Love Is... always having to apologise

Chris, my editor, has my revised draft of the first three chapters on his desk, and so far he hasn't said anything except 'Hello' and 'Sit down'. I don't want him to start talking. I feel like a school kid in the headmaster's office who's done something wrong and has no defence. But he does start talking. Because, ultimately, after arranging the appointment and letting me into his office and facing me across his desk, it would have been weird if he hadn't.

"Right then," he begins. "My first thought upon reading the new draft is that you haven't actually really changed anything. Would you say that's a fair assessment?"

I shift uncomfortably in my comfortable chair. "Well, what is 'fair', really?"

"Sorry?"

"I don't know."

He looks confused, naturally. "I don't understand." I say nothing, so he continues. "Very little actually seems to have changed between this draft and the previous version. A few words here and there, a couple of sentences added, enough to show me that you didn't email the original by mistake. Fundamentally, though, it remains the same. It is almost identical to the one before. The previous draft has almost everything in common to the one I am holding now. Please feel free to jump in at any point."

"I'm happy listening."

"I'd actually like this to be a conversation in which we exchange information relating to your novel-in-progress. That is, I feel, the process most likely to achieve some kind of understanding between us."

"I can see how you'd think that, but really, I have very little to say."

"Yeah, I'm beginning to get a little exasperated, Christopher. I mean, I'm working hard for you, and yet you just seem to be acting quite childish, if I'm being honest."

I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "Steady. I'm this close to walking out."

He starts to lose his temper. "Well then talk to me. Why have you not revised the manuscript?"

"I have. There are some changes. I think it's better."

"We sat here only a few weeks ago and discussed in some detail how we could make your book publishable. Your job was to rewrite the first three chapters in a generous amount of time that's already put us behind schedule, and yet you seem to have completely disregarded everything we agreed upon and just hacked in a few sentences almost at random."

"I worked really hard on those sentences..."

"And what about the rest of it? Chapter two, possibly the weakest of the whole lot, was supposed to introduce the themes of surveillance and the impact on daily life, and there's nothing in there."

"It's quite subtle..."

"No it's not subtle. It's non-existent. And the introduction of Beechill, supposedly this heroic, near-mythic veteran crusader, hasn't been touched. It's rubbish. I don't know how it survived your own drafts. He needs to walk out of a burning war zone with deep gashes across his chest holding a little girl in his arms and an old man hanging around his neck. And he doesn't even debrief, he just goes back out on another mission 'cos he's that fucking heroic and near-mythic."

"That's a little..."

He talks over me. "All these character traits that start their arcs haven't been written. They need to start now to make them believable. I'm really frustrated, Christopher."

"I lost my way, perhaps, I admit."

"You seemed enthusiastic when he talked about it."

I rub my neck sheepishly. "I'd stopped listening towards the end. Actually, quite early on. I have a short attention span."

"What, so you were just nodding and pretending to listen?" he asks sarcastically. I shrug. "What, really? Jesus Christ."

"You were writing it down, though, so that was good."

He takes a deep breath and looks at the ceiling for a few seconds. Then he looks back at me. "OK then. What are we going to do?"

"I'll try again. I've just got to gather the motivation."

"Motivation? Your novel is going to be published by Harper Collins. What more do you need? What the fuck can I offer you?"

"It's just that...I thought the rewrites would be little things. A polish. What you were saying seemed like writing a novel from the beginning again. Fundamental changes would require hundreds of hours."

"Oh I'm sorry. You have something better to do?"

"I've got to work, and spend some time with my wife."

"You've got an advance, haven't you?"

"It's not enough to live on."

"Move into a bed sit. Struggle makes for good art. Just make it work for Christ's sake."

"I will. I've just fallen out of love with writing at the moment."

"Gee. That's bad timing."

"Yeah, I know. I'm sure it's just a phase."

"You better fucking hope it's a phase. You better hope writing starts buying you flowers and sucking your dick 'cos there's a fuck of a lot riding on this book. It's not a game and yet you seem to be playing around."

"I'm not. I'm not."

"What are we going to do then?"

"Let's go through it again."

"You're going to listen to me this time?"

"I swear."

He sighs and opens a pad of A4. He begins to talk. I think about flowers and blow jobs.

