No Waking

I feel numb; the cold linoleum floor is spreading through my body, turning me to ice but I can hear their helpless screams; hollowing down the corridor, punctuated only by his gunshots. Cowering beneath this desk, I daren’t move; no sounds now… a deathen silence falls around me. This has to be a nightmare, let it be so…

Less than twenty minutes ago, walking up the street to this building … just an office I used to work in. Dan know what’s going to happen, I’m sure of that.. even then. It’s the way that he smirks as he tells me what we’re here for: just to scare some woman who owes some money… telephone operator by day, adult provocateur by night.. We’re just there to frighten her.

And Dan is frightening, but not in an obvious way. To glance at him you might think studiously handsome but then you’d see a flawed expression; a lack of empathy, a calculated glint in his eyes and you know.. somehow know, that he’s working out all the ways that he can make you suffer; and that he’s good for it. It’s his job… I’m just along for the ride…just.. because.. He’s a friend of a friend who I owe too many favours to. This is a quick payback, and I never questioned why it was so quick.

Wedged under the desk, I’m cramping up now but there’s nowhere else to hide. It’s not possible to see where I am from the door.. but it’s not locked, and he only has to walk into the centre of the room and then I’m dead too.

We’re close to the building now and Dan is still incredulous that my given name is Patsy. And as I explain it to him for the fourth time I have to remember not to make him angry. He’s already threatened me four times in the last ten minutes.

“I’m called.. well, my name is Peter Palmer, but I’ve always been called Patsy.. like Patsy Palmer.. and it stuck.” I sigh and he mocks me, replying, “But you’re Peter Palmer… the amazing Patsy.” He chuckles knowingly.

We find the right floor; Allyson stands at the front of the office, just as radiant as I last saw her 10 years ago; though now she’s a head of department. I open the door and walk in; she looks round puzzled but pleased to see me as recognition sets in… this turns to horror as I step aside and she sees Dan… sees him for the killer that I couldn’t recognise. She looks to me, disbelief and terror widening her eyes and from nowhere he pulls something… at first I think it’s a knife, just part of the act to frighten her.. but then… everything changes.

They say that television has numbed us to violence, they use words like desensitisation… they know nothing. I saw Alison crumple seemingly before the chilling report of the gun, blood spatter a crimson Rorschach against the wall.

I couldn’t shout her name… the screams drowned everything out as Dan never stopped firing, no longer at the downed Allyson but indiscriminately into the office.

Somehow I found the strength, not to leap in and stop Dan but to leave the bloodbath, god help me, and just ran.

I look down at my hands and there is blood on them, her blood…

I ran but know that it’s far too late for me, I’m a marked man now…. Maybe… maybe I can hide it out, wait for Dan to get killed and then surrender.  But now his footsteps are outside the door and I can hear him snicker. “p.p.p.pick up a patsy, Patsy.” And he slowly, carefully opens the door. He has all the time in the world; and like a nightmare he knows exactly where I am. He senses me, smells my fear like it’s a tangible entity. I can see him, somehow through the desks. I can see his smile, devoid of anything but the desire to inflict pain. He looks around the room almost nonchalantly before locking onto my eyes.

“So much for the second coming.” He says and I know now that this is no nightmare… no waking….

The man who was

Instinct; it's the only thing that kept him alive for this long. It told him when to abandon the job and when to pull the trigger. It had saved his life numerous times, so why didn't it warn him this night?

Never keep a routine, never be predictable:  that was a sign of carelessness, and even after five years of anonomised retirement those were two rules he still lived by. The only thing he did which was even remotely relatable was buy himself a dog. Bill was a bulldog that had seen better days, but then so had he. There was a mutual dislike at first sight which grew to respect and then to loyalty. He took a lot of training and it was his guess that whoever had owned Bill before had lacked the discipline.

Walking Bill was one of the few concessions he allowed himself; it gave him a sense of enjoyment and he'd also spent a long time learning from Bill. Although his sense of smell was nowhere as acute as the dog's he was surprised at how much he could now pick up for himself.

Walking Bill also gave him the chance to reconnoitre the area. Bill needed a good long walk which suited him fine, so he took a different quarter at a time. He varied the times that he left for the walk, varied his routes and speed of pace as well as the duration of the walk.

He possessed a photographic memory and noted everything that was happening in the neighbourhood. He bought every local newspaper to keep up to date on any crimes -anything that could be used if eventualities permitted.

He had to be ready for anything and he thought that he was. He'd honed his skills, but had he, in fact, become sloppy? What else could have explained what happened next?

He was going to take route Q2P24 but changed his mind at the last minute. He was getting sentimental in his old age – there were some woods near his house and a family of badgers had recently made it their own. Course, Bill would have to be kept on a leash but everyone needs to be reined in once in a while.

It was getting dark but there were still good visibility and the leaves on the woodland floor acted as an effective early warning system. Bill was enjoying himself, lots of scent trails to engage him but he kept looking up at the man in an attempt to coerce him into letting go of the leash. “Not a chance.” the man thought. Bill resided himself to take a piss instead.

The hand holding the leash exploded in crimson and bone before he even heard the crack of the shot. Even with the suppressor the sound was still deafening in the dusk.

He didn't think about the pain, didn't even think about Bill or how someone had managed to sneak up on him, he dived out of the way as the next three bullets thudded in to the ground where he had been standing.

The shot that killed Bill was more of an afterthought, perhaps calculated to enrage him so he'd make a mistake. But the man who was Quicksilver didn't make mistakes -up until now. There was nothing he could do for Bill -the moment the first shot had been fired he only had thoughts for one thing, his own survival and nothing had changed.

He checked his surroundings; lucky old man, he'd leapt into a bracken thicket which gave him more than enough cover. The light had dimmed to a murky grey which made it almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front. He just hoped that whoever it was didn't possess an infrared sight or goggles. The fact that he was still alive was perhaps proof that they didn't. Either that or he was being toyed with,

He had to assess the situation, work on the supposition that there were no infrared sights in the equation, otherwise he might not make the night.

