The kidnapping

He'd put the forty-watt bulb in deliberately. Its dull glow filtered through layered fumes and added just the right touch of atmosphere.

Three thousand bloody words.

He swore and sucked hard on the spindly, hand-rolled cigarette. The raw, bitter kick at the back of his throat nearly made him choke and he spluttered, swallowing the reflex and the smoke and holding his breath until red lights danced in front of his eyes.

In the corner the girl cowered, limbs crunched tightly against torso, her weeping muffled.

The cigarette dropped into last night's coffee mug with a faint hiss. Grunting heavily, he reached around the desk, fumbled another paper and carefully pinched a tiny wad of tobacco.

Not much left. Damn.

Two of the joss sticks had gone out. He relit them with his lighter, savouring the burnt sandalwood that thickened the atmosphere. The laptop's shine was muted, but the nearly blank white page was beginning to be irritating. Licking parched lips, he checked the word count. 166 Words. And that made two more. And that...

Damn.

The girl was still there. He could see her as a black shadow against the subdued reflection off the wall. There were glints of orange in her hair but the rest of her could just as well be a trick of his tired, itchy eyes.

If she had been real he would have comforted her. As it was, he tried not to feel the ache. He had abandoned her years before and grown old while she shivered in dusty corners, perpetually young, always afraid.

Perhaps this time he would write her out of his life.

Grimacing, he coughed dryly and gazed blankly at the screen, waiting for his eyes to focus. He sighed through his nose and tabbed from word processor to web browser, and the forum post that had ruined his evening. He read it again.

You gotta write me a story. Or they're gonna kill me. They kidnapped me yesterday and are holding me at gunpoint. They demand you sit down the night you read this and crank out a story no less than three thousand words. They want you to aim high for once and see what kind of shit you can pull quick - impromptu. It's gotta be good, you gotta finish it and get me the hell out of this. Now! Go!


Really. Just when you thought things could not possibly get worse, you were dragged back to the cold, hard non-reality of faceless internet communication. As if it wasn't enough to contend with concrete dreams and a rusty imagination.

'Who are 'they' anyway? And why gunpoint? Why couldn't it damn well have been something interesting? Or weird?'

He had spoken aloud. At least, he had added speech marks. He was about to shrug and shake his head at himself when a tingle at the nape of his neck reminded him that he needed some action before the plot imploded. It wasn't enough to puzzle and generally annoy or bemuse the reader. Nowadays they demanded movement, and an indecent amount of it at that.

'Impatient, uncouth bloody slackers.' He tabbed back to his word processor.

'But they are holding him at gunpoint.'

The voice seemed to emanate from the text in front of him. This time, his spine seemed to wobble, which was odd as it also seemed to freeze.

'I'm not listening,' he said resolutely.

'You don't have to,' the voice said snidely. 'Shall I continue?'

'No.'

'Thank you. They've got guns...'

'You already said that.'

'I'm hiking the word count for you.'

'Oh.' The writer grimaced at the screen. 'Are you writing this?'

'Shut up and let me establish the plot. You're one sixth of the way into this already. They get bored easily.'

'I've already said that as well.'

'I said shut up.'

The girl stirred and lifted her face to gaze at him curiously. The bad light picked out the sheen of tears in her eyes. He tried to ignore her. The voice was irritatingly insistent.

'They want you to write. You'll save his life if you finish this.'

'He won't lose it if I don't.'

'Don't get technical on me, you obtuse bastard.'

'They don't think you're funny, you know.'

The voice managed to sound menacing. 'Just let me get on with this, or you'll be the one with a gun slammed in your ear hole.'

'That's exactly what I'm afraid will happen if I do continue.'

'Don't be ridiculous. You get to be the hero. How can it possibly go wrong? Even if you do die, you'll only be sacrificing yourself to yourself. Don't all gods do that for their creation?'

'Oh, now who's being clever?'

'Look, you can read. So can they. It says they'll kill him. They want you to write a story. So far this isn't much of one.'

'I didn't ask for the challenge,' the writer shouted, waving his arms. 'I never even said I'd accept it. If they didn't know I've got no imagination to speak of and very little real talent, they damn well do now.'

'Have you got no courage?' said the voice. It sounded disdainful. 'No sense of adventure? No moral scruple? You can save a life!'

