The Story Collection: Volume One

by Matt Shaw

  “Children home?”

  I smiled, more out of politeness, “I don’t have any children, you asked me that yesterday.”

  “Sorry, I forgot,” he pointed to a picture of two small children and me; my niece and nephew. Phil made the same mistake yesterday.

  Maybe it’s his age. There’s silence between us - I try and avoid his gaze as he sits there, looking as though he is judging me. What’s going through his mind? Would be just our luck, to move in next door to a weirdo.

  To think - this is the man I was accused of cheating with.

  He sips his drink again, his eyes not shifting from me. I shift uneasily in my chair.

  “What did you think of his story?”

  I stop and listen... I can still hear a faint thudding. He isn’t listening to us. I don’t have to lie.

  “It wasn’t really my cup of tea. Too violent.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I thought he had read it?

  I listen, again, to the banging of the tennis ball - still just about audible although getting a little less frequent. He’s either thought of an idea, finally, or he is getting tired.

  “I didn’t read it - I got the gist of it and that was enough for me.”

  Phil nodded.

  I have to say, I’m getting a little tired of our new neighbour inviting himself around just to talk about the story. If he wants to know about the story, he should just read it himself. Perhaps I should worry about the pair of them sleeping with each other. Perhaps I should worry about them running off and both of them leaving me.

  “I’m going to have to start thinking about getting some dinner soon, did you want to join us?”

  Phil smiled at me, “No, thank you.”

  “Maybe another day then,” I stand up in the hope he takes the hint and leaves.

  He stands up but doesn’t go to leave. Instead he crosses the room to the photograph of the three of us; me and my niece and nephew.

  “Cute children.”

  I frown. Weird. Maybe it’s neither of us he wants. Maybe it’s the children.

  No.

  He doesn’t look the sort.

  But then, what does ‘that sort’ look like?

  He shows me the picture, as though I haven’t seen it before.... of course I have - it’s one of my favourites, “You all look so happy.”

  “We were.”

  “Were?”

  “It was a good day.”

  “You have many bad days?”

  “WHAT THE FUCK IS HE DOING HERE AGAIN?.... WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?” booms the voice from the study. I’d failed to notice the banging of the tennis ball had stopped.

  Great, no doubt, when I go and see him I’ll be getting twenty questions again.

  Both Phil and I freeze.

  “I’m sorry, maybe you’d better leave.”

  “Maybe we should have a chat? He sounds quite angry....”

  “And that’s why you should leave - trust me, it’s not worth it. I’m sorry.”

  Phil nods and puts the photo-frame down, back where he had found it.

  “Are you going to be alright?” he asked as he crossed the room to where I was standing. I nodded. The pair of us might not see eye to eye, and our relationship has become strained, but he has never been violent with me and I doubt he’ll start.

  “We’ll talk soon,” Phil said before stepping out of the living room, towards the door.

  I turned to the study. I suppose I best face the music. Phil can let himself out - I, at least, trust him to do that.

  5.

  “What does he want?”

  He’s angry. Black, dangerous eyes - always giveaway his foul mood.

  “He’s just being friendly...” I think.

  “Yesterday, when he came over - yesterday. Yesterday, he was being friendly. Yesterday at the lake, he was being annoying....”

  “But -”

  “Today - he’s borderline stalking. What does he want?”

  “I didn’t know he was going to be at the lake yesterday. That was a coincidence.”

  “One you seemed only too happy about.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I heard you laughing with him.”

  “So?”

  Silence.

  “I don’t want him round here anymore.”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Fuck off? Quite easy.... give it a try.”

  “He’ll probably stop coming after you’ve spoken to him. I think he just wants to meet you.”

  “Are you insane? Why would you think I would want to meet him? You know I hate meeting fans - I like the fact that, as a writer, I can stay anonymous. I don’t have to meet people. I just need them to read my stories.... just need them to invest into my work...”

  “And, for that, you need to write.”

  Silence.

  That was a mistake. He stands up to his full height. The table, and typewriter, between us.

  Always between us.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  I’ve pushed him.

  Never good.

  “I just think that.... meeting new people.... might inspire your writing. It might help you to think of a new character.”