Carefully he checked his right hand. The last three fingers had been almost completely shot off and his index finger had a chunk taken out of it. Blood was throbbing out of the stumps. Not great and without medical attention he could die but for the time being he had to make a temporary tourniquet. He took the cotton handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, found two sturdy twigs to splint the mess together and bound his hand up the best he could. It would do -he would survive though... but it had been Bill's weak bladder that had saved him.

There had been no trace of anyone remotely near them -he would've sensed them, surely. The gunman had used four bullets already but there was no telling how many spare clips he held. He was far from unarmed though, always carrying his piece with him. The Glock was fairly unobtrusive and more than enough to do the trick, but he was disadvantaged by having to shoot left-handed, but there was no way that anyone could sneak up on him now. They couldn't see more than a few feet in front of them so they'd have to come in close for a kill. Either that or they'd wait him out -allow him to make the first move and pick him off at their leisure. The third option was that they'd given him up for a lost cause, but that was a risk that he couldn't afford to make. If he could last the night then he would make sure that someone paid.

With practice and will power one can accomplish anything. Lying absolutely still upon damp woodland as the temperature drops whilst all manner of bugs and creeping things snack on your blood is just such a skill, made even easier when the threat of death is the only other alternative, he thought.

For all he knew, he was completely alone in the woods; the would-be assassin long gone but it was obvious that this guy was a professional, and even though he could see shit out there it would still be possible to be picked off by sound alone. One would only have to get the general vicinity and then human psychology would do the rest. He couldn't take the risk, he'd have to wait until daybreak; at least then he might have more of a fighting chance.

His fingers throbbed sickeningly. He'd been injured worse than this, for sure, so he wasn't worried, but this was his dominant hand. Shooting left-handed wouldn't normally be too much of an encumbrance, but with this person he needed every edge he could muster. He had to ignore the pain and concentrate on what he knew and what he could surmise.

This person was good; a professional. It would be pointless to guess at their identity or even their gender. In his time he'd known too many female assassins, playing on their obvious assets to get the job done -disguising the fact that they were just as deadly, if not more so, than their male counterparts. He'd almost been caught out twice himself in the early days. The second time had almost been his demise but she had stupidly let her guard down and had paid the price.

Was that it – revenge? Never underestimate the half-life of revenge. It goes dormant, waiting for the right time to strike. It's more dangerous once the triggering emotions die down and then cold hard logic seeps in. That's how some people became contract killers in the first place -the kill; that feeling of release takes over from the initial desire for revenge, and, like any drug, the first hit is always the sweetest. It takes many more hits to get that initial pay off and then you're hooked.

But it hadn't been that way for him though.

The man had no qualms and no illusions about why he'd become a killer. He was good at it. He had morality and knew the difference between right and wrong, but he just didn't let it get in the way of his job. He tried to think about all the people who could've called out such a hit and it didn't take him long to run down the list of potential suspects -they were all dead. He'd made certain of that before he retired.

Very few people had known of his true identity; the only people to connect his alias with his face were his targets and they never told. He had always prided himself on his anonymity, always dealing through proxy addresses and dummy names. He'd had enough sense to study acting as well, and could disguise himself when necessary; nor had he allowed himself to get too close to anyone.

He was cold, ruthless and efficient and that was how he lasted for so long. No emotional attachments.

The hours had crawled by and the sun was starting to rise. He felt that the time had come for him to make a decision. Was he going to move now or wait a bit longer? There was a mist issuing forth from the ground which could provide him with an extra edge if he used it correctly. In another hour the light would be stronger and he would stand out like the Pope in a whore house. The trick would be in getting up slowly so that he disturbed as little of the undergrowth as possible -the mist would make it harder for anyone to get a bead on him.

He could feel the cold damp cramp protest as he edged himself up. The temptation was to make a run for it but the noise would alert anyone in the vicinity, so it took him five minutes to stand upright and inch himself back on to the path. There was Bill still lying where he'd been shot -at least it had been a clean kill. Damn, Bill had been the one luxury, the one sentimental chink in his armour; well, that would learn him (if he got a second chance).

Even when he was walking back to his house he took it slow, tried to make himself as casual as possible, even going so far as to walk slightly hunched over, with a limp, so his silhouette didn't look like him.

He was conscious of every movement around him; every noise, no matter how small. Even when he got to his front door he still wouldn't allow himself to relax; that had been the biggest mistake of his; he had grown complacent and had almost paid the price for it.

Now it was somebody else's turn to pay.

He bathed and tended his hand as best he could. He couldn't afford to waste time at a hospital but allowed himself a few hours’ sleep. He had learned to switch off; a skill that had served him well and led to many nights rest. Too many people could not switch off and they either went mad or got sloppy.

But it was when he woke that the questions really started. Two really: Who had tried to kill him and who had called in the hit? Both were hard to figure. He had not kept any contacts to his old life so didn't know who was still operating. They were good, maybe even as good as he used to be. True, they had missed, but could that have been deliberate? Was this part of a psychological vendetta? To make him paranoid before killing him?

He despised that approach; he didn't want to think of people unduly suffering; his kills were always quick and clean. So who was alive that could have called it in? No one to his knowledge and he'd certainly not made any waves in his new life to prompt anyone to go down such a route. A hitman was a very costly vendetta -extortionate, actually. It wasn't that a human life was expensive, but making it look like an accident or making it untraceable was difficult. Killing someone was the easy part. No one he knew could afford that kind of money surely?

He had three choices as he saw it. One: Run. He could easily disappear again. He'd left a fake trail that no one could follow. No one had managed to trace him back to his old life so he could do it again.

Two: Ignore it. There was the slightest possibility that he had been mistaken for somebody else. It had been known, bizarrely enough.... but that was the kind of thinking that would lead to his death.

The only option that was left to him was to find out who was responsible. That meant taking his life apart person by person. There were two people who thought that they were close to him, and one person at work who had proven to be a trouble maker; so it was with them that he would start.

