The Last Book. A Thriller

by Michael Collins

  Looking back over the last couple of months, it’s clear that the marriage had been crap for a long time before that—maybe a couple of years. It hadn’t just become stale, a state he observed in many of his acquaintances’ long-term relationships, it had contracted a foul, putrefying disease that niggled at his guts from the time he woke from his alcohol-assisted sleep until his last swig of the night. It wasn’t Zack’s idea of a dream relationship—more like a living hell. And he was buggered if he knew why it had gone so wrong.

  On the last day that he saw his wife, Zack sat in his study watching the light blue haze of the Beemer’s exhaust dissipating slowly over the rose bushes, clenching and unclenching his jaw in a suffocating fug of bitterness and frustration. He was trapped—trapped in the house, trapped in his study, and trapped in his fucking chair. If he wanted to piss, he could reach for a bucket and do it—just. But, take a dump, something to eat, call someone, the all-important bottle of scotch—those things were in the realm of the impossible. Unable to reach the outer edges of his desk, he was as helpless as a baby.

  Zack glanced at his computer screen and looked away. His writing had gone pear-shaped. He fully intended to write—like a demon. But it wasn’t happening. As each day passed, it was easier to sit there feeling sorrier for himself—something he admitted he was becoming quite adept at. The only time his mood improved was when he drank his way into the whiskey bottle. For a while, as the level of his liquor of choice sank, and his spirits rose, his life became less and less dismal. He felt his intellect swelling like a mushroom cloud, bursting from his cranium with ideas. In a comfortable alcoholic fug he was invincible—unstoppable—a colossus, towering over his fellow men. He knew then what he had to write, and how, the words tumbling through his mind in a cataract of perfect sense. Unfortunately it didn’t last.

  When the booze had gone and the room turned cold along with his brain, the only light was from his computer screen. It shone with a sorrowful, mocking emptiness. No inspired writings, not even worthless drivel. More rubbish.

  3. New York

  A pact with the devil

  In his early thirties, Ethan Cross, Argon’s youngest ever Senior Vice President for marketing, never came across as troubled by self doubt. His impressive work ability, bringing him to CEO Mark Payne’s microscopic attention, was the least of his abilities. Ethan was a savage corporate animal and workplace predator, inflicting pain, humiliation and suffering on his co-workers and subordinates, and using every possible underhand technique to claw his way up the corporate ladder. Nor was he averse to using his good looks—fine, almost feminine features and wide, gentle, trustworthy brown eyes —to discover his competitors’ darkest personal secrets and use them for his own purposes with devastating effect. Those who had fallen foul of his tactics, and were still limping around, referred to him as The Beast.

  When Payne summoned Cross to his uptown office, a suite gobbling up seven floors of New York’s most expensive high-rise real estate, he reckoned he knew Ethan better than the devil-minded player knew himself. He’d had the young man watched every step of his career, biding his time as the body count rose. He was delighted as Cross continued to sharpen his teeth on the bones of anyone who stood in his way. He was ready.

  Payne switched on the CCTV array on his office wall, grinning ferociously as he watched his protégé’s lithe, Armani clad figure making his way through the heavy security in the lobby. He noted which of his senior staff glanced back fearfully as Ethan danced arrogantly through. They were nervous of Cross and had every reason to fear him.

  Argon’s most senior executive shrugged out of his perfectly tailored suit jacket and loosened his tie in an uncharacteristic display of informality. Glancing at his reflection in a Louis XV mirror—the only wall furnishing in the cavernous office—he reluctantly gave his thick mane of silver hair a light ruffle, instantly coming across as a softer and more approachable person. This meeting was critical and he was looking forward to doing mental battle with a young and ambitious bastard who’d stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

  Two months back, four of Ethan’s team, opposing a merger his protégé had been working on, had taken courage with their numbers to serve the lad a humiliating and potentially embarrassing defeat during a well-attended presentation. Although his proposal made brilliant business sense, for some inexplicable reason it was viciously critiqued. Ethan had accepted the drubbing with apparent equanimity. He congratulated his co-workers on their excellent research and invited them all to dinner.

