The Fictional Man (20 page)

She’d meant Danica, of course.

He realised that he’d been shaking for the last two miles, and pulled over. Then he started to cry.

He definitely needed to have a chat with Ralph.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

R
ALPH POURED ANOTHER
apple juice. “And then you hit him?”

Niles nodded. “I hit him. And then he hit me. There were also some kicks – from Iyla, I mean. Bob wouldn’t ever kick a man while he was down. She was saying something about how I had a lot of nerve after I’d fallen for someone imaginary myself.” He gnawed his lip, eyeing Ralph’s fake whiskey. “And then... then I came straight here. Pretty much.”

Ralph took a sip. “You didn’t leave anything out of that at all? You didn’t steal a cop’s gun and shoot him with it, maybe? You could have fit that in between getting thrown out of the nursing home and hitting a woman you’d just slept with in the face with a door, I really wouldn’t put it past you...”

Niles tried to ignore his tone. “This is all completely confidential?” It was the sixth time he’d asked the question.

Ralph nodded, seemingly not minding the repetition. “I keep telling you. It’s my first rule – never betray a patient’s confidence. Remember that episode with the mafia hit man?” He smiled ruefully. “Great television, they tell me. Personally, all I remember is being absolutely wracked with guilt – honest to God. For as long as the cameras were rolling, as far as I was concerned, I
was
protecting a killer. And, as you’ll recall, I didn’t breathe a word.”

“Actually, I never saw that episode,” Niles frowned.

It made some sense, though. He’d heard stories about how deeply some Fictionals got into the ‘method’ – there was the apocryphal story of how Indiana Jones had donated half his props to a local museum, claiming that they “belonged there,” and the props department had had to shamefacedly beg for them back from the bemused museum staff. More recently, there was that ugly business with Dexter, which was fortunately nipped in the bud before anyone was badly hurt. And, of course, there was Sherlock Holmes – the one helping the police with their enquiries – who didn’t seem to see a difference between onscreen and off.

It just made Bob’s behaviour all the more puzzling to him.

“Ralph... do
you
mind not being real?”

Ralph raised his eyebrows. “Wow.”

“I know.”

“I see someone’s closet realism is no longer very closet.”

Niles sighed heavily. “I
know.
I called a Fictional a... a P-word. I don’t think I get a closet now.” He rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on. “Feel free to hit me in the stomach if you want.”

Ralph looked at him for a moment, then sat down in the
Cutner’s Chair
chair. Since he’d made that little confession about it at their last session, Niles had refused to sit in the thing, and was now perched on the wooden chair opposite where Ralph usually sat. “Do I mind not being
real..
.” He seemed to be mulling the question over.

“Am I analysing you now?” Niles groaned. He looked at the clock on Ralph’s wall – he had another thirty-five minutes of the session to go and then he’d have to pay for an extra hour on top of his usual time, assuming Ralph didn’t have that hour booked for another client. Either way, he wasn’t in the mood for Ralph to waste time with games.

Ralph smiled one of his enigmatic smiles. “Maybe. We used to do that occasionally on
Cutner’s Chair
– we’d use it for bottle episodes. I’d sit in the chair for a few hours, do some improv – well, it was improv for the actors, but for me it was serious therapy, and therapy I badly needed considering all the crap that got laid on me in the show. They’d edit it down, we’d have an hour of electrifying emotional drama for not very much money, and I’d feel a little better.” He paused, looking at Niles. “So, are
you
real?”

Niles looked at him, unable to fathom what he meant. “What do you mean? Metaphorically? Am I authentic? Because a lot of people would say that the Kurt Power novels set in the Middle East –”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ralph said, waving it aside. “Think about it from my perspective. When I came out of the tube, I knew who I was. I had a full set of – not
memories,
exactly, but a clear understanding of who I was and the course of my life so far. I was pretty well written in that way – I came with a lot of background.” He took another sip from his drink. “But I stepped out of the tube into a world where my life was fiction, a TV show. The closest I could get to it was when that show was being filmed. To me, those times, those takes, were what was real – as real as anything got. The rest... this...” He waved his hand again, dismissively. “
Are
you real? I mean, why should I believe you are?”

