* * * * *
Gordon Traynor sat at his desk staring at the thick tablet of lined quarto. The blank first page defying him to make a start. Gordon was the author of three novels which had all been action packed adventures and had sold well. Although he denied it they had all been partly biographic, as a fair portion of the violence described had been either witnessed or committed.
He had decided his next novel would be a romance. His agent had not been very happy. “Gordon your career is just starting to blossom. This could be a big big mistake”.
“I don’t want to be pigeon-holed and get into the formulaic rut”.
“Formulaic is good Gordon if it pays the bills. Get a bigger body of work behind you before you branch out”.
The conversation with his agent was now two weeks old. Since then he had wrestled to make a start. Admitting to himself that he knew nothing of love or caring relationships, he willed his hand to put pen to paper. Write anything he thought, just put pen to paper. The pressure grew until he slammed the pen onto the desk, picked up the tablet and threw it across the room.
Gordon leaned back in the comfortable wingback chair. He realized this latest project was a non starter. As he knew nothing about love, why the hell had he thought he could write a believable novel on what for him was a mystery.
With eyes closed and hands clasped behind his head he ranged back through his life. The only child of alcoholic and drug addicted parents. He had spent years in care. The hopelessness of the grim institute interspersed with numerous unhappy foster homes. Although bright with a love of literature, the constant change of schools led to failure at exam time.
At the age of eighteen he had joined the army. Making people sit up and take notice from the first day he had fired his rifle. He was a naturally gifted marksman and soon after completion of basic training, was singled out for advanced practical and theoretic firearms training. Six years into what he had been sure was a full twenty two year stint, he had been headhunted and joined the ranks of the private security business.
It did not take him long to realize that he was being used as an assassin. The ploys used to disguise the reality were ingenious but he was nobody's fool. On his next visit to the London office he had confronted his boss, renegotiated his pay structure and started to take a hand in the planning.
At the age of thirty five he had had enough and as he had always been careful with money, was more than comfortably off. To ensure that he could not be cajoled into changing his mind he sold his small London flat, making a massive profit before disappearing.
Six months of lazy living had put two stone on his lean frame. With the addition of a beard and a new identity that would stand up to any scrutiny, he bought a flat that overlooked a marina and settled down to learn the craft of the fiction writer.
Now a month short of his fortieth birthday he was content. Even with the knowledge that love had never entered his life.
As Gordon reached the end of his reverie he became aware of a warm wet stickiness that covered his chest. Opening his eyes he was shocked by the sight of his red stained polo shirt. Gordon had seen, smelt and felt blood more times in his life than he cared to remember. There was no mistake.
He ran into the bathroom throwing the sodden shirt onto the tiled floor. Checking his blood stained torso he could find no evidence of a wound. After a long shower Gordon placed the shirt in a plastic bag then sat at his desk wrapped in thought, still as a statue.
Late afternoon turned into an overcast evening. He seemed unaware of the gathering gloom. His cell phone beeped announcing the arrival of a text, the sound made him jump. Gordon turned on the light and poured himself a stiff drink. His hand was shaking. He looked at his hand as if it did not belong to him. He had killed to save his life, he had killed for profit, he had witnessed others kill because they had enjoyed killing, never before had his hand shook.
You are getting soft he thought, soft and old. By the time he had drunk half of his large glass of whisky he had what he was going to do.
Shortly after moving into the flat he had made up the number in one of the local pub quiz teams who had been a man short. Over the years the team mates had become friends. One of them, Tom, was a lecturer in biochemistry. Tom, who was a creature of habit, every evening on his way home from the university stopped off at the pub for an hour or so. Gordon dressed quickly and was first to arrive at the pub.
On his friend’s arrival Gordon ordered a round of drinks and indicated that they should sit at a quiet corner table. Then in a soft tone that bordered on a whisper, he related the whole of the polo shirt episode. During the telling of the tale Tom sat in silence until Gordon had finished.
While Gordon had been speaking, Tom had sat with his head bowed as if he had been examining the back of his left hand that had been placed on the table. Now in the silence he raised his gaze and looked directly into Gordon’s eyes. The penetrating stare made Gordon feel uneasy. An irrational feeling of guilt welled up within him. He felt like fleeing from the questioning eyes.
“Where is the shirt now?”. Gordon could not be sure but he thought he detected a note of disbelief in the question.
“It....it's still, it's still in a bag in the bathroom”.
“Do you want me to run some tests on the garment?”.
“Why? What do you think is wrong with me?”.
“How the hell should I know? This is the first case of its kind I have ever heard of”.
The resolve that Gordon had felt less than an hour earlier as he had left the flat, was dissolving into fearful uncertainty. “You don’t think I’m mad do you?”. Tom smiled.
“Go home now. If the polo shirt is covered in blood, bring it back. I’ll pop it in my brief case and let you know if I find anything interesting on Thursday. If there is no blood on the shirt, come back and we’ll talk some more”.
Fifteen minutes later Gordon returned carrying a tightly wrapped plastic package. The next day Gordon woke feeling queasy. He had stayed in the bar after Tom had left and had ended the night eating alone in an Indian restaurant. Checking his cell phone he saw there were now two unread texts, both from his agent. He read them and did not reply.
He paced around the flat looking for things to do. His mind a maelstrom of ever changing emotions. What if he had an incurable disease? Was it life threatening? How much longer did he have? Would his mind go long before he died? Could he write many more novels? Did he want to write anymore?
That afternoon found Gordon striding purposely along a country road until the sky darkened and the clouds released a heavy continuous downpour. He arrived home soaked to the skin, clutching a litre bottle of whisky.
The street lights shone on the glittering wet road as Gordon sat in the candle light. Sitting at his desk wrapped in a thick toweling robe, his rain soaked clothes left in a pile where he had stepped out of them. He loved the shadows the candlelight cast. The small bright flame a comfort. His fingers curled around the tumbler, the contents transferred to his mouth, the reassuring warmth as the liquid descended through his body. Another measure was poured. The candle continued to burn.
Thursday morning Gordon woke with the mother of all hangovers. Staggering into the living room he saw on the floor the empty whisky bottle. Not bothering to dress he sat at his desk staring at his cell phone. The first two calls were from his agent. He did not bother to answer. On the third call the screen flashed up Tom’s name.
“Gordon”, there was a tension in Tom’s tone, “I fell for it hook, line and sinker”.
“What do you mean?”. Gordon was nonplussed.
“What do you mean, what do I mean? I’ll tell you what I bloody well mean asshole, you’ve been pulling my chain”.
“I don’t understand”. Gordon’s voice rose a pitch.
“Understand this, as if you did not already know. That was not your blood. It was canine blood you piss taker”.
; The phone fell from Gordon’s shaking hand. In his mind he could see the flashing sword blade. The stars, trees and snow covered ground passing his eyes in an alternating cavalcade.
END
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