Wild Fiction

The last time the man looked at Rebecca was when she stood up in front of him to get off the train at Epsom station. His eyes slid up her smooth hairless legs until he was staring at her white panties. He watched her leave the carriage and then thought nothing of it until exactly a year later. He was travelling on the same train, the 4:27pm out of Charing Cross Station. A short plump lady in her mid fifties had been sitting next to him and when she got off the train at the very same station, she left a book on the seat next to him. He realised what she had done as the train was pulling out and shouted after her but she did not hear him. He picked up the book and looked at the cover. Written in bold letters across the top were the words Wild Fiction. He folded up his newspaper, a copy of The Evening Standard dated exactly a year later, and opened the book and read. The next day at work he said to his colleagues: ‘I started the book at around five o’clock and I finished it at one the following morning. It felt like my eyes were bleeding by the time I finally put it down. It’s the best book I’ve ever read. The strangest thing about it though, is that I saw one of the events in the book. I saw the woman and I heard her talk and when she got off the train I saw her...’ His sentence trailed off and he never finished it. Instead, he wept. He sat down on the large mahogany table in the meeting room where the CEO was about to address the company’s managers and wept for the rest of the morning. He wept because it was then that he realised he was a fictional. He was as transparent in body as he was in voice and carried no weight. He would never have a name and never exist for anything longer than just a fleeting moment in the mind of the odd reader. If he was ever referred to, he would be referred to as the man on the train. His colleagues, the real people, thought nothing of the condensation that was collecting on the outside of their frosty glasses. One man ran his finger over the droplets and when he put it in his mouth noticed that it had a slightly saline taste to it.

Chapter 52

At Epsom’s British Rail station the author and Rebecca retrieved Genevieve’s bug from the parking lot and drove to the author’s house.
‘Look,’ the author said pointing through the window at the driveway. Rebecca looked at where he was pointing. A car’s tyres had cut two deep grooves in the gravel driveway. ‘Someone took off from here in a hurry.’
The Jaguar was sitting in the garage and he pulled up next to it. Rebecca had the door open and was trotting towards the kitchen before the car had stopped moving. Leaving the keys in the ignition and his door open, the author ran after her. Rebecca’s hands were placed on either side of a piece of paper that was pinned to the surface of the breakfast counter with a sharp knife.
‘Shit,’ she said stepping back from the counter. She looked up at the ceiling and pulled her hair back by running her fingers through it. She held it in a ponytail with one hand and faced the author who was now leaning over the note. He read it aloud: ‘I have your wife but I want the fictional girl. I will trade you. The fictional girl knows who I am. Do not contact the police and don’t do anything stupid or you’ll never see your wife again. I will contact you. Stay in the house. One last thing, the fictional girl must bring the other twenty-nine bearer bonds you still have.’
‘Bugger, bugger, bugger,’ he said prising the knife out of the counter. ‘Where are Conrad and James? I thought they were supposed to be here.’