Bloody Writers

Years. Long, long years of creating, killing, distorting and always, finally, despair. The writer's life, Ellie thought bitterly, the latest rejection slip clutched in her hand. Years of twisting and torturing her poor characters and stories to make them somehow acceptable in that shadowy, unknowable land shaped by the mad whimsies of a thousand faceless editors and agents, her only cartography the formless hints gleaned from scores of these bloody letters. 

Ellie walked to her desk, snatched up her pen, a rather lovely Mont Blanc, and wrote that last image down. 'Cartography...' she muttered as she wrote. A bit overwrought, perhaps, but usable. 

She laid her pen down and picked up the crumpled letter. Rejection after bloody rejection. She looked at the wall above her desk, where a row of eight nails stuck out. On each one were skewered fistfuls of the things. She remembered hammering that first nail, rusty now, and impaling that first note on it, then the second, the tenth, twentieth, fiftieth... at first, it had been like a game. These letters from publishers and editors were trophies, almost, badges of belonging to some writers' club: I am a writer, she had thought. These notes prove it. They had been a comfort for a while; they felt right for a young writer. Artists must face rejection, she had thought, until they get accepted. That's the deal.

She ran her fingers along that first nail. Until they get accepted, she thought again. That's the deal.

After that nail was full, more, and then more. Dozens, scores, hundreds of notes, a drip-drip-drip of no-no-no. She hadn't given up, though. She quit her job, wrote full-time, changed everything, submitted everywhere. And in return? No longer a drip but a tsunami of rejection and refusal. Not for us, no market, too old fashioned, too experimental. Good luck, keep trying, best wishes. Never a single 'yes'; in over twenty years - twenty years of no life, no marriage, no children, nothing, and the tears were coming fast now - not a story, a poem, an article accepted.

She dashed her hand angrily across her eyes and looked again at the note on the desk. She smoothed it out. Half a sheet of A4. Not even a full sheet, the cheap swine. 'Superlative Publications.' Arrogant bastards. She looked at the name scrawled across the bottom. Edwin Bourne. What a stupid bloody name. Sounds posh. She knew the type, had met a million of them. Oxbridge, of course, tried writing, failed, then was set up in publishing by his parents. Would spend his days publishing rubbish by his friends as real writers - like her - suffered and starved. She squeezed her eyes shut as hot, angry tears burned her cheeks and she could see him, Edwin Bloody Bourne, sitting at his huge desk in his expensive office. She knew what he would look like - floppy fringe, weak chin, squinty little watery eyes. And what kind of man is this Edwin Bloody Bourne, beneath his repulsive exterior? A thief, a philistine, an animal, she thought. 

A sudden sharp pain in her hands made Ellie gasp and look down. Blood oozed from a series of tiny half moons, gouged into her palms by her fingernails. As she watched the scarlet beads darken and spread on her hands, as thoughts of Edwin Bourne swirled in her head, something inside her, in her mind, or in some darker, more unknowable place, her soul, perhaps, turned on itself, convulsed, twisted and snapped. She pushed red hair out of her eyes, leaving a shocking, garish smear of blood across her eyelids and forehead, and for the first time in years, in twenty years, she could see clearly how things were and how they would be from now on. She laid her hand once again on that first nail.

No more, she whispered. No more.

She had work to do. But first, she picked up her lovely Mont Blanc and wrote down that bit about her soul twisting and convulsing. That was pretty good.

Edwin Bourne pushed his floppy fringe away from his watery eyes and sat back with his hands behind his head, sighing contentedly as his secretary's head bobbed up and down in his lap. Splendid way to round off the week, he thought. And tonight, a fighting chance at getting the new intern into the sack. A decent restaurant and a few gallons of booze ought to do the trick. He patted his secretary's head, said, 'Good girl, Tasmin,' then reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small clear packet of white powder. That might help too, he thought, slipping it into his jacket pocket and sitting back again.

