When death becomes the safer option. 

Part two of a Book Group reading experience. Continuing the previous post. When death becomes the safer option. 

First of the ‘singing for my supper’ book extracts done and dusted. Okay, nobody had a fit of the vapours or ran, screaming, from the room. I decided if they could cope with a drug overdose a fairly graphic suicide would be next on the agenda. 

After my debut manuscript won a National Award – Best unpublished Author of 1998, actually – the chief buyer from Waterstones, the major bookshop chain, read an early draft of my novel, liked it. Liked it a lot. He picked out two passages, the suicide of my character, Clive, and that description of a fatal heroin overdose, (I know, gloomy subjects, but they were the ones he picked out), and said ‘they shook me to the core.’ It was obviously time my audience met Clive. Albeit, briefly. 

‘Clive, Are you coming out to play?’

The voice reached Clive’s ears moments after he woke to the smell of smoke wafting up the stairs. 

The voice was unmistakably that of Marcus, even though he’d not heard him speak since they were both children. He’d expected to hear that voice, expected Marcus to reappear in his life, every day, every night, especially every night. Now Marcus was here. In the house. 

Clive scrambled from his bed, eyes wide as he moved quickly to the door and listened for sounds of an intruder. He heard nothing, but was not surprised. A full-frontal attack would be too obvious. Marcus would want him to suffer first, flee from the horror of the burning house to his inevitable death. Clive snarled with sardonic humour at the thought that, at the end, he’d out-smarted his pursuer. 

Reaching up to the top of the wardrobe, Clive grunted with effort as he hauled a plastic bag over the raised decorative scrollwork. Inside the bag were short lengths of nylon rope, bought weeks previously and stored in readiness for this day. He tipped the rest of the contents onto the bed, a further piece of rope, very thin nylon, hardly more than cord, but immensely strong, an industrial strength plastic bag, thick rubber gloves, and a jar of cooking oil – Tesco own-brand, from their Value Range. 

Smoke leaked under the bedroom door, but Clive ignored it. It didn’t matter, not any more. He walked to the door and listened with his ear to the crack of the doorjamb. Nothing. As he walked away, he heard the voice again. Closer now. On the stairs? 

‘Clive, are you coming out to play?’

Clive sat on the hard chair that he’d placed against the wall with no other furniture within reach. Grunting with the effort, he bound his own feet together, then tied them securely to the legs of the chair that was firmly screwed to the floor, leaning into the knots until he could no longer feel his feet. Smoke was filling the room now, but he remained absolutely calm. 

This final meeting with Marcus had been envisaged for some time and he worked with total certainty. Pulling the plastic bag over his head, he tied it securely with the slim nylon cord. He grimaced as the binding cut deeply into his skin, but the pain was immaterial. It would not inconvenience him for long.

His next breath would also be his last as he sucked the plastic against his mouth, using up the air trapped in the bag. Working quickly now, he slipped his hands into the thick rubber gloves and doused them with the contents of the cooking oil and dropped the empty container at his feet. He’d expected the panic that came with his next attempt to take a breath, but the strength of his reaction surprised him. 

Hands scrabbling vainly at the knots securing the bag in position, oily fingers failing to find any purchase, his lungs burned and his temples pounded like a kettledrum. From what seemed a vast distance, he heard the voice once more. 

‘Clive, are you coming out to play?’

Even as his open mouth sucked at the unyielding plastic, teeth ripping his lower lip, he was exultant at this final cheating of his tormentor. Hot salty blood from his ravaged lips trickling down his throat, Clive slumped, his upper body pitching forward from the chair. His bound legs twitching, he fell awkwardly, head slamming against the floorboards with a sickening crack. 

The first flames licked at the doorframe, but Clive didn’t see them. By the time his room was consumed by the fire, he had been dead for some considerable time.’

Okay, where’s he going with this, you may ask? Hang on and I’ll tell you. (That’s proper journalism, there, see? Interjecting a fictional character as a spurious means of adding dramatic impact. Dismal failure, you say? Hey, only one fictional interrogator allowed.

Where was I? Getting to the point, supposedly. Yeah, right. One of the people at that gathering was interested enough to take my name and email details. Her husband wasn’t present, but she said he’d be interested in me. That’s ‘me’ rather than that Gulliver Smith bloke. A couple of months afterwards, he got in touch. He’s quite important, as it turned out.

I chose to write crime thrillers because they sold well. Not the most virtuous reason, but an honest one. ‘Write what you know’ is basic advice for a new writer. I know about ‘dodgy geezers,’ drug addicts, dealers and pushers and every nuance of the sordid underbelly of society. I lived that life, once. I’ve never used drugs, but I’ve met a lot of people who’ve met the same end as the wretched ‘Snake.’ I wasn’t a police officer, but my work involved mingling with some highly dubious people. I’ve spent time in crack dens, so-called shooting galleries, seen the daily routine of heroin addicts at close quarters. I know ‘that stuff.’

My background helped with the writing; even though every single word, every character, was fictional. Getting back (finally) to the point; the man I’d never met got in touch. His wife had told him about me. Told him about my writing. About my background. He’d bought my books (hurrah!) and wanted to meet me. When I went to London recently for a meeting with a putative Publisher, I also met this man. He’s a consultant for the Home Office, specifically inner city crime and drug-related problems. He’d asked me to prepare a discussion paper on this very subject.

It’s been a while, but I’ve done this before. Hang on, let me rephrase that, it’s been quite a considerable while since I did anything like this. 

I’d expected to hand my offering in, shake a hand or two and get back to touring the fleshpots of London. Until I got there and found I’d be presenting my paper to a gathering of about fifty people. Yes, I’ve done that before too, but again, it’s been a while. They sat there, pens poised over notebooks, iPads on knees, waiting for this bloke who hasn’t had a proper job in twenty years to set out his vision for future strategy. Government strategy, no less.

It went well. Nobody fell asleep. Nobody heckled or walked out. I reclaimed some of that indefinable thing called ‘job satisfaction’ that has only manifested itself in building a reasonably straight brick wall in recent years. Very different.

My paper is now in the mix. Part of future strategic planning? Well, possibly. At least I’ve been promised a cheque in recognition of my efforts.

It hasn’t arrived yet. The Civil Service is a ponderous beast. It’ll get here. Eventually.

I’ve been asked if I’m willing to attend follow-up meetings and become part of a consultation group. I explained about my lifestyle and my complete inability to say where I’ll be at any time in the foreseeable future. That didn’t go down well.

‘He’s a bit of a one-off,’ my mentor explained. They nodded, but didn’t look convinced. We’re leaving things in the air for a while. If this gets anywhere, I’ll be pleased. If not, it won’t bother me. I understand the nature of strategic planning. Last week’s breath of fresh air is nothing more than a stale fart six months down the line. I’ve been there, done that. I know how this works.

So, que sera sera then. Interesting. All of this stemming from a dubious choice of reading material to set before a group of genteel Cotswolds book lovers. You just never know who’s listening, do you?