Trapped
Steven Blake
Eddie
Jones, now with long, untamed hair and sallow skin under his eyes, stood in front of the bathroom mirror with the steam from
the shower pressing against his naked chest and sweat dripping off his face. He could just about see his reflection through
the steamy glaze. His hands were gripped on the sink and his mind was exploding with terrible, twirling thoughts. He felt
trapped.
He
wanted out; writing was no longer fun, he had spent thirty years churning out novels and short stories, which were all bestsellers.
Why were things so bad? Eddie had long ago decided the time was right to pack it all in, but the publishers and the fans thought
differently. Once the news of his retirement hit the public, he was buried in mail, both letters and on his website. Campaigners
over the last few months had taken up camp outside his house. People had attacked his two sisters. Some sick fellow even killed
his cat and nailed the opening page of one of his latest novels to its skull. Funny enough, that novel was about a retiring
author. Eddie Jones felt there was only one place to go: Mary Firth, his editor. She was a dear friend.
The first time he spoke
to her about considering retirement was nearly five years ago; Mary was enraged. She wanted more books, more stories to give
the demanding public. Eddie gave her what she wanted, but growing miserable and desperate while seated at his laptop. His
retirement never came; no one would let him run free. Five years on from his decision, Eddie was losing it. He needed a way
out of the madness and would rather give up the houses, the cars, the money, just for peace and quiet. Eddie Jones had descended
to the pit of Writer’s Hell and was burning there.
Someone
knocked on the bathroom door.
“Yeah.”
“How
long you gonna be? Police said they’ll be about ten minutes.”
“I’m
coming out now. How many are there outside?” He grabbed the towel off the toilet lid and scrubbed his hair.
“About
thirty, ten or so with banners and things.”
“Coming
out now.” He turned back to the mirror and saw two dark eyes and a grinning face.
He
went downstairs in a pair of jeans and a baggy blue sweater. Karen was feeding the cat—Alice the second. He went to
the window and looked out at the herd by the gates, the crazy fucking herd.
“Fuckers;
threw eggs at the Beemer.”
Karen
looked up, stroking the cat. “You gonna give them one more, you have anything in mind?”
He
turned to his wife and gave her a heated look. Had she really just said that? He thought
she understood what he was going through more than anyone.
“You what? I said this is it; no more fucking
books, none, they can go fuck themselves.” He banged his fist against the
wall and a photograph of them hiking in Africa dropped and smashed on the floor. Pieces of glass sprayed across the tiles.
The telephone rang.
“I
swear if this is the House, I’m gonna . . .” He grabbed the phone off the corner of the breakfast bar. “Yes!” Karen frowned when he closed his eyes and tensed his hands. “Mary,
I said no more.”
“Look,
Ed, we are willing to offer you a great contract—no one gets this type of deal. Dickens wouldn’t have gotten it
this good,” Mary said.
“I’m not interested!”
“Hear
me out, a three-book deal worth forty million, fifty-fifty on sales, and we can promise you all three stories will be opted
for film.”
“Mary,
if you offered me eternal life or a place next to God in Heaven, I would still say no; it’s
over!” His face felt hot.
“Tell
me you’ll think about it?”
“NO! Writing’s over, understood!” He put the phone down and clenched his
fists.
“How
much she offer?”
He rubbed his face. “Forty million or something or other. I can’t deal
with this, I really can’t.”
She moved to his side. “They that desperate to have you?”
She
went to hug him; he pulled away.
“Not
now.” Eddie went to his office.
***
It
was a peaceful place, and over the span of his career, his office had become private and seductive. The window looked out
on to the lawn and there was a wondrous panoramic view of the Koi pond. Eddie had spent many days watching the fish while
drinking beer and stressing over his work.
No
telephone or television in the office. There was a large bookcase full of Ed McBain and Raymond Chandler and Jack Ketchum,
but none of Eddie’s own. His first editions were tucked away in a suitcase somewhere.
Then there was the laptop,
sitting on a huge oak slab of a desk in the corner of the room. It was a big, multi-layered monstrosity, fitted with drawers
and ledges. Bose speakers stood at the side of the laptop like sentinels. A shredder was tucked away on one of the ledges.
The printer sat next to the laptop. He also kept a picture of his wedding day on the highest ledge to the right of the laptop’s
screen. Karen looked beautiful, but he no longer saw her in that light anymore. She had changed, or was it Eddie that had
changed? Things had changed.
Eddie picked up the photograph
and put it on the window ledge. He opened the cupboard at the rear of his office and got out his cricket bat. He took a couple
of swings, grinning at the sound of the bat slicing through the air.
To Karen it sounded like
one of the fans had gotten in the back garden and was smashing things. The crashes were tremendous. She ran to his office.
“Ed . . . what are you doing?”
