The Last Book. A Thriller

by Michael Collins

  ‘How about piña coladas and nice beaches for us from now on, hon,’ Cara had said, dropping the newspaper into a bin.

  *

  Kristen sighed and watched a gull struggle against a stiffening breeze. Becoming teachers gave the two girls the opportunity to meet up during the long school holidays, and kick up their heels at the world’s finest beach locations. Eventually love interests, weddings and then young families interfered with their exotic lifestyles, but they’d stayed faithfully in touch. Kristin knew better than anyone else, how much Cara had adored Juan, her husband. And, recently, it was Cara who became privy to Kristin’s concerns about Zack. Now there was more to tell her friend, and urgently, but, with Juan’s sudden, shocking death, she would have to find the right time.

  As Kristin’s anger and frustration subsided, it was replaced by a gnawing fear. What she’d begun to suspect about her husband’s two books had become a frightening reality. Emailing her thoughts to Cara two nights ago had merely served to strengthen her beliefs that Zack was a pawn in something so unimaginably evil it defied belief. And from his reactions when she’d finally confronted him this morning, Zack was either fully complicit which she dismissed as absurd, or had his head well and truly up his whiskey-soaked ass. Thinking about that conversation made her stomach churn.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he’d croaked, cringing as she flung his study curtains open. The strong morning light had struck him fair in his watery, swollen, half-open eyes, hopefully inflicting the discomfort she’d intended.

  ‘I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes in this stinking hole, telling you how much shit we’re in, and all you can do is groan.’

  Entering Zack’s study, she’d almost gagged wanting to flee from the fetid air. He’d been still asleep on the couch and stale urine and cigarette smoke, combined with ugly whiskey fumes and lingering gut-rotten farts, created a fug no third-world garbage dump could reproduce. It didn’t help that she was excruciatingly tired, having spent the night wide-awake teasing pieces of a strange puzzle into place. But she couldn’t do it alone.

  ‘Enough’s enough Zack,’ she snapped, forcing herself to stare into his bloated face. God, what had happened to them?

  ‘I heard you, I heard you,’ Zack whined, covering his eyes. ‘You said that my books were pissing people off.’

  Kristen almost wept with frustration.

  ‘You drunken idiot, didn’t you hear a thing I told you last night? Ask yourself, how many people do you know haven’t read your books?’

  ‘Can I have a drink Kristen?’ Zack said, licking his cracked lips. ‘You know I think better with a little drink.’

  ‘Sure,’ Kristen said, her voice dangerously level as she went to his desk. She poured two fingers of single malt into a grubby crystal tumbler, shuddering as she felt a sticky residue adhere to her fingers. The dirty bugger hadn’t changed it for at least a week. Tapping the glass gently she stood over him.

  ‘Remember now?’ she asked, without a trace of warmth.

  Zack’s hand began to reach for the glass, flopping weakly as his wife took half a pace back. She cocked her head to one side.

  Forehead furrowed, Zack stared at the tumbler and thought hard.

  ‘You haven’t read them, you never wanted to,’ he said, sullenly.

  ‘They aren’t my thing, you know that. Who else hasn’t read them?’

  Slowly, one by one, Zack brought up the names of eleven people in their immediate social circle. For whatever reasons, they’d admitted to failing to read Zack’s novels. All but one had promised to do so, the exception being a friend who’d caused great hilarity at a dinner party by flatly stating that she’d calculated how many books she could read between now and the end of her life and Zack’s dark writings weren’t on her bucket list. Right now that didn’t seem so funny.

  ‘How many of them do we see now, Zack?’

  ‘All of them,’ he replied, frowning.

  ‘It’s a very small circle of friends we have now, isn’t it,’ Kristen said, slowly, ‘compared to a year or so ago. Why is that, do you think?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Just answer the question, Zack,’ she snapped, ‘you’ll work it out eventually.’

  He tried to concentrate.

  ‘Parties stopped being fun, remember?’ she prompted.

  ‘OK, OK,’ he moaned, rubbing his temple and wishing his headache would disappear, along with his wife.