First Chapter

People seem to want a preview of the novel so here is the first chapter (pre-editor). As you will notice almost immediately, it is a chase sequence. I think it is vitally important to begin every novel with a chase, a plane crash or a sex scene, or people will lose concentration within twenty-eight seconds and get up and walk around the room staring at objects, or switch the television on and watch commercials. My second novel will open with a '69' on a jumbo jet plunging into the ocean after being chased by Muslim extremists.

AGENTS GRAY and Reece shot through the deserted streets, pushing their cruiser hard into the swirls of dust that marked the path of their suspects. In the orange light of the low hanging dawn sun, the clouds thrown up from the filthy streets rendered their tracking system unnecessary. Reece stared ahead impassively, a study of concentration, expertly sending the car from side to side around crates and rusting shopping trolleys and abandoned, burnt-out vehicles, round corners into alleys and cross streets.

Their car was led away from the central district, where thousands of sleek sky scrapers stabbed through the smog into the clouds. Out here, in what had once been the warehouse district of the Old City, the buildings were flat and decrepit - gray blocks of crumbling bricks and stone, a monument to an abandoned way of life.

Gray squinted over at his partner, glad Reece had been so eager to drive that morning. A hangover headache pulsed in his temples. His heartbeat blotched his vision.

They had picked up the call from an overhead observational balloon on a routine sweep, and had been the only unit in the area. The interference from the Insurgents was minimal, almost inconsequential, and there was no profit in the Company chasing them. Still, standards had to be maintained, and an unlicensed vehicle unlucky enough to be tracked by Lumecorp had to be dealt with. Visible crime could not be tolerated, and the criminals knew escape was their only chance of survival.

"Turn it down." Reece spoke without looking away from the road.

Gray looked sharply at his partner. The modern rock station was always blasting from their radio. "What is with you?" he snapped.

"Turn it down." Reece spoke more firmly this time through gritted teeth.

Gray leaned over and punched the power button, and the sound of the revving engine, squealing tires and chips of debris hitting the chassis roared up to replace the music.

Reece had been acting strangely all morning and Gray was in no mood to argue. Usually a relaxed and funny man, Reece had returned from his three week sabbatical distant and taciturn, crisply dressed in full regulation uniform.

"Reece!" Gray had exclaimed when he walked into the locker room an hour ago. He embraced his partner with genuine delight. "How was the holiday?"

"You smell of booze," was his reply. Hardly something a friend should say to you in a place like Lumecorp HQ. A place where microphones and cameras were planted prominently on the walls almost as a source of pride.

Gray masked his surprise and shame with a strained smile. "You're mistaken," he said loudly. "New aftershave. Are you well rested?"

"Very. Thank you." And that had been the end of pleasantries for the morning. Reece didn't relax in the cruiser, and Gray concentrated on his pounding head as he sobered up. He was angry at his friend's comment, but more with himself, and thought it best to let the matter rest until he could be as sure as possible they were not being listened to.

The less attention he drew to himself, the better. The fact was that Gray was slipping. To be an agent was a privilege, providing an opportunity to live with certain freedoms and luxuries, but the Company would only tolerate so much. He was certain he was being monitored, although no one had approached him. He was putting on weight, enjoying his fried food the company discouraged and neglecting the physical training sessions they provided. He had been chosen from many and abused his privilege. He would get a good night's sleep and get himself together.

Reece sped round a tight corner into a narrow back-alley and they had their first visual on the Insurgents. An old Ford maintained years after the company's inevitable demise, in great condition considering its age. Reece eased off the accelerator and activated the standard caution over the loudspeaker.

"You are in breach of Central Territory regulations," the voice droned. "You are under arrest. Pull over and exit your vehicle with your hands in the air."

As expected, the suspects refused the request, and instead ducked into another alley. Reece sped through the turn, scraping the side of the cruiser against the brick wall of an old shop. Gray’s face was pressed up against the passenger door window, sparks and chunks of crumbling brickwork exploding inches from his eyes, the wing mirror smashed off and rattling, trapped between car and wall. Then the car lurched to the side and back on track. Gray returned to the centre of his seat. He shot Reece a look, who appeared not to notice, only keeping his gaze fixed intently on the car ahead. Shaken but unhurt, Gray saw that the corner, though taken recklessly, had brought them closer to the suspects. Deciding to make himself useful, if only in an attempt to keep up with his partner’s new zeal for the chase, Gray unclipped his holster and brought out his handgun, a modestly powerful weapon issued to all street cops and agents.

