The Fury(73)

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

“Mariana”—I smiled—“I am a professional writer, you know.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I only write for an audience. There’s no point, otherwise.”

Mariana looked amused. “Do you really believe that, Elliot? There’s no point without an audience?” She smiled, as something occurred to her. “That reminds me of something Winnicott said—about the ‘true self.’ He said it is only accessed through play.”

I misunderstood what Mariana meant, and my ears pricked up.

“A play? Really?”

“Not a play.” Mariana shook her head. “To play. The verb.”

“Oh, I see,” I said, losing interest.

“He meant our true self only appears when there is no one to perform to—no audience, no applause. No expectation to be met. Playing serves no practical purpose, I suppose, and requires no reward. It is its own reward.”

“I see.”

“Don’t write your story for an audience, Elliot. Write it for yourself.” Mariana gave me an encouraging look. “Write it for the kid.”

I smiled politely. “I’ll think about it.”

Before she left, Mariana suggested I might find it helpful to talk to her colleague, whom she had come here to visit. “You should say hello to him, at least. You’ll like him, I’m sure. He’s very easy to talk to. It might help.”

“Perhaps I will.” I smiled. “I could certainly use someone to talk to.”

“Good.” She looked pleased. “His name’s Theo.”

“Theo. Is he a therapist here?”

“No.” Mariana hesitated. For a split second, she looked embarrassed. “He’s an inmate, like you.”



* * *



As a writer, I am habitually prone to fleeing reality. To making things up and telling stories.

Mariana once asked me about this, in a therapy session. She asked why I spent my life making things up. Why write? Why be creative?

I felt surprised she needed to ask. To me, the answer was painfully obvious. I was creative because, when I was a child, I was dissatisfied with the reality I was forced to endure. So, in my imagination, I created a new one.

That’s where all creativity is born, I believe—in the desire to escape.

Bearing that in mind, I took Mariana’s advice. If I wrote my story down, it might set me free. As she advised, I didn’t write it for publication—or performance. I wrote it for myself.

Well, perhaps that’s not quite true.

You see, when I first sat down, at the narrow desk in my cell, to write, I felt a strange, dissociated anxiety. Once, I would have ignored it—lit a cigarette or had another coffee or a drink to distract myself.

But now, I knew it was the kid who was anxious, not me. His mind was racing; he was terrified of this document. Who might read it and discover the truth about him, and what would the consequences be? I told him not to worry—I wouldn’t abandon him. We were in it together, he and I, to the bitter end.

I took the kid and placed him gently on the single bed beside me. I told him to settle down—and I told him a bedtime story.

This is a story for anyone who has ever loved, I said.

It was a rather unusual bedtime story, perhaps—but full of incident and adventure, with goodies and baddies, heroines, and wicked witches.

I must say, I’m rather proud of it. It’s one of the best things I’ve written. It’s certainly the most honest.

And in the spirit of that honesty, allow me, before we part, to tell you one final story. About me, and Barbara West, and the night she died.

I think you’ll find it illuminating.



* * *



After Barbara fell down the stairs, I hurried down after her.

I examined the body on the floor, at the foot of the staircase. Once I had made sure she was dead, I went into her study. Before I called the ambulance, I wanted to make sure she hadn’t left anything incriminating behind. Perhaps she had written or photographic evidence of all those things she had accused me of? I wouldn’t put it past Barbara to keep a secret diary, detailing my misdemeanors.

I methodically went through her desk drawers—until finally, at the back of the bottom drawer, I found something unexpected. Seven thin notebooks, bound together with elastic.

A diary, I thought, as I opened them up. But I quickly realized what I held in my hands wasn’t a diary.

It was a handwritten play—by Barbara West.

It was about me and her, and our life together. It was the meanest, most devastating, most brilliant thing I’d ever read in my life.

So what did I do?

I tore off the title page and made it my own.

I’m not really a writer, you see. I have no real talent for anything; except lying. I’m certainly no good at writing stories.

Let’s face it—I couldn’t even plot a murder.

I’ve only ever had one story to tell. And now that I’ve told it, I can’t bring myself to destroy it. Instead, I’ll lock it away until I am dead. Then, if everything goes according to plan, this can be published, posthumously. The intrigue surrounding it should make it a bestseller—which will give me a great deal of satisfaction; even from beyond the grave.