The Autograph Collector

She never intended to harm him, she just wanted to meet him again. She was convinced they had made a connection – but this time she wanted more than just an autograph.

December 11^th 2001 – Hollywood

Helen’s room was always dark.

She had kept the curtains closed since the day her mother died.

She no longer trusted the outside world.

He smiles out from a collage of photos captured by the paparazzi. He is climbing out of a car. Waving from the deck of a yacht. His distinctive smile trapped in a thousand images frozen in time. She kneels on the floor naked, rocking gently on her heels. She smiles back at him conspiringly. She is happy in her dark shrine, her mind shifting between visions of her mother, and him. Sometimes the visions fuse, and she fights to keep them apart. He lies next to her, his head on the pillow, his hands in her hair. She pretends to resist as he holds her down, one arm across her neck. She lets him to do whatever he wants, and never questions her sense of reason. She simply believes her obsession is born of passion.

They first met in the flower shop where she worked in Beverly Hills. It was three months ago to the day. It was early morning, before they had heard the terrible news. Their eyes met at the same instant, Helen glancing up from a box she was opening, and him, just turning his head, so he looked directly at her. He smiled, and explained the flowers were for his mother. His eyes were colourless, yet dominant like light or fire. Helen could not look away, she remained transfixed. She felt ashamed of her appearance, her old blue skirt and the humiliating flat shoes.

He appeared smaller than he did on-screen, and his hair flopped over his forehead. He smiled at her, tilting his head, then asked if the flowers could be gift-wrapped. His security guard pushed a credit card into her hand. A small crowd was beginning to form outside the shop, and she felt a wave of panic engulf her. She nodded and tried to smile, but somehow her face remained impassive. She could feel the warmth of his stare as she fumbled with the wrapping but could not look up. When she had finished, he took the flowers from her, and there followed a moment of silence as she finally found the courage to meet his gaze. In that moment, time stood still, and a new world was born around her, like a bright forest with a million shimmering leaves.

She took a shower and then fussed with her hair. This time, she thought, I am going to wear something that pleases him. She knew the sort of woman he preferred, she had seen the photographs. She chose the black silk dress she had worn for her mother’s funeral, and teamed it with the pearls bought from Nordstrom. She gazed at her reflection in the full-length mirror and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She climbed the stairs to her mother’s room and stared at the solid oak door which could only be locked from the outside. She smiled to herself as she slowly caressed the wood, and then opened the top draw of the bedside cabinet and took out the gun. It was a Ruger 380 Automatic, just small enough to fit into her purse.

She walked north on Wilcox and took a right on Sunset Boulevard. She glanced up at the ArcLight cinema and saw his face staring down from the billboard, crowding out her sky. The sun was warm for December, and she felt a shiver run down her spine as if her heart were about to burst.

The bar was already dark and lit by small candles. She took a stool and ordered a Jack Daniels and coke. The television was on mute as she watched the grim face of President Bush at a memorial ceremony in Washington. She read his words on the screen.

“We’ll remember where we were and how we felt. We will remember the dead and what we owe them. We will remember what we lost and what we found. Every death extinguished a world.”

She began to feel her second drink and recalled the place her mother had sent her when she was little. They called it an orphanage, yet it was merely a halfway house. A place where children waited for their parents to collect them – like left luggage. She never knew her father, and her mother was already famous, making movies. The star who didn’t want the world to know she had a child, in case it hampered her career. Helen had spent the morning downstairs, waiting in the playroom, listening for her mother’s footsteps on the lino. She listened for the sound of her voice, the hint of perfume, anything that was part of her. The hours slipped by as she sensed her childhood recede. Her mother never showed, and in the end she came to represent nothing more to Helen than a ghostly face in the corner of her past, shrouded in mist and misery. She desperately needed to assuage the hollow feelings of rejection. The last time she saw her mother she was running through the woods, towards the lake. The sun was going down and the sky was a roasted pink hue and she could smell her on the wind. Like the scent of death.