“Well...” Niles blinked, confused. “Because I
am
real. You’re imaginary.”

“To
you.”
Ralph grinned. “I’m pretty sure I’m not the only ‘Fictional,’” he did ‘air quotes,’ which for some reason infuriated Niles, “to think about it that way, either. So, do
you
mind not being real?”

Niles shook his head, annoyed. The whole discussion was completely absurd. “Of course not,” he snapped. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Well, there you go. That’s my answer too. You’ve got your reality, I’ve got mine, I’m perfectly content if never the twain shall meet. In fact, I’m a lot happier that way.” He grinned. “And most Fictionals are the same. We’ve all got our own internal reality, and mixing those realities up feels...” He hesitated.

“Wrong,” supplied Niles.

“Right.” Ralph nodded. “And maybe it does feel right to some people – mixing reality and fiction like that. A lot of social taboos are made to be broken, right?“

“Eww,” Niles grimaced, reacting instinctively. “You’re not saying it’s all right to –”

“Why not? This taboo’s very strong and fresh, and the media love to demonise people over it, but... what’s actually wrong with real people and imaginary people doing it? In a hundred years, people are going to wonder what all the fuss was about. Then again” – Ralph smiled, a little sheepishly – “I’ve got a theory that in a hundred years most people are going to be coming out of tubes anyway. It’ll be the only way to beat all the shit the planet’s starting to throw at us – mass genetic modification.”

“You should be a writer,” Niles said, sardonically.

“Look, I’ll let you in on a secret,” Ralph smiled. “When two Fictionals get together? You ‘real’ people” – finger quotes – “you people love it. But for the rest of us, it’s that taboo again. It’s wrong. Like... worlds colliding. That’s why Fictional weddings are usually the bride, the groom, and a bunch of non-fictionals hooting at them like they’re the last two giant pandas, and none of the rest of us to be seen –”

“Can we change the subject back to me?” Niles said, pointing a finger at the clock. “I mean, much as I’m fascinated by the lives of imaginary people – and you
are
imaginary, you’re just delusional with it – I’m not paying extra for this session because you decided to run off on a tangent.”

“Not running off, circling round.” Ralph grinned, finished his apple juice and put the glass down on the floor. “You’ve got your reality, I’ve got mine. We’re both fine with them giving each other a wide berth in the bedroom. But from the sound of it, your reality is Bob Benton’s reality too. Now, maybe that’s just bad writing at the tube stage. Who knows? But as far as he’s concerned, he’s on your side of the line. He’s
real.
”

Niles scowled. “That’s ridiculous.”

“What?” Ralph burst out laughing. “That the Pinocchio wants to be a real boy? That you’d ever let him use your golf course? What?”

“It’s just nonsense.” Niles muttered, but of course it wasn’t. It made all the sense in the world. It was why Bob was Bob, telling everyone that he was a voice actor, growing that damned beard, drinking real alcohol, and yes, yes,
say it –
sleeping with Iyla. Sleeping with his
wife.

Ralph read the look of disgust on his face and drew the obvious conclusion. “So why shouldn’t he sleep with her?”

“What?” Niles’ mind boggled. Was he
honestly
suggesting –

Ralph shrugged. “Why not? What’s the problem?”

“He’s a
Fictional –
” Niles spat the word, surprised as his own vehemence.

“Is he?” Ralph asked. “He doesn’t act like one. Hell, he’s the least fictional Fictional I ever heard of. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, he’s one of you people. You should just accept it.”

Niles knew it made sense, but he wasn’t about to accept it. If he started deciding who was Fictional and who wasn’t on
that
basis, where would it end? There had to be some kind of objective demarcations, otherwise it’d all be chaos. Anybody could just be anything they wanted to be. What sort of world was
that?
“Anyway, she’s still my wife,” he muttered. “At least, she was then. He had no right.”

Ralph got up, wandering back towards the decanter. Niles wished he’d cut back on that stuff, especially after all that gibberish about different realities. If the apple juice really was whiskey in Ralph’s reality, it actually explained an awful lot.

“Some might say,” Ralph said, pouring himself a double, “that you gave him that right when you had sex with her boss. Or even before then, when you cheated on her with that teenage barista –”

“She was twenty, and it was a smart drink café,” Niles mumbled.

