It eventually becomes impossible to separate what constitutes reality and fantasy. One passes over into another with such ease that to discern their individuality is almost futile. The fine line which is trodden between the world of the imagination and the everyday world becomes indistinct. Sometimes this is a desirable state of affairs but, more often than not, it signals the refusal of the mind to accept reality. It chooses instead to retreat into fantasy. It is a world more comfortably inhabited. In such a state, what was recognised previously as catharsis becomes prophetic. The mingling of worlds is amplified to such a degree that it may be possible to influence the outcome of that which had previously been subject to the whims of fate. And with that comes responsibility. One that does not always sit easily with those who possess it.
I seek a knowledge that others have sought but failed to find. I seek with a ferocity some find disturbing. With a single-mindedness which produces confrontation, but then, what is life but a series of conflicts? Without conflict, life is worthless. Without confrontation, man is nothing. Only from confrontation can true knowledge come. The battle is fought inside the mind to begin with but then it evolves into a more tangible fight. With the passing of time, one learns to thrive on conflict, to seek it. To welcome it.
How tedious to pass the days in silent subservience. How much better to confront. To challenge. To triumph. For without the pleasure of triumph there is no sense in entering into a conflict. One should only do so with the express purpose of leaving it as the victor. Defeat is something to be despised. To be ridiculed. Those who accept it are to be similarly loathed and treated with the contempt one would reserve for lesser beings.
But victory can be viewed in many different ways and from many different aspects. The true nature of triumph is again a personal matter. Man measures his victories against others. Only a man who values victory above all things is worthy to retain his place in the natural order. There are no aspects of defeat that are tolerable or worthwhile. The single overriding factor in the
mind of any man should be to stand unchallenged atop the mountain of ambition he has seen fit to climb. To fall short of that summit is to fail. To fail is to show weakness and weakness is the most vile and contemptuous attribute that any man can be cursed with.
are
There
SALVATION
Ward placed the five pages to one side and slumped forward on his desk. He was drifting off to sleep when he heard a loud noise away to his left. It took him a few seconds to realise that the noise was a car horn. A little more time to work out that the sound was coming from the driveway of his own house.
He got to his feet and crossed to one of the velux windows of his office. By standing on a chair he could just make out the bonnet of a car pointing towards the house. Another moment and he saw a figure walk around the vehicle, lean through the open driver’s door and hit the hooter three more times.
Ward blinked hard. He was sure he recognised the figure.
Martin Connelly walked towards the front door of the house, disappearing from Ward’s view.
Ward moved away from the window and stumbled towards the stairs. He gripped the banister to prevent himself falling then finally blundered out into the garden and headed for the tall, wooden gate that led out into the drive.
‘Martin,’ he called.
Connelly heard him and hurried over, slowing his pace as he drew nearer.
‘Jesus Christ,’ murmured the agent, his eyes widening. ‘What the hell’s happened here?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Ward wanted to know. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I’ve left God knows how many messages on your answering machine. You haven’t returned any of the calls.’
‘So what else is new?’
‘The last time we spoke was over ten days ago, Chris. What have you been doing? Why didn’t you answer the calls?’
‘I’ve been busy,’ Ward said and he laughed.
The sound raised the hairs on the back of Connelly’s neck.
‘You look terrible,’ he said.
‘Thanks. You drove from London to tell me that?’
‘Can I come in?’ Connelly asked. ‘I need to speak to you, Chris.’
‘Actually, there’s something I need to show you,‘Ward confessed. ‘Come into the office.’
Connelly followed the author up the stairs, recoiling from the smell of body odour that hung in the air.
There were several flies buzzing around inside the office, one of them occasionally landing on a pile of rotting tea bags by the sink.
‘The book,’ said Ward, indicating the manuscript. ‘The book no fucker wants.’
He laughed again. A humourless, empty sound. ‘And this.’ He passed the handwritten pages to Connelly.
The agent took them and sat down on the chair near the window. He read them quickly, a frown creasing his forehead.‘I don’t get it,’ he said finally, offering the pages back to Ward.
‘Neither do I,’ Ward told him.
Again Connelly shook his head.
‘I didn’t write it,’ Ward said flatly.
EMPTY WORDS
Inside the house Martin Connelly watched as Ward poured two large measures of whisky into tumblers. The agent was holding the handwritten pases in one hand, his gaze drifting between them and Ward. He accepted the drink and sipped at it.
‘None of this makes any sense, Chris,’ he said quietly.
‘I know,’ Ward agreed. ‘I’ve read it over and over again and—’
‘Not just that. What’s happening with you makes no sense.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Look, I know things aren’t going too well at the moment but—’
Ward cut him short. ‘Not going too well,’ he snarled. ‘A masterpiece of understatement, Martin. My career’s in ruins, my life’s falling to bits around my fucking ears. Jesus, not going too well. That’s a bit like saying the Jews had a rough time in Dachau. No shit.’
‘You’re not helping yourself.’
‘What do you mean? It’s the publishers who aren’t helping. Publishers who won’t publish what I write. What am I supposed to do? What do you think I can do to help myself, Martin? Beg them to publish me?’
‘This stuff doesn’t help,’ said Connelly, raising the glass. ‘How much are you drinking these days?’
‘If you drove all the way from London to lecture me about my drinking then get in your flash car and fuck off now.’ Ward downed a sizeable gulp of the fiery liquid.
‘You’ve always had a problem with it, Chris, you know that.’
‘Drink is the least of my problems at the moment. Now tell me, why are you here?’
‘I was worried.’
‘Ah, the agent caring about one of his clients, how touching. I’m hardly the meal ticket I used to be, am I, Martin? I’d have thought you could have found more deserving causes. What was the name of that publicity girl at Headline you were shagging? She seemed like a more worthwhile object for your attentions.’
‘Do you want me here or not?’
‘I don’t know what I want. Because I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me.’
Ward slumped into the chair opposite his agent. ‘Things … have been happening,’ he said, realising that what he was about to say was going to sound ridiculous.
‘What kind of things?’
‘Things I can’t explain. Stupid things. Weird things.’
‘Like what?’
Ward sucked in a breath, held it a moment then exhaled slowly. ‘I’ve been having … blackouts. I don’t know what else to call them,’ he said evenly.
‘I’ll fall asleep and when I wake up, there’s part of the book completed.
Stuff that I know I must have written but that I can’t remember. More than a hundred pages of