She asked the bartender to call her a cab. In the back of the car she tidied her hair and clutched her purse to her chest. There was a change in her, a definite shift. She did not feel angry anymore. She felt the need for justice, and for some form of closure on the past. She wanted to forgive, but not forget. The driver let her out at the top of Beechwood Drive. The sun was starting to set and she sensed the closeness of his house. She knew how to approach the grounds from the rear. She shivered, and walked quickly not bothering to look behind her. She failed to notice the tiny camera in the tree that tracked her progress. She squeezed through a gap in the bushes and made her way up the lawn as the darkening sky provided refuge from prying eyes. She glimpsed a shadow in the pool house and moved quickly into the trees. She had hardly reached the trees when the pool house door opened, and steps sounded on the black marble tiles. She watched him as he knelt by the pool. A burst of light lit up his face, and he stood and stared down at the light with absent fascination. Perhaps thirty feet separated them. Suddenly he lifted his eyes, his lips parted and he was looking directly at her.

‘How do you like my garden Helen?’ He framed the question as if he actually knew her. She felt the tears come into her eyes and struggled to compose herself.  She gripped her purse, conscious of the weight of the gun. She wasn’t sure if he had really spoken her name. In an involuntary gesture of surrender and apology, she raised an arm and started towards him. She felt she had to throw herself at his mercy. She spoke softly. ‘I wanted to see the gardens. So much has changed since I last saw you. I hope I didn’t startle you.’

He smiled and looked directly into her soul. He began to walk towards her as he spoke.

‘The whole world has changed Helen. Now we tend to think about our mortality. What happened in September was us witnessing the world spiralling out of control. Have you seen my new movie? That’s the premise, mortality. You should see it. I’m rather good in it. I would be proud if it were my last movie. My last testament. There has to be an end to everything. And you Helen, why are you here tonight? Your mother died on 9/11 didn’t she? I read about it. I saw you on the television. I remember you on that morning, fussing with the flowers. Scrutinising me. Why did you come here tonight? Do you imagine that because we met on the morning of that dreadful day we developed some form of unique bond, that we are somehow inextricably linked by fate? You may well be right.’

They were standing side by side and Helen searched his face. She sensed a sudden threat. He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her towards the house. He walked slowly as he talked. ‘Let me show you the house. Did you know it once belonged to Charlie Chaplin? Yes, he built it. It was a magnificent gothic mansion in those days but he allowed it to fall into disrepair. He had no money left. Robert Downey Jnr tried to buy it but I got there first. So it fell to me to save this house from ruin. I bought it from a writer called Norris Nutley. He died here sadly, and the gardens had not been touched for years. There was a lot of work. I had to cut everything back and re-plant. In the end I gave it a new life, a new beginning. These Jacarandas are the only surviving trees.’

She looked up at his face, and although she didn’t want to, she smiled at him and nodded.

He stopped abruptly and faced her. ‘You must be cold. Come and sit by the fire pits.’ She followed him onto the wide open terrace that overlooked the pool. She could see into the house. It was stark and angular. Black and white, with art deco mirrors adorning the walls. She felt as if she already knew the place and somehow belonged there. She had set out with a plan and allowed herself to be drawn in by him. She was struggling to maintain control. He was standing just inside, beside a small drinks bar.

‘He raised his voice a little. ‘Would you like to drink some wine?

She looked up and saw only his shadow. ‘Yes…Thank you.’

It was almost dark as he placed the drinks on the small table. He sat close to her and she searched his face for clues. She was biding her time. Gauging his mood. He appeared confident and in control – acting as if he knew her intimately. He took a cigarette from a silver case on the table and lit it, staring straight ahead towards the pool.

‘Why did you come here?’

Helen glanced down nervously at her purse and struggled to focus. Why not now? She thought. Why not do it now? She looked up slowly and smiled at him. ‘I just wanted to see you. To see how you felt. I was curious, I suppose.’