  Socially, it had been a shocking year. Zack had never been shy of a good argument. Shit, he was proud of his debating ability, that’s how he and Kristen met after all. They were members of a book club that had been holding meetings since the year dot. The only problem with it was, until he arrived on the scene, Kristen seemed to be the only person reading the assigned books. One woman, rather than read them, would collect all the critiques she could find and read them aloud at the meetings. Another, the founder of the group, admitted that she disliked reading and would prefer to be in the garden. Very strange, he’d thought.

  The club members had shifted uncomfortably in their seats as he and Kristen commenced firing over the interpretation of Moby Dick. It was a grand stoush, ending with them both in tears of laughter and agreeing that the book shouldn’t be read anyway. They didn’t bother with another meeting after that and, leaving the ladies to discuss the books they hadn’t read, meet elsewhere for the lively chats they enjoyed.

  ‘Everyone wants a fight these days,’ Zack agreed. ‘You can’t say a thing without upsetting people one way or another. People started coming along all cranky, had a glass of wine and got really mean.’

  ‘Just like you still do, Zack,’ Kristen said, deliberately, ‘and the only ones who put up with you are our small group of friends who haven’t read your books.’

  Suddenly, Zack’s eyes widened. He almost smiled and then, pressing his fingers to his temples as pain flashed through them, thinking better of it.

  ‘Pete and Viv don’t fight and they’ve read my books, same with that Irish couple, the …’

  ‘McGuires,’ Kristen said, ‘yes, I called them all last night. I told them how important it was and asked them if they’d really read your stuff. All of them admitted that they hadn’t.’

  Zack looked stunned.

  ‘I can understand the McGuires, but Pete and Viv, really? They’re our best friends. Why would they …?’

  ‘Oh, Zack, come on. You’re such a fucking prima donna. They just told you they had so as not to hurt your feelings. Although you were probably blind at the time, so it really didn’t matter. Take it further than your nose, Zack. The point is that half the people in the world seem to be at other folk’s throats and I’ll bet it’s the same half who has read your books. Don’t you get it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jesus, Zack, for a writer you are so fucking thick.’

  Kristin stared at her husband in disbelief.

  ‘I’ll spell it out lame brain. Something in your books is upsetting people. You included.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Kris,’ Zack exploded, ‘that’s the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard, even from you. How can you be so stupid?’

  ‘Stupid? Well listen to this, Mr Bonhomie, you were never bad tempered before your first book, right? Argumentative, sure, but you were always considerate and intelligent in the way you discussed things. Now look at you. You’re a nasty-mouthed drunk who can’t write.’

  ‘That’s stress,’ Zack said miserably, eying the whiskey glass again.

  ‘That it may be, but what’s causing it?’ Kristin asked evenly, ‘you’ve never suffered angst before, even when we struggled on my shitty income while you wrote. Now we have everything—a fine home, kids doing well, no financial worries. Does it seem right to you?’

  Zack didn’t answer. It was preposterous and his head hurt.

  ‘You’ve got to stop it,’ she declared, calmly.

  ‘Stop what? People being shitty? That’s a joke.’

 
‘No,’ she said wearily, ‘stop trying to write that third book. Tell the publishers that the deal’s off and they can have their money back.’

  Zack’s face went pale and then flushed a deep, unhealthy red as Kristen pressed on.

  ‘Look where we’re headed, Zack. Shopkeepers are so busy bickering they hardly give you the time of day, restaurants throw you out if you mention poor service, and try escaping without an earful of abuse if you get in someone’s way in the street, let alone accidentally bump into them.’

  Zack threw the covers off himself.

  ‘What a load of crap, I’ve seen none of that,’ he growled.

  Kristen rolled her eyes.

  ‘Of course not, you dummy. You’ve been sitting here winging and getting pissed 24/7.’

  Zach pulled himself laboriously from the couch, unaware that below a bulging hairy belly, his stained underwear gaped. Kristin looked away from the man’s sad and flaccid penis. Out of the corner of her eye she watched his flabby unkempt body wobble across the room.

