The Fictional Man (25 page)

No. Now was not the time. He quickly moved his laptop to cover
The Doll’s Delight,
removing the temptation. Then he went to the kitchen and made himself a fourth vodka.

“Right,” he muttered, returning to the couch, drink in hand. “
The Dangerous Mr Doll,
take one.” This was going to be the big one – the one they’d remember him for. An exegesis on the subject of life, fiction and Fictionals, wrapped up in just over two hours of girls in bikinis and exploding volcano bases. Everything he’d learned over the past few days in one soul-searing package.

Steady, he told himself.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

And open on...

He couldn’t think of anything. “Open on...” He mumbled the words out loud, but his voice just sounded high-pitched and feeble in his ears. His head felt raw, empty, scraped out like a pumpkin. Open on... something. Open on what?

He tried to imagine himself talking to Dean, or Jane, or Mike. All three of them, in some boardroom or meeting room somewhere. All of them waiting to hear what their pet genius had to say.

“Open on...”
the author said, and paused. The producers looked up at him, expectantly. In the corner of the room, he could hear a clock ticking.

One of the producers looked at his watch.

Suddenly it came to him. “Open on a Fictional, lying inside a ring of stones on a grassy field,” the author said. “His face is being eaten by rats and mice.”

The producers shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Niles winced, furiously rubbing at his temples. “God, no. Not that.” His head was starting to throb unpleasantly. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with a cold.

“Open on...” the author thought desperately for a moment – “Open on a ring of stones in a forest. A ballerina dances with a large stuffed bear.”

One of the producers looked at the others, shaking her head. “What is this, Tim Burton? Come on, we’re trying to make a serious movie here.”

Niles looked at his glass for a moment, then tossed it back in one. “Write drunk, edit sober,” he muttered to himself. It was good enough for Hemingway.

“Right,” he said, voice thick and choked. “Pitch for
Mr Doll
reboot. Go. We open on...” He licked his lips, staring at the sliver of hardback peeking out from under the black plastic of the laptop. “We open on...”

“We open on a small, carved wooden figure. Limbs like thin twigs. Mouth a cruel slash in its face. Eyes bored out with the point of a switchblade.” The author leaned forward, urgently, locking eyes with each of the producers in turn. “Underneath the figure – wet grass. It’s night. A field. A ring of stone. The thunder cracks! Lightning flashes – illuminating a single set of footprints. Someone left this strange talisman here. But who? And why?”

The producers craned their neck, lapping it up. “Who?” asked one of them, breathlessly, his watch forgotten. “Why?” asked another. The author looked down at them, eyes filled with cold command. He paused for a long moment – then spoke.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” he said, and threw himself out of a window.

“Fuck it,” Niles growled, and lifted up the laptop.

H
E LOOKED FOR
Mervyn Burroughs first, trying every search he could think of, but aside from the website he’d already seen, nothing came up.
“Weird!!!”
remained the only word available on Mervyn.

He had a little more success with Henry R Dalrymple, but not much. There was a Henry Robert Dalrymple on Wikipedia – a Canadian Professor of Chemistry who occasionally appeared on children’s TV, born in 1962, not the right one – and any number of Henry Dalrymples on the various family tree research sites, but combing through those would have taken him weeks. Although he supposed he could cut the time down by checking if any of them had nieces named ‘Aspy’ – that couldn’t be a common name. It was almost certainly short for something –

He paused for a moment, then picked up the hardback and turned it over, examining the spine. Aspidistra Press. ‘Aspy.’

He tried the White Pages – didn’t bring up a match. Of course, if she was his niece, there was no reason why she should have his surname – even if she did, she might have married and taken someone else’s name in the meantime. On a whim, he tried ‘Aspidistra Burroughs.’

Three matches. One in Michigan, one in Tennessee, one in California.

The one in California remembered
The Doll’s Delight.

“Oh my goodness,” she said, in a frail, bird-like voice, “Uncle Henry’s book! Do you know, I’d almost forgotten about that.”

