The Story Collection: Volume One

by Matt Shaw

  “I really do need to talk to him, Rebecca....”

  “No. He won’t allow it. Please, stop asking.”

  Change the subject.

  “Have you got round to reading his original story yet? Like I suggested?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, I don’t want to....”

  “You should, it’s good.”

  If I can’t get him to come out and see me - I need her to read the story. I need her to see it.

  It has to be one or the other.

  12.

  I can’t sleep.

  The whole Rebecca situation is playing on my mind. Everything was going so well. Progress was slow but steady.

  Mum and dad used to say, “Slow and steady wins the race.”

  But now...

  Now I’ve crashed into a brick wall with regards to any sort of progress and it’s worrying me. I’ve never had someone, so perfect, to help with my book but - if I can’t even get to talk to them - there’ll be no book.

  Why I even started to write a second book, I don’t know. It’s just added pressure which I don’t really need. Added pressure.... more annoying is the fact I did it myself. It’s not like my job doesn’t come with enough pressure of it’s own. Hell, maybe I should give up the side-project of the book; put all my effort into work instead.

  It’s a thought.

  No.

  Not a quitter.

  I wasn’t raised to be a quitter.

  Sometimes, I wish my mother and father were still alive so I could ask their advice. I might not have taken it, which was usually the case, but I often found them to be good sounding boards.

  Bounce ideas off them.

  I often find myself thinking about them....

  .... missing them....

  .... when I’m stressed. It’s as though they know I’m upset, or wound up, and pop into my mind - just as a reminder they’re watching over me.

  I just wished I believed in an afterlife.

  Overworked.

  I need a holiday.

  I’ll get this book finished so I can send it off to various people and take a holiday, I think.

  A holiday from work.

  A holiday from writing.

  A holiday from all of this stress.

  Leave my problems back here, in the United Kingdom.... for a couple of weeks at least.

  Be nice.

  Pipe-dream, at the moment.

  I can’t take a holiday.

  I can’t go anywhere.

  Not until I’ve resolved my current predicament.

  Never mind the author..... How can I help Rebecca? Every time I see her, now, she seems to be a little more distant, like she’s giving up.

  And that’s just in the couple of days that I’ve met her.

  This time next week, they could be parted completely.

  God, imagine if I was stuck with him.

  At least she’s semi-sociable.

  Flip-side of the coin, if it’s just him - he might be more open to chatting about my book and at least she’ll be safe.

  Maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way.

  Perhaps it’s better if she left him...

  Sure, he’s grumpy and somewhat aggressive but, at least it would be a help to my career and I’d still feel as though I’d helped her.

  The sudden thought.... suddenly it feels as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Was that really the answer, all this time? Staring me right in the face.

  Idiot.

  Somehow, I don’t think it will take a lot for her to leave.

  Even without my involvement, I think she’d leave sooner rather than later anyway. I could just let it take it’s own course....?

  No.

  What if she suddenly wins him back over again and they continue to co-habit peacefully.... well, as peacefully as a couple like that can.

  No.

  That wouldn’t help me.

  I need them to part ways. I need them separate. And, speeding the process up a bit.... well, that can’t be a bad thing for me.

  I’ll start tomorrow.

  Hopefully before Jeremy sticks his oar in and gets involved too....

  Tomorrow.

  One intensive day.

  One intensive day and I believe I can get her to leave him. I should feel guilty about it but I don’t. I should try and encourage him to leave her but, that doesn’t help my book. She loses everything, by going, but - I’m sure she’d rather that than live with him. Especially going with how she looked today.

  So tired.

  Stressed.

  No.

  I can’t let it concern me.... her leaving. It’s not as though he is the sort of person to leave her - just continue living, in the background, bullying her whenever he chooses.

  He really is a piece of work.

  I wish I could do my book without him but I can’t. His background is invaluable....

  My eyes feel heavy as my brain slowly starts to silence.

  Tomorrow is going to be a long day. Maybe it would be best to have Jeremy with me.

  Just in case.