This was going to be a nasty process, one that there was no going back from and he had to be prepared to go all the way. There was no resurrecting his cover from this; once it was over he would have to start again... but he had to be sure.

The key to any hit was detail. One had to know everything about the target, down to the last detail: it was all relevant. The man had been an excellent researcher in his time and he'd lost none of that skill. He'd managed to develop detailed background checks on all his so called friends -call it paranoia, but it was another of the reasons he was still alive.

He'd worked at the same firm for five years now and had managed to stay firmly in the background. He was a financial advisor and neither over-performed nor missed his targets. He knew enough about psychology to be an effective salesman without being too pushy. His clients trusted him and saw him as a straight shooter (one lady had actually called him that, drawing a thin ironic smile from him.).

Most of his work colleagues paid little notice of him, all except one: Simon Jimson. Simon was a Welshman of no mean repute; he was one of the top sellers and could net women with the same skills. He seemed to take an interest in the man's affairs from almost the first month; on the first training session he made jokes about other forms of retirement, something that seemed deliberately aimed at him.

Simon was way too popular to be made an example of ; too many questions would be raised if he was found dead. He couldn't afford that kind of heat, so it was far better to avoid him, which wasn't that difficult as they lived over 200 miles apart and only met up three times a year. But now was the time for answers. Simon seemed to know something and there was going to be no fucking about now.

It was a four hour trip to get to Simon's house, and it took another hour to ensure that he was alone, but the first shot had been worth it; he took a perverse pleasure from it.

The knock on the door had led to a surprised look on Simon's face, quickly followed by horror as two rounds of suppressed gun fire tore chunks out of his left leg. The man pushed Simon as he fell and closed the door swiftly behind him -the whole thing had taken less than a minute.

“You know who I am.. or at least, what I am.” He said quietly. Simon had managed to keep himself from screaming from the pain but could only spasmodically nod. “How?”

“Conspiracies...  I'm into conspiracies... followed your career for years.”

“Again, how? I've been careful.”

“Too... too careful.” Simon replied, sweating profusely now. “Your M.O. was too perfect, you took no risks. Your nickname was the Immaculate Conception, believe...believe it or not.. because every job you took was immaculate. There's a whole sub-culture of us who are into contract killers as others are into... trains... We swap statistics like top-trumps.”

“I'm not a fucking card game, Simon -someone took a shot at me and I want to know who.”

Horror was quickly followed by disbelief on his face as Simon understood what was happening.

“But who could take you? You think... you think it's me?”

“Who.... have... you.. told?”

“Swear.. I swear. I've told no one.” The man bent over and pushed his gun into the wounds on Simon's leg. Simon screamed.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Ran background check on you... was too good.”

“Why?”

“Like to know who my competitors are – good salesmanship.”

“Go on.”

“You'd taken such pains to make out that you were an average person... but you.. you're not. Nothing about you is average. You're always aware, your body mannerisms; it's like your hunting. Your KPI's are always just right -oh, you play the odds but it's obvious that you're capable of so much more. I had suspicions right from the start and … built up from there.”

The man smiled despite himself -this womanising, washed-up Welshman had done what he thought impossible and in any other circumstances he might even have admired him.

“Who else have you told?” He prodded the wound again.

“Fuck you! Who would have believed me? I'm a good salesman, but not that good!”

Simon had a point; he was a blabbermouth but knew how to keep the important stuff secret. If he had spoken to anyone before then the attack would've happened far sooner.

“It's your lucky day, Simon.”

“You going to let me go?”

“No, you're going to be taken out by the Immaculate Conception -out of retirement for the last time. You were right after all.” The bullet was swift; no point in inflicting any further pain, that wasn't his style.

On the drive home he was cursing. How had he been found out? Had he been that sloppy in his life? By being so cautious had he really created another M.O. (Something that he had tried so desperately to avoid.) He was confident that Simon hadn't told anyone else, but if he had figured it out.... He only had two places left to visit but he had to make it quick -luckily it was now Sunday morning so surprise was on his side.

Part of him didn't want to go through with this -it meant killing two people he almost cared about. His partner and is 'best friend'.

He'd met Louise in a bar in his first week. He'd visited it to get a feel for the locals, not to enter into a relationship with anyone, but she had made it too easy. Five years had passed like months and he had almost trusted her enough to move in together. She was sweet and gullible and just wanted to believe the best about people; she swallowed his lies easily.

She wasn't at home when he called, so he broke in using the key he copied from when they first met up. It looked like she had been gone the whole weekend, but where? She hadn't spoken about making any plans.

Then a note on her calendar for Saturday and Sunday: Matthew and a smiley face. That bitch! He couldn't believe that she would do such a thing. Matthew was supposed to be best friends with him. Well, no matter -it was all going to be over anyway and this way would be much quicker.

It was a short drive and easy enough to break into Matthews flat and, and as he thought, they were still in bed together; it was almost touching.

He had to be careful, too much noise would alert the neighbours. He had a roll of duct tape and some cable ties with him from the car. They were both lying on their backs which made things slightly easier. He quickly rolled out a long strip and leapt on to the bed, fastening the tape to their mouths in one swift motion.

When Matthew awoke he gasped soundlessly and the man swiftly elbowed him in the stomach before cutting the tape between them and pinned Matthew to the bed. Louise was awake now but too scared to move so he could roll her onto her front and secure the cable tie to her wrists before moving back to Matthew.

When the ties were firm he ripped the tape from Matthews mouth in one swift motion nearly taking the skin from his lips.

“Do you know who I am?” He hissed.

“You fucking kidding me? I knew you'd find out eventually.”

“Find out what?”

“About us? What do you think? I said that we were taking too many risks but she said nooooo -you know what I think? I think she wanted you to find out. Well, congratulations, bitch -he found out!” The man slammed his fist into Matthews nose before securing another swathe of tape across his mouth and nose.