He opened his window and leaned out far enough to fire a clip into the car in front, shattering the rear window and lights, and managing to send a bullet between the seats and through its windscreen, which exploded outwards rather than simply icing up and blinding the suspects.

As Gray changed clips, the passenger in front suddenly lurched half-way out of the vehicle holding a powerful looking shotgun, which to Gray looked like a home-fashioned hybrid, probably put together from bits of old broken weapons and parts stolen from the Company. It worked well enough, and a first blast ricocheted off the bullet-proofed glass in front of Reece’s face, who barely flinched. The missile was powerful enough to leave a significant chip in the screen, and Reece swerved to make a trickier target as the gun was aimed at the cruiser’s tyres.

The suspect holding the shotgun looked deranged, firing with an utter lack of discipline over the car or into the decaying tarmac. A couple of shells made contact with the cruiser causing minor damage to the car’s body. The man presumably had been firing up the homemade narcotics some of these Insurgents were addicted to. It made them even less of a threat than they could be, but Gray, who battled his own demons, felt he could empathise somewhat. It was a barren existence out here, a struggle for everyday survival. He wondered how often, perhaps in their sober times, these renegades secretly longed for the safety of the city, to accept ignorance for comfort.

The passenger was working his shotgun for some time before it slowly dawned on him that he was out of shells. He ducked in to reload, or perhaps just to throw away the spent weapon.

“Enough,” said Reece. “We’ve given them a chance.”

Concurring, Gray leant out again and aimed his handgun at the driver, through the hole in his headrest into his brain. He squeezed the trigger only for the driver to swerve violently at that moment. The Ford clipped the front end of the burned-out chassis of a car, which slammed against the wall of an old factory and careered back across the street into the agents’ path. At this speed, Reece had little chance to react, and attempted to accelerate out of trouble between the car and the wall it was sliding towards.

Gray, still leaning out of the window, watched with sudden panic as the car skidded into their path, pinned in his position as Reece swerved to one side. Gray was jolted up against the window frame as their car connected first with the wall, and then with the wrecked vehicle a split second later. As their car left the road, Gray became disorientated, then shut his eyes against the pain in his shoulder and back as they were jammed on the car frame. For a moment there was silence, the engine stalled, the tires spinning uselessly in the air, only the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Then just as quickly, a terrific crunch of steel and glass and a bone shaking impact. Gray wrapped his arms over his head, thinking he had been thrown out of the car and fearing it could crush his body. But when there was no tarmac tearing at his skin, he opened his eyes and saw that the car had pivoted in his favour, tossing him back into the vehicle. He was now on his head, watching the road sliding toward him through a cracked screen, sparks flashing up from the tarmac, and the Insurgents ahead, putting distance between them.

The car hit something again out of Gray’s vision, sending them into a spin even as they continued to slide onward. He was thrown across the handbrake into Reece’s chair, head pressed into his chest. Then with a final neck-bracing jolt, the cruiser wedged into an alley entrance.

Immediately, Reece snapped open his seat belt and kicked open the driver’s door, and was out sprinting down the street after the suspects. Gray, who had hardly began clearing his head, fell into the roof when his partner slid out from beneath him. He touched the top of his head tentatively, and came back with blood on his fingers, but not much. Looking up, he became aware of his partner’s absence, then gazed bleary-eyed through the shattered windscreen. It was some seconds before he was able to recognise what he was seeing; the upside-down vision of Reece sprinting into the distance. Uttering a curse and rubbing his neck, he clambered clumsily out of the open driver’s door and picked himself up before making his way along Reece’s trail.


Up ahead, the two rebels were still giggling at their good fortune, the passenger preparing another hit on the crude chemical cocktail cooked up at base. When he caught sight of the cop in his wing mirror, he grabbed at the driver’s sleeve, and pointed in the rear-view. “Yo,” he barked. “He’s catching us, man. He’s catching us.”