Just as he was squeezing his little eyes shut in anticipation of blissful release, the phone on his desk rang. 'Bugger,' he muttered. Tasmin's hand snaked up from beneath the desk to answer it. He patted her hand and said, 'That's all right dear, I'll get it. You keep working.' He picked up the receiver. 'Yes?' he barked. 'Geoffrey?' He sighed. The fat fool of a doorman called every time someone arrived at the front desk. 'What does she want?' asked Bourne. 'What? Black leather? Well, in that case... Geoffrey?' Bourne looked at the receiver, puzzled. The doorman had emitted a horrible groan and cut him off. That was unusual, even by Geoffrey's standards. And now the line appeared to be totally dead.

Bourne reached over Tasmin's head and flicked the security monitors on. One was trained on the front desk. There was Geoffrey, slumped across his desk. Given the man's habit of carrying a half bottle of supermarket scotch everywhere he went, this was not actually unheard of. Bourne pressed the switch forward to zoom in further. Perhaps Geoffrey's heart had finally given out after the lifetime of concentrated abuse to which he had subjected it. But there, in the man's fat neck, something was sticking out. Bourne zoomed as far as he could go and, as the image resolved and sharpened, he could make out a long, thin object sticking between the folds of fat. A knife? No, thought Bourne, it's... a pen. Rather a nice one, too, if he wasn't mistaken.

Bourne realised instantly that the only reason to kill someone as pointless as Geoffrey would be to get to him. He sprang to his feet and was immediately and painfully reminded that Tasmin was still busy below the desk. 'No need to be rude,' she muttered as he swore and pushed her aside. Bourne ignored her as he hobbled across the room to lock the door, buttoning his fly with one hand and thumbing the police emergency number into his phone with the other. Phone to ear, he reached for the door handle, only to have it smash painfully into his knuckles as it was kicked open from the other side. Bourne swore and Tasmin tutted disapprovingly from her position under the desk. The door flew open to reveal a tall woman, dressed in tight leather, with long red hair. Bourne froze, his bruised knuckles held to his mouth. Located somewhere between pain and confusion, the small, noisy part of his brain that dealt with carnal desire had time to register the curves and contours revealed by the woman's outfit. As she strode into the room, he managed to drag his gaze up from her breasts to her eyes and their gazes locked. She turned and started to walk deliberately towards him. He backed away slowly until he felt his desk bump against his back. He was trapped. The woman stopped and a smile played across her full lips.

Suddenly, a voice, tinny but clear in the silence, sounded from the phone still clutched in Bourne's hand. 'Emergency services,' it said. 'Which service do you require?' For a fraction of a second, all eyes in the room remained locked. 'Please respond, caller,' said the voice on the phone. Tasmin was first to respond, screaming, 'Help us!' from under the desk. Sparked into life, Bourne started to shout into the phone, 'This is Superlative Publications on King's Road...' but got no further as the woman launched herself at him and smashed her hand across his face. The phone flew across the room and crashed against the wall, falling in pieces to the floor. At least they got the address, Bourne thought as he rubbed his face. Just keep her busy until they get here.

The woman turned her gaze from the broken phone back to Bourne. She tossed her long hair and took a step towards him. He struggled to keep his eyes locked on hers, reasoning that this would be a bad time to allow his gaze to wander over her magnificent physique. 'Mr Bourne,' she said, in a voice that was husky and steady. 'A pleasure to meet you at last.'

Buy time, the big, slow, rational part of Bourne's brain screamed at him. His eyes scanned the room and lighted on a heavy ashtray at the other end of his desk. That'll do, he thought. He started to edge slowly along the length of his desk as he fumbled for an answer.

'You, ah, have the advantage of me, Madam,' he managed to say. Her eyes stayed locked on his.

'My name, Mr Bourne,' she said, and paused, 'is Elvira D'Amour.' She tossed her hair and stood, head to one side. Bourne nodded, eager to keep the woman calm.

'Delighted, delighted, Ms D'Amour. And, eh, have we met?'

The woman's face crumpled and her shoulders fell. 'You don't know who I am?' Bourne shrugged.  “I sent you some manuscripts,’ she said. ‘Several hundred, in fact.’ As she spoke, she moved closer to him.