  ‘Now you’re taking the piss,’ he muttered, ‘or you’re totally insane.’

  Zack plumped down into his large leather chair and reached across the massive teak desk for the whiskey. Pulling the stopper out, he tossed it across the room and raised the bottle to his lips—just as she expected.

  She’d prepared everything with infinite care but still had to move quickly. As Zack had slumbered, she’d pushed all thoughts of Juan from her mind and, focussing on the task at hand, prepared her little Zack trap.

  All Zack heard was the sharp snicker of a ratchet as he felt something cold and metallic enclose his left wrist. Liquor dribbled down his chin as he jerked the bottle from his mouth and looked down. His wrist was handcuffed which, in turn, was attached to a bicycle security chain wrapped firmly around a leg of the heavy desk.

  Instinctively he jerked his arm upwards and cursed as the cuffs bit into the puffy flesh around his wrist.

  ‘What the fuck!’

  Kristin watched him struggle for a moment before speaking.

  ‘Don’t, you’ll hurt yourself,’ she said, feeling a pang of remorse. What was she doing? This was her husband and she was sure there was a law against this sort of thing. She felt worse when he turned his face to her. She could see that he was confused and a little frightened.

  ‘You have to do this Zack,’ she told him, placing his laptop on the desk in front of him. Email your agent and tell him it’s over. Tell him you just can’t do it. Anyway, that’s not entirely untrue is it?’

  ‘Kristen, this is crazy,’ Zack whispered, wide-eyed. For fuck’s sake undo me so we can talk about it.’

  Zack watched his wife take the bottle of whiskey from the desk.

  ‘No more “let’s talk about it” crap Zack. We’ve been there too many times before. I’ve disconnected the internet and moved the phone over there out of reach. There’s a jug of water right there and a bucket by your feet to pee in. When I come back I want to see that you’ve drafted a letter to your agent and your publisher to say that you’re no longer writing and will return all monies owing from the advance. We’ll press the send button together.’

  ‘Like fuck we will,’ Zack shouted. ‘Get me out of this now, you stupid bag.’

  Zack watched and steamed as his wife picked up her purse.

  ‘Hey, where do you think you’re going? You’re not going out and leaving me here. What if there’s a fire?’

  Kristen paused at the door.

  ‘Now there’s an idea. I could light one and see how quickly you can write then.’

  ‘Kristen,’ Zack pleaded, ‘please be reasonable.’

  ‘Just write the fucking thing Zack,’ she said, slamming the door.

  The Boy

  It was only a year later when he saw them take his mother away. In all that time they hadn’t heard from Joey and the boy didn’t mention his last visit. Like his brother said, she wasn’t well and hearing of Joey’s dealings would have just upset her. He’d heard of him though, and none of it good.

  This side of town was rough, everybody knew that. With an amorphous immigrant-based population that attracted penniless newcomers, folk either worked their way up and out, or stayed and weathered the landscape’s ever-changing parade of people. But what prevailed among the long-termers was a sense of decency—honor if you like—and Joey trampled on all that. He crossed the line and became bad.

  His Mom was too sick to know, most of her neighbors being too kind to tell her. She didn’t notice the ones who snubbed her as she struggled up the stairs after each shift. Finally, as her insides were eaten away, she became too ill to work, staying at home getting thinner and thinner and encouraging the boy to eat when she herself could not.

  The boy was earning money running errands and cleaning. With what his Mom had saved, they managed—just. She was down to three cigarettes a day at the end and she couldn’t really manage them.

  The boy belonged. He’d been here as long as he could remember, but they wanted to take him away from his friends. Somewhere different, a nice place, they said. He went because his Mom said he must. She wouldn’t be able to look after him for a while, she told him, but he knew differently. She wasn’t coming back.

  ‘It hasn’t always been like this,’ she said one night. She’d been in bed for almost a week, unable to get up.

  He looked at her curiously, waiting for her to continue.

  She sighed.

  ‘We lived across town once, in a nice house. We even had a car.’

  The boy listened. This didn’t seem like one of his mother’s fairy tales she used to tell him before he went to bed.