He pulled Louise off the bed and dragged her into the bathroom whilst Matthew struggled to breathe. Once she was inside he turned back into the bedroom and looked at the panicking body. “You should've treated her better.” He said before shooting Matthew through the heart.

Back in the bathroom Louise had managed to wake up from her stupor and tried to scream when he walked in, shutting the door casually behind him. She stood by the toilet, trapped and cowering. She looked so vulnerable that a small part of him wanted to just hold her, but that could never happen again. He thought of Matthew and just lashed out, slamming her into the bath, her head hitting the wall, knocking her cold. He relieved himself in the toilet whilst pondering what to do.

He didn't want to overly hurt her but equally he needed to know what she knew. Basely, he also wanted to know why she cheated on him; for some reason it mattered to him.

The cold water woke her up but he splashed two more cup full's on her to make sure. When she calmed down enough he talked to her.

“Do you know who I am? Who I really am?” She shook her head, terrified. “Talk to me!” He shouted.

“No.. No, I don't.. I swear.”

“Have you ever spoken to Simon?”

“The Welsh twat? No.. why should I? Why would I talk to him?”

She was right, there was no reason but he had to be sure. He took the pair of scissors that sat on the vanity shelf and pondered using them.

Her eyes followed his and seemed to immediately understand. A thin trickle of liquid ran down her leg. He needed no further proof and sighed. But if not her, then who? Who knew so much about him? He turned to leave. He knew that he had to kill her but couldn't; but equally he needed to know why she'd cheated on him.

“Why him, Louise? Why Matthew?” She looked at him firmly now, free of fear and all meekness gone.

“He's everything you're not: caring, understanding. Do you ever really see me? See what's become of me? You care nothing about no one; nothing touches you. You're nothing but a cold blooded machine – a nothing!” A single bullet stopped her, he couldn't bare to hear any more; and what was worse was... she was right.

Back at home.. but home no longer. People would come looking for him now, police. He had to be gone, as far away as he could manage. It would take less than ten minutes to pack and erase his presence from the place. He always kept emergency suitcases for just this eventuality.

When he'd finished and wiped his fingerprints from everything he found a piece of paper sticking out of his letterbox. Two words, in familiar handwriting that he just couldn't place.

“Nymans 10pm.”

Nymans Gardens was a National Trust property on the outskirts of town where he'd taken Bill for many walks; he knew the place well. Tonight was different though, he needed answers. He'd hid in the woods during closing time and at nine he started prowling the grounds. There had been no specified place to meet so this was to be a showdown... well, he was going to be ready.

He took the path that led straight to the house; two tall hedges stood either side making a narrow corridor. He hugged the left side and made himself as small a target as he could. He had perfect visibility as the assailant could only attack from the front or the rear and he was on a hair trigger. The house was in front, and behind were simply fields, there was no chance of a surprise attack.

The spotlight blinded him, forcing him from the shadows. It could only have come from the house but made it impossible for him to see anything. He never even heard the first shot but felt it enter his naval. By the time the second shot found its mark he was already falling and he hit the ground dead, as he always was.

Behind The Writer's Eyes

He knew how to make a first impression despite being just over five foot high. His silent, intense gaze surveyed the room like an x-ray as he stood facing us at the end of the classroom. Once he was sure that everyone had arrived he sat down behind the desk. He disarmed us with a smile but his eyes never left us; it was impossible to stare too long into them.

Having sat at a convenient desk I unpacked my small rucksack. The confirmation slip awkwardly stuffed into one of the smaller side pockets and I fished it out to double check I’d picked the right room. This amiable, well dressed and bespectacled chap seemed a far cry from the blurb that had caught my attention in the adult education syllabus, and he looked to be the last person that could teach a class on writing horror stories.

Quite what a horror writer was supposed to look like I didn’t know, but after seeing photo’s of Stephen King; Clive Barker and James Herbert it wasn’t easy to lump this guy with them; his light curls made him look more like a sociology teacher. It was hard to make the connection, but then I suppose they said the same thing about Ted Bundy.

I made sure that I was in the right classroom by nervously looking at the number on the still open door. The man noticed by nervousness, smiled and nodded once as if to reassure me. This one was not disarming though, it was slightly cold and calculating as if he was measuring my every gesture like an undertaker.

It felt surreal sitting in the same classroom, albeit fifteen years later. Ironically this used to be where I had was taught English and I had to resist the urge to sit in my old seat. I had watched as the other members of the class drifted in and picked their places. Even though there was no designated seating I was fascinated by where each person sat and I wondered how much of the choice was coloured by past experiences and behaviour. No one sat in the front row and few people sat together.

What if this classroom were suddenly captured and transported into an alien world, I wondered. Would body language and role types be determined by the seating arrangements? Would those sitting near the front of the class be the natural leaders? Would those at the back –the shy retiring types- be the first to be eaten?

The man at the front looked at his sleek, expensive wrist watch, walked to the classroom door and, without even checking to see if anyone else was coming, shut it.

“Are we sitting comfortably?” He asked, his voice warm and genial, perfectly cultured and reassuring. “Then we’ll begin.”

He was one of Britain’s foremost horror writers with five best sellers and even a television mini-series, that had starred Peter Davidson, under his belt. I hadn’t read any of his books and hadn’t even heard of him before finding the adult education listing in the local paper.

Upon sitting down again he addressed us all. “Right! Close your eyes and keep them closed for three minutes. I want you to pay due attention to everything you hear, everything that you smell; everything you feel and even any memories that are conjured up. At the end of the three minutes I want you to write it all down. You’ll have ten minutes to do that.” He looked at his watch again. “The three minutes start….. Now – close your eyes.”

