Uttuku

The Books of Darkness

by Robert N. Stephenson

Chapter One

part 1 of 2

I was Australia’s top selling Gothic author, top selling young adult author, and twice New York Times best-selling author; I should have been the happiest writer in the world, but I wasn’t. Tonight I was breaking out of my forced hiding, not an easy or comfortable task. I stared into the bedroom mirror, a murderer stared back.

I hadn’t shot, stabbed or poisoned my victim, though I had considered some of them at the time. No, my weapon was a computer keyboard and a single email. Steven Opie was dead because of me, because of what I had discovered. He’d driven into the Adelaide Hills after being stripped of his award and branded a fraud by the media.

The police found him two days later, in his car; a vacuum-cleaner hose ran from the exhaust and had been pushed in through the rear window. Suicide, the police said; the coroner’s confirmation made it clear, but I knew I had killed him. Now all I wanted was for him to be out of my life. Out of my house.

His ghost stalked the rooms, thudded down the hallway every morning towards my bedroom. He’d sit on the end of my bed staring, saying nothing. I’d scream, throw pillows but there he would remain, a blue glowing effigy of a man I’d driven to death.

It is true I’d wanted to destroy Steven, bring him down, ruin him, all because I wanted Samantha’s love. I wanted to take her from him. After the quick and brief inquest she never spoke to me again. In a way I’d murdered love as well. I considered calling her a few times to explain, to find out if she’d got my calling card. She wouldn’t tell me if she had, not after what I’d done. The one time fashion model, the woman who’d captured my heart was forever out of reach. Our one moment together a stain upon my heart that would never wash away. Her hatred of me hard to deal with.

The haunting started soon after Steven’s death three months ago. I’d thought of them as drunken visions; the visits were everyday, always the same in some way. ‘Follow’ he’d always say. I might have had the tendency, but committing suicide to atone for my sins wasn’t on the cards. Not yet anyway. My home became a haunted house, a place of restless sleep.

And there was plenty to be haunted by. Steven’s ghost had taken up permanent residence in my house. A punishment I guessed, his revenge. I’d thought about moving. Would he just follow me? I thought he would. My memories were in the house, my life, the room where the first three best-sellers were written. I couldn’t walk away from this world. Ghost or no ghost.

The tight little clique of writers in South Australia turned their backs on me once they’d put all the questions and answers together; worked out it had been me who’d set the ball rolling towards his death. Though they all knew Steven had taken his own life, I was still blamed. They would never forgive me for that. Could I ever forgive myself? Some how I doubted it, doubted anything could undo the past.

Adelaide might have been one of the brightest places in Australian literature, but it was also the darkest hole on Earth if you stepped outside of the expected etiquette. Like Steven, I had taken that step, only I still lived and bore the guilt and shame of my action.

Three months on the outside was a long time, three months locked away with his ghost an ever-increasing well that drew on my already shaky, depressive moods. But this city was where I was born, and nothing was going to drive me out of my home, not even Steven.

Tonight happened to be the Writers’ Fellowship’s annual general meeting. I was a fully paid up, voting member, and had every right to attend. The group hadn’t asked me to leave and happily accepted my subscription fees. Even so, they’d stopped inviting me to functions. I couldn’t ignore their motives; tonight it was time to really face them. I finished my scotch, my fifth, and sighed with the thought of coming out of my seclusion, out of the darkness.

I adjusted my jacket, the denim, worn and frayed on the shoulders and elbows, set off the Black Sabbath T nicely. I’d offered to write a book for Ozzy once, never heard back from him. That felt like a whole lifetime ago, another time, another person. In the mirror I looked more like a rock fiend then a writer, then I did live a partly Goth life. They were the only people who accepted me for what and who I was.

The jacket would do little for the chill of June and next to nothing if it rained; it was my look and it’s who I wanted to show at the meeting. With thick, black eye makeup and bright red lipstick I was ready. A leather whip might have completed the picture, though that really wasn’t my thing.

“Follow,” Steven said.

I ignored him. Not tonight, I didn’t have time for it.

“Follow me.”

