delight with you, that’s all I ask.”

  “Um... are you sure?” Niles was a little nonplussed at that. He was happy to make the trip – eager, even – but there was something a little off about being invited in secret like this. He wasn’t sure what sort of relationship Aspidistra had with her daughter, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted to be dropped into it like an Alka-Seltzer into a glass. “I don’t want to impose –”

  “Any time you like. Give me a call first to let us know you’re coming. Tomorrow’s good. Bring the book. See you then!” Niles opened his mouth to say something, but the call was already over.

  He frowned, opening up the laptop to look at flight times. He wasn’t sure about this at all – it felt like he’d just been invited to gate-crash somebody’s private war – but at the same time, it might go a long way to answering some of his questions about Mr Doll. He was growing increasingly ambivalent about the pitch, but there was a part of him that felt like he’d be letting Maurice down if he didn’t at least make an effort, and if finding out the story behind The Doll’s Delight helped with that...

  “Creative procrastination,” the man leading the seminar said, “is the art of creating tasks for oneself that one feels are utterly vital – without which the work cannot progress – none of which involve the work, or any part of the work, or anything that in any real sense can lead to the work. After following an infinity of these blind alleys and dead ends, the writer can look in the mirror and tell himself that the project was simply not meant to be.” He looked around the room at his students. “You’ve had experience with this kind of mental block, haven’t you, Golan?”

  There was no answer.

  “Golan? Golan?”

  But the author had left the seminar hours before to catch a flight to Weaverville and get involved in some sort of family struggle between a mother and daughter, as he’d told himself that it was utterly vital to the work.

  Ten minutes later, the plane crashed, killing him and everyone else on board.

  “Ha, ha,” Niles muttered sardonically. “Very funny.”

  His inner narrative was wrong, anyway – it didn’t look like he’d be getting a flight. Prices were extortionate, and for some reason he could only get a flight as far as Sacramento, which would mean renting a car the rest of the way. He supposed if worst came to worst he could drive it after all, although he still needed something to drive in – well, maybe he could look up a good rental place. Or maybe the garage might provide him with some clunker if he begged them hard enough.

  It was enough to make him wish he had a friend with access to a decent car. Or a friend.

  Who was his supporting character, anyway?

  He stared at the phone for a long time, hoping it might answer the question for him. This time it remained stubbornly silent. He sighed heavily, reached for it, and called Bob.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WHEN NILES LEFT the apartment the next morning, the sun was just starting to peek above the horizon, and Bob was already waiting for him. He’d brought the Mercedes.

  Niles blinked. He’d assumed Bob would bring his own car, a red Mini Cooper that Niles suspected he’d purchased because it was the complete opposite of the famous Terrormobile of the TV show. He hadn’t been looking forward to six hours crammed into that. The Mercedes would be the lap of luxury in comparison
.

  He eyed it suspiciously. “Isn’t that Iyla’s car?”

  Bob shrugged. Niles felt a pang of guilt as he saw his face – Bob’s broken nose had been re-set, but there was a sticking plaster over the bridge, and one eye was badly swollen. “She’s fine with me borrowing it for a couple of days,” Bob said lightly. “I mean, she wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but... ah, you know.” He shrugged again, obviously wanting to change the subject.

  Niles guessed there had been an argument between them about it – quite an ugly one, at that. Iyla probably thought Niles was taking advantage of Bob’s guilt over his affair with her and the fight they’d had – and he probably was.

  The telephone conversation between them the previous night had been tense and awkward – Bob hadn’t, at first, been willing to forgive the comment about Robert Benton’s suicide, or accept Niles’ apology for it. And when Niles had proposed the idea of an eight-hour road-trip to Weaverville, he could hear Bob biting his tongue.

  When Niles went on to explain that the purpose of this long and arduous trip was to possibly, not probably, mind you, but possibly, get some vague insight into the origins of a somewhat dubious children’s book – and by inserting themselves into the on-going domestic drama of two complete strangers, at that... Well, when he put it like that, it sounded like the kind of thing you said ‘no’ to. If their roles had been reversed, even in happier times, Niles would probably have made some excuse about a tight deadline or a twinge in his back and left Bob to twist in the wind. He remembered once when Bob had needed his help to move to a new apartment, and he’d done just that.

  So he’d fully expected Bob to just hang up and draw a line under their friendship for good. Instead, here he was, and he hadn’t even brought his own car. He’d managed, somehow, to borrow the Mercedes, undoubtedly over some fairly strenuous opposition from Iyla.

  Did that mean he was still staying at hers? Should he ask?