  ‘I’ve tried to teach you manners, to eat properly and say the right things. Your brother won’t take to it. He talks like the street thug he’s become.’

  If only you knew the half of it.

  ‘You’ve got to remember everything I’ve taught you. These are things most people around here don’t know. And promise me you’ll stick at school,’ she asked, holding onto his sleeve.

  ‘I like school Mom, don’t worry, tell me more about our house, and the car—what were they like?’

  His mother smiled tiredly.

  ‘Another night, I promise,’ she said, ruffling his hair. He loved her for that.

  *

  He’d said his goodbyes at school. It was his last day there before they took him away to a new one. His teacher, Mr Kralinsky, was the boy’s final stop.

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ he said, closer to tears than he’d been since Mom had gone.

  ‘I know, I know, but they say it’s for the best. Do you believe that?’ old Kralinsky asked.

  The boy knew his teacher wasn’t really that old. This was his first school after graduating. He’d told them that three years back when he arrived, all nervous and stuttering. Of course, the boys gave him shit, right up until they found out he was one of the good guys. Old Krinky, as they called him, fixed computers in his spare time and was happy to let them fiddle around his workshop after school.

  ‘Not really,’ the boy admitted, ‘how can I be happier than I am here? If I go, I lose everything. I’ll have to start all over again without a single friend.’

  The boy paused, chewing on his lower lip for a moment or two.

  ‘Sir,’ the boy asked, taking a large package from his schoolbag, ‘can I ask you to do something for me?’

  ‘You can ask young man and, if I can help, I will.’ Kralinsky said, frowning at the bundle that the boy held. ‘I’ll do nothing illegal, of course.’

  ‘I promise it’s not sir. Can you just look after this for me? It’s money from home and I don’t know what to do with it. Perhaps you can invest it wisely for me, for a fee, of course.’

  Kralinsky looked up sharply from the package as it was placed on his desk.

  ‘Investments, what do you know about them?’ he asked.

  The boy smiled and shrugged.

  ‘My Mom told me sir. She explained that you can use mo
ney to make money if you’re careful. But I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  His teacher laughed.

  ‘I think you may also be a bit too young,’ he said.

  Kralinsky knew he shouldn’t even think about it. But the boy was probably being truthful. Likely as not it was savings. Plenty of people didn’t trust banks, preferring to keep their hard earned in cash stashed away somewhere.

  Kralinsky made a decision.

  ‘Alright, I’ll see what I can do. And what are you going to do with your life before you retire on your huge dividends? Any ideas?’

  Kralinsky was hoping to deliver one last sermon of encouragement. The boy was gifted with a natural intelligence and he was sorry to see him go.

  The boy’s face turned deadly serious, his voice taking on a deeper more menacing tone.

  ‘Sir, even if it takes the rest of my life, I’m going to find the people who ruined our lives and make them suffer.’

  The boy stuck out his hand and Kralinsky, unable to conjure up a response, simply took it.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, eventually, but the boy had already gone.

  Kralinsky opened the package, intending to count the money and send the boy a receipt. His mouth went dry as he laid stacks of high denomination notes across his desk. Quickly, he locked the classroom door and pulled the blind. Smiling, he began to count. He had a suspicion his life was going to be very interesting from now on.

  10.

  Crash test

  The gull had landed and was pecking at a discarded takeaway box. Kristen shrugged. She was starting to feel chilled even in the sun and should really be going home. Turning towards her car, she stopped and looked up the road. A silver Mercedes was parked fifty meters behind her vehicle. She knew it. She recognized the splodge of white and brown bird’s shit on the rear passenger door.

  ‘That bloody car again,’ she muttered. This time she’d do something about it. Four times this week she’d spotted them—it had to be paparazzi. Kristen walked steadily towards her car and then veered sharply to the left and broke into a run. As she picked up speed, she heard the car start and the engine racing. It jolted as the auto was hurriedly engaged. She was closing fast. Suddenly, with a scream of tires, the car leapt from the curb and hurtled straight at her.