The Editor
Rhys Hughes
Hook
finished the story he was writing, checked it for spelling mistakes,
made a few necessary corrections and then rubbed the palms of his
hands together. This was his best work yet. A crime story of
ingenuity and morbid force! It would be accepted for publication by a
magazine, there was no doubt about that. To reject it would be an
insult to literature. He wrote a cover letter introducing himself in
a succinct but intriguing manner, stapled the letter to the
manuscript of the story, found an envelope among his stationery
supplies, slipped his masterpiece inside, prepared to go out and mail
the packet.
He
was old-fashioned in his methods, careful and precise. He was wary of
technology, preferring to write with a pen on paper and then type the
piece on a vintage Remington. He regarded himself as more real than
other hopeful crime writers, more in tune with the spirit of his
subject matter. This new story would change his status from
unpublished hobbyist to professional author. He was too excited to
speculate on his reactions when he received the acceptance note from
the editor. Hopefully, he would play it cool. Showing too much
enthusiasm is an error of judgement. He smiled wistfully.
He
mailed the packet and returned to his apartment. Unable to
contemplate doing anything useful, he opened a bottle of wine and
stared out of the window. It was just a question of waiting, but
waiting was a terrible thing to do. Owning a television or even a
radio might have helped, but he had principles. To remain
old-fashioned until the very end was his ambition. He finished the
bottle, smiled sleepily, and dragged himself to his bed.
The
next day he considered starting a new story. He threaded a blank
sheet of paper into his Remington and stared at the keys. Should he
write a sequel to the story he had submitted? Or something completely
new? No, he wouldn’t do any work today. He was too distracted by
thoughts of self-worth, by the notion of his considerable talent. He
was an author, a creator, a superb artisan of crime fiction. He went
out to purchase more wine instead, and that evening he sat and drank
two bottles, one white and one red.
The
following morning, head throbbing, he was woken by the postman and
the thump of a packet dropping through his wide letter flap. Surely
this couldn’t be an answer already? He was expecting the slim
whisper of a thin letter, not the crash of a packet of many pages.
Anxiety gripped him. He staggered downstairs, retching, and took the
packet into the kitchen, opening it as he went. Out fell his story
and the rejection letter, terse but not unkind. Hook lurched into the
kitchen to make himself a strong mug of coffee.
He
drank the coffee too quickly, scalding his tongue, and tried to focus
his eyes to read again what the magazine editor had said. The story
was quite good, it had promise, it had pacing, it was fairly original
too, but the details just didn’t ring true. The gangsters weren’t
convincing at all. The editor was compelled to wonder if Hook knew
anything about the real underworld? It didn’t seem so on the
evidence of this story. But he didn’t want to reject it outright.
He wanted an extensive rewrite, a reworking. He wanted more
grittiness and authenticity. He wanted the gangsters to have a
menacing depth. If such a rewriting was done, it was likely the story
would be accepted.
Hook
took heart from this sentiment, but he frowned. It was certainly true
that he had no personal experience of criminals. Everything he knew
about the underworld came from books, from fiction, from magazine
tales. To rewrite his story properly he would have to immerse himself
in a dark dangerous reality, a world of shadows and bullets. He
remembered something one of his friends had told him years ago. There
was a pub down in the docklands where gangsters and hitmen went to
buy illegal firearms. Could he venture into such a place and buy a
gun? The experience would scare him, fill him with authenticity,
enable him to rewrite the story with heightened feeling.
Yes,
that was the answer! He pulled on his shoes, put on his coat, made
his way down the quayside, wandered the slick cobbles for an hour,
the tang of the sea air removing his headache. He saw the pub in the
distance. It was just as his friend had described it. Some things
never change, they are as stubborn as rust on horseshoes or
bloodstains, and so he pushed through the creaking door into a musty
darkness, and heads turned to regard his entrance, but no one said a
word. At the bar he ordered a glass of pale ale.
