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 This new story would change his status from unpublished hobbyist to professional author.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.

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