Doyle glared at the boy.
Don’t push it, you little bastard. I might need a job but not that fucking bad.
‘Bow,’ Hassim repeated.
Doyle nodded his head swiftly.
‘Come inside,’ the boy said in his perfect English accent.
Doyle hesitated for a second then stepped into the boy’s bedroom. It was vast and high ceilinged.The floor was covered in plush carpet. Doyle saw a stack system and a DVD player. Every electrical appliance imaginable. The television was on in the corner of the room,
so too was the computer, its screen flickering. There was a large bed, several upholstered chairs and a chaise longue.
‘These are only some of the things I have,’ Hassim told him.
‘Great,’ said Doyle uninterestedly.
‘My father is a very rich man.’
‘I gathered that.’
‘He is very powerful. I will be even more powerful when I am older. I have power already. The servants in this house must do whatever I wish.’
Doyle merely held the boy’s gaze.
‘You must do whatever I wish,’ Hassim continued.
‘That’s not strictly true. Your father owns the servants. He doesn’t own me.
He just employs me. If I want to walk away I can.’
‘You would not dare.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
There was a moment’s silence, broken by Hassim. ‘I will show you how much power I have,’ said the boy. He called something in Arabic. The words sounded harsh.
The servant who had been outside stepped into the room and bowed in the direction of the Prince. The boy snapped something else and the man stood in the middle of the room, arms at his sides.
Doyle looked on silently as Hassim crossed to his bedside table and slid open one of the drawers.
‘Do you know what real power is?’ Hassim said, his back to Doyle.
The former counter terrorist said nothing.
‘I will show you,’ said the boy.
Doyle could see that he had something gripped in one hand.
Only as he drew closer could he see that it was a Stanley knife.
PROGRESS
Twenty-two pages. Ward counted them, numbered them and placed them with the rest of the manuscript. He moved like a man in a trance, touching the pages almost warily, carefully scanning the words on each one.
Then he sat and gazed at the blank screen. And the keyboard. And the box of white Conqueror paper that fed the printer.
The top sheet was slightly discoloured. Crinkled at the bottom, like parchment. Ward picked it up and rubbed it gently between his thumb and forefinger. He gently folded it then dropped it into the waste bin beside his desk.
The bin needed emptying.There were pieces of paper, sweet wrappers and other discarded items spilling over the sides. Some of the rubbish even lay on the carpet around the bin. He looked down at the mess, realising that he should clear it up.
The waste bin near the sink was in the same state. Tidiness was not one of Ward’s strong points.
Neither, it seemed, was memory. He could not recall having come to the office the previous night. Could not remember sitting and writing another twenty-two pages of his book. In fact, he had little recollection of much of what he’d produced during the past month.
Drink destroyed memory cells. Depression also interfered with the brain’s recollective processes.
He looked at the manuscript, now swollen to almost three hundred pages. Was it possible he could have forgotten so much? If not, what was happening?
He ran a hand over cheeks that needed the attentions of a razor blade and gazed once again at the screen and the keyboard.
As he looked down at the squares and their letters and symbols he shook his head gently. He touched one of the keys and held it down.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Ward ran his fingertips over several others, feeling the outline of the symbols as if he were working on some kind of braille machine.
He sat back in his chair and exhaled deeply. He closed his eyes.
The phone rang.
Ward jumped in his seat and looked at the device as if it were some kind of venomous reptile, then he shot out a hand and picked it up.
‘Hello,’ he said.
Silence at the other end.
‘Hello,’ Ward repeated.
Still nothing.
‘You must have got the wrong number,’ he said and hung up.
He sat at the desk a moment longer then got to his feet, switched off the monitor and made his way out of
the office. As he paused to lock the door he looked down.
There were several deep furrows in the wood both at the bottom and around the handle.
They looked like scratch marks.
SEEKING OBLIVION
Ward slumped in the armchair with the bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand and a crystal tumbler in the other. He poured himself a large measure and drank it in one fierce swallow.
Another followed. Then a third.
He switched on the television and gazed blankly at the screen.
It was another hour before he dragged himself to his feet and wandered out to the hall. He picked up the phone and jabbed out a number. It rang and rang until an answerphone clicked on.
Ward pressed down on the cradle and searched the small notepad beside the phone for another number. He dialled that and waited.
When the robotic voice at the other end informed him he had reached the voicemail of that particular mobile phone he almost hung up again but, despite himself, he hung on. ‘Martin, it’s Chris Ward. Call me when you get the chance. It doesn’t matter what time it is.’
He hung up and returned to the sitting room. There was no telling what time his agent would ring back. If he did.
Ward poured himself another drink.
And waited.
WAITING GAME
It stayed light until well past nine o’clock. Ward finally got to his feet and drew his curtains at about 9.40.
A moment later the phone rang. Ward caught it on the fifth ring.
‘Hello, Martin?’ he said, expectantly.
‘Yes,’ Martin Connelly said. ‘Are you okay, Chris? I just got your message. I would have rung earlier but I’ve been out for a drink with—’
‘Just listen to me,’ Ward interrupted. ‘When was the last time we spoke on the phone?’
‘What?’
‘When was the last time we spoke on the phone? It’s a simple enough question, Martin.’