'What do I care if the idiot got himself bailed up by a bunch of semi-literate pussies who wouldn't know a halfway decent story if it crept up behind them and barked like a dog!'

It occurred to him that alienating his audience was probably not going to help in the long run. On judgement day he would have to face them. Pissing them off just to prolong a rather shabby existence was likely to leave him collecting metaphorical dust in some cyber hell somewhere deep in a google repository. He sighed, then breathed in deeply, savouring the bittersweet incense-laden air.

Reality could be problematic sometimes.

'I'm sorry. Okay?' he said sullenly. 'Just get on with it.'

The voice oozed malicious pleasure. It did so quite impressively for on-screen text.

'Certainly. They have him somewhere near Wimbledon Common.'

'Womble territory.'

'Don't go there.'

'Alright, alright,' grumbled the writer. He poured himself a generous double. The whisky was a cheap blend, but it helped. It was already a long night, and the girl was becoming frighteningly solid. He did not have time for sentimentality. Hell, he barely had time to figure out what was real and what was not, although that was unlikely to change just because he was being forced against his will.

'Concentrate,' said the voice testily. A stocky henchman wandered in and whispered something then turned a dispassionate eye on the writer slouched in his easy-chair.

'Pathetic,' said the voice. The henchman's expression turned to aloof disdain. He glanced at the owner of the voice, then placed his foot on the writer's chair and shoved.

The writer picked himself up, trembling.

'You made me spill my drink,' he said angrily.

'That's better,' said the voice, 'we need some emotion. And some action. Are you quite finished sodding around?'

The girl unfolded herself and jerked to her feet. She pushed hair out of her eyes and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

It seemed strange to be writing and standing at the same time. He supposed he ought to be used to it by now. His gaze met that of the girl and he looked away quickly. He could not bear to face her. His shoulders slumped in defeat. Somewhere metaphorical, an over-heavy cross lay along his back.

'What do you want me to do?'

'That's better,' the voice purred. 'You're over a thousand now, well into your second third. You might actually get this thing finished.'

'I might just shoot the bastard myself when I catch up with him.'

'Now, now. No need to be like that. You get to be the hero for once. You should smarten up a bit first. Get rid of that beer belly, the wrinkles and the sleep deprivation pouches.'

'I'll swear.'

'That's not like you.'

'It's late.'

'It is. Let's get going.'

'Where?'

'You have to take the tube to Southfield.'

'Southfield?'

'On the Circle line, just after Putney. You can walk up to the Common from there.'

'Oh. How far is that?'

'This time of night? Should take maybe an hour and a half.'

'Am I half way there yet?'

'Not quite. You need to get out of the house first. Come on. They aren't being very pleasant to him you know. They really want that story.'

'They're going to be bloody disappointed.'

The writer siphoned some of the whisky into a polished stainless steel hip flask, grabbed his jacket and shoved the flask into its breast pocket.

'Okay. I'm ready. Let's get this over with.'



The train was an old one and it clanked and rattled along the over-ground line maddeningly slowly. The air at Epping had been biting and he was sobering up unpleasantly fast. This was not the way he had thought things would turn out. Here he was, on the London underground, watching the orange-yellow lights of Loughton trundle past through his own reflection and the crude, unimaginative graffiti.

He stared owlishly at himself, wondering why he felt weightless. The clickety-clack of the rails and electric whine of the generator beneath the carriage faded into silence. Perhaps he was the mirror image. Perhaps the real writer was in the parallel train he could see through the window. Perhaps he really was perched out in the cold; part of the ghost train imitating the real universe. If that was the case then his true self, the real writer, was right handed.

The girl sat beside him, huddled close. He could not bear to let her go, no matter how many times he abandoned her. She was too well realised to fade, and he could no longer tell whether she was part of his memory or his imagination. He wondered if that was profound. Sometimes it felt like it. Why the hell had he wanted to be a writer?

'You're just over half way,' the voice said softly, startling him. 'It's not quite 1am. You're doing alright.'

'1a-bloody-m? You think I'm happy about that?'

'Keep your voice down. You don't want to attract attention just yet.'

'I thought you wanted action.'