I did as I was told: this seemed a strange way to begin a writing class but once the novelty of effectively sleeping in class subsided I was surprised by what I could actually hear. There were the obvious sounds of the fellow classmates, the consciously shallow breaths and awkward shuffling of feet, and the occasional but inevitable throat clearing, but I was able to go beyond that. I could hear the wind and rain whip the exposed windows of the classroom. I could hear the footsteps in the corridor outside as the person scuffed up the stairs. There was the sound of scraping chairs from above as a class finished. There was even the rote mutterings of the class below us, a bizarre chanting which must have been a foreign language class –either reciting an alphabet or an ancient creed.

The smells I found harder to quantify; they were more elusive but proved to be far more emotive. I smelt the classroom of my memories; the chalk dust and stale sweat odour of the teacher, the stogid, pungent reek of the canteen which was further down the corridor (the smells that hung in the memory most were the limp, tasteless cabbage; the rank tomato and pilchard surprise and the sickly sweet and milky rice pudding.)

It didn’t seem that many years since I was last in the classroom, but all the teachers I had known had either left or died and I now felt like a disembodied spirit. If time had a smell then I guess it would have been one similar to what I was experiencing: tinges of lost innocence, past opportunities and future promises, stale luck and forgotten loves. It’s school where you feel the pressures of growing up; in puberty you’re no longer a child and each day you feel the innocence drip away whilst the weight and expectation from the future threatens to mould and crush you before you have time to assimilate the multitude of changes that assault you….

“Three minutes are up!” He said, breaking me out of my reverie. “Pick up your pens and write down exactly what you smelt, tasted and felt. I’ll ask you to stop in ten minutes.”

I had never realised that three minutes could feel like that. On the one hand it was fleeting, over before I’d even drawn breath, but on the other hand I had lived and experienced every moment.

That was the first time that I met Daniel Paige and he taught me more in those three minutes than the whole school had in the all the years I had gone there as a pupil.

I went to his evening classes for a further three years after that initial term. The syllabus was exactly the same, year on year, the pieces of paper he used as lesson plans became more dog-eared and thumbed, but the classes were always fun, informative and helped serve as a refresher for me.

In that time Daniel never changed, not in any literal sense. His hair style differed: long and curly, short and frizzy or short and straightened, slicked back; but he was always affable, charming and as confident as ever.

The second year I went back to the class he remembered me. The class only ran for ten weeks but he could still remember details about me, even after a year.

The other members of the class could never understand what such a well renowned author was doing running an adult education class. To me it was obvious: he was gathering material for his characters. Here he could study the minutiae of someone’s personality, their mannerisms, ticks and traits that only close scrutiny can reward. My theory was proven about a year later when I finally picked up his latest horror novel “Spoken”, which was about a case of supposed demonic possession of a young girl by a deceased serial killer. One of the consultants in the book had a surname of Sampson (which was also my surname). Was this a co-incidence? Not when the character shared many of my own behavioural ticks, even down to the way that I become overly animated when I’m excited, or chew on my pen when agitated. All of that Daniel could have easily noted on that first night I met him, but he had the rest of the ten weeks to hone that character.

(I must admit I was flattered by that and actually own an autographed copy of it with an inscription “To Dr Sampson, all the best Daniel”.)

After the last class had finished I rushed out and bought a couple more of Daniels best sellers and voraciously read them. I now wish I hadn’t.

The central idea to his novels was always unique and breathed life into a somewhat one-dimensional genre and the plot was always sound. But it seemed to me that Daniel was always trying so hard to keep away from the clichés that were associated with slasher fiction, that they became a parody themselves instead.

If the cliché was having an innocent virgin survive then he would do his utmost to kill her off in a particularly nasty fashion in the first fifty pages. In a way they became formulaic, the stories were cold and calculating –like his killers.

Daniel was always brilliant at setting the scene, describing in vivid detail the murders and the ensuing crime investigation, it was almost meticulous. But, for me, the story and characterisation always let the novels down. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand human psychology; he could observe it and wrote down perfectly what he saw, but he couldn’t deduce motivation from that or get to grips with any real emotion, except for the nasty side of life.

I never told him how I felt, obviously. I was in a minority, but that was fine. I was also unsure how he would react to my opinions and might actually consider it extremely presumptuous (not to mention extremely rude). Although I suppose that many people would have jumped at the chance to prove their worldliness, superiority and vulgarity by carping on, but not I.

Years later I would become the hypocrite, but in completely different circumstances, and with greater conviction.

I read four of his horror novels, each one as predictable as the last. He made a habit of never revealing the killer at the end of the book –an act designed to thwart the machinations of the pessimistic reader- but by unmasking the antagonist with up to fifty pages to go it often meant a long, bland summation and exposition where even the most asinine detail assumed gargantuan significance.

However I still went back to those wonderful evening classes. But, like everything, they soon ceased and after five years we lost contact with each other.

At the end of those five years I had actually written my own novel which had even been published. Admittedly, it had been a self-published affair, sold only to a few local bookshops, but Daniel somehow found out, insisted on buying a copy and wanting it both inscribed and signed.

A few months before that I had spoken to him about a scene I had written in which the protagonist had visited a seedy brothel. The character in the story was at the last edge of desperation and needed to reach out to someone, anyone. (in an ironic way I had been in a similar situation, so this was art imitating life for certain.) He was a great exponent of “Write what you know” and asked me, conspiratorially, whether I had indulged in that particular experience. When I replied in the affirmative he seemed pleased that I had followed through and showed the “testicular fortitude” needed to be a writer and go that extra mile. I wondered how far he had travelled down that particular route himself. However in amongst the obvious confirmation of his teaching ability there was also a hint of sadness in his eyes.

After a while I lost my drive to become a published writer and soon my ability to turn a polished phrase dried up, save for writing in greetings cards or the occasional speech. I became fascinated with photography after discovering a talent hidden in various holiday snaps. Buying a digital camera furthered my creative ambition and within a year I was exhibiting a selection of my best photo’s in the local library.

Two years passed, one national prize winning photo, and two further exhibitions later, I browsed the shelves of one of the many charity book stores that lay strewn like the illegitimate children of our town.