The driver pulled his arm away from his friend’s grasp and put his foot down on the accelerator. “Stupid motherfucker,” he murmured uselessly as the car picked up speed.

The passenger continued to gaze into the mirror. “No man, he’s still coming. Go faster.”

The driver pushed his foot harder onto the pedal, already stuck to the floor. He looked at the approaching figure, then at the speedometer, the gauge rising slowly to 60kmh. Impossible, he thought, shaking his head as the fear ate its way into his stomach.

Beside him, the passenger grabbed a small hand gun from the glove compartment and cocked it. The policeman was still gaining on them, arms and legs pumping smoothly, staring forwardly intently, breathing lightly as though on a regular jog.


A few hundred metres behind them, Gray was chasing as best he could, still fighting his way back to full consciousness. His body was battered all over, and he was confusing his hangover for the onset of concussion. He stared at his distant partner, not fully comprehending the scene, just following the urge instilled in the agents since training began, to protect and standby their colleagues.

Reece caught the speeding car just as he reached his limit, something inside him burning, ready to drop. He fumbled for the driver’s door which popped open, the suspects too panicked to lock up. Reece jumped onto the chassis and began yanking the driver out of the open door. The driver looked at him in fear, unable even to fight back, and Reece easily dragged him out by the shoulder, sending the car into a swerve towards the far wall.

The driver slid then bounced, spinning through the air and sending up a sheet of blood, arcing down in splatters onto the concrete. Reece turned his attention back into the car, only to be faced with the nose of the passenger’s handgun. The man hesitated, terror and confusion on his filthy face, and Reece began a move to grab the gun. At that moment, the car smacked against a wall and the passenger’s finger was jerked against the trigger. Reece felt the impact in his arm, and although there was no pain he was unable to keep his grip on the door frame, and he fell backwards, sliding on the road as he fought to keep his head up off the ground.

Gray, his mind clearer, watched in alarm as his friend hit some crates, stopping his roll. Although his uniform provided protection, it had been a terrible fall. But almost immediately, Reece was up again, sprinting after the car that was now swerving out of control, the passenger reaching over for the steering wheel, grabbing it, but unable to slow the vehicle. The brick wall of an abandoned factory loomed, and the car crunched into it, stopping unceremoniously, steam flooding from the crushed radiator.

Reece slowed his run to a jog, then approached the car with his gun drawn, holstering it again after looking into the smoking frame. The passenger had flown forward with the impact, smashing his head on the wall. There was little of it left on his shoulders.

Gray had reached the driver and slipped in his blood, then felt his pulse and registered nothing. Blood flowed from underneath the body’s torn clothes, and most of the exposed skin had been separated from the muscles. He ran on towards his partner, who was walking away from the wreckage, fingering his radio, then turning his attention to the wound on his arm. Looking confused and in a state of mild shock, Reece gazed quizzically at the torn flesh, then began twisting violently at his shoulder. Gray approached, ready to shout at Reece to stay calm, that he would call HQ, then stopped in his tracks, staring as Reece pulled his arm away from his body, through the sleeve, exposing a neat round finish at the shoulder end with metal wires protruding through the bone and sinew. He sank to his knees, still looking at the arm, then prodded at the open shoulder end, causing the fingers to close and open again. His brow furrowed further, and he looked up to meet his friend’s gaze.

Struggling to make sense of the situation, Gray instinctively glanced into the smashed car, noting the corpse, then stepped back towards Reece, thinking about rumours he’d heard but now knew were true, when Reece began to convulse, rolling onto his back and kicking out his feet. Gray rushed to embrace his shaking partner, screaming into his radio for medics, for backup, any help, as Reece began frothing at the mouth and gripping his one hand tight enough to draw blood as fingernails punctured his palm, and Gray’s head was a rushing mess of confusion and panic.

Previous Post

Some of you may have noticed that the previous post originally disappeared hours after being uploaded. This was due to the threat of legal action from certain parties. However, after reviewing our position, we have decided to make the post available again.

"Where's that cunt of a woman you left your family for..?"

It isn't the nicest, cleverest or most diplomatic thing to say to my father, especially as I had promised myself not to spoil the day for everyone, but whenever I see his condescending judgemental face I just want to punch him.

