The Closer I Get

by Paul Burston

  There’s a name for this, of course. Some call it fan fiction. I prefer slash fiction. It’s more evocative and reminds me of Williams Burroughs and his famous ‘cut up’ technique, where he’d literally cut up pages of text and rearrange them in random chunks to reignite his imagination. To me, this sounds far more creative and less fawning than mere fan fiction.

  Besides, the book I wrote was nothing like Fifty Shades of Shite – to date the most successful fan fiction ever, despite its complete lack of literary merit. I was channelling the great Mr Hunter, not churning out dodgy porn inspired by sappy tales of teenage vampires. It was a meeting of minds. Remember how, in David Cronenberg’s The Fly, Jeff Goldblum and the fly enter a teleportation pod and re-emerge as one living organism? That’s how it was with us. You were the visionary. I was the fly in the ointment. Together we became a wild mutation, a hybrid. Two became one.

  Had I said this to my therapist, she’d have probably taken it literally. As I write these words, I’m seeing her reaction in pure eighties body horror movie terms. I’m picturing her in a lab coat, staring in shock and awe as my physical self mutates into something half woman and half monster – the monster, of course, being you. Had I only known your true nature at the time, I could have spared myself a lot of grief. What can I say? I was blinded by your talent. I was dazzled by your charisma. I saw only what I wanted to see.

  Because here’s the truth of the matter: if I was the fly, then you were the spider – and soon you had me trapped in your web of lies.

  I didn’t tell my therapist I was worried about my dad, but I think she sensed it somehow.

  ‘How are things at home?’ she asked as our session was drawing to a close.

  ‘Fine,’ I replied.

  ‘And your father? How’s he?’

  ‘He’s fine, too.’

  She paused before continuing. ‘You can talk to me about anything at these sessions, Evie. Anything you like. So if there’s something troubling you at home, you can tell me. You do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘There’s nothing troubling me at home,’ I said. ‘My home life is good. Couldn’t be better, in fact.’

  Maria smiled professionally. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. But if there ever was anything, I hope you’d feel comfortable bringing it up.’

  ‘I’m never more comfortable than when I’m discussing my personal life with strangers,’ I replied, archly.

  Maria didn’t miss a beat. ‘Is that why you spend so much time on social media?’

  ‘If an idea’s worth having, it’s worth sharing. I rarely discuss my personal life on social media.’

  ‘But you posted a blog about people blocking you on Twitter. That sounded quite personal.’

  ‘So you’re reading my blog now, are you? I’m honoured.’ I grinned at her. ‘And for the record, that blog wasn’t remotely personal. It was just a bit of fun, that’s all.’

  ‘Really? So it doesn’t bother you when people block you on Twitter?’

  ‘I consider it a compliment.’

  Maria frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘It shows they can’t hold an argument. Nothing says you’ve lost an argument like blocking someone. It’s like shoving your fingers in both ears and shouting, “I can’t hear you!” It’s pathetic.’

  ‘But what if someone has blocked you, and you keep tagging them and their followers in your tweets? Why would you continue to do that?’

  Of course I saw exactly where she was going with this. ‘By “someone” you mean Mr Hunter,’ I said. ‘That was a special case. I don’t make a habit of that kind of thing.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Maria asked. ‘Only that blog you posted suggests that you do. You even include the Twitter handles of people who’ve blocked you. Some might argue that you have difficulty accepting that people don’t wish to communicate with you. They might see it as an inability to cope with rejection.’

  ‘Some might argue that the world is flat,’ I replied, flatly.

  Maria widened her eyes. ‘That’s hardly the same thing.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I don’t see why not. For years, people thought the earth was flat. Scientific fact is only what the majority of scientists hold to be true at any given time. And time itself is a relative concept, as I’m sure you’re aware.’

  I could tell I’d stumped her then, because she looked at the little clock on the table beside her and could barely disguise her relief.

  ‘And that’s all the time we have today,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll see you at the same time next week.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ I replied. ‘Assuming I don’t wander off the edge of the earth between now and then.’