  * * * * *

  “Please..... you can’t be here.... you can’t.....” whispered Rebecca in a panicked voice.

  I ignore her and step into the room, before walking over to the usual seat I sit in. I don’t bother asking if he is home. There’s no point. I know he’s here - he’s always here. He just doesn’t want to talk. Not to me, not to anyone.

  I lean across to the table and place a document wallet onto it - one which I carried in with me from my own office desk.

  “Please, take a seat,” I tell Rebecca, calmly.

  A slight pause before she walked over and sat with me. She knows, deep down, she needs to talk to me. She needs me to help. With that in mind, she’ll always eventually cave when it comes to doing as I ask.

  “How are you feeling today?”

  “I’m fine - look, I don’t want to be horrible but... if he catches us talking...”

  “It’s fine.” I reassure her.

  I expect him to make an appearance today.

  I want him to make an appearance today.

  “I don’t know what he’ll -”

  I cut her off, “He isn’t who you think he is.”

  I pushed the document wallet over to her and she froze.

  “What’s this?”

  I nod towards the folder, “Have a look.”

  Slowly, she leant over and picked the document wallet up, “What is it?”

  I don’t answer her.

  She’ll see just as soon as she opens it and reads.

  She’ll see.

  13.

  Slowly I open the cardboard folder in my shaking hands.

  Why is he showing me this?

  What relevance is it to me? I don’t need to see this. I just need him to leave. I need him to get out before we are caught together.

  I can’t be seen with him.

  I can’t.

  Bundles of notes, in the folder. Some handwritten on A4 sheets of a memo pad; scrawled writing which is hard to read. Obviously written in a hurried state - as though trying to keep up with a person dictating notes, not minding that the person they are dictating to is struggling to keep up with them.

  Photographs - taken on what must have been a polaroid camera. They slip from between the sheets of paper, in my hand, and drop to the floor face down. I’ll pick them up later.

  More notes - typed out. Easier to read. Long words, though. Some of which I couldn’t even read out loud. I certainly don’t know their meaning.

  Newspaper clippings.

  Lots of newspaper clippings.

  I feel my eyes start to fill with tears. I’m shaking.

  I looked up at Phil. He’s sat opposite me, one leg crossed over the other - a notepad in his lap and a pen in his hand. He’s writing. Not watching his words but watching me instead.

  What reaction is he expecting?

  What is this?

&nbs
p; “I don’t understand.”

  “Take your time...”

  I don’t know what he is trying to do. I don’t understand. I feel sick.

  Black spots in front of my eyes as I try and read some of the notes. A headache bangs across my temple. I feel....

  Running...

  Thick woodland.

  Pouring rain.

  Cold.

  Fear.

  Very fearful.

  “REBECCA?”

  Someone’s behind me.

  Turn around - no one there.

  Not looking where I’m going, I trip up. Face first into the mud.... look up....

  The clearing.

  The lake.

  “CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

  No.

  Not again.

  Crawl towards the lake.

  Fear.

  “Please, no.... please, no....”

  A stack of paper is by the lake - a crystal paperweight on top of them to stop the sheets blowing away in the wind.

  The pages are dry, despite rain falling.

  I drag my body next to the pages and start to cry.

  Wailing through tears of pain, frustration, fear and anger.... too many emotions hitting home at once for any one person to be able to handle.

  “REBECCA?”

  I don’t know why but I reach over to the mountain of A4 sheets. The paperweight has gone - in it’s place are two small pairs of shoes.

  I scream....

  “REBECCA!”

  * * * * *

  “What the fuck are you doing to my wife?”

  I froze.

  I wasn’t expecting to see him yet. Especially not now. I stood up and backed away from Rebecca and watched as he bent over to pick up the notes, which were now on the floor from where Rebecca had fainted.

  He looked at them before slowly turning to me, “What are you doing with these?”

  I glanced down to see what he had read.

  “What are you doing with these?” he asked again.

  Notes about his book.

  Of all the things he could have read - that was probably the worst, for keeping good relations between the two of us - which I had hoped for.