The sky was now an inky black, the air filled with a chorus of cicadas. He reached over and rested a hand on her arm. His face was so close she could smell his skin, and she struggled to hold his gaze. She felt balanced on a thin edge. The decision suspended in thin air. There was a deadness in the silence between them, and Helen grew more uneasy. She looked in his face, smiling. To Helen it was perfect, she just wanted to be there, in his house with him. She felt as if she suddenly existed. They sat facing each other waiting on the moment, unaware they were both concealing their true intentions. In the silence that followed he refilled their glasses. He stubbed out his cigarette. He was staring at her now, anticipating her next move. Waiting for her to speak. Then, out of nowhere, a cat sprung up and onto her lap, knocking her purse to the floor with a dull thud. He stood, and began to laugh. ‘I see you have met Bozley. He came with the house. He has this gift of knowing who likes him, he seems to have made his mind up about you.’ He reached down slowly for the purse and held it out towards her. The cat coiled around and then settled on her lap. The pale yellow eyes stared up at her knowingly, as if conveying a warning.

He placed the purse on the table between them, so they could both see it. He moved closer and gently stroked her face.

‘You used to collect autographs didn’t you Helen?’

‘No…but my mother did. She became obsessed with you in the end. I think you know that.’

She studied his face. It was serious now.

‘Do you collect anything?’ She asked.

He smiled menacingly…

‘Only fans.’

Somewhere in her head she heard a door slam, and the sound of a key being turned in the lock. She was overcome with a feeling of sickness, and at the same time a sense of calm surrender engulfed her body. It was too late to fight, and she succumbed to the darkness. The last thing she remembered he was cradling her in his arms, carrying her down the steps towards the cellar. She could smell a dampness in the air. The last thing she saw was him holding up her empty purse to the sky and she opened her mouth to scream.

Mr Nutley’s Nightmares

In his nightmare he saw the sinking ship lurch before the bow dipped beneath the angry waves. The stern remained above the water for the last few seconds, and then plunged downwards. He reached down searching for his mother’s hand and the lifeboat pitched perilously as he lunged into the murky darkness. He could feel the oily seaweed entwine his fingers as he reached down into the icy waters one last time.

He screamed out into the empty night as he felt himself slipping. He snatched his arm from the water and stared down at the bloodied stump where his hand had once been.

Then nothing… only the roar of the laughing sea as it reached up to swallow him.

**************

Mr Nutley locked the bedroom door and sat at his dressing table staring at the cutthroat razor. His heart was racing.

A beam of sunlight swept the room as he rubbed his fingers slowly down the spine of the razor. He felt the cool surface of the ivory handle and sensed the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he recalled a moment from his past. He stared into the mirror and wondered what it felt like to die. The nightmares always gave him headaches. Dr Saud had prescribed Remeron a while back, but the effects were always the same. At first he had resisted the pills, but Dr Saud insisted that in time he would feel the benefits.

He shuffled towards the balcony and looked down over the lawns. He watched the gardener crouch low over the hedge as he gripped the silver rule in his hand. The sun shone on the metal as he took the secateurs from his back pocket and gently clipped at the hedge. The action was staged in one precise movement like a ballet.

Mr Nutley frowned as he recalled the garden the day he had moved in. There had been no sense of order, no light or space, merely a vast jungle which engulfed the house; keeping it captive from the outside world. He had slowly nursed it back to life, and planted the palm trees. These became the birthstone of the garden, allowing the sun to restore the earth and correct the balance. But it was the hedge he loved most. The smooth, comforting angles suggested rank and order. Late at night, he imagined the hedge reaching up beyond the palm trees, as if in homage to the dark skies above. Mr Nutley was a rich man, he had written five novels, all of which had sold millions. He had everything he needed, except for friends. He had been lonely ever since his wife Emily died. His only companion was an old black cat called Bozley. From the moment Bozley had sauntered up his lawn one Sunday afternoon, he had never left his side. Yet it never occurred to him to question why the cat had chosen him.

Each night Mr Nutley went to sleep, the nightmares came for him. The dark horses galloped into his sleep like a herd of demons. He suffered visions of sharp faces peering through the windows of his mind. He slumbered on a sea of threat and menace that at times made him tremble in his sleep. In the shadowy corners of the night, the demons crept up on him. They came from under the door frames, and squeezed between the polished oak floorboards, they kept on coming until he woke up. When he did, he lay there, breathless, with both hands clasped to his neck, half-dead, half-alive. Trapped between sleep and the balmy air of a new dawn.