  Their victory was short-lived. The Beast had gone straight to work and, within a week, when over 4,000 shared porn images of an extremely graphic nature were found on their hard drives, two of his male opponents had been instantly dismissed—feebly protesting their innocence. Their computers had been serviced following a system malfunction, mysteriously originating from their own work email addresses. What more could be said?

  Payne watched Ethan’s next presentation with perverse interest. With his last two adversaries unexpectedly on sick leave for work related stress, there were no objections to his proposal and it was accepted with considerable applause.

  His PA announced Ethan’s arrival and Payne rose from his chair to greet him—a very rare honor, and Ethan would know it.

  ‘Coffee?’ Payne offered.

  ‘No thank you, sir, I like to keep myself pumping on the natural stuff.’

  Payne’s eyes danced mischievously.

  ‘You don’t smoke then?’

  ‘No sir, I don’t,’ Ethan replied. He was perfectly well aware of his CEO’s aversion to both caffeine and, perversely, cigarettes. He kept his research on Payne up to date.

  ‘But I’ve no objection to how others take their pleasures,’ he added.

  ‘Does that include porn?’ Payne fired back.

  Ethan’s eyes flickered almost imperceptibly as the shot went home. He glanced at his boss, sweeping his face for clues, but Payne knew the dance steps too well. He was the master here and, knowing that Ethan’s mind would be doing mental somersaults, kept his expression openly neutral.

  ‘No, I don’t agree with that, sir,’ Ethan said, watching the other man.

  ‘Mark, call me Mark,’ Payne said, bestowing another rare and disarming gift of friendship. ‘No, I didn’t think you were, young man. By the way,’ he added, waving Ethan towards a couple of comfortable armchairs, ‘congratulations on the success of your merger.’

  Since Ethan’s coup, three companies he’d dragged out of obscurity and then torn apart in a savage reconstruction process had returned over thirty five million dollars in pre-tax earnings. But he knew he wasn’t in one of the world’s most powerful office suites to hear belated praise for one of the corporate assassinations he was both intuitively and consistently good at. Ethan was careful. He was aware of being watched, and aware he was destined for high places—this very office too if he had his way. He also knew his ability to move stealthily relied on his maintaining an apparent unawareness that his every move was being monitored and assessed. Payne’s referencing pornography had unnerved him. He had to be more careful.

  ‘Thanks, Mark,’ Ethan said, sitting down a measured millisecond after his boss. ‘I hope I’m doing my best in a minor player sort of way.’

  Payne snorted.

  ‘Well said, although we never regard thirty five million as small change. And you could have lost us twice as much if Dayton Products hadn’t folded so very conveniently, couldn’t you?’

  Ethan nodded thoughtfully as his radar went on full alert. He could feel the very ground cracking and shifting beneath him as his mind whirled back through scenario after scenario of the takeover. What exactly did they know, and where the fuck was the information coming from?

  Payne smiled. Dayton Products had been a sentimentally choked, mid-western, father-and-two-sons outfit that had categorically resisted the merger. Everyone but the old man could see that the company was in dire trouble, seriously over-extended and heading for ins
olvency. The two sons had pleaded with their father to come to the party, but he was old school and believed that a turnaround in fortune was always just around the corner. The crap fucking business wasn’t worth a tenth of what Ethan was offering, but Argon needed the company registration to add credibility to the rest of the deal.

  Ethan didn’t give up, as the sons discovered when he reappeared right after their father’s funeral. They gladly signed away their miserable inheritance for half the original offer. The Dayton boys were relieved. They were happy to put the ailing business as far behind them as possible. When their father had been found dead in his carbon dioxide-filled car, half-way between home and work, the cause of death was recorded as suicide.

  Lifting his eyes to stare directly into Payne’s face, Ethan decided to play a very dangerous card.