  “I don’t need to meet him, to write about him. I can sum him up with one word.... cunt. To write about him, I just need to write about a cunt. A nosy fucking cunt.”

  I should leave him to it. I should back out of the room. But I can’t. I feel stuck with him. Just go quiet, I think. Just go quiet and he’ll calm down again.

  “In fact, that’s what I’ll do.... I’ll write him into a book - a book about a piece of shit cunt. And then I’ll take said cunt book and stick it on the cunt’s front door....”

  “Please stop it.”

  “Cunt.”

  “I’ll tell him... I’ll tell him he isn’t welcome here anymore.”

  “We all know what happens to characters like him. We all know. They have it coming. The cunts. They have it coming. He has it coming....”

  “I’ll tell him. I promise. Next time he comes around, I’ll tell him to leave. I won’t let him in. I’ll tell him to go home and not come back.”

  “And if he doesn’t listen?”

  “He will.... He’ll listen. I’ll make him listen.”

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, hoping it might subdue him a little. I should have known better to voice an opinion. I should have just apologised for having Phil come around. I didn’t even invite him. I didn’t know he was coming today. I didn’t even remember him saying he was going to swing by. Did he even say he would?

  No point saying anything. He won’t believe me, anyway. When he’s like this - he takes control. He takes control and I let him.

  Things would have been easier for both of us, if I hadn’t let him take control when he started to change. I should have learnt to deal with the situation better and to keep things on an even level.

  Too late now.

  He definitely has the control.

  He has the control and I am nothing.

  * * * * *

  The darkness within me is close to the surface as I sit back down to the typewriter - fingers poised ready for the internal demons to manifest themselves into something worthy of writing. Fingers - ever hopeful.

  How dare she. She should know better. If he comes around here, again, there’ll be trouble and I mean it. She knows I mean it too. In the meantime, I hope I can turn this whole experience into something worth writing.

  That’s the great thing about being a writer. If someone crosses you - someone upsets you - you can write about them. You can make it obvious, in your work, it’s them or you can keep it to yourself - an inside joke that only you get.

  But.... where’s the fun in a joke if only you are laughing?

  I’d sooner let the whole world know.

  A few more minutes of staring at my fingers, on the keys, and I feel some of the anger leave my bo
dy.

  Some of it.

  Enough of it to feel more in control of myself.

  Better.

  I don’t like getting that angry. It clouds your judgement. I just don’t like feeling as though I am being backed into a corner - his constant visits; he was making me feel as though I had no choice but to see him.

  Fuck him.

  I’ll see who I want and when I want.

  Wait.

  Calm.

  Breathe.

  Rebecca might be right - as much as it pains me to think that. Maybe I’m struggling to write anything else, because I’m hiding myself away from the world. I’m out of touch.

  Lost touch with reality.

  I look at Rebecca, who has sat down quietly in the corner of the room - no doubt too scared to say anything in case I lose my temper with her again. Do the right thing; apologise.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

  I always apologise after losing my temper with her. Admittedly, not straight away but I always say sorry in the end; after I’ve had time to calm down. It never takes long to calm down.

  Quick for my temper to flare. Just as quick for it to come back down again.

  “I didn’t invite him round today,” Rebecca reassured me.

  I don’t think she did.

  She’s telling the truth.

  She wouldn’t have invited him back.

  She isn’t that stupid.

  Not after seeing my reaction yesterday.

  No. She isn’t that stupid.

  I trust.

  “Next time he comes over, I’ll talk to him,” I said as I flashed her a reassuring smile.

  A fake ‘reassuring smile’.

  If I’m going to turn this predicament into my new story... I can’t do it without getting to know my subject better...

  My fingers start typing - slowly, at first.... building pace with each stroke of the keys. Rebecca sees what’s happening and stands up, backing out of the room. Leaving me to the soft whispers of my creative muse.

  It’s just me now.

  6.

  It’s the best feeling in the world when you get into ‘the zone’ whilst writing. It doesn’t matter what is happening around you; you notice nothing. Your brain switches into an autopilot kind of state and the words flow effortlessly from your subconscious. Your fingers moving so fast along the keyboard they become nothing more than a blur - with the exception of

  your little finger which sits comfortably near the ‘back-space’ tab, ready to rectify any mistakes your fingers make as they struggle on with the thought processes of a brain possessed.