  I’m sure it will please Maria to learn that I haven’t wandered off the edge of the earth. But I have become rather elusive. I had another message from Dad a short while ago, demanding to know where I am. I suppose the honest answer is that I’m alone with my thoughts. Not every writer needs a room of her own. A table in a cafe or at the local library will suffice. We don’t all have the luxuries Virginia Woolf enjoyed. We can’t all afford to sit around in our seaside retreats, waiting for the muse to strike. For me, writing is a lot like physical exercise. The longer I leave it, the harder it gets. Words wither and waste away like unused muscles. But having put the hours in today, I’m pleased to say that I’ve made a major breakthrough.

  Remember when I sent you my manuscript? I was so excited. I thought I’d hear back from you the following day. I expected you to write and tell me you’d been up all night reading and how honoured you were to have helped inspire such a novel. We’d already talked about it. You’d already taken such an interest. You were my champion and here I was, paying you the highest compliment possible. I even dedicated the book to you. How could you be anything but flattered?

  When I didn’t hear from you, the elation I felt on finally completing my first novel began to drain away. With each passing day my insecurities deepened. Slowly but surely, I lost all confidence. My book was rubbish. My manuscript was unpublishable. As days turned to weeks, it felt as if a part of me had died. I pictured my words twisting and crawling over the pale pages like insects on a rotting corpse. Sickened at the thought, I locked the manuscript safely away in a drawer. Still it wouldn’t leave me alone. In my fevered imagination, the drawer became a coffin. I pictured my characters shaking their heads sadly at me like mourners at a funeral, mortified at the way I’d failed them. I imagined them whispering together behind my back, out there in the darkness. Sometimes I swear I could even hear them.

  But today I decided to face my fears. I crept back into the house while Dad was at work and retrieved my manuscript from my desk drawer. I was half expecting to find it reduced to dust and ashes. But there it was, as solid as the day I last saw it. Reading it again, I’m pleased to say that it’s far better than I remembered.

  There’s just one problem, one element that isn’t quite right. For the life of me I couldn’t work out what it was. And then it finally hit me. It’s you. Your character isn’t working for me anymore. And you know what they say, Tom. Sometimes you have to kill your little darlings. So I’ve decided to kill you off.

  27

  ‘I was told she’d be back at work today,’ Tom says to the impatient-sounding woman on the end of the phone. ‘Yes, I called earlier. Yes, I know she’s been away. I see. Well, if you could ask her to call me back as soon as she gets this, I’d be very grateful.’

  It’s just after 10.00 on Monday morning. Five days since he rang the police and was informed that Sue Grant was on annual leave. Four days since he risked his agent’s wrath by pulling out of Woman’s Hour at the last minute, pleading an upset stomach but secretly fearing that any further mention of Evie Stokes would only add fuel to the fire. Three days since he received a text from Emma telling him he’d made the right decision. Two hours since he last checked Twitter, hoping the storm will have finally blown over and disappointed to find that it hasn’t. At least the hashtag #IBelieveEvie is
no longer trending. On Thursday it reached a point where he felt as if the whole world was against him. At least now it seems to have died down a bit.

  God knows he’s tried his best to avoid social media. He knows it isn’t good for him, not in his current state of mind. But it’s been impossible to ignore it completely. He’s scrolled through his recent Facebook posts, looking to see if there’s something there that reveals his whereabouts. He’s not in the habit of ‘checking in’ on Facebook, the way some people seem compelled to do each time they visit a new city or some swanky bar or restaurant. He hates the thought of someone tracking his every move. But perhaps he inadvertently gave away the fact that he’s in Hastings, and this is where Evie Stokes gleaned her information. But no, there’s nothing. There’s nothing on his Twitter feed either. This leaves two possibilities: either she’s a mind reader or she’s been talking to someone. Only two people knew of his plans to come to Hastings. Tom doubts very much that Stokes would have gained access to his agent. Which leaves Emma.

  He hasn’t responded to her text, and there’s been no further communication from her since. Is she still angry with him, or is her prolonged silence evidence of a guilty conscience? Come to think of it, he hasn’t heard from Lucinda either. He wonders if she’s been too busy to find time to read his manuscript. Maybe she hates it. Or maybe she’s still smarting about Woman’s Hour and is making him suffer. If that’s her plan, it’s working.