'No, they want action. I'm just helping the plot, assisting with dialogue. You know, generally trying to keep things interesting and help the flow.'

'Do you think we've lost them yet?'

'You've been trying pretty hard. Yeah, I think you've lost about ninety percent.'

'I lost that many as soon as I wrote enough that they couldn't see the end on-screen.'

'Sarcasm isn't going to impress them.'

'Why do you think word count is?'

'You read it. The challenge said no less than three thousand. And in one night. Apparently that is impressive.'

'There's no apparently, you condescending bastard. It is impressive.'

'Well, if it saves his life.'

'I thought you were supposed to assist with flow?'

'And?'

'We've been going round in circles for a while now.'

'No we haven't. We're approaching Bank. You have to change trains here.'

'Oh no. I'm not walking miles to get to the Circle line from bloody Bank. I'm getting off further up.'

'Suit yourself. Have you decided what you're going to do when you get there?'

'Me?' The writer managed an incredulous expression. 'I thought that was your job!'

'Hardly. You're the physical manifestation here. Whatever reality is, it appears to have a vested interest in you.'

The girl was shivering again. Gently, with a sigh of surrender, he put his arm around her and pulled her onto his lap. She arched her neck back so that she could meet his gaze. He smiled at her tenderly. She was his after all. One day she would have a better existence than this. Meanwhile, it was good to feel the warm weight of her. She took his mind off his impending doom. Whatever that may be.

Which was the problem, of course.

Bank materialised out of the darkness. The doors siphoned open.

'Mind the gap,' said the voice.

'Mind the gap,' repeated the recorded announcement. The writer rolled his eyes and ignored the voice, which chimed, 'stand clear of the doors please.'

An old man shuffled into the carriage just as the doors whooshed shut. The writer eyed him warily.

'He's one of them,' the voice whispered. 'A forumite. From the literature community.'

'He's drunk,' said the writer.

'Okay, he's several of them,' amended the voice.

'What do they want?'

'They're along for the ride. They read the forum post as well, you know.'

'Oh.'

The writer blinked slowly, feeling the burning behind his eyes getting stronger. At this rate he was going to be sleeping long before he got to Wimbledon Common, let alone three thousand. And any thread of sense had probably already disappeared, so ending it all now would likely be a blessing. Perhaps that was what the wino wanted. Drunk bastards.

The old man sidled up to him. He stank of cheap alcohol.

'Got any whisky mate?'

'And if I have?'

''s gotta be Irish.'

'Irish? Power's gone to your head. Do I look like I'd be carrying a malt around with me?'

He hugged the girl tightly and watched as the ancient drunk staggered to the door between carriages and let himself out.

'Well done,' said the voice.

'Shut up,' snapped the writer impatiently. 'I've about had enough of this. Dragging me all the way our here. This had better not be a joke. How the hell do I know that you know where they've got him?'

'Take it easy,' the voice said soothingly. 'You're over two-thirds of the way now, and it's not half one yet. You're getting yourself worked up and not thinking straight.'

'Not thinking straight!'

'That's right. I'm the plot, remember?'

'You're the... oh.'

He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against the girl's hair. None of this made any sense. He didn't even know the guy, and he got to play friggin' hero. They wanted a story, and they were willing to kill for it. Well, they had asked for it. They would get their story alright.

The writer smirked.



Wimbledon Common was a black, brooding mass on the other side of the well-lit road. Few cars were about at this time, which suited his purpose. The girl walked beside him jauntily, her thin face beautiful despite the harsh chemical tint of the sodium lighting that came and went with their slow walk beneath the street lights.

They were waiting somewhere nearby. He could sense that. Sometimes, imagination was a real gift.

'I'll give 'em shit alright,' he said confidently. A steaming mass of impromptu effluence. And he'd make 'em eat it too. Line by line. Grinning cheerfully, he stopped and rolled another fag. This ridiculous escapade might even manage an ending of sorts. And he had an idea. Perhaps he really could get through it mostly unscathed.

He was largely unsurprised when the wino hailed him at the pedestrian crossing. He could just make out the lights of a large roundabout up ahead. He caught the girl's hand and together they sauntered across the road. The wino gestured, and they headed into the tree-lined darkness of the Common.

The trees shone with the faint silver of the full moon. His breath steamed in the cold air.