  ‘I will do whatever it takes to help this company succeed, Mark,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  As Ethan heard his words reverberate inside his head, he fully understood the consequences of the statement. He was not only declaring his unconditional commitment to Argon, he was also, to a greater or lesser extent, acquiescing to his possible involvement in at least one very serious crime.

  ‘I think we may have something very important for you to do, Ethan,’ Payne said, leaning back in his chair. ‘It’s something so secret that only I know about it. And we won’t be looking at thirty five million. It will be more like thirty five billion dollars, and that’s just for starters.’

  Ethan’s heart hammered inside his chest. Although few people knew it, Argon’s complex tentacles of interests enveloped Europe, Asia and the Americas. Through his own involvement, Ethan was aware of the business acquisitions side of things—well some it. Over the years he’d seen hints of involvement in arms supplies, humanitarian aide, tobacco, pharmaceuticals, and stock and fuels markets. What Argon wasn’t prepared to be involved in simply didn’t make them enough money. Ethan was aware that just setting foot in this office would be the ultimate goal of most Argon executives but, to work directly for the main man …

  ‘You can count on me, Mark,’ Ethan said, stunned at how easily the words had slipped from his mouth.

  ‘You know I think I can, Ethan,’ Payne said, smiling for the first time. ‘Would you like some chai tea?’

  The Boy

  His father was dead. His mother told him nothing at first—it was Joey. When the boy accidentally discovered the art of blackmail, his brother spilt the beans.

  Hoping to avoid the older neighborhood kids, and another roughing up, he cut through the back of their tenement. He was heading for a brick wall angled between two buildings he could bounce his ball from in peace. He was almost four, but still the outsider. Anything he carried, he was prepared to lose and he’d only just gotten the ball for his birthday.

  He stopped at the sound—the harsh scrape of metal on concrete coming from behind a half-open door he hadn’t really noticed before now. He was ready to run. Some of the kids snuck around the back to smoke dog-ends they’d scooped up from the pavements. They wouldn’t welcome his presence.

  The sound wasn’t repeated and the boy became curious, edging forward until he could peer into the gloom. He realized he’d probably regret his nosiness, but he couldn’t help himself.

  There were a few tools scattered around the floor—he could recognize a shovel and a pickaxe. He’d seen men working the roads with them—hugely muscled and dressed in long, baggy trousers and vests, the men swung the heavy tools with apparent ease, and they often whistled at his mom, at the same time giving him a wink and a smile. They liked him and he liked them back.

  Small enough to squeeze through the gap without opening the door any further, he stood in the room blinking. As his eyes adjusted, the first thing he could make out was a leg—bent widely at the knee and a foot that twitched. He stared. Apart from his mom’s he’d never seen anyone with legs so naked and white.

  With a shock he recognized Joey’s bum. They shared a room, he’d seen it often enough. Its cheeks were locked together and the flesh taut as it rocked fiercely up and down. The boy became aware of a smell. Something different, it was a strange and heavy odor mingling with Joey’s usual sweat.

  Reluctantly, his eyes traveled to their faces. Joey had his eyes tightly shut and, with his mouth half-open looked like he was in pain. Underneath him, the girl—he recognized Sharlene from down the hall—had her head thrown back and was moaning softly. Creeping closer, he could see a booger sticking out of one side of her nose and wondered if she knew it was there.

  Sharlene’s nose was blasted from his mind when she turned her face towards him and then shrieked. He was rooted to the spot, watching her lift her hips in one mighty thrust and catapult his bellowing brother up and off her. As the boy tried to take in the scene, terror gripped him. Joey lay on his back moaning, his widdle an enormous pulsating purple stalk. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  The boy was stunned. As Joey’s tumescent penis rapidly subsided, he switched his attention to Sharlene’s groin and almost fainted. Legs still wide apart, reddened by friction and clearly showing only a tiny puff of hair around a gaping wound, he had no doubt at all. She’d lost her widdle.

  ‘Get out you littler fucker,’ she screamed, pulling down her dress.

  Mortified, the boy ran for it. What had he done?