He got up and rushed into the bathroom, clawing at the air in front of him. He splashed his face with water and then, hearing the voice behind him, he glanced up into the mirror, half-expecting to see the eyes of his demons staring back.

Mr. Nutley was 77-years-old and had enjoyed a charmed life. He desperately missed his wife, and no longer felt the urge to write. The future, he felt, held very little. That all changed when Bozley began to talk.

The voice was primeval. There was no discernible accent and the words resonated off the walls like thunder in the night. He sensed the bile rise in his stomach and was overwhelmed by a terrifying sickness. His body stiffened as he slowly turned to face the voice, his mouth fell open, and his arms flopped loose at his side. The prescient part of his mind saw Bozley before he knew he was seeing him. He did not want to believe what he already believed. He would rather believe he was still asleep, still trapped by the nightmares. Though in his heart, he knew the truth.

At first, the light was dim in the bedroom. He could make out the outline of the cat upright on the oak chair that stood at the side of the bed. Then, gradually, a spectral glow began to spread through the room. The light appeared to emanate from the cat and the eyes blazed with mesmerizing power.

Mr. Nutley stared at the cat. ‘Who are you?’

‘I have come to help cure your nightmares.’

Mr. Nutley rubbed his face and stared straight at the cat.

‘I’m talking to a talking cat.’

‘Why do you find that so difficult? Allow me to speak in your own tongue….

‘You gotta ditch the dough.’

‘What?’

‘Quit the cash. Get rid of the money.’

‘Are you out of your mind?’

‘You are lonely because you are full of self-pity. That is why you no longer feel able to write. The nightmares are of your own making. If you start writing again, your nightmares will disappear overnight…so to speak.’

‘I don’t want to write anymore.’

‘Then you will die a lonely man.’

Nutley manoeuvred himself around the cat and started to get dressed. ‘So be it.’ he shouted, pulling on his robe, ‘I have written five books and made a fortune from them.’

Bozley suddenly jumped from the chair and landed with a thump, close to Mr. Nutley’s feet.

‘Yes, you did – but you made the fortune for YOURSELF, and all it has done is make you unhappy.’

Mr Nutley took two paces back. He wanted to get as far away from the cat as possible. What if I ran, he thought. Would the damn thing follow me?

‘You need to give away your money. I will show you how. True happiness is never gained from money. You humans are so dim?’

‘For God’s sake. You are one crazy cat.’

‘You are the one with the crazy nightmares! Do you want me to write the book for you?’

Mr. Nutley snapped. ‘No thank you. I would rather you stop talking and allow me to carry on going mad on my own.’

‘Has it not occurred to you that I have just handed you the best story idea you will ever have?’

In the brief silence that followed, Nutley stared at the cat.

So there it was, the sudden realisation that he had dreamed up a book idea by talking to a cat. Each morning, straight after breakfast, Mr. Nutley could be found writing in his study. This time, he did not have to search for inspiration for the story. The story was there waiting. All he had to do was write it. So from 6am until dusk, he wrote. It was only on the seventh day he realised he had not had a nightmare since the day he started writing. During the day, Bozley never troubled Mr. Nutley. He amused himself by taunting the gardeners and jumping in and out of the hedge. In the evening, he joined him for dinner on the terrace at 7pm prompt. They talked over the book, and sometimes Bozley would suggest a twist or change here and there. Otherwise, he thought it best to leave the writing to him.

Eight weeks later, the book was complete, and he called it Mr Nutley’s Nightmares. It was to become a much loved and treasured fable read by millions of children all over the world, with the bulk of the revenues going to the children’s charity that Bozley had helped him set up. On the day of publication, Bozley had suggested they organise a party in the grounds of the house. Hundreds of children came from all over the city and Bozley watched as the author proudly handed out signed copies of his book. The children laughed and danced around his feet, and for the very first time in years, Mr. Nutley smiled.