He
swung the cricket bat at the printer, sending it crashing to the floor. Pieces of plastic and metal fell to the carpet. Arced
above his shoulder, he heaved the bat down like an executioner’s axe on the laptop, shattering the screen. Keys flung
to the air like confetti. The next swing broke ledges. Eddie was frantic . . . frantic, but happy.
“I’m
having the most fun I’ve had with a computer in a long time.”
She
didn’t like the ugly look on his face. She couldn’t quite think, but it reminded her of someone.
“I
have no choice but to quit; I have nothing to write with.” He laughed and smashed the shredder. He took a couple more
swings and finally retired.
Eddie
dropped the bat on the floor and walked past Karen. He went to the kitchen, opened the back door, and shouted: “Fuck the lot of ya!”
He
shut the door and went upstairs. Karen watched all of this in disbelief.
***
Mary
phoned again that night while Eddie was asleep upstairs, so Karen answered it and they had a long talk. Mary tried one last
time to get Eddie back. One final book: no money, no contract . . . just a goodbye to the fans. Karen told her she would tell
him, but going on what happened in his office, it didn’t look good.
That night Eddie slept
in the spare bedroom, and locked it too. Karen spent most of the night crying and trying to block out the hum of the crowd
outside. She and Eddie had never spent a night apart, which to her was almost as extraordinary as Eddie’s career. Things
had never been this bad. She no longer saw her husband when she looked at him. She saw something completely alien. His sense
of humour had dried up, his constant singing around the house, his light sarcasm. Maybe one more book could free them. Perhaps
Mary was right?
***
It
was raining when Karen woke. She got up and looked out the window. It was quarter past nine and campaigners were still outside
in their tents. She had tried all night to figure out how Eddie was feeling. He was in life’s very own straightjacket.
They needed to get away.
The spare bedroom door
was open. The blankets were ruffled on the floor, and on the chest of drawers was a first edition of Eddie’s first-ever
published book. He’d been reading it.
She
moved down the hallway. The television was on downstairs, but Eddie was in the bathroom.
“Ed.”
“Yeah.”
“You
okay?”
“Fine,”
he said
“Why’d
you sleep in there?”
Brief
silence.
“Needed
to be by myself.”
“Mary
phoned again.”
“Did
you tell her to fuck herself?” She could hear running water.
“She
said one more book, no money, no contract, a farewell to the fans type thing.” She didn’t like speaking to a door.
“She
knows what she can do with it.”
“Only
a few people outside.” Trying to sound optimistic.
“For
now, but there’ll be more later.” He unlocked the door and spoke to her up close. One side of his face was shaven;
the other was coated in foam. The Gillette was strong enough to make your eyes water.
‘I’ve
sent stories with no heart, no interest, and the ideas were shit but still they sell millions. Is it my name or the fucking
idea? Look at my last two books: bullshit, complete bullshit; I wrote better stuff as a teenager and couldn’t even sell
them to small presses, shows, don’t it?” Eddie spoke very calmly.
“I
suppose it will change as time goes on.”
“Five
years, five fucking years!“ His voice made her jump. “They’re
only after the money and publicity. I’ve given them enough and they still ain’t happy—if I knew what would’ve
come of it, I’d have packed writing in the day I started—just ain’t worth it.”
He
closed the bathroom door. The wind-force pushed against her face.
Eddie
was in the bathroom for nearly an hour. At one point, Karen thought she heard him talking . . . mumbling, even laughing.
***
Karen
screamed and leapt back as splinters of glass pricked her skin. It was a house brick that came through the kitchen window,
decorating the salad she had been making for lunch with pieces of glass. She stumbled against the breakfast bar. The brick
was in the sink, and had smashed two plates and a bowl.
Eddie
raced down stairs with his cricket bat and out the back door.
“Ed, no!” she cried and chased after him.
“Who
threw the brick?” he shouted, approaching the crowd. Cameras clicked. A news crew across the road recorded everything.
“Who
threw it?” He unlocked the gates with Karen pulling him back. The campaigners were scattering like pigeons in the way
of moving feet.
“Ed… Eddie!” Karen shrieked,
pulling him back so he could see the man running across the grass towards the BMW. He was loaded with more house
bricks.
“You
fucking dare.” Eddie abandoned the gates and turned for the intruder.
The
windscreen went through with a heavy clap, and then he moved on to the side windows.
“You little bastard,”
Eddie said in a whispery, guttural voice and gained on him.
The intruder in the tracksuit booted the passenger door. Eddie lifted the cricket bat
about waist-height. Karen screamed, trying to grab him.
“Come
here, you get here.” He swung the bat, almost hitting him in the chest.
The
intruder stumbled across the glass-peppered bonnet. Eddie took another swing, only this time bringing the bat down and crashing
the varnished wood against the bonnet, causing a deep dent in the body.