“Well, I’ve got a copy here actually,” he said, unable to hide his smile. He was feeling an immense glow of satisfaction from just talking to the woman – with the four vodkas in him, the conversation felt like real progress towards the goal of a finished pitch, even though the sober part of him knew that he was only taking himself further and further down a blind alley. “Just got it today.”

She laughed. “Ha! How’d you like it? Scared the pants off you, I’ll bet.”

“It, er, it was certainly something,” Niles smiled. “I’ve got a few questions I was wanting to ask you about it, actually –”

“Well, here’s one thing I’ll tell you for nothing,” she said with a little chuckle, “you want to hang onto it. My Dad and Uncle Henry only managed to print up a few of them – not even double figures, I don’t think. Your copy’s probably worth something.”

About $120, thought Niles, not counting postage and packing. “Actually, I think it’s your copy.”

“No!” She sounded shocked.

“There’s a dedication here in pencil, saying
To Aspy.
It’s how I found you, as a matter of fact.”

“You are
kidding!
It’s the very same one Uncle Henry gave me? Do you know, I thought that was gone for good! How much do you want for it?” There was a noise from the background – someone voicing an objection. “Oh, hush up, Meadow! It’s my money, I’ll blow it how I like! Or, for gosh sakes –” She sighed down the line, exasperated. “My
daughter
would like a
word.
”

Niles could actually hear the roll of her eyes.

“Hello?” A younger, harsher voice. Niles could tell he wasn’t going to get on with her. “Listen, we’re absolutely not interested in buying anything over the phone right now.” A murmur of protest in the background. “Mama, I don’t
care
! You’re not falling for another
scam
!”

“Well,” Niles interrupted her, “I wasn’t actually planning on selling it. I could
give
it to her, if she wants, but –”

“Is this a book club?” Meadow said, sounding suspicious. “Because we’re not interested in signing up for any of those either. Listen, can I speak to your supervisor?”

“I don’t have a supervisor,” Niles sighed, “I’m, I’m sort of tracking the evolution of a story –” He realised how ridiculous it sounded even as it came out of his mouth. “I mean, I’m interested in this children’s book I’ve got and I was wanting to ask your mother a few questions about it –”

“We’re just not interested in buying anything right –“ Melody started, and then there was another interruption from behind her. “
Mother,
I’m trying to
help you –
” The line went dead.

Niles stared at the phone for a moment, wondering if he should call them back. He really didn’t want to waste any more time talking to Meadow – then again, that seemed to be the only way to get the answers he was looking for. He really felt like he was on the cusp of something important.

“Spare change?” the author grinned at the passer-by, through what few teeth remained. The man took one look at him – the long, greasy hair, the unkempt beard, the hollow set of his eyes, the stinking, filth-covered shawl that was wrapped around him like the decaying skin of some mangy animal – and almost vomited into the gutter. “Spare a little change, sir?” the artist repeated, rattling his tin mug. There was a single bottle cap inside.

“Get a job!” the passer-by cried – an instinctive howl of pure revulsion.

“I can’t,” the author moaned. “I’m on the cusp of something important.”

“Then again,” Niles said aloud, “I should really get back to the pitch.” If Aspidistra Burroughs really wanted to talk to him, she could surely always phone back. Right now he had to work out how to make
Mr Doll
work, without bringing in fairy rings, whittled wooden dolls, or giant rats eating the hero’s face.

He checked the time – thirteen minutes to eight. Well, no sense starting on an odd number. He’d wait until ten to. Or maybe make himself a hot drink and start fresh on the dot of eight.

Maybe half past.

He sighed heavily, staring at the dead phone for a moment, willing it to ring. When it did, he was quite disappointed to see that it was Bob.

N
ILES STARED MOROSELY
at the phone, waiting for the buzzing to stop. It was the third time Bob had called, and Niles still wasn’t about to pick up. He considered turning his phone off altogether, but he didn’t want to miss a call back from Aspidistra, if it should come – or even Mike. Or Maurice might finally return one of his calls, he mused.

After a minute, the phone went to voicemail. Niles reached out, found the message, and deleted it without listening, as he had the three others. He had nothing to say to Bob.

He put the phone back down on the coffee table and tried to concentrate on the pitch. After a moment, it began buzzing again – he scowled to himself, cursing Bob under his breath, then picked it up. Obviously the man wasn’t going to take voicemail for an answer.