He
drank nervously, trying to absorb the atmosphere of the place as he
did so, acquire the desired authenticity through a process akin to
osmosis. But even if he became one with the location, merged with the
ambience, could he be sure to retain the sincerity and veracity when
it was time to write what he felt? Inside his head, a cloud descended
on his brain.
How
could he be certain the rewritten story would be accepted? What if it
was rejected a second time? Cold hypothetical anger surged through
him as he considered this outcome. He would be tempted to confront
the editor, threaten him. Yes, now he was feeling it. Now some large
part of his soul was more like the soul of a gangster. The anger was
combining with the atmosphere. It was working. The cloud dissipated.
He was struck by an offbeat inspiration. Hook suddenly became a
dangerous character.
A
man sitting at a table in the far corner caught his eye. Hook knew at
once that this was the person he sought. He took a deep breath,
carried his drink over, stood nervously in front of the table, looked
down at the grizzled man with eyes that shone like emeralds in the
beery dusk and said, “I need a gun, a handgun, a special design.
Custom made, like this.”
And
he drew out a pen from his pocket and sketched a design on the paper
napkin that lay on the table, sliding it across to the rogue
gunsmith, who glanced at it and replied, “That’s very unusual.”
“But
can you do it? I’ll pay whatever you want.”
“Yes,
anything is possible.”
“It’s
the weapon I require. How much?”
The
gunsmith instantly quoted a hefty sum, but Hook didn’t try to
bargain with him. He nodded and took out his wallet. He prided
himself on his cunning and had already anticipated this need for wads
of cash. The gunsmith was rather astonished but managed to keep his
expression under control. Only the flashing of his intense green eyes
gave away the fact he suspected Hook was insane. The transaction was
finished in a few seconds.
“Come
back one week from now, at exactly the same time, and I’ll have it
ready for you,” the gunsmith announced.
Hook
was pleased. He left the pub, walked home. But the cloud that had
dissipated returned, passing over the light in his mind, eclipsing
his joy. What if the rewritten story was rejected again? After all
the effort he had made, the risks too! No, he wouldn’t be able to
bear that.
Over
the following days, this possibility plagued him. Wine didn’t chase
it away, scour the worry out of his being. Painfully, a week passed.
He went back to the pub, picked up the custom handgun silently,
wrapped in a black cloth, felt a sequence of shivers twist his spine,
but managed to leave without weeping. It had been his closest brush
with damnation.
Back
home, he put the gun down on his kitchen table, stared at it, smiled
a terrified smile, closed his eyes, opened them. It was still there.
Now he was full of the right emotions, he could attempt a rewriting
of the story. But once again a doubt like a worm burrowed through his
confidence, ruining it. What if the story was rejected? All his
desires and dreams would burst like an overripe headshot, the crime
writer’s equivalent of a balloon.
Then
a delightful idea occurred to him, an epiphany. Why not start his own
magazine, be his own editor? He had enough money saved up to do that.
Using modern technology it wouldn’t be expensive. He hated the
prospect of having to learn how to use a computer but even that was
better than never being published at all. We all have to make
compromises.
How
brilliantly simple and smooth a solution! Hook would publish a crime
fiction magazine. The first story in the first issue would be his
own. The thought was sweet. He wouldn’t even need to rewrite the
piece or alter one word. Surely the story was good enough just as it
was? Hook clapped his hands in glee. When he reached his house, he
typed a new cover letter, stapled it to the manuscript. It took him a
while to find a new envelope.
He
sealed the manuscript inside, addressed the envelope to himself,
hurried to the post office, paid for stamps and mailed it. The
feeling of relief was vast, a removal of a poisoned thorn as long as
a dagger blade from his future. But what should his magazine be
called? On the way back he toyed with various names, a combination of
bad puns and cold threats.
No
wine for him that night, he had decided to become wary of indulgence
in liquid form. To be his own editor was indulgent enough. An early
night was better. He considered going to bed with his gun, putting it
under his pillow, but that aspect of the masquerade was foolish. He
slept well, without dreams, yet he woke late, strangely exhausted.
The thump of a packet coming through the letter flap startled him.