“Dying Tonight is a real Paige turner.” Read the reviews of Daniel’s latest novel. It wasn’t a huge departure from his previous genre of writing: he had shifted from the writer of gory slasher novels to the, slightly more subdued, who-dunnits. I’d not seen him in a number of years and had totally lost track of his exploits after the writing classes.

“Dying Tonight” was an intriguing title. I read the synopsis and checked the author photo on the back, and taking the book home I vigorously devoured every page of it. Daniel had taken yet another overtly clichéd genre and breathed fresh life into it.

The story was written from the point of view of a would be murderer who had planned the death of his boss. When the time comes for him to actually commit his crime he is horrified to discover that someone has actually beaten him to it. The man is already dead, murdered in exactly the same way he had planned, but with all the evidence pointing to him. He has to find out exactly who framed him before he, himself, is arrested.

It’s a masterpiece of storytelling where the readers loyalties are confused between being on the side of the would be murderer, knowing him for what he is, and the actual murderer.

I was actually disappointed upon finishing the novel so quickly –I wanted more. Gone were all the traits that bored me so much with his slasher novels, instead there was depth of maturity and an understanding of human nature that was non-existent with Daniels earlier works.

On the biography on the back cover was an email address to contact Daniel: paigeturning@stab.net. This was an ironic homage to his writing roots. In fact, the subject matter hadn’t really changed, it was still death and murder, just the emphasis and perspective had shifted.

I had to email him, if only to congratulate him on a masterful piece of storytelling. It would be doubtful that he’d remember me after such a time though. I was careful to keep my email short and succinct and didn’t want to appear overly gushing. I knew he had an irreverent sense of humour, like mine, and did my best to play to that. I began the email: “Dear Boss.”

To my surprise he replied the very next day. There was the same warmth and humour that I remembered, but the email seemed hesitant as if he was expecting me to ask something of him. The tone was one of trepidation, the humour measured.

He asked after me, enquired after my writing and wanted to know whether I had published any more novels. I was pleased he had remembered me and I fought the urge to reply straight away. I didn’t want to appear too eager. If he did have apprehensions about talking to me then I didn’t want to fuel them by incessant emails.
I replied two days later and dropped the formalities completely and began with “Yo!” –he always liked colloquialisms and I thought that would make him chuckle.

I told him of my photography and even attached a couple of my favourite photo’s. I asked him when his next novel was going to be published and wished him well. I didn’t hear from him for a couple of weeks and wondered if I had pushed too far this time with over familiarity. Then one morning I received a black envelope with my name and address written in silver ink. Inside was a very smart and ominous invitation to the book launch of Daniel Paige’s latest novel “Dying To Meet You”. The invite was for a couple of weeks time and included in the envelope was a map with directions to the venue and a small written note: “Yo! Apols for the short notice but would love it if you could come. All the best, Daniel!”

I was awestruck and dumbfounded –this was amazing! I had been invited to an official book launch in Horsely, on the top floor of one of the local bookshops (which actually featured in the novel). I felt honoured to be invited and immediately fired off an email of thanks.

The two weeks trudged passed but I used the time to read up on Daniels recent past. “Dying Tonight” was actually his first foray into the who-dunnit sub-genre. The sales of his slasher novels had gradually declined and for two years he hadn’t written anything. Then, out of the blue, and with little publicity, “Dying Tonight” was released. It spread virally through word of mouth and the internet. Daniel was one of the first authors to really understand the power of the net. Within weeks it became a hit and Daniel became a guest on radio stations and chat shows alike, but now all eyes were on his latest novel “Dying To Meet You.”

On the night of the book launch I was apprehensive and nervous. The invite was for a “plus one” as well, but I had only recently moved jobs and didn’t know anyone well enough to invite, so I went alone.

It had occurred to me that Daniel had always been a successful novelist and actually world famous, but to me he had been a somewhat quirky and cool writing teacher, someone I could have a real laugh with. I was now seeing him in a completely different context now and I was more than a little star-struck. I now wonder that if I had kept my feet on the ground whether some of the unpleasantness that came later could have been avoided.

I’d arrived far too early for the launch and wondered around an icy and foggy Horsely, but became very cold very quickly and resided to wait inside the bookshop itself. There was only twenty minutes to go and I like hanging round in bookshops anyway.

I was so engrossed in perusing the latest novels by Jim Storrington that I wasn’t aware he was standing behind me until Daniel clasped me firmly on the shoulder. My “Whatthefuck” outburst amused him greatly and he said, “Its funny, that’s what people used to say to me after they finished one of my slasher novels!” I turned round and shook his outstretched hand. His grip was firm and confident, mine was clammy and limp. He looked no different to the last time I saw him except his hair was slightly longer and more curly, but he no longer wore glasses.

“Contact lenses.” He replied to my unspoken question. “They make me look more approachable, doncha think?” He smiled and winked. I laughed rather timidly. I was starting to feel like a goldfish in a shark tank, a child amongst adults. “Have you ever thought of wearing contacts?” He asked.

“No.” I replied quickly. “Well… yes, I’ve tried.. but I didn’t like the thought of having anything touch my eyes… It’s icky.” Icky? I said Icky? I felt like a schoolboy talking to the headmaster.

“Indeed.” He replied, smiling. “How are you getting on?” He asked, genuinely interested in what I had to say. I felt like a fraud talking to him. I could see people gathering behind him and he was wasting his time talking to me. I quickly gabbled something about the exhibition I was preparing for and he seemed really pleased by this and congratulated me on the photos I had sent him. He noticed the beads of nervous sweat that had started to coalesce on my forehead and clapped me on the shoulder before saying, “I’m really glad you could make it. We’ll have to catch up soon. I may even have a commission for you.” I didn’t know what to say about that so I gushed a bit more. He seemed disappointed and simply wished me well.

I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me; I had never acted that way before. Now that he was a celebratory I felt in awe of him and somehow second rate yet he was no different from when we first met those years before, and nor was I.

He was a literary star, on his second wind and had even worked in Hollywood producing films for Robert De Niro and James Woods.