“– and some other people, including me, might say that it’s not about ‘rights’ but about freedoms, and Iyla had the freedom to do whatever the hell she wanted with whoever the hell she wanted, womb-born or otherwise. You didn’t own her. She was your wife, not your property – if she didn’t like being tied to a philandering egomaniac, there was no reason on earth she had to be.” Ralph shrugged. “If you think there was, that just makes you a hypocrite as well as a cheat.”

Niles stared in disbelief. “Good God, Ralph, tell me what you really think, why don’t you –”

Ralph rolled his eyes. “Ah, you were quitting anyway. You never paid much attention to me – now you’ve finally realised you might actually need some help, you’re probably looking around for a real therapist. Someone with a real degree in what the hell’s going on with you.” He took a slug of the apple juice. “And good luck to ’em. You’re the case of a lifetime.”

Niles fidgeted in his chair, looking sour. “Thanks,” he said, bitterly. He stared at the fake degrees on the wall for a moment, then sighed heavily. “Look, I still need help with this whole Bob and Iyla situation – I can’t go to a new therapist with that.”

“Oh?” Ralph smirked. “Not going to bring the wrath of polite society down on the star-crossed lovers?”

Niles shook his head, his mouth an angry line. “No. No, I’m not.”

“Because you’ve realised I’m right?” Niles didn’t say anything. Ralph chuckled. “No, of course not. It’s because if you tell everyone you know about them, you might end up having to talk about this Liz Lavenza – that whole little adventure. I like the way you didn’t mention
her
at all during your little tirade against the evils of real-on-imaginary love, by the way...”

“It’s not the same thing at all,” Niles fumed. “She tricked me – I mean, she didn’t disclose. She was giving all kinds of mixed signals –”

“Jesus,” Ralph said, shaking his head sadly. “You’re a real mess, Niles. Well, we can stick a pin in that – get back to it later. Right now there’s something else I’m more interested in.” He leaned against the wall, studying Niles carefully. “You said your wife accused you of falling for someone imaginary, but you didn’t tell her about Ms Lavenza, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” Niles admitted. “I worked out that couldn’t have been who she meant on the way home.”

“Well, I’ll bite.” Ralph smiled, returning to the warm embrace of the chair and sitting himself down. “This was the mysterious event that finally triggered the divorce, am I right? The one you’ve consistently managed to avoid talking about in all the time you’ve been coming to see me?”

“Yes,” Niles said, guardedly.

Ralph nodded. “So. What was her name?”

“Danica,” said Niles. “Danica Moss.”

T
HINGS HAD SLOWED
between them since the Justine debacle, but not stopped. Not completely.

Sex had gone from a weekly event, to fortnightly, to monthly, and now Niles was noticing the periods between their perfunctory coitus creeping up to five or six weeks. At first he’d been annoyed about it, feeling like he was being punished, but now there seemed little point in kicking up a fuss. He was saving the marriage, that was the important thing.

He felt like a definite corner was being turned there – Iyla had started to lean on him on the couch again, relaxing in a way she hadn’t seemed able to for months. Sunday lunch had become a regular culinary adventure as they tried to cook a dish from a different country every week – her idea. They’d joined a book group together, and he was managing not to point out how wrong the various opinions on display were. People who’d wandered away from him in disgust during the worst of it were starting to drift back into his life, though they still eyed him with a wary suspicion at dinner parties, and the look in their eyes as they asked him how the latest book was going –
“oh, it’s going,”
he’d say, followed by a lengthy description of the minutiae of every single plot twist and character arc – suggested they’d rather be literally anywhere else.

Occasionally, Iyla would still dig into the wound – bitter, tearful arguments at three in the morning. Niles took these infrequent eruptions stoically, and after the Justine situation he’d become much more discreet, confining himself to very occasional one-night stands with publishing reps, PR assistants and barflies – usually, like him, just looking for a warm body – which he always dutifully regretted the next morning. Generally speaking, life was good, and Niles had felt that he could easily move forward into his sunset years at this steady pace.

He met Danica Moss at the Century City mall.