That night, Mr Nutley slept soundly, freed at last of the fear of nightmares.  He never once woke up. In fact, he was still sleeping as Bozley crept out of the bedroom and slipped silently down the stairs to wait for the gardeners, and the sun began to dawn on a bright new day.

Later that afternoon, when there was still no sign of Mr Nutley, Bozley went to check on him. He opened the door and jumped up on to the bed. He stared down into the grey decaying face. There was no sign of movement, his eyes were closed. In one hand, he held a copy of his new book, his fingers still caught between the twisted pages. Bozley stared at the silent bedstead, and imagined, for a moment, that he saw the trace of a smile on Mr. Nutley’s face. He then pushed up the duvet with his paws so that it was close and comfortable around his neck. He was suddenly filled with a deep sadness. The time, he thought, had come.

Bozley closed the bedroom door and turned down the lamp in the hall. He crept gently down the stairs and out through the kitchen window. The grey light was waning fast and the garden already veiled in deepening dusk. He walked along the soft green lawn without once looking back. His work, he felt, was now complete.

 

 

 

Between fact and fiction, and a fish pie.

Page 101 – Key West Florida – October 7^th 2002

She was standing alone at the prow as I steered The Pilar towards the harbour. We were two miles out when the sky darkened to pitch black, with tiny patches of deep blue peeping through.

I planned to get into harbour before dark but the wind had struck up. I wanted her to meet Tony. His fish restaurant was now considered the best in Key West. I had things to tell Tony. It’s not as if I don’t think back to that fateful night in April. I do – it still haunts me. I just cannot rationalise my feelings; I’m trying to process them. I just wish I had known about her condition?

“I think you’d be safer down below” I shouted at her over the wind. 

She turned and waved, and began to walk tentatively along the deck. The wind was making the boat pitch and roll, and I could see the growing bump of her tummy as she walked towards me. She looked up – her face fixed in a frozen mask of terror. I held out my hand and gently guided her into the cabin, and into my arms.

Later, as I walked Poppy Maythrop along the quay towards the restaurant, I caught sight of a small grey cat beneath a tamarind tree. The bright yellow eyes winked at me and appeared to smile knowingly.

Hemingway I remembered, had a cat with six toes called Snowball. I squeezed Poppy’s hand, and for a moment, felt as if I had somehow slipped through time.

*****************

 7.41pm

The blonde’s voice broke my reverie, and I snapped the book shut.

“I think I’ll make a fish pie and then grill the sardines as a starter, what do you think?”

I looked up at her face, beautifully backlit.

“I’m not sure I want fish pie” I said, putting the book down on the black gloss table.

“But you like my fish pie?”

“I do, it’s just that two nights ago I dreamed I was trapped in a giant fish pie and every time I tried to push my way out, someone, or something pushed me back down.”

“There you go again, letting your mad dreams into your life?”

I drew her close and held her hands. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to drown in a béchamel sauce?”

She looked up at me with a tired expression. “Frankly no, I don’t. I only dream about nice things like… like, Ryan Seacrest.”

I smiled and stroked her hair. “I think you have forgotten, my brother doesn’t eat fish.”

“Fine, you can both have chicken pie, unless you think there’s a chance you could drown in that too.”

The doorbell rang, just like the red buzzer on BGT.

“Oh god, that will be your mother, can you fix some drinks please and keep her OUT of my kitchen?”

11.41.pm

The Blonde bounced onto the bed: “I see you found your book then, after all?”

“Yes, or rather the cat did…..  I’ve been thinking; it’s time we got rid of that cat, she’s beginning to freak me out.”

“What are you talking about, you love that cat!”

“I did, but I think our relationship has changed. They say cats symbolise dark forces, and I don’t want her in the bedroom anymore please.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous, cats represent love and fertility, and that cat loves you.”

“Well it has a strange way of showing it”

I could’t help but wonder….Do cats actually understand what we say?”

The Blonde yawned and turned on her side. I watched over her until she had slipped into a deep sleep with Ryan Seacrest.