  Tom reaches for his coffee cup, drains it and rises from his chair. There’s no point sitting here in his bathrobe, waiting for his phone to ring, going round in circles. Too much introspection can drive a man insane. He needs to clear his head. Time to face the day and get some fresh air.

  Half an hour later, shaved and showered, Tom heads downstairs and opens the front door to what he assumes will be another sunny morning, perfect for lazing on the beach. But his hopes are dashed the moment he steps outside. It’s like walking into a cloud. A thick fog has rolled in, so dense he can barely see the far side of the road. A string of cars passes by, travelling at well below the speed limit, hazard lights on.

  ‘Sea mist,’ a familiar voice says. ‘It gets like this sometimes. Even in high summer.’

  Tom turns to see Colin perched on his usual chair on the front patio, a newspaper open on the table beside him.

  ‘How long will it last?’

  His neighbour shrugs. ‘Hard to say. Could be a few hours. Could be a few days. I hope it clears by tomorrow or we’ll miss the blood moon.’

  Tom looks at him blankly.

  ‘The lunar eclipse,’ Colin says, jabbing a finger at his newspaper. ‘They’ve been going on about it all week.’ He looks at Tom. ‘Are you okay, son? Only you don’t seem quite yourself.’

  Tom forces a smile. ‘You know us writers. Head in the clouds.’

  The old man studies him for a moment, then rises from his seat. ‘Well I’m going back indoors. You can join me if you like, only I should warn you I’m not great company today. It’s the anniversary of my Graham’s passing.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Tom says. Then, for want of something else to say, ‘You must miss him.’

  ‘Every day. But we’ll be together again soon. It won’t be long now.’ Colin must sense Tom’s discomfort because he changes the subject. ‘If you’re stuck for something to do, I can recommend the aquarium. I don’t think this mist will clear any time soon. It’s a thick one. What we used to call a real pea-souper.’

  The old man isn’t wrong. Crossing the road to the seafront and heading in the general direction of the Old Town, Tom is amazed at just how thick the mist is. It rolls around him like the famous London fog he’s only ever seen in photographs. It’s hard to believe that yesterday the beach was packed with people sunbathing. He knows the sea is still there. He can hear the crash and hiss of waves on the pebbles. But the water is no longer visible, the shoreline shrouded behind a wall of white.

  The pier is closed. Tom stops and peers through the wrought-iron gates, imagining the empty wooden deck as the setting for some gothic melodrama. He pictures shadowy figures in oilskins emerging from the mist, the vengeful ghosts of ancient mariners, come to claim the lives of innocent townsfolk. He recalls some slasher film with photogenic teens being ripped apart by a fisherman with a meat hook.

  There’s a chill wind blowing along the seafront. Even the gulls are feeling it. They shiver on the shingle at Pelham Beach, hunched and watchful as cats. Heading along East Beach Street, Tom wishes he’d worn a zip top over his T-shirt and cargo shorts. But he’s almost reached his destination and can’t face the thought of turning back now.

  The Blue Reef Aquarium is situated past the Jerwood Gallery at Rock-a-Nore, close to the Fisherman’s Museum and the Shipwreck Museum. Tom smiles to himself. Only in Hastings. The outside of the building is rather shabby. A window display promises more than forty naturally themed habitats, ‘from the shoreline of Hastings to the tropical waters of the deep ocean’ complete with ‘fascinating seahorses, pulsating jellyfish, amazing pufferfish and graceful rays’. The main selling point is a ‘giant ocean exhibit where an underwater tunnel offers incredible views of reef sharks, stingrays and shoals of colourful reef fish’.

  Tom has seen his fair share of exotic fish, snorkelling in the clear blue waters of Sharm el Sheik back in the days before it became a no-go area for tourists. He’s also cage-dived with great white sharks in far murkier conditions off the coast of South Africa. He recalls the thrill of seeing an enormous great white emerge from the gloomy depths and nudge the cage with its snout. Somehow he doubts that the aquarium’s resident black-tip reef sharks, ‘Razor and Elsa’, will live up to that adrenaline-pumping experience. But he hands over his tenner to the bored-looking girl at the front desk and pockets the change before following the signs down to the exhibits.