  4. Sydney

  A writer’s lot

  Zachary Corsfield, writer and published author, hadn’t always been a pathetic drunk. Just over a year ago he wasn’t spending his days moping around a reluctant keyboard, playing computer games to pass the time until he decided it was a reasonable hour to start hitting the booze. Back then he had his shit together. His novel, the first in a trilogy and a three book deal with an obscene advance, had caught the public’s attention and taken off with an unexpected roar. Conveniently, the second book, already written, was thrown to a howling readership after a quick tidy-up. It was devoured hungrily.

  Suddenly, for Zack, the dream of every writer had come true. Within months he was famous, filthy rich and facing the inconceivable possibility of becoming a billionaire author. So, as he lapped up the limelight and partied with the horde of sycophants that materialized within minutes, why did he feel such a fraud?

  As he vacuumed up coke at a hundred bucks a throw, and tossed single malts and Dom down his throat with uncaring speed, in the back of Zack’s mind lurked a terrifying fact. There was no book three.

  In hindsight, the first two seemed a breeze. Taking menial, no-brainer jobs to give him the time to think, he’d written the first two novels over a ten year period, throwing his all at them.

  As their two children had grown and gone their independent and separate ways and his relationship with Kristen slid into a comfortable existence, he discovered a world of his own making. His words could shape the futures of his subjects, determine their states of happiness, control their desires, reward the worthy or punish the weak with spiteful brutality. At the stroke of a key he found he could bequeath enormous wealth, success, suffering, or a slow, uncomfortable death. In this, his ever-expanding private universe, he was omnipotent and he reveled in every moment of it.

  As he wrote, he unexpectedly discovered his innate cruelty, finding a shivering pleasure in imposing harsh terms of servitude on his imaginary victims. In some cases he would prolong the agony of the condemned. Visualizing their frightened, wriggling bodies pinned to a wall like live specimens. Before publication, the editing process expunged a great deal of the gratuitous violence from the books, but plenty remained to entertain the masses. Anyway, it was all just a harmless bit of fiction, wasn’t it?

  On publication, the public had reacted with stunning force, silencing his shocked critics. His readers were unanimous in their judgment. In his books people got what they deserved and vengeance was not only justified, it paid off. There weren’t any good guys to pique the reader’s conscience and get in the way of a good story. Everyone Zack wrote about was either a
survivor by whatever means, or had died horribly.

  Somehow the two tomes of vitriol and violence had used up all of his creativity. At first he was sure it would come tumbling back but, as the deadline for delivery of book three’s first draft loomed, he began to panic. Days flew by. The flashing curser mocked his efforts as he wrote, re-wrote, deleted, cursed and cursed louder. As the light dwindled every evening and the amber liquid called, barring the initial couple of thousand words he’d put down months ago, he had nothing more.

  *

  Wishing he could get up and move, Zack shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His inner frustration bubbled and seethed. He never used to feel this way. There was a time he could meet a challenge head on and think his way calmly out of a sticky situation. And this was definitely very sticky.

  Zack looked at his desk. What could help him? He had his laptop within very easy reach thanks to the beaky faced one. No matter how much he preferred its real keyboard compared to those new-fangled retina sensitive things, that old-fashioned clunker wasn’t going to be much use getting him out of this mess. A handsome, solid gold laser lighter, a gift of appreciation from some big company in the States, gleamed incongruously from the corner of his desk. Although Zack had never smoked in his life, and always harbored a strong aversion to the habit, he loved that lighter. Sleek, heavy and very clever, he once saw it as a measure of his worth. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  He’d seen his GP, a man he’d known for years. Coming away after receiving an earful tantamount to verbal abuse, he resolved to find a more amenable medical practitioner. The quack had been insufferably rude, ordering Zack to get on with his writing and not to waste his valuable time. People are stressed, he was told. Before Zack could remind him that he was there to get help for his bouts of extreme agitation, rendering him unable to write, he found himself on the street, feeling no better and holding a bill for 1200 dollars.