Later that night, as I crept downstairs to double lock the front door, I thought I heard the patter of tiny paws somewhere in the house, followed by a high-pitched laugh.

There is a fine line between fact and fiction…

The Cat

Something strange in the potting shed…

April 3^rd 2002 – 8.20pm – Sunset Boulevard – Chap 1- Page 52

I cannot recall when I first made the decision to murder Poppy Maythrop.

 I think the idea slowly began to form in my mind the first night we met. I enjoyed her book, and it wasn’t that she had done me any injustice; it was just simply bad timing for Poppy.

 I still had the key to her apartment that she had given me that night.

I could feel my heart pump as I unlocked her front door. It was dark, just a ghostly flicker of light coming from the lounge. As I edged closer, I could hear a voice coming from the TV set. A familiar British voice; and then the singing started. It sounded like a talent show. Poppy loved talent shows. Somehow I always knew Wednesday night would provide the perfect cover.

I slowly pulled the bowie knife from the inside pocket of my jacket and dropped to a low crouch. My throat felt dry as I crept silently towards the sofa, the knife held tight in my left hand.

 

TONY! Where are you?”….. Her voice cut the air like a knife.

“I’m in here!”

“Where…I can’t see, it’s so dark?…”

“Here…in the potting shed”.

“I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you doing?”

“Reading a book…..it’s a thriller.”

“Your Mum’s on the phone. She wants to know what TV channel Man v.Food is on…”

“Did you say I was here?”

“Of course I did. Why would I lie to your mother?”

“Everyone else does.”

I marked page 52 and put the book on the stool in the potting shed and took the call in the hallway.

“Hi Mum, you OK?”

“My dishwasher has been leaking and I’ve been waiting all day for the man to come and fix it. It’s so cold down here the dog won’t go out and Mrs Pringle next door has gone away for the weekend so I’ve got NO help whatsoever…is it cold where you are I think it’s going to rain here? I’ve put towels all around the bottom of the dishwasher and the dog had diarrhoea yesterday it was probably the duck pate she ate. How are you anyway? Ah…. there it is……Man v. Food Channel 142….I had better write that down somewhere…………. Bye darling lots of love.”

“Bye Mum”

“Did you find it for her?” The Blonde shouts from the kitchen.

“Yes dear.”

The Blonde was in baking mode. Iced cookies this time. Much better than Honeycomb; though every surface in the kitchen was now covered with a fine dusting of icing sugar. Even the cat looked a lighter shade of grey.

As I walked down the hallway towards the potting shed I glimpsed her shadow out of the corner of my eye.

“Now where are you going?” She asked tetchily.

“I’m going to finish reading that book….”

“Aren’t you going to watch American Idol?”  She asked in a that annoying sing-song voice.

When I opened the door to the potting shed I felt a chill run through my bones.  I glanced at the stool where I had left the book.

It was no longer there.

I anxiously checked every corner of the room. It was nowhere to be seen. The book had vanished. The world had changed. I switched off the light, locked the door behind me and pocketed the key. As I walked back to the house, I glanced up at the moon and heard the shrill cry of an owl coming from the woods behind the house.

“I think we’ve got a poltergeist in the potting shed.”

The Blonde looked up, her face a ghostly shade of icing-sugar white.

“Do you prefer the pink icing or the white?” She asked.

“I left that book on the stool in the potting shed, and now it’s mysteriously vanished.”

“Are you sure it’s not just you miss-placing things? I’m sure it will turn up. Please don’t start turning a missing book into a ghost story.”

Next morning I awoke at dawn. The Blonde, still icing-white, lay next to the ice-grey cat. They were both sleeping gently.

I crept downstairs and walked hesitantly towards the potting shed. A weak sun was peeping through the rushing clouds as I put the key into the lock and slowly pushed the door.

My stool was in the same spot I had left it, next to the bench. So too was the book which now lay open at page 101.

I turned quickly, aware of movement behind me. The cat leapt passed me, up onto the stool, and her pale yellow eyes gazed out knowingly. I stared at the cat, wondering whether to ask The Blonde about a missing book, or a ghost story.