  Inside, it’s busier than expected, presumably on account of the bad weather. Groups of teenagers are milling about – the boys laughing and jostling for position, the girls issuing squeals of protest that barely disguise their delight in all that male attention. ‘That’s disgusting!’ one girl cries, pointing at the glass where a striped, spiny fish is fanning its pectoral fins and gazing blankly, open mouthed.

  ‘Actually, that’s a lion fish,’ Tom feels like saying, but keeps his own mouth firmly shut. He can already feel the boys eyeing him with suspicion, that sixth sense they have for singling out men not quite like themselves.

  In another part of the aquarium, a small child is shouting excitedly to his parents, pointing at a clown fish and announcing that he’s found Nemo. The mother catches Tom’s eye and gives a little shrug as if to say, ‘you know what they’re like’. He smiles back, though he has only the vaguest idea of what they’re like. He barely knows his young nephew and niece, and has never considered the possibility of having kids of his own. He likes small children, but they’re as alien to him as the creatures housed behind the glass.

  Later, walking through the underwater tunnel beneath the ocean tank, Tom spots one of the black-tip reef sharks and begins to feel a sense of wonder. It’s not the same as seeing these magnificent creatures in their natural habitat, but the sight of any shark this big carries a certain level of excitement and comes laden with cultural reference points, from Jaws to Open Water.

  Tom stops and stands, staring up at the four-foot long fish passing above his head, marvelling at the muscular, streamlined body with its white belly and black-tipped tail and dorsal fin. Though smaller than the mighty great white, reef sharks are apex predators and one of the most commonly sighted of all sharks. They prefer shallow water and can often be seen swimming close to shore with the dorsal fin exposed – the classic ‘shark shot’ so beloved by filmmakers. They feed mainly on smaller fish, though Tom recalls reading somewhere that people wading through shallow water have been known to be attacked. The key, apparently, is to submerge your body and swim rather than wade, so the shark is less likely to mistake you for food. But wasn’t Open Water ba
sed on a real-life incident? And weren’t the killer sharks featured in that film members of this species?

  He senses a sudden movement behind him as a huddle of tourists pass by, their reflections dark and squat, distorted by the curve of the glass tunnel. Moments later, they’re gone, voices echoing as they disappear from view. Tom returns his gaze to the sea world above his head, lost for a moment in memories of Sharm el Sheik, the morning a couple of reef sharks suddenly appeared in the hotel’s off-shore swimming area and everyone was urged to get out of the water.

  Something catches his eye – a shadowy figure hovering behind him, the face a blur framed by long hair. Abruptly, the woman steps forwards, her reflection sharpens and her features come into focus. Tom’s heart stops. It’s Evie Stokes. He spins round, arms raised to defend himself.

  ‘What the—’

  The woman facing him isn’t Evie Stokes. She’s a lot younger and wears a shirt emblazoned with the logo for the aquarium. She smiles nervously. ‘Sorry to startle you, sir. I just came to say we’ll be feeding the rays and sharks in a few minutes. You’re welcome to stay here, but I could see how interested you are in the sharks, so…’

  Tom’s face burns with embarrassment. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, of course. And sorry about that. I thought you were … someone else.’

  Outside, the sea mist shows no sign of lifting. If anything, it seems thicker than when he arrived, swirling in dense clouds around him, making visibility poor. The moist air clings to his face, clammy and claustrophobic. Tom checks his phone, sees there’ve been no missed calls. He considers trying Sue Grant again, then decides against it. What would she think if she could see the state of him? Would she hear the tremor in his voice? For a moment back there, he was convinced that Stokes had tracked him down. She’d come seeking revenge for all the things he’d said about her and all the abuse she was receiving on Twitter. She’s obsessive, relentless, mentally unstable, capable of anything. And somehow she’d found him. Tom thinks of the man in the Guardian article whose stalker stabbed him in the chest. His blood runs cold.