Bourne licked his lips. He had never heard of the woman. It was unlikely that he would have, given that he and, as far as he knew, everyone else at Superlative Publications would sooner go blind than read an unsolicited manuscript from an unknown writer. Superlative’s slush pile was untouched, unmolested, virginal right up until the day every other month when it was carted off and burned. He sensed that he should conceal this information.

‘Ah, yes, that Elvira d’Amour, ‘ he said, rubbing his hands together and sidling further towards the heavy ashtray. ‘Wonderful manuscripts,’ he said. He assessed the woman. Beautiful, passionate, mad as a badger. Either a poet or a romantic novelist, he guessed. ‘You write… romantic novels, yes?’

Elvira’s stopped moving. ‘You remember my work?’ she said, regarding the fat man with hostile interest.

‘Oh my dear, of course,’ gushed Bourne. ‘Wonderful, wonderful stuff. We talk of you often in the office.’ 

Elvira took another step forward. Bourne saw something metallic glint in her hand. ‘Really?’ she asked. He licked his lips and loosened his tie. 

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, stepping over Tamsin. ‘That last piece you submitted… transcendental.’

Elvira took a step towards the man. ‘You liked it?’ she asked, and all the huskiness was gone from her voice. She sounded like a child.

“I adored it, my dear,’ murmured Bourne as he took a step towards the end of the desk. He turned his head slightly at a noise from outside – a siren. They’re coming. Stall the silly bitch. ‘The relationship between the … man and the …woman. Masterfully drawn.’

Momentarially, all the suspicion and hostility departed Elvira’s face and her features took on the shades of hungry desperation that he associated with the writers he knew. This was his moment. He prepared himself to pounce, ashtray or no ashtray. He moved towards her. Suddenly, her hand flew up and Bourne froze. The metallic object in her hand was a fountain pen, exactly like the one that killed Geoffrey. She strode towards him and seized his tie with the other hand. “Why didn’t you publish it, then?’ she demanded.

Bourne squawked, ‘It’s too good for us’, he stammered. Elvira looked carefully at him and he went on, words pouring out of him in streams. ‘Your work needs massive publicity and investment. You deserve to be in the pantheon alongside Hardy, Tolstoy, Joyce.’ Elvira frowned uncomprehendingly. 

‘Joyce who?’ she said, pulling his tie tighter.

 Bloody comprehensive schools, thought Bourne.  ‘James Joyce,’ he said. ‘Great novelist. ‘ He paused. ‘Like JK Rowling,’ he added.  Elvira flushed.  Bourne pressed his advantage. ‘Or Colleen Hoover.’  With that, Elvira released the man’s tie and stepped backwards. ‘You think,’ she said, struggling for words,’ That I could be like her?’ Bourne nodded furiously, one ear cocked for the police siren. He heard the car screech to a halt outside. Only a minute or two left. He went to speak, but was cut off by a cry from under the desk.

‘Don’t believe him,’ shrieked Tamsin and Elvira looked down, surprised. ‘That’s what he told me.’ Elvira looked at the woman beneath the desk, and saw in her wild eyes, flaming hair and big dangly earrings a kindred spirit, another writer of romances. Her eyes flew from Tamsin’s tearful face to Bourne’s, and she knew immediately that the girl on the floor was telling the truth. She stepped towards Bourne, raising the Mont Blanc in her hand. “Madam,’ said Bourne, backing away, but he was cut off as she plunged the steel point of the pen into his fleshy neck. As the fat man sank gurgling to the floor, Tamsin jumped to her feet and embraced Elvira.  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, ‘he deserved it’, just as the police stormed through the door.

Edward put the story down. Quite good, much better than the usual stuff that Ellie sent. He could probably use this one, though all that stuff about the secretary under the desk might have to go. He laughed as he thought of his own secretary -  namely Tessa, his wife of thirty-five years -  and how ridiculous the ideas writers had about publishing offices were. As he went to write an acceptance letter to Ellie he felt a thrill of pleasure at being able to give her a break after so many years and so many rejections. His phone rang as he opened his laptop screen. ‘Yes, Gordon?’ he said. ‘There’s a lady here to see you,’ said the doorman, ‘a rather strange lady in leather.’ Edward stared at the phone as Gordon emitted the most awful scream.