I was… well, what was I? - An aspiring photographer and a failed novelist. (Although I hadn’t failed exactly, I never believed in what I was doing so never followed through on the opportunities that were handed to me). I couldn’t understand why he’d invited me to the book launch and gone out of his way to meet and greet me. Surely I was an embarrassment to him, and I felt embarrassed for him.

Looking back on it now, as I write this, I might have offered him an alternative to the other star-struck fawning fans that dogged his career. I was a link to a time before he was famous and was able to see Daniel as he really was, or at least a truer reflection of the darkened mirror he allowed the public to see. So when I didn’t offer that to him he was a disappointed. He didn’t need another gushing fan, he needed a friend. It’s taken me a long time to realise that, I’m sorry to say.

I tried my best to enjoy myself for the rest of the evening. I talked to many different people, having a unique perspective on Daniel, being a pupil to his teacher, but I was still haunted by his disappointed farewell and went home early.

The next day I sent him an email thanking him for the invite. I bought a copy of the hardback novel, of course, and he wrote an inscription inside: “To my star pupil!” I still have the book, and all those that he signed for me. The email was short on length and gushing, trying to keep it to the point. I said that I enjoyed the evening, which was the truth and that I was enjoying “Dying To Meet You” which was a half-truth.

The novel had started well: Daniel always knew how to hook the reader and the central premise was strong, but I had guessed who the killer was within the first fifty pages. I didn’t receive a reply from Daniel for weeks afterwards, and nor did I expect one. When one did arrive in my inbox he asked me whether I would like to take his photo for the next novel.

I couldn’t believe what I had just read and had to reread it twice before the truth sank in. He liked my photography so much, especially the portraits I had sent him, that he’d persuaded his publishers to use me for the next photo-shoot. He apologised in advance by saying that it wasn’t company policy for the publishers to pay for the photograph, but he hoped he could make amends by buying me lunch. He asked me to think about it, and hoped to hear back from me.

Think about it? I didn’t need to think about it, this was a chance in a lifetime! I whizzed off a reply, thanking him for the opportunity. I then browsed the web for other author portraits, paying attention to poses and settings. I knew that Daniel based his stories around the local towns and knew that the last novel was based around Horsely so I thought it would be a good idea to build on that. I loved driving around anyway scouting for locations so knew a few good places to take his photo. I sent the list to Daniel and was surprised to find he replied instantly. The email had just three words: “Leaf Hill. Fab.”

Leaf Hill had been my initial choice, call it a gut feeling. There were so many opportunities for moody shots: the dense woods leading up to the top of the hill; the wonderful view from the top itself, which, being the highest vantage points on the North Downs, boasted stunning panoramic vistas. And then there was the Tower.

The Tower was an imposing folly built by “Mad James Fillier” on a whim. No one really knew much about it, but it made a perfect backdrop with the Weald behind it. The next day he emailed me with the list of dates he was free and I picked the soonest date which was less than a week away. It would mean taking a days holiday but it was more than worth it, as there would be less people walking.

Of course, the weekend before the shoot I scouted around for possible locations and felt safe in the knowledge that I had made the right decision: there were so many wonderful spots there that I knew we would be spoilt for choice.

The morning of the shoot I met Daniel in the car park. Me, standing in front of my fading Micra as Daniel pulled in with his Aston Martin.

“A little clichéd.” He said upon greeting me, “but Bond was one of the main reasons I became a writer in the first place.” He shook my hand firmly again. I smiled and looked at my watch. I knew that the best light would be at mid-day, but that still gave us plenty of time to take photo’s on the way up the hill. The wood would give us plenty of opportunities.

I was pleased to see that Daniel was wearing his brown leather jacket as I’d asked him. He also had on a dark navy jumper and black trousers. I wanted a look that suggested a gritty and earthy presence whilst remaining contemporary. He understood me perfectly and the brown leather jacket was the piece-de-resistance. He also had a pair of shades which added a menacing quality.

We walked up the hill making small talk, my words stumbling out like an amateur. I’d known him for years, but all that time it had been as a pupil to his teacher. Now I was the one that was telling him what to do and how to pose, I felt very uneasy. I know that he wanted to see me as an equal but I was so insecure I never gave him that opportunity.

The photo’s that I took that day count as some of my best work. The publishers used one of the photos taken in the woods as there was a sinister undertone to them. As much as I liked those that were taken atop the hill itself they seemed too exposed, and didn’t suit the subject matter: Daniel was swamped by the beautiful view. Had the photo been taken on a foggy morning then it may have been different. (I silently cursed myself about not thinking about that earlier – a foggy morning would have been even better for such a shoot)

The day had been useful, but strained. Daniel had bought ice-creams at the top of the hill and asked a passer-by to take a photo of us both. He grinned inanely in the photo and attempted to stab me with his cornetto whilst I guiltily nibbled my Fab-lolly. His smile was genuine enough, but there was also an element of frustration. He saw that day as a complete break from his crushing routine, a chance to chat with a friend and be himself, but it turned into yet another shade of work.

Of course I was overjoyed when I received the email from the publisher thanking me for the photo. It would be used as the promotional image from the next novel onwards. This was, by far, the highest point of my photography. In many ways I should have capitalised on it and sent off emails to other publishers asking for more opportunities, but I didn’t. I’m not sure whether it was due to a fear of failure or of actually succeeding.

A bottle of champagne was sent by courier from Daniel with a hearty letter of thanks. The bottle sits unopened in the kitchen as a reminder of happier times. When the inevitable launch came I eagerly received my invite and took relish in inviting my, then girlfriend, Claire to the occasion.

“Dying Solo” was written purely from the victims point of view as he pieces together the murder scene –in a similar style to Sunset Boulevard. The novel featured the same Paige turning attention to detail, especially when detailing the murders, told now from a unique perspective –that of the dead man, himself. Daniel must have enjoyed flexing his creative muscles on that one. The attacks were all visceral and I wondered how he’d managed to write them, considering one of his maxims was “write what you know.”.

