14 April 2012

Gibson, as he was known to almost everyone except for his parents, was sat motionless in the small conservatory he referred to as his study. It was mid December and the sky had turned to blackness without him noticing. He had no idea what time it was and couldn’t recollect when last he’d taken notice of a clock face. Time, Gibson would frequently remark to Sophie, was the adversary of a writing; a constant reminder that things are changing, that the world simply doesn’t wait. He would often fantasize about the idea of emigrating away from London, taking his work to a secluded island where the 21st century couldn’t pressure him, a place where he could let the words flow freely. He knew however that this couldn’t work, he needed people around him, he needed to spend his days watching what was going on in other people’s lives, otherwise what would he write about? He tapped the touchpad of the laptop computer and squinted as the black screensaver disappeared, replaced in an instant by a bright white light that lit the room with a dull glow. Gibson sighed as he looked at the three underlined words staring at him from the centre of the screen. It was a situation he had purposefully placed himself in on numerous occasions, he found he needed them to focus his thoughts, he needed the challenge. On the few instances when Gibson had spoken to other writers about his work they would often lecture him on his unusual style. The title, they would proclaim, is always the last part of the puzzle, something that only becomes apparent when the story is complete. His reply would always be to utter a mumbled acknowledgement, avoiding any discussion that retaliation might cause. Ten years ago things would have been different; ten years ago he would have argued his point to the ends of the earth, now he just couldn’t be bothered. A true writer, he knew, would never dictate the universal rules of story; a true writer would understand that there were none. It reminded him of a fiction group he went to in his early twenties; a room full of “writers” all discussing each others work, condemning each other for faults and all offering ideas and suggestions on how to improve. Of course the reality of the situation was that none of them were actually in any position to offer advice; each one of them would sit at home every night reading textbooks on how to assemble a novel, learning someone else’s fake rules for writing but never understanding their own. In Gibson’s opinion a writer should never discuss his work with another.

Since he first positioned himself in the wicker office chair that morning Gibson's mind had been a constant hive of activity, erratically running through scenario after scenario until he drew closer to the solution. The first question that he posed was that of identity, for him this was always the most important aspect, once he had a personality in his mind he could build on it, he could understand what they were doing, where they were doing it and ultimately what their motives were. Motives were the simplest part of the puzzle, for Gibson there were always only good and bad people. He knew that good people could do bad things and bad could do good things, but in the end he knew that there was always something inside them that made the distinction indefinite. The act of a deed was irrelevant, whether a person was a thief, a terrorist or even the man that pushed his way through a busy train with no concern for the other passengers, they were all bad people, they were all essentially the same thing. Gibson would always wonder where he fitted into the two classifications; it would forever exist as a point of constant concern. He reached out his hand toward the open bag of pistachio nuts that lay on the table in front of him, knocking a number of discarded shells onto the conservatory floor in the process. He pulled out a nut and held it between his thumbs, carefully positioning his nails into the empty space between the two shell halves. As he gently ripped it apart he let out a wince realizing that one half of the shell had cut into the soft under-skin of his thumbnail. For a few seconds after the pain subsided he would still feel a sensation of anger, giving him the desire to slam his fist at the open bag on the desk. He took a deep breath and denied the urge, replacing it with a compulsion to eat another pistachio, this time using his index finger and thumb to remove the shell. Don’t waste it, he thought to himself. Dragging himself back into the dream-like trance where he’d spent the majority of the day, he focused on an idea that arose earlier, at the time it was dismissed but something about it meant he couldn’t leave it alone. In his mind he’d pictured a young boy sat at the side of a lake, he could have been no more than fourteen but something about his face made him seem considerably older. A few hundred metres into the twilight distance stood a run down Boat House, it had no windows and there were many holes sporadically dotted over the roof; this was the focus of the boy’s attention. Gibson couldn’t tell how long he had been staring at the frail building but he had a look on his face of intense sadness, as he continued gaze at the structure tears began to run down his young face. The boy was tall and slender with black flowing hair running down to his chin, he wore a black ankle length cloak that blew fiercely in the wind and at his right hand side stood a black Labrador, nuzzling something in the overgrown grass. He didn’t know why but something about the scene made him feel warm, but for some reason he knew it told something of great importance, he just didn’t know why. This was as far as Gibson had successfully got with the image. Every time he’d tried to delve deeper the idea seemed to lose its meaning, every suggestion he could come up with stole something from it. It was a common occurrence in all of his writing and the story could never be continued until the corresponding pieces of the mystery were found, a lengthy process which, frustratingly for Sophie, could leave Gibson incapacitated for days on end. Often she would have to check up on him at regular intervals just to make sure he’d remembered to perform even the most basic tasks, always leaving a jug of water next to him so he didn’t dry up.

The scene that Gibson had envisaged was as clear to him as any of his own memories and, although nothing he ever wrote was autobiographical, he felt that somehow the boy had a deep significance to his own life. Not in any obvious way, in fact none of the main points of the scene had anything to do with him at all; he had never owned a dog, never had long hair and the only time he could remember ever seeing a boathouse was in a movie. It was just something about the underlying emotion of the whole thing, he’d felt it somewhere before. He sure that the boy in his mind was the hero of the story, a good character who had been witness to, or maybe even part of some terrible event. The various circumstances of this seemed endless to Gibson though, he couldn’t even whittle the choices down to twenty, let alone one. His first offering was that the house had been the scene of a terrible murder at some point in the boys past, a not-too distant memory that the boy was unable to let go of. Gibson hated the idea. How could he write about something as graphic as murder when he himself had never been subjected to it? He knew of a number of writers who covered the subject and it made him feel irate; it was like writing a book on rocket science simply because you’ve seen a shuttle launch on the television. He allowed the idea to disappear. He trudged further through his memories trying to find something he could use, something that he understood enough to feel justified in writing about. Gibson had suffered a number of problems in his life; his parents were divorced when he was only a child and his first wife had left him after only a year of marriage, but these weren’t enough. The emotions he felt at these points in his life were not the same as what was going on in the boys face; Gibson’s problems had healed in time, but the look on the boy’s face appeared to be part of him, whatever had happened at the boat house would never leave him. Suddenly the phone rang, waking Gibson from his trance. Normally when he was writing he’d leave the phone off the hook but Sophie had become increasingly worried about her inability to contact him while she was out. She wasn’t especially worried about Gibson, although secretly she often had nightmares about him passing out through lack of nourishment; the main reason was in case there was an emergency somewhere else in the family. This was largely due to Sophie’s grandfather dying a few months before; Sophie was working in Belgium when she found out and it took her five hours to get hold of Gibson. They both knew it was going to happen at some point, and although she was close to her Grandfather, Sophie had a good few months to prepare for it happening. She didn’t particularly need Gibson to do anything at the time; she just needed to know he was there for her if she did. Gibson slowly stood up from the wicker chair, letting out a deep sigh as his muscles adjusted to their new positioning. Stepping through the glass slide door that acted as his study doors, he quickly walked towards the kitchen phone. ‘Hello,’ He said in croaky voice, coughing afterwards to clear his throat from a day sat in silence. ‘Hey,’ replied Sophie, ‘It’s me. Sorry to bother you when you’re working, I just really needed to ask you something.” ‘Is everything okay?’ He said. ‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ she said in a light-heartedly dismissive voice ‘I’ve just been invited to dinner with Gillian and Noel tonight. I know it’s probably completely pointless me asking you but would you like to go?’ ‘I can’t really, I’m right in the middle of something,’ Gibson replied apologetically, ‘I’m really sorry,’ ‘Don’t be sorry, I tol

mikeballetThe Boat House • Opuss № I