'Nice night for it!' The writer remarked cheerfully.

The wino did not reply, but continued his unsteady gait. The ground began to rise, and they left the trees for an open area of grassland that rolled into low, rounded hills. Their guide pointed to a path that meandered over the face of the hill.

'Aren't you coming up?' The writer asked, surprised.

'I want to watch from a distance,' the old drunk replied. 'That way I get to see what happens without getting involved.'

'Rubbish. You can't be objective. You have literary pretensions.'

'We are everywhere,' the wino replied cryptically, and stumbled off.

The writer watched him disappear into the trees.

'What was that all about?' he asked the moon.

'I told you,' said the voice, 'he's one of them!'

'I think I'm losing it.'

'That's why you're here, idiot. To take back control. And in the process, you get to do a good deed.'

'Take back control? I don't think that's possible. They'll draw their own conclusions once I let them see it. They'll make their own connections, their own reality. The text will dissolve again.'

'I was talking about your will. And your imagination for that matter.'

'Imagination? But that's just it. Reality, thought, memory: they're all abstract ideas. They're potentials. I can't tell the difference between them. And where does one person's ownership end and another's begin? I'm as real as you. The idiot with the gun to his head is real, even if he lied about the kidnapping. So this is just as much his fault as it is mine.

'You know,' he said thoughtfully, 'if I survive this I think I'll kill the bastard myself.'

'It's late and you're getting repetitive,' the voice said wryly. 'Come on. It's time.'

'It is?'

'Yeah. There's less than two hundred required. Let's end this shit.'



Two kidnappers and the obnoxious forumite with the idiotic post. They were there. The writer had not been entirely convinced, even though he would have had no reason for the journey if they had not shown up. He had thought about it, of course, but it would have been too much of a let down.

He had no plan. That had never been part of the plot. He just walked over the crest of the hill and down to meet them. The girl followed him like an uncertain subplot.

They did have guns, both of them. The writer paid attention. He had every intention of living through his own narrative. The idiot was kneeling on the damp grass looking decidedly forlorn. They had not bound him, which was helpful. They always made mistakes like that. It gave the readers something to be cynically superior about.

''Bout time you showed up,' the lead kidnapper said. His gun was buried in the idiot's right ear.

'Yes,' the writer said simply, smiling.

'You got it then?'

'Here.' The writer handed over the manuscript.

'Aimed high did you?'

'I tried. I don't suppose you will though?'

'Not a chance. Corny bastard.'

'Are you going to read it?'

'Are they going to let me go?' The idiot pleaded plaintively.

'Shut up,' the leader said absently, watching his henchman leaf through the hastily printed pages. 'Is it all there?'

'Nearly,' the writer answered.

'Nearly? You mean it ain't finished?'

'Almost,' the writer nodded. He checked the word count. 'In fact, it is now.'

The leader swung his gun to cover the writer.

'What do you mean...'

The idiot lunged, screaming 'take them, now's our chance!' at the top of his voice. He crashed into his kidnapper. The leader's gun went off as the two grappled. The writer stepped backwards and folded to the ground, which was not nearly as theatrical as being flung several paces by the force of the bullet, but was quite realistic really. The henchman blanched and took to his heels in a rather clichéd way, mumbling 'I want no part of this. Push him off his chair, yeah, but not kill 'im. Wasn't my idea. I was just an extra. A filler...'

The fight between kidnapper and kidnapped ended as expected. The kidnapper fled empty-handed and, in a strange, poetic quirk of fate, got hit by the Shakespeare Theatre Fundraising Unit truck while crossing the road. The idiot sighed over the writer until he realised that he was holding the gun that shot him, and the police might not believe his story, at which point he too ran off.

The manuscript fluttered in the breeze.

Only the girl remained with the fallen writer. She sat cross-legged on the sodden grass and waited, ignoring the discomfort. She had experienced worse. The thing was, she had not disappeared. That meant something.

Of course it did. The writer was not a god, entirely. He was just thoughtful. He groaned after a while and sat up. It was a very old technique. He would have a bruise over his heart for a while but it would heal. And the hip flask was dented but had not been pierced.

He took a grateful swig and saluted the shadow of the old wino.

'Bastards. Now, where's my fags?'