The Script Writer - Part II

‘So let me get this straight, you narrowly avoided death today?’ The editor’s wife asked in a serious tone, yet with an expression on her face and a glass of wine in the other that suggested she was already planning how to tell this story to her girlfriends.

‘That’s right.’ Larry nodded along, reflecting mentally on the continued luck he seemed to find. ‘If I’d not been craning my neck to see the man on the path, I wouldn’t have slowed down and I would have been hit by the car coming out of the side road, not the car in front of me.’ He shook his head as he spoke, still shaken by what had happened. For most people, an incident such as this would have put life into perspective a little more, but Larry was so obsessively reflective on his own life that he didn’t need a near death experience to encourage him.

‘Unbelievable.’ Joy, who had heard the story repeated several times since Larry came home, wineless, again said the same word in reaction. ‘I mean, just utterly unbelievable.’ The smell of Joy’s perfume again reminded him of the perfection he was soon to marry. ‘I mean you not been sitting here – that could’ve be an empty chair.’ All four occupants of the table shook their heads, almost in unison.

‘What did the man look like?’ Sarah, the editor’s wife, interjected.

Larry thought for a moment, scratching his head as he did so. With an air of disappointment in his tone, he replied. ‘I can’t really remember, as you can imagine, it’s all something of a blur.’ He didn’t want to disappoint their guests by not giving as detailed a story as he possibly could, and scanned his mind desperately for some information. ‘Long grey hair. I remember that much. He walked very slowly as well.’

Bob and Sarah looked at each other, exchanging a knowing glance. ‘We saw a bit of a peculiar figure just down your road, looked like he walked very slowly too. Can’t remember his hair colour mind.’ Bob spoke for the first time in around fifteen minutes, a fact that would usually concern Larry, but his mind was too filled with images of two smashed up, burning cars.

‘It was grey! And it was very long too, down to his waist almost!’ Sarah said excitedly, the wine definitely having exaggerated her excitement at the connection they had found.

Larry was about to reply, aiming to react to Sarah’s excitement in the same tone with which she had spoken, thereby adhering to the social convention of not embarrassing your boss’ wife, but he was interrupted by a loud clang from the loft, which they heard from the second floor where they dined. Larry put up one finger as if to excuse himself, putting down his knife and fork onto the plate of food their butlers had prepared, and went up to check what had happened.

Unsurprisingly, Larry spent the next ten minutes trying the door to the attic and, again, failing to open it. He once again cursed, becoming seriously frustrated by his inability to know firstly what the noise was, and secondly why the door wouldn’t open. He started walking away from it, before hearing another noise, a similar one, sound out above him. The clang sounded as though something was being continuously dropped up there. In truth, it had been so long since he’d been in the attic, that Larry wasn’t entirely sure what was in there anymore.

A little later on, after they had finished their meals and were sitting together on the third floor, where Larry and Joy had a ‘relaxation room’, Larry’s boss asked him if he would write a short biographical piece on his last year, due to the overwhelming requests from readers of the paper who wanted to know his story. Larry thought for a moment, and pondered whether or not he should include the events building up to his last year, and if he should discuss the depression, and the fact that he had considered taking his own life before things started to change for him. Everything had been so appallingly horrific in his life, and he had been lonely, in a dead-end job with few friends and a total lack of self-confidence, belief and motivation. In such a short space of time, his life had been inverted into one which most would be jealous of. He had once looked at the lives of others and longed to have what they had, yet now he took great pleasure from the shoe being very much on the other foot.

Larry and his boss sipped whisky from their crystal tumblers as they spoke, the smell of the editor’s cigarette polluting a room which otherwise had a pleasant scent, produced by the many diffusers Joy insisted on having in there. Lavender was the most prominent of these dominating smells. His boss very much encouraged him to include these parts of his story, as he felt that it would engage readers to a remarkable extent, blowing smoke into his face as he spoke. When it was time for them to leave, Larry shook his hand firmly, feeling the water on his skin with which the he had just washed his hands, before kissing his wife, Sarah, on both cheeks and wishing them a safe journey home.

Joy seemed pleased with how the evening had gone. ‘They really are a lovely couple, we should do more with them.’ She smiled, drying a glass she had just washed with her perfect hands and perfectly painted nails. They kissed, and she went up to bed, though Larry knew exactly where he was going to next.

The crowbar was particularly heavy, and he wondered why on earth he even owned one, attempting to remember the reason for which he had bought it and failing entirely to do so. He had gone out to the garage more in hope than expectation to find a door-opening instrument. He bounded up to the attic, making as little noise as he could as he stomped up the many stairs in their house, opting not to use the lift. He reached the attic door, which he titled his head backwards to look up at, and after several tries, he managed finally to wrench the door open.

