Well, fuck them. Fuck them all.
Something different was needed, apparently. Something original but easily pigeon-holed.
Books by celebrities were very popular. Models, second-rate comedians, has-been soap stars (those that weren’t trying to make it in the music business), even footballers were writing books. Any talentless
cunt with enough money to pay a ghost-writer and a good editor was capable of churning out a book and earning shit-loads of cash for it.
And then there were the household names who milked their own brand of repetitious bullshit while fawning publishers knelt at their feet to push ever-larger cheques into their grasping hands.
Add to these the comfortable middle-class writers who lectured on real life from the security of knowing it was a world they would never have to inhabit.
People with millions in the bank who crowed that money wasn’t everything, who complained about invasion of privacy during their six-page interviews, who were proud of how they’d been single mothers or record-shop employees or advertising men before they’d made it big. And who whined about how hard they’d had to work to get published when all it took was a generous publisher and an even more generous publicity department.
Ward despised them all. Even when he’d been successful he’d despised them. The whole fucking business stank. It stank of cowardice. Of duplicity. Of betrayal.
He heard the kettle boiling. Fuck it. He needed something stronger than coffee.
GASPING FOR AIR
Ward poured himself a large measure of Glenfiddich and swallowed it. He felt the amber liquid burn its way to his stomach, waited a moment then poured himself another.
It was cool in the sitting room despite the heat outside. The sun was shining and he could hear the sound of a lawnmower in the distance. One of his neighbours cutting the grass. Or perhaps one of their gardeners.
He smiled to himself.
He’d have one more drink then he’d go back out to the office. See if the break had released some trickle of creative juice.
It took two more drinks before he could bring himself to move.
Ward stood at the back door and peered towards his office. On one side of the building was a huge oak tree whose branches brushed against the windows and stonework like skeletal fingers. The sun glinted on the roof windows and he shielded his eyes. It really was a beautiful day.
He thought about the fly trapped and paralysed in the spider’s web.
A beautiful day.
Ward ran a hand through his hair and set off across the garden towards the office.
As he reached the door he heard the fax machine ringing, and hurried inside and up the stairs in time to see paper oozing from it.
Anything important?
No. It never was. Not any more.
He looked at the blank screen of the computer for a moment then sat down almost reluctantly in his chair.
‘Come on, come on,’ he murmured to himself. He could smell the whisky on his breath when he spoke.
Again he rested his fingers on the keys. Again he pressed one key a little too hard.
jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj
It wasn’t funny this time.
He got to his feet and crossed to the bookshelf on the far side of the room.
Look at a book. There might be inspiration in there somewhere.
He stared at the titles.
Who Killed Hanratty?
Helter Skelter
Beyond Belief
Cannibalism: The Last Taboo
The Shrine Of Jeffrey Dahmer
The Encyclopaedia Of Serial Killers
Something clicked. Ward frowned. He read a few pages of Hunting Humans then put it down and returned to his desk.
There was a small plastic carriage clock on his desk. It showed 1.36.
He was still staring at it two hours later.
ROUTINE
One of the things that Christopher Ward had discovered during twenty-three years of professional writing was that routine was vital. Treat the whole thing as a job. Nothing more.
Despite what the pretentious bastards on The South Bank Show said, it was a job. End of story.
Every day he set himself a target of three thousand words. Ten pages.
At the beginning, he’d written fifteen, sometimes twenty in a day. That time of fresh enthusiasm and burning ambition, when the desire for success was paramount.
Once that success had been attained, the urgency faltered. He went from writing five novels in a year to just one. Earning that kind of money didn’t require him to burn the candle at both ends.
He had had it all. Big house. Big bank account. Big reputation. He was at the top of the tree.
But from the top there’s only one way to go. And it was the most uncomfortable ride Christopher Ward had ever experienced.
Now he was lucky if he completed five pages a day. But the routine still had to be adhered to. He could not
leave the office without having written something. At least one page before he would allow himself to move from his desk and return to the house. Or to wherever else he went to forget about what he’d just been through in the office.
It was important to keep the job and normal life separate, and never to think about the job when you weren’t behind the desk. Never.
He stared at the blank screen. Then at his notes. Then at his synopsis.
Christopher Ward began to type.
Fresh Skins
by Christopher Ward
PREFACE
JANUARY 23rd, 1991:
The grave was no more than three feet deep but it had taken over an hour to dig using the small shovel they’d given him.
They’d watched him toiling in the frost-hardened earth, and when he’d paused every now and then to catch his breath, they’d urged him on, forcing him to finish the task quickly.They were anxious to be out of the freezing night and back in the warmth. Away from this place.
Despite the cold he was sweating. Not all of it was due to his exertions.
A wreath of condensation clouded around him like a shroud.
Perhaps he would have been able to dig more quickly had one of the bones of his right forearm and several of his fingers not been broken. The cuts and bruises on his face and the cigarette burns on his arms weren’t helping either.
He hurled another shovelful of earth on to the pile before pausing for a second.
He could see them moving about agitatedly in the gloom. One of them visible only by the glowing tip of
his cigarette. The other was pacing back and forth in an attempt to keep warm, stopping every so often to stamp his feet, trying to revive his circulation.
Christ, it was cold.
The sky was cloudless. There’d been snow showers during the last twenty-four hours and a thin powdery layer was still covering the ground, hardened by the frost that dug icy barbs into everything.
The man standing in the grave had not seen the snow fall. The blindfold that had been over his eyes had