  “You’re ripping my story off? Thought you’d re-type it as though it was written by you?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  I wasn’t expecting this.

  “You do know about copyright, yeah? What’s the matter, struggling with your second book too? Thought you’d steal the concept of my story? You are aware my work was a number one best-seller, right? Like you could get away with stealing it.... People would recognise it. I’d learn about your work.... I’d learn about it and I’d sue you. This, this really is bad form...”

  He tore the piece of paper in two and dropped it to the floor.

  “I think you should leave,” he continued. “Before things get ugly.”

  Stand my ground.

  I knew today was going to be a long day.

  “I’m not going anywhere...”

  I move back over to the seat and sit down.

  “Who do you think you are?”

  I turned to him, “Who do you think you are?”

  “What?”

  “What’s your name?”

  Silence.

  They’re calling my name.

  My name.

  They’re calling me!

  All of them shouting - their voices turn to noise but....

  It’s my name.

  Camera flashes are going off in quick succession - blinding me.

  I’m walking down the street and all these people have come out to see me. So many people I need my own security - forcing spectators and photographers to keep their distance.

  Into the back of the van, on my way to the book signing event my agent had organised for me. After years of dreaming up my story - I never dreamed I’d finally secure an agent. Let alone get my very own book signing event.

  Exciting times.

  Exciting times which I want to repeat - despite struggling with my second book. I know I’ll get there. I’ll get there even quicker if it weren’t for the neighbour always coming around and for what.... trying to steal my book?!

  The book that fucking made me?!

  “Just get out of my fucking home,” I spat at the neighbour.

  “But that’s just it... it’s not your home, is it?”

  I look around the lounge.

  White walls.

  Office desk in the corner of the room.

  That’s new.

  Rebecca’s been changing things again, whilst I’ve been in the study.

  A man sat in the corner of the room - how did I not notice him?

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Things have gotten weird. I don’t know what’s what anymore. I don’t wait for an answer from him. Instead choosing to cast my eyes around the rest of the room.

  A name plate on the desk - Dr. Philip Jenkins.

  Some kind of joke.

  I’m famous now. My first book made that a reality. That’s for sure. Maybe this is one of those prank shows I’ve seen - some smart arse families get together to play a prank on their loved ones who have been neglecting them recently.... their way of showing them they still exist.

  Rebecca.... where’s she gone?

  Never mind.

  Maybe this is her little prank for me? Maybe she got in touch with the powers that be, on the music stations, to organise this? No. She knows I’d hate it. Even more so because it takes me away from writing.

  Maybe, with all my writing completed.... maybe I’d have seen the funny side.

  “I’m Doctor Philip Jenkins.... I’ve been treating your wife for a few months now...”

  14.

  Rebecca’s running...

  Thick woodland.

  Pouring rain.

  Cold.

  I’m behind her.

  Watching.

  She turns around - no one there - I don’t let her see me.

  Not looking where she is going, she trips up. Face first into the mud....

  Laughter.

  I can’t help it. She looks a state. Hardly surprising given the circumstances but, it’s still funny to see her face-plant.

  She looks up and sees the clearing.

  The lake.

  “Don’t go near the lake,” I urge her. My voice unheard, at the moment.

  She begins to crawl towards the lake.

  I can sense her Fear.

  “Please, no.... please, no....” her voice carries across the clearing to where I’m hiding.

  Where I’m waiting.

  She spots the stack of paper which is by the lake - a crystal paperweight on top of them to stop the sheets blowing away in the wind.

  I’ve never seen this angle of the recurring dream before but I know the words which are written upon the pages.

  The pages are dry, despite rain falling.

  She drags her body next to the pages and starts to cry.

  I want to comfort her but I’m still not heard.

  She’s wailing through tears of pain, frustration, fear and anger.... too many emotions hitting home at once for any one person to be able to handle.

  She reaches over to the mountain of A4 sheets. The paperweight has gone - in it’s place are two small pairs of shoes.

  She screams....

  She screams again and throws the tiny shoes into the lake.