I grabbed my bag and keys off the hall table, flicked on the outside light and slammed the front door after me. Pressing back against the rough wood, resolve a little shaken, I slowed my breathing, let the cold, night air settle a head full of doubts. Not tonight, I thought as I walked to the car and climbed in.

It had been raining early in the day, and the air still had the clean, fresh smell. I lowered the window, letting the the scent of eucalyptus, the oils released because of the downpour, fill the car. I needed as much friendly support as possible, even if it was just the odour of my garden.

The drive into the city was free flowing, the night dark at 7 pm, the cold keeping people indoors. Unley road, all restaurants and shops, led me into high-rise and neon, the place with more lost souls than hell itself. The one-time City of Churches had become the world capital for weirdos and those who had nowhere else to go.

Even with its nastiness, I loved the place, the people, the casual living; the Goths and their isolated ways. I’d lived in Sydney and stayed in Melbourne a few times; they harried me with their ever-rushing, fast lifestyles. Here, no one rushed, or could even be bothered to rush. The city housed a world that would pause if you let it. It wasn’t backwards, or slow-thinking, it was just focused on what seemed more important. Living and enjoying the time you have.

I parked in the street, the old Volvo not a real target for car thieves; besides, I hated paying parking fees. The car locked, my nerve set, and with several deep breaths, the time had arrived to face a part of this world that contained more bitterness than the government opposition.

A brisk walk across Hindmarsh Square, through the trees and long grass, in feeble light frightened many in the group, but my look had always given me some kind of street protection; a ‘she’s one of us’ look that kept me in touch with the city and in touch with my readers.

I hesitated at the hotel on the corner of Rundle Street. A scotch would have been appropriate about now. I wouldn’t be able stop at one, and turning up smashed could cause more problems than I could deal with. I paused at the door of the Writers’ Centre the next block up. Cafe-goers passed by. Rundle Street, alive with an ethnic mix to rival Melbourne or Sydney, remained the place to be and be seen.

Despite determination, I felt sweaty and nervous. I checked my makeup in a reflection off the cafe’s window, pushed long, black hair off my shoulders and offered a forced smile. It would have to do. The climb up the stairs became a slow immersion into the growing hubbub above, the voices of those who’d chosen to shun me. It was hurtful. Giving in to it would hurt more; self-esteem had been weakened, my usual positive nature gone. My shoulder bag felt heavy, my stomach dragged with a flow I hated.

I stepped into the hall and into the pervading smells of coffee and wine. The wooden floor echoed firm clicks as I walked; my high heels showing beneath the ragged hems of jeans. Instantly, the mood changed. Conversation stopped as stares tried to snap every bone in my body.

I remembered stares like this. My father’s stares. He’d wanted me to marry, have children, give him grandchildren. All my life I’d wanted to please him, make him proud. I tried. I couldn’t be what he wanted. My first girlfriend, of which I still felt some regret, was for show only. My father’s face reddened when I introduced her. He’d already become defensive when he’d seen her tattoos and piercings.

“Meet, Star, my girlfriend,” I’d said. He sat at the table reading the Sunday paper. As soon as he frowned I knew his love had slipped away. “We’re living together.”

“Roommates?” The paper clutched in his white knuckled fists. His meager hope.

I laughed, trying to lighten his shock. “She’s my lover.”

That’s how I felt now. The reception, cold and reproachful. The gathering returned to their chatter and pretended they hadn’t seen me. The tension worse than the drag in my stomach. They stood in their little groups, each group closing ranks to keep me out.

Samantha, wearing black slacks and jacket to match her blond hair, looked up and then deliberately away. She talked earnestly with Amanda Debbs from the Department for the Arts; a rather fat woman with a less than merry view of the world.

The Department had rejected my last grant application. Was it because of what had become known as the “Opie Incident”? Or because my last novel showed the writing world up for what it really was? It outsold all the books the author’s in the room had produced, and a New York contract set it up for Best Seller status.

Amanda sucked up to writers, fed on their egos. She couldn’t feed on everyone’s though; maybe that also had something to do with the grant process?

I purposefully walked by them and offered a nod of recognition, then helped myself to a glass of cheap red wine. The drink helped, the pressure to be bold and confident draining.

Be strong, I thought, ignore them. Be yourself.

Proceed to part 2...

This link goes to the book website.