  “What’s your new book about?” asked Phil as he sauntered into the room and made himself comfortable on the sofa, behind where I was sitting. I paid him no heed as I continued to write.

  He got up and leaned in over my shoulder and my fingers froze to the keys.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Just seeing how you work, I’m a massive fan....”

  I swiveled around in my chair and he backed up ever-so slightly.

  “I meant, what are you doing with my wife?”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean? I haven’t done anything with your wife.”

  “But you’d like too....”

  “She’s a pretty woman.”

  “You don’t give a fuck about what I write.”

  “That obvious?”

  “You’re just using me as an excuse to come round.... you know I won’t see you. You know you’ll be left in the other room, with my wife, as I continue to hide away in here working on my next story...”

  “You have me pegged. I don’t even like you.”

  “You’re my next story.”

  “What?”

  “It’s you. You’re my next story.”

  He looked confused - a look which was soon replaced with fear as I threw the typewriter into his face; the hard edge cracking his pointy nose. He landed, in a heap, on the floor and clutched his obviously broken nose, catching some of the blood in the process - the rest just poured onto the floor.

  “My fucking nose..... my fucking nose..... you’ve broken it!”

  By the time he opened his eyes, I was stood above him - typewriter raised high in the air...

  Stop.

  No.

  It’s been done.

  Pull the page from the typewriter. It’s refreshing to see a page filled with words - even if I don’t like the way in which they are running. I don’t screw the paper into a ball.

  This paper isn’t cursed.

  It allowed me to write on it.

  It wanted my story.

  It is I that is cursed.

  I place the piece of paper, upside down to hide the embarrassing scene I wrote, on the table next to the typewriter. Maybe having a non-cursed piece of paper nearby will inspire other sheets to act as it did - allow me to write upon them.

  I certainly don’t have anything to lose, by having it there - other than the satisfaction of getting to screw it up and hear it scream.

  If I’m going to use the idea of Rebecca, the neighbour and I.... I need to find a new angle for it - something to make it stand out from all of the other love-triangle stories that have already flooded the marketplace.

  Ideas are easy, when it comes to writing.

  Making them your own - not so much.

  * * * * *

  I can’t hear him typing anymore. He could just be having a quick break before the next frantic typing session. Or - he could be done already; the story already flowing in the wrong direction. He does that a lot - gets very passionate, all of a sudden, and then - just as quick - loses the plot and abandons it.

  Either way, keep my distance.

  I like it when he goes quiet. I know it’s terrible to think that but, with him quiet, I feel as though I am able to relax. I’m able to be myself.

  And that’s nice.

  I don’t have to tip-toe through the rest of the house, for fear of ruining his flow and breaking his concentration. With him frantically working away - I even watch the television with the volume one level above ‘mute’.

  I should leave. Start again.

  No.

  Stupid.

  I can’t.

  I can’t leave him - no matter how much I want to sometimes.

  Maybe I just need a little part-time job. I haven’t worked since his story came out and made it big. Maybe if I was out of the house, a little more.... I’d cherish more of the time I had with him. And, if I wasn’t always around, he might start to miss me more too and want to see me when I was home.

  I’d definitely be happier if I was out of the house more. There’s only so many times you can clean a place. I’ve spent so much time cleaning, I’m surprised I haven’t worn the work-tops down to nothing.

  Yet, I still get no thanks for it.

  He doesn’t notice.

  He rarely comes out of the study - the one room I don’t really clean. He likes the clutter, for some reason. Maybe all the paper, thrown about the place, makes him feel more like a writer and less of a fail.... don’t say it. He might hear me.

  How can he hear me? It’s not like I’m speaking out loud.

  I sit down on the lounge’s settee and instantly spot the photo of my niece and nephew. It’s out of place. Phil didn’t put it back properly.

  If you can’t put things away properly, you shouldn’t touch them in the first place.

  I stand up, unable to leave the frame, and go to move it back to it’s correct placement. OCD? Not sure - but everything has it’s place. A smile creeps across my face as I remember the day the picture was taken.