“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” he said curtly, then ended the call.

A moment later, the phone started vibrating in his hand.

He lifted up the phone and swiped his thumb again, accepting the call. “Fuck off.”

“Niles, come on...” Bob’s voice. Niles wondered if it had always had that wheedling tone.

“I told you, I’ve got nothing to say.” He was surprised at how tired and miserable his voice sounded, how much bitterness he could hear. Maybe now would be a good time to write a children’s book.

“Look,” Bob said, in a calm, reasonable tone which made Niles want to rip his teeth out with a rusty pair of pliers, “I just don’t want to leave things how we left them, okay? I figure we owe each other that, at least.”

“You know what, Bob? You’re right. We really shouldn’t leave things like that,” Niles snarled, “we should leave them like this:
fuck off
.” He ended the call and put the phone down. Almost immediately it started buzzing again. He picked it back up. “Jesus Christ, Bob, is it ‘fuck’ you’re finding so confusing, or ‘off’?”

“Have you been drinking?”

Yes, and after this he’d need another. “None of your fucking business. Listen, don’t you have anything better to be doing at the moment? You could be failing to get a job as the voice of a ghost on
Scooby-Doo
, maybe. Or moaning endlessly about how you wish you hadn’t come out of a fucking
tube
– you know, your big brother Robert found a neat solution to that one –”

“Niles, that’s too far –” Bob said, sounding hurt. Niles ignored him.

“Hey!
Here’s
a thing you could be doing!
Fucking my ex-wife
!” He screamed it into the phone –
let
the fucking neighbours talk – and slammed it face down on the coffee table. It took a second of Bob’s plaintive whining coming out of the speaker for him to remember that phones didn’t actually work like that anymore. He picked it up again and ended the call. “Fuck off, Bob.”

He stared at the thing for a second, daring it to ring again. It’d go straight in the washing machine on a 60˚ spin cycle if it did – wash the stubborn little skidmark away.

Bob wouldn’t ring again, though. Not after that, surely. He wouldn’t dare. Niles stared daggers at the plastic. “Just try it, you little electronic prick,” he hissed. “Try letting that call through. So help me...”

Nothing.

After a few long seconds of silence, Niles allowed himself to breathe out. All right. Interruption over. Time to get back on with the –

The phone rang.

Niles grabbed it and swiped his thumb so hard he thought it might break. “
FUCK
,” he screamed – face red, spit flying, eyes and veins bulging – “
OFFFF!
”

“Mr Golan?”

It wasn’t Bob.

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling that deep sense of calm he’d always supposed people felt just before they drove their car onto the pavement and mowed down a bus queue. “I was expecting a call from someone else.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded like a middle-aged woman – oh, God, he thought, please don’t let it be Meadow again. But it wasn’t her – the voice was a lot more refined, upper class even by LA’s rarefied standards. Niles had a vague feeling he’d heard it before, months ago, but he couldn’t place it.

He looked at the phone.
New number.
“I’m sorry, who is this?”

“It’s Aline Zuckerbroth, Mr Golan. I understand you worked for my husband?”

Niles winced. He remembered now.

At some early point in their relationship, Maurice had invited him over to the house for a barbecue. Maurice’s wife had been there, a tall, willowy and supremely objectionable woman whose face was locked in a permanent expression of mild surprise – the work of one of the many different plastic surgeons she’d been to in her quest for the best face money could buy. The woman had skin like a spacehopper.

She’d spent the whole occasion sniping subtly at everyone who came in range, and a few weeks later, when Maurice had mentioned the divorce proceedings, Niles had quietly thanked whoever was up there that he’d never have to see or talk to her again. And now here she was on the other end of his phone.

Well, he’d told her to fuck off, at least. That was one to cross off the bucket list.

“I think technically he works for me,” he said, peevishly. “He’s an agent, I’m his client. His fee is a percentage of mine – that’s how agents work.”

“Oh,” Mrs Zuckerbroth said, expertly conveying in one syllable how little she cared. She’d been practicing that
oh
for years. “Well, I was just ringing round all of his employees –”