As Larry clambered up the stairs which lead up into the attic, a dusty smell smacked him across the face, choking as the little particles of dirt and dust hit him. It was freezing cold in the attic almost immediately as he entered it, spinning his head round to scan the room, with yet more dust aggressively attaching itself to his defined cheekbones. In one corner of the room, sat a rather handsome gentleman with long grey hair and a beard, wearing a long grey ragged outfit, who looked across at Larry and smiled from behind his desk, which was covered in scribbled papers, pens and writing materials.

‘I see you finally managed to find your way in.’ I laughed, feeling relaxed and a little relieved. ‘I suppose you’re wondering exactly who I am, aren’t you Larry?’

Larry couldn’t open his mouth to speak, and just stood there, totally perplexed and gobsmacked, his jaw wide open and his hands shaking with what was presumably fear. I am not a scary man, and I was surprised to see such a reaction from him.

‘CALL THE POLICE JOY!’ Larry shouted at the top of his voice, screaming to his fiancée who was only in the other room. ‘THERE’S A CREEPY OLD MAN IN THE ATTIC!’ He continued to shout, which confused me a little as by now Joy was stood right next to him, looking as beautiful as she always did, stood at the top of the steps into the attic. They both stood looking at me for a few moments, studying me up and down. I remained calm, and spoke as softly as I could.

‘Don’t call the police. I’m no criminal. In fact I’ve done a lot for you in the last year, Larry.’ I stood up, which caused them to step back a little, Joy almost falling back down the attic steps. ‘I would like to explain, if I may of course.’ Larry looked reluctant, and after a little persuasion from Joy, who seemed to be on my side after I complemented her beauty, he agreed to talk, provided that my hands were tied.

‘I am the Script Writer.’ I explained, smiling at Larry and Joy, who sat across from me on the light green sofa which was positioned parallel to the one I occupied. Joy’s perfume was a strong and forceful scent, but her obsession with lavender wasn’t an issue in my eyes.

Larry looked annoyed and shocked. ‘That’s not a name. And what on earth are you doing in my house?’ He boomed, Joy patting him on his shoulder to encourage a calmer tone.

‘I am a member of the ICARUS society. That stands for the Impossible Chances and Achievements made Realistic And Sorted society. There were six of us originally, one of which is me, three of which are scattered out across the world and one who unfortunately died in a horrific accident. He is in fact our founding member, and you would know his story.’

‘That’s five.’ Joy laughed, seemingly a little more relaxed than Larry as I spoke. The room was a little warm, though the harsh winter temperatures outside had perhaps encouraged them to exaggerate the need for central heating.

‘I know. The sixth you would have heard of as well, though he’s something of an elusive figure – works from home. He’s probably the most powerful of all of us, and the one who everyone in the world knows the name of but not everyone recognizes.’ I replied, trying to make hand gestures as I told the story though finding I was restricted by the rope tied around my wrists. ‘May I take this off now, Larry?’

‘Not just yet.’ He shook his head a little violently. ‘I want to know what you’re doing in my house. How long have you been here?’ He demanded.

‘A Year.’

‘Jesus Christ! You’ve been in my attic for a whole year! What the hell have you done?’

‘As I said, I’m the Script Writer. I’ve been writing your script.’ I smiled, excited to tell my protagonist of my work for him. ‘I was assigned to you by the society as someone who needed the perfect year – and how better to do that than to write your story, a year in which everything goes perfectly for you and you realise all of your impossible achievements.’ Larry couldn’t stop shaking, and I knew him well enough now to know that he was not a tempered man, though his clenched fists were resting a little nervously on his legs. ‘That car crash earlier? Fate, another of the members of the ICARUS society, and by the way, one of the most frustrating and unreliable, told me that you were to die today in that crash, not the car in front. Well, I made sure you didn’t. You see – everything that has gone so perfectly for you in the last year, it has all been done by me. I’ve written your script from that desk all this time. The story of Larry is by me.’

Larry didn’t say a word after that, and just kept staring forward into space. I couldn’t work out if he was angry or confused, though I started to favour the latter. I waited for him to speak, but he didn’t, and seemed to be communicating through Joy instead, who smiled at me, clearly understanding the situation with a much clearer head.

‘Anyway, now is the time for me to leave.’ I said, standing up from the sofa and leaving the room, heading toward the front door. I asked Joy to undo the rope on my wrists, which she did, before hugging me and thanking me for everything, leaving Larry on the sofa where we had talked. I opened the front door, and walked toward the end of their long, sweeping driveway, shivering in the bitter winter winds which collided with my bare feet and knees. I heard footsteps coming through the gravel on the drive, and turned to see Larry coming toward me.

‘Here.’ He said, giving me a big puffa jacket and a pair of ski shoes to put on. ‘Please don’t go.’ He said, shivering and crossing his arms as he rubbed his shoulders.

I smiled, patting him on the back, and turned to leave, before my final line. ‘All good stories must come to an end.’