Unforseen Circumstances
Terry sat beneath the window, back to the wall. The revolver rested against his teeth. Metal and oil. Bitter.
Sirens climbed.
He closed his eyes.
Terence McCluskey was not an evil man. He told himself that often. Life had simply arranged things badly.
His finger tightened.
Nothing happened yet.
Not quite.
The computer screen glowed across the room.
His latest novel stared back at him.
Twelve books. Twelve chances. Twelve failures.
He had believed in each one. That was the worst part. Every time he finished, he felt it—this is the one. This will change everything.
It never did.
Rejection letters piled up like unpaid bills.
Most never read, he was sure of it. Straight to the slush pile. Straight to the bin. Like him.
Christine had left first.
“You love your writing more than your family.”
She wasn’t wrong.
He had stopped noticing her. Stopped noticing the children. Sarah. Paul. Names that drifted now, like characters he never developed properly.
Money instead of time. Silence instead of presence.
Now the house echoed.
A letter lay on the mat.
Unopened.
Another rejection, he thought.
Of course it was.
Glass shattered somewhere downstairs.
They were here.
The one thing he had always feared. Not death. Not really.
Being shut away.
A man who had spent years locked in a room… terrified of being locked in a room.
Funny.
The door gave way.
Boots. Voices. Commands.
Terry pulled the trigger.
Darkness.
The Day Before
Rain clung to him as he stood outside The Plaza.
He watched James Nolan enter with another man. Clean. Confident. Untouchable.
Terry followed.
The restaurant was warm. Soft light. Low voices. Money everywhere.
Terry walked straight to the table.
“Mr Nolan. You don’t know me. But you’ve seen my work.”
Nolan barely looked up.
“Make an appointment.”
“I tried. Your secretary—”
“Yes, well. That’s how it works.”
“My name is Terence McCluskey.”
That got a flicker.
“Ah. Persistent.”
“Tell me what’s wrong with my writing.”
Nolan smiled for the room.
“I receive hundreds of manuscripts a week. Most are not worth the time.”
“Not worth—”
“If you’re finished,” Nolan said, “I’d like to eat.”
Terry felt it then. The heat rising.
“You wouldn’t know a good book if it smashed your teeth in.”
“George,” Nolan said, without looking, “remove him.”
Terry grabbed the wine and threw it in his face.
Then he was gone.
Rain hammered the windscreen.
Terry sat in the car, watching the wipers scrape the world into lines.
Head in his hands.
Pain behind the eyes.
Always worse now.
He followed Nolan home.
Belgravia. Of course.
Lights came on. Big windows. Big life.
Terry waited.
Then he went to the door.
Nolan opened it.
Terry pushed him back inside.
Gun out.
“No, please—”
“Say it properly.”
“Please, Mr McCluskey.”
Better.
The lounge was perfect.
Leather. Wood. Art that meant nothing.
Terry made him sit.
“Read this,” he said, handing over the manuscript.
“I’ll look at it—”
“Now.”
Nolan read.
Hours passed.
Terry listened.
Every word.
Every line.
He drank it in.
Morning crept in.
Nolan reached the end.
Silence.
Then—
“It’s brilliant,” Nolan said. “Truly. We can publish this. We have something here.”
Terry watched him.
Too quick.
Too easy.
Too late.
“We?” Terry said.
The gun came up.
Nolan understood.
“No, wait—”
The shot was clean.
Nolan dropped.
Blood ran into the leather.
Terry stood still.
Then he laughed.
Not loudly. Not wildly.
Just enough.
He threw the pages into the air.
Watched them fall like snow.
A man had read his work.
That was enough.
Now
The police moved through the house.
Two bodies.
Two endings.
A detective crouched beside Terry.
“Who is he?”
“Writer,” the other man said. “Nothing much. Divorced. Two kids.”
The detective glanced at the door.
The letter.
He picked it up. Opened it.
Read.
Then read it again.
“Well?” the other asked.
The detective exhaled slowly.
“Offer,” he said. “Publication. Advance. They loved it.”
He looked back at the body.
“Looks like he got what he wanted.”
The manuscript sold.
It sold well.
Very well.
For a while, it was everywhere.
If only the letter had come a day earlier.