Surely this couldn’t be an answer already? Of course not. He hadn’t
even received the submission yet.
He
went downstairs, opened the envelope, ignored the cover letter, which
he knew by heart, took the story into his office, began reading it on
his desk. He read it in one sitting, threaded a blank sheet into the
Remington, typed a letter. He wasted no time signing this, sealing it
in an envelope and going out to mail it. He rubbed his itching palms
together.
To
have a story accepted for publication at last! To be a real author
and not just a hopeful scribbler! The reason he couldn’t remember
any dreams from the night before was because his main dream was about
to come true. It dominated the other dreams, crushing them back into
his subconscious. Forget the cloud in his head, ignore all prophecies
of despair.
He
walked the streets of the city every afternoon but never ventured
deep into the docklands again. Just in case the gunsmith changed his
mind for some reason, wanted the gun back. Hook was careful not to
violate any laws at all. He even crossed the roads using the official
crossings. He dropped no litter. He had to remain free until the
acceptance letter arrived. And it would soon enough. He was beyond
confidence in this regard, supremely excited, struggling to mute his
enthusiasm, to avoid giving the strangers he passed any clue
whatsoever that he wasn’t a normal citizen but a special case, a
nascent genius, a crime fiction king not yet crowned, just waiting
awhile.
The
letter flap clanked and a thin envelope floated to the floor, knifing
the dusty air as it descended. Hook was halfway down the stairs
before it had even landed. His heart was thumping, his forehead
spraying sweat. He snatched up the envelope, ripped it open, unfolded
the letter, read it with a smile, his mind not absorbing the words
that were there, but the words he thought should be. It was a tense
moment, awful, the toppling of an internal tower, the corners of his
smile folding but not the middle of the grin.
He
choked, he clutched at his shirt, tearing off the top button, gasping
for oxygen. He slumped onto the lowest step of the staircase, shook
his head, read the letter again. No, this couldn’t be happening. A
rejection! A rejection from his own magazine! And it wasn’t even a
nice letter, like the rejection from the established publisher. This
was curt, unfeeling, almost flippant. No rewrite was asked for, the
story was simply declined. It was a substandard piece, a failure, the
pathetic product of an untalented hack.
Had
he ever entertained this grotesque outcome? He would have said no,
but his actions had proved otherwise. He burned inside, as if the
marrow of his bones was petrol. His skeleton crackled as he stood. He
walked stiffly from the hallway, went to fetch his gun. The editor
would pay. The editor would die. The gun was loaded, yes, his trigger
finger was like a spring. He didn’t care that he would now become a
hitman, a despicable villain. Revenge is permitted in the worldview
of the true man. That’s what he told himself. Mercy was an insipid
concept, the putrefying ideal of weaklings.
As
he accepted his fate, saw himself as a puppet of predestination, his
stiff body relaxed. His gait became looser, his movements more
supple. He entered the editor’s office without knocking. It exactly
resembled his own study. With a lithe motion he raised and aimed the
gun.
He
said, “You rejected me and now I shall reject you.”
“That’s
an odd design,” he said.
“It’s
exactly the weapon I require,” he answered.
“Spare
me and remain free.”
“You
are an ignorant coward, the enemy of creation.”
“I
am a humble editor.”
“Humility
is a virtue. There is no virtue in rejecting a masterpiece. Your time
has come. I am an assassin.”
“Such
melodrama is long outdated, obsolete.”
“Die
without delay!”
“Your
story was extremely badly written.”
“Slanders
and lies!”
The
editor had no time to reply. Hook squeezed the trigger. As the bullet
travelled the length of the curved barrel he began to turn over the
rudiments of a paradox in his still intact brain. Not only was he
killing Hook, he was killing the man who had killed Hook, namely
himself. But this wasn’t suicide. It was only justice, a blow for
mocked writers, retaliation against an unjust judge, a moral
execution. Hook laughed loudly at the horseshoe barrel and his laugh
was the exact duplicate of an old-fashioned scream.
_________________________________________