We both redden slightly. "She's been dead for twelve years, Christopher," he says with a naked, aching sadness that pricks the backs of my eyeballs. But he'll forgive me, because he is just embarrassed enough not to try to justify his actions all those years ago.

After a shocked silence, my sister, Sharon laughs nervously. "You two," she says, as if we're playfully mocking each other's petty foibles. I take her cue and grin as I do to my brother when we are involved in the minor squabbles that involved daily violence when we were kids.

"Well, cheers anyway," I say clinking his beer bottle with mine.

Sharon insists on these family get togethers twice a year or so. I never talk to any of them otherwise. And when my sister does call me to put the date in my diary, I always stare at the name on my phone's caller ID for a few seconds, wondering who the hell Sharon is.

Cheryl can't get her head around this, as she loves her family more than anything, quite possibly more than me, and yet I have stolen her away from them, imprisoning her in a London flat with a slug problem. Ealing stopped being cool for her after four and a half months. Even though we have started drinking Polish beer to fit in with the locals, neither of us feel part of any community.

My mother is the only member of my blood relatives I see with any regularity, and that is because she lives in Shepherds Bush. She's alright, my Mum. I like her in small doses.

We waste an hour away and then my sister serves up dinner. I watch my brother Brian eating and feel slightly sick. He puts too much on his fork and scrapes the food across his cheek with every mouthful. He goes through an absurd number of red napkins and they pile up next to him as reminders of something more significant. While he eats he looks at nothing but his food, staring in silence and pushing his wire frame glasses up his nose with the knuckles of his knife hand. He has been beaten into submission, first by my father and now by life. He was there with me when it all happened and yet he isn't standing with me now. I hate him for it.

And then, suddenly terrified of being like him, I cut into the dinner conversation. "Last night I dreamt that one of my teeth was coming loose. It was such a cliche that I was able to wake myself up, disgusted with my subconsciousness."

This comment is acknowledged by no one, and when a suitable amount of awkward moments have passed, familiar conversation resumes. Current topics: The X Factor (this is a constant), the Take That and Spice Girls reunion tours, I'm A Celebrity..., the Evil of Pete Doherty, how if you rotate your right foot clockwise and then draw a '6' with your right hand your foot will change direction, text messaging and the Teddy Bear Row Teacher. I have nothing to say. Cheryl holds her own, and while she tells me she is just being polite, she has a suspiciously encyclopaediac knowledge of reality shows.

Afterwards, spaced out on sofas in front of the television, stealing glances at our watches and fending off requests from young children to play with them, my father gets his revenge by making me feel worthless again. Although I shouldn't have asked, faux-innocently, "What do you think of my novel?"

"Haven't read it," he says immediately.

"Really?" I ask. "Well, you've only had it, ooh, eighteen months."

"Science Fiction isn't really my cup of tea," he sniffs.

"Futuristic thriller," I correct him.

He waves a dismissive hand. "Aliens and other worlds and all that nonsense."

"You should read it," Cheryl says. "It's really good."

My father turns to Brian. "Have you read this book?" Brian looks up, startled. He nods. "And what did you think?"

Brian shrugs. "It's alright," he manages.

"My family," I announce to Cheryl.

"Are you staying tonight?" Sharon asks me.

"No, I have to work early tomorrow."

My father looks at me, feigning surprise. "I'd have thought that one of the perks of being a successful writer was getting up when you want."

"I'm working at Bid TV," I tell him. "I'm a cameraman, remember?"

"I'm sorry. I thought you were a big shot author."

I swallow my anger. "It's not out for a year," I manage.

He waves another hand. "You'll never make it. Get a proper job, my boy. None of this shopping telly rubbish. Get a career."

"What, work in the same office for forty-five years? Do you know how difficult it is to get a novel published?"

"When I was your age I owned a house and was supporting a wife and three children. You don't know the meaning of hard work."

"You don't know the meaning of support," I say somewhat nonsensically, and get up to leave.

"Don't be a damn fool," he says.

"Don't be a total fucking tedious, deceitful gnarly old wanker," I say, and we leave.

It'll be OK. Things heal. We're family.