The
intruder staggered across the front patio, trying to get to his feet. His hat had fallen off in his urge to get away. Eddie
lowered the bat like a croquet mallet and swung it hard into the man’s ribs. He cried in agony and rolled over on to
his back, trying to catch his breath.
“Eddie,
you’ll kill him!”
“So
. . .” he said, and jabbed the end of the bat like a spear into his stomach.
“Stop,
Ed, please.”
He
gave the intruder one more, right on the collarbone; he was certain he’d shattered it.
“Get
up, get up, you piece of shit!” Eddie grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him to his feet. The man was walking as if
he was pissed out of his head.
Eddie
dragged him down the driveway. Karen watched from the smashed-up BMW.
He opened the gates and
tossed the man on to the tarmac. The fans stared at Eddie with sickening amazement.
“Leave
me alone! No more stories, you understand, you thick bastards?” He slammed the gates shut, locked them, and went back
inside.
***
“Eddie,
what if you get done for manslaughter or something, GBH? You could’ve killed him.” Karen grabbed his arm.
“Let
go of me.” He pulled himself free, and in doing so, flung her against the breakfast bar.
“Ed,
what’s the matter with you?”
He
shook his head, frustrated, and looked down at the glass on the floor tiles.
She
looked nervous. “Why don’t you give them one more, end all this?”
He
looked up, and she flinched. His eyes were wide and piercing. His mouth askew.
“You’ve
gotta be joking me. I knew you would do this; you’ve become one of them, just like I was told. You little bitch.”
“Don’t
be stupid. Give them one more book and end all this trouble, let us get on with our lives.” She approached him cautiously.
“I’ll
end it, I’ll fucking end it. See how they like this.”
He
left, going straight upstairs to the bathroom. The door slammed.
***
The
police cleared all the campaigners from outside the house. Almost instantaneously, yellow incident tape was put up and the
street was cordoned off. Police cars plagued the front of the property.
Two
officers walked up the driveway. One was Chief Inspector Neil Carter and the other, Superintendent Garry Brown.
“Who
rang the police?” Brown asked.
“One
of the fans after they saw him batter a bloke with a cricket bat.”
“What
happened to his car?”
“Fan
that got the beating, got over the fence and smashed it up with bricks . . . did the same to that.” They both glanced
at the curtains flapping in the broken window.
“Any
of the fans suspects, what about the lot outside the gates? Could one of them gotten into the house?” They looked back
at the gates and the fans now watching behind the barricade of police officers.
“Possible.”
They
went to the kitchen door.
“Is
this the front?” Brown asked, glancing around.
“No,
this is the side, goes into the kitchen.” Glass crunched under their boots.
They went in. Forensics
and officers were everywhere. Brown and Carter made their way to the living room. There was an officer leaning against the
doorframe, and reading Eddie Jones’s The Bathroom, his first published novel.
“Aye—put
that away,” Brown said, shaking his head in disgust.
“Sorry
. . . just another fan.”
“Yeah,
a fan might have done this.”
The
PC lowered his head, and once his two superiors were in the living room, he started reading again.
Karen Jones was crucified
to the wall above the fireplace. The flat ends of six- inched nails protruded from her hands and ankles. There was one in
her open mouth, which made Brown stiffen. Her eyes were sunken and ghastly. Underneath the bloody sight were the words—written
in blood—“Guided from the subconscious.”
“Oh
shit—‘guided from the subconscious,’ oh my God.”
Carter
and Brown looked behind them at the officer reading the book. He was standing with his mouth ajar and the book dangling from
his loose grip.
“What’s
the matter with you?” Carter asked.
The
officer lifted the book and read, with a look of desperation on his face.
“
‘He was stretched against the wall like a real-life replica of Christ. I added a touch of originality and planted a
nail deep into his throat. His screams were my glory. I can’t be blamed, as I was guided from the subconscious, yours
truly, Ronnie Francis.’ ”
Carter
and Brown exchanged looks.
“
Sir, I think he’s in the bathroom,” The PC said and dropped the book. He glanced up at the crucifixion on the
wall and heaved.
Carter and Brown ran upstairs.
“They would’ve checked, wouldn’t they?”
The
bathroom door was closed.
“Go
on,” Brown said. Carter tried the handle; it turned.
“Shit,
I can hear someone talking.” He pushed the door open.
Eddie was staring into
the bathroom mirror, with his hands fixed on the sink and a joyful, liberated expression on his face. There was blood on his
shirt and hands.
“Thank
you, Ronnie; you got me into it, now you got me out. Goodbye.” He turned away from the mirror and the peering dark eyes.
The
two officers edged back.
“Eddie…”
“I
wonder if they'll still want me to write?” Eddie held out his hands for the handcuffs.
He
could feel the relief of being free.
“Trapped” originally appeared in The Horror Library
in April 2007. Copyright © 2007.
