‘THE END’

Vic closed the book with hands that seemed numb and far away. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, almost hear it too, in the silence. What a book. Every sentence perfect, every image so clear in his head. And the characters real, better than real.

He turned the book around to take another look at the cover. The author’s name in embossed letters, the title too. ‘Geoffrey Day – Featherhead’. It was a modern-looking paperback. To Vic, it was beautiful. This was it; this was the book he wished he had written.

His head still buzzing with a language that wasn’t his own, he opened a desk drawer and took out the Manuscript. It wasn’t even a manuscript, just a couple of writing pads filled with messy biro. He had been struggling with this for years now. A story in his head that never seemed to stop twisting long enough for him to get it down on paper. The characters were clear to him but the plot was hard. Loose scenes and dialogue, just thrown into a box with very little structure to hold them. Plot-holes so big they could swallow you whole.

He read a scene. It was okay. Not too bad but after having just finished Geoffrey Day’s bloody masterpiece, it seemed like a child’s simple scrawlings. And the pieces just would not fit together. Like a puzzle, he might be able to cut them, bang them together and make them fit but the picture wouldn’t be clear. Not like Day’s book. Should have been his book. The characters were even his, like they were actual people and Day had described them, just as Vic was trying to describe them. Only Day’s descriptions were like photographs and Vic’s just pale imitations.

Frustrated, he threw the pads back in the drawer and slammed it shut. The language still twisting in his head, all those wonderful sentences that he wanted to be the source of. And even if he ever did finish his book, got it published against all odds, what if people read it and thought that he had copied Day? He hadn’t. Been inspired, yes, but his people were his own, his clumsy language his own. He didn’t want to imitate Day; he wanted to be Day.

The silence in the room was getting to him. He looked at the clock on the wall, half seven. And no sign of Laura. His girlfriend was no doubt enjoying some quality time with her friends in the local pub. Vic couldn’t concentrate on anything much before he knew that she was going to be alright. Maybe he had read too much horror, maybe he had seen too many crime films, he didn’t know. What he did know was that he was cursed by chronic worry. It was a real pain, even worse than the hypochondriac tendencies that had been coming and going over the years. The fact of the matter was that as long as he was sitting here, alone, not much would be written. He bet Geoffrey Day didn’t have that problem. Geoffrey Day was probably one of those lucky fuckers who lived alone and were happy with it.

He picked up the book again, looking at the inside of the covers for some information about the author. All he found was the praise of the critics; admiring phrases that he could only agree with. It was Day’s debut novel. How was it allowed to be this good?

Vic lost himself in the book again, leafing through it, re-reading some of his favourite passages. Every paragraph was like a punch in the stomach.

If he had written that.

It was what he wanted to say.

It was the feeling he was trying to find.

It was…

He was pulled out of the dream suddenly, by the phone ringing. At last. That would be Laura. Well, she was okay, that was the main thing. But she was not going to be home for a long time yet, only now going out to the pub. Another couple of hours of loneliness. Of stomach cramps and dark thoughts. He told her he loved her and hung up.

He took out his pads again. Tried to write a little but the frustration of not finding the right words and the ugliness of the language was getting to him. He was getting a cramp in his hand as well; his writing was rapidly becoming more or less illegible. He bet Day didn’t have that problem. He bet Day had a fast, modern computer. Day sat in his study, the beautiful words running like quicksilver from his fingers. If he ever made a mistake, the delete button was right there in front of him. So reassuring. If Vic, when Vic, made a mistake, he had the choice of looking at a smudgy mess of ink lines or the cakey, slow drying blob of Tip-Ex. As a matter of fact, he was out of Tip-Ex. So much for choice.

When the pipe in the corner started dripping again, he gave up on the so-called manuscript and got up to make sure the leak leaked into the bowl he’d put under it.

He put the telly on for company and half dozed off in the soft arms of his trusty sofa.

The alarm went off at half seven. Vic got up and went out into the bathroom. The merciless light revealed every flaw, the mirror threw them back in his face. A face as awkward as his straggly plot. The thought flashed through his head; he wondered what Day looked like. Not that it mattered. When you could write like that, you could look like the Elephant man and it didn’t matter.

Laura was still sleeping as he left. She would be late for work but he knew better than trying to wake her up. If she slept right through her alarm, maybe she wouldn’t bother going in at all. Maybe she would be there when he got home. Maybe they could spend the evening together. Yeah, right, and maybe he could write like Day.