There were far more people at this launch as Daniel was no longer the “rising literary star”. His last novel had cemented his reputation as one of the countries leading crime writers. The launch was held at one of the larger Horsely hotels, out in the country, and had actually featured in a previous slasher novel of his: “The Butler Did It” about a series of brutal murders that took place in a training school for butlers.

Claire was awed by the occasion, but I was daunted by the size. The venue was twice the size of the previous launch and I really wondered what I was doing there. I used Claire as a shield so I didn’t feel quite so insignificant and kept me sane for the night.

I had a hard time spotting Daniel as he crowd surfed, something that he actually felt uncomfortable doing. He was whirled around by his agent and publisher, meeting and greeting. No one else would spot the signs of his discomfort, but I recognised it from some of the photos I had taken of him. I resided to keep my distance until the book signings where I hoped he would allow me to take a photo of him with Claire.

When the time finally came he seemed really pleased to see me and was only too happy to pose with Claire. Unfortunately none of the photos from that night came out well, all were way too dark and under-exposed due to me getting to grips with a new camera. (Something I bitterly regret now as those would have been the only photo’s of Claire as the relationship only lasted another two weeks.) When Daniel signed the novel he wrote “To the world’s greatest portrait photographer” and we shared a conspiratorial wink. My photograph was THE publicity photo for a couple of years afterwards.

Over the next two years we both kept in touch via email. I went to the annual book launch with a different girl each year, Daniel rarely batted an eye during the launch but remarked about the change of scenery in one of this emails. I replied simply saying that it wasn’t a matter of choice for me, it just seemed that most of my life was down to a poor choice of back projection.

With “Dying Is Easy” our relationship changed. On one of our many email conversations I asked him how his latest novel was shaping up. Not too well was the three word answer. When pushed he replied that one of his characters was physically disabled and an artist –he was also under suspicion of being the killer. Daniel wanted to really get into the mind of the character but didn’t know how to do it, he was really stuck. As luck would have it, I had a close friend who was disabled and, bizarrely enough, also an artist. I was sure that if John was agreeable, Daniel could interview him and possibly even base the character on him. Daniel was over the moon with this, but it turned out to be one of the worst mistakes I ever made, losing two friends in the process.

Daniel met with John on several occasions, both heartily enjoying each others company. John and I felt sure that Daniel would show the physically disabled character in a true and sympathetic light. At the end John thanked Daniel for the wonderful opportunity but Daniel stayed strangely quiet.

On the night of the book launch I proudly wheeled John into the Waterside Bar in Festerham, a new hip and trendy location for such a literary superstar. We both bought copies of the novel and were surprised to find them pre-signed. However we were both mentioned in the credits at the end of the book. We smiled at each other, proud of our achievements. I was surprised to find that it was no longer my photo adorning the inside flap of the hardback –I had been usurped. I had always known such a time would come, but it still came as a shock.

We left early having missed the opportunity of meeting Daniel. I was disappointed, but John felt bitter. It had been unbelievably hot and cramped for him and we had to leave just after the speeches because of John’s medication.

Three days later I received a text from John that simply said “Bastard!” I had no idea what prompted that and John wouldn’t reply to any of my texts or phone calls.

When I finished reading “Dying Is Easy” I understood why.

Daniel had made the character that was wheelchair bound, the same character that both John and I had worked so hard on, into both the victim AND the killer. The character was dying from AID’s and sought to kill all those that had crossed him in his life.

I felt completely betrayed by this and knew that John would never forgive me. I finished the novel through gritted teeth and then threw it across the room. I couldn’t believe what I had just read. None of it made sense; Daniel had disregarded everything that John had said to him and played to the negative stereotypes.

In a fit of anger I sent Daniel an email and accused him of betrayal and of being nothing more than a hack, and in the circumstances he responded well. He couldn’t understand my concerns. Rather than being a victim, Daniel saw the character as taking complete control of his life, acting as the worm that turned, and thought of him as a positive role. He was sorry that I didn’t like the book, but said that it was only my opinion: other people liked the character and saw him as strong and independent. I was incredulous about this and sent him a particularly nasty reply. I never received an answer back.

Do I regret my hastily chosen words? Yes –yes I do. But I regret more suggesting that John be used as a research subject. I still consider what Daniel did a betrayal and I lost a damn good friend because of it, and that I don’t forgive.

Three months passed and I tried putting the whole incident behind me. I had hoped that John would get back in contact with me and be able to see that I had been used as much as he had, but that never happened. I received an untitled email from Daniel one day, completely out of the blue. There was no apology for what had happened and what he did, but there was an attempt at putting the past behind us. He wrote that he truly valued our friendship and didn’t want it to die like that. Nor did I.

I couldn’t truly forgive him but nor did I want to lose another friend. I replied and said that I was happy to start afresh now that this meant a level playing field between us. He replied instantly, via his Blackberry, and seemed really pleased. He was proud to be my friend and wished me well in what I was doing. That was the last time I ever heard from him.

I read on the BBC website that he died three months later from a cancer condition. I was shocked by this.

He had been dying for months but the cancer was inoperable. He must have been dying when he wrote “Dying Is Easy” and I wonder how much of the main characters bitterness was an extension of his own. He felt crippled by the pain and just wanted to lash out. I know now that he never meant for us to be caught in the crossfire.

It came to light that all the characters that were killed in the novel were all based on people that Daniel had known in his life. It was his way of getting back at the people that had crossed him, and speculation was rife as to who all the people were.

How do I feel about Daniel Paige now? I feel sad, I think, sad about missed opportunities. He was a great man, but most of the best bits were kept hidden behind his writers eyes.

I wish that I’d been more open to him. I let my own insecurity blind me to a great friendship. But I learnt a lot from him. He was a brilliant writer who sometimes gave into the pressures of popularity and convention. And even though I’m not as young any more, I’m writing now because of the big impression that he made on me.