The Typewriter Did It

[MisterM]

The Typewriter Did It.
by Mister M

[MisterM]

As nobodys asking, I will expand a bit on what this is. I'm currently working on an origional novel, and I will be sporadiclly posting updates here in case people are interested (or not) in reading it.

[MisterM]

One



The Ivy is a modest-sized eatery, barely a few meteres of window space, looking out onto the streets outside it. From it's exterior you can see wooden walls painted a shade of blue so dark it should as well be black, and a plethora of dull lamps, each bulb offering only the tiniest fragment of sickly yellow. There iss writing over the doorway, in peeled gold lettering, so faded that you would have to know the name to able to read it.

All in all, there was nothing appealing about the place, nothing to draw you inside, to tempt you to come and see what delights the inn had to offer. There was a grubby looking sandwich board outside, a blank piece of slate on which the establisments proprietors could conjour up cute drawings and witty one-liners to snatch up custom, but they hadn't even bothered. Perhaps there was nothing worth shouting about.

And yet people would go in, every now and then. Robert couldn't help but wonder what kind of person would want to go inside such a miserable looking place. Probably because they were miserable themselves, or knew other people who were miserable, and they wanted to hang and be miserable together. Misery tends to do that. It clings to its surroundings, like dirt on a sanndwich board outside a place you did not want to enter.

Robert entered, and for a moment wasn't sure if he should wipe his feet now, or save it for later. Perhaps the floor was not as dirty as it looked, but there was so little light inside that it was impossiblr to be sure. He cast his eyes around the room, hoping he would find where he needed to go quickly, and it would not be as dirty as the rest of the place.

There was a small bar to his left, with a few sour-faced gentlemaen sat at stools alongside it. There was a woman making a fuss of her nails, and there was an overweight man on the stool next to her. He was talking far to loudly into her chest, but the woman didn't seem to mind. To the other side were a series of booths, with bare, circular tables inbetween rows of uncomfortable looking benches, like an old american diner. At the far end were some larger tables, with proper seating, which looked much more like the right place to sit, and yet nobody was sat there. In all there could not have been more than twenty or so people in the place but it felt emptier, and quieter. Music was creaking out from somewhere behind the bar, but the sound was so tiny and hollow that it could be anbodys guess.

The entire place looked like it did not know what it wanted to be, but it simply was that way, so you had better get used to it or get out, which was exactly what Robert wanted to do. He hesitated for a moment at the threshold, afraid he might burn like a vampire were he to cross any further. A few faces had turned in his direction when he had pushed opened the door, and they were still staring at him now. He stood there, staring blankly back at each of them, and they looked blankly back at him. I'm miserable too, y'know. You don't need to check, I've got a therapist and everything.

For a moment he felt as though the polite thing to do would be to simply turn around and head back outside to rejoin the rest of the world, but there was a rustle and a scrape from somewhere near, and his name was called.

'Robert!'

He looked hopefully in the direction of the nicer tables down the back, but saw a hand waving from one of the booths. Reluctnantly, he pulled the door closed behind him, and shuffled over towards her, looking forlonly at the comfort he was missing out on.

Rachel was dressed far too elegantly for her surroundings, a long red dress hugged her figure, with a black wollen jacket to match. Her long blonde hair was falling from her shoulders in ringlets, and as she pushed it to one side Robert noticed a myriad of silver rings on her hands.

'Sit', she said, indicating to the opposite side of her table. 'I took the liberty of ordering for you.'

Robert sighed, and eased himself onto the bench. It wasn't quite as uncomfortable as it had looked, but it was bad enough. Why did she always have to make his choices for him? Food was one of the few joys he had in this world.

'You could at least have had the decency of leaving me a menu' he told her, 'So I could see what joful tastes I have been denied.'

'Mmm-hmm' said Rachel, her eyes looking everwhere but him. She had a phone in one hand, and a notepad in the other, She seemed to be writing in one and reading from the other at the same time, but Robert could not work out which was which.

'How long ago did you order?'

'It shouldn't be long now.' she said, with an attempt reassuring smile. It would have been much more reassuring if she had actually looked at him when she smiled it. Robert doubted the table needed that much of a confidence booster.

'Did you read my letter?' he asked, tentaively.

'I did.'

'And what did you make of it?'

'Dinner. And I'll come to the rest later.'

'Why did you have to pick such a depressing place?'

Rachel snapped the notebook shut, cluncked the phone down onto the table, and looked Robert firecely in the eyes.

'You are full of questions today.' she said, sternly. 'Yes, I did get your letter, and I decided to ignore it. And as part of my ignoring it, I decided to take you out to dinner and show you what else I have to offer you. Does that seem fair to you??'

Her eyes were fixed dead onto him, her pupils dilating. He could sure do with one of those reassuring smiles about now. She was trying to look confident, but Robert could see her chest rising and falling quickly. The cut of the dress was inappropriatly low: Was that also part of the offer?

'No, It doesn't seem fair.' He answered. 'You didn't let me order.'

Rachel smiled at him. It was a false smile, no teeth, but she left him alone and went back to copying from her phone to her notebook. He guessed it must be that way round.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, waiting for their food to arrive.There was a man sat in the booth in front of them, chewing away at some beige looking meat. Robert suddenly felt less interested in waiting for the food to arrive. The man caught his eye, and for a moment Robert wasn't sure wether to wave back, or pretend he was trying to look somewhere else and his eyes had gotten lost. He was so busy being unable to decide that he did neither, and after a while the man got bored of staring at Robert, and went back to his beige. The man looked like a string bean, and Robert felt that would have livened up his plate considerably.

Tucked over in the far corner was a forgotten old jukebox, full of even more forgotten records. Robert imagined it would be interesting to see what tunes were there for turning, but that would mean standing up in full view of everyone else, and he'd already had enough of that for one evening.

A moment later a man came through a door that Robert had not seen before, even though it was right next to the jukebox. Maybe it was the darkness, or maybe it was because the jukebox was the most interesting thing about the place, so why would you waste any time noticing a door? The man was carrying two bowls with him, and he walked over to their table and lazily placed one in front of each of them, so Robert guessed he must be the waiter.

The waiter looked eager to get out of this place, but there was a queue, so he'd have a long wait, and this would tide him over in the meanwhile. Robert hated queuing, so he gave the man a sympathetic smile. It was less reassuring than he had hoped, and the Waiter pulled a face of disgust as he walked away.

Rachel put her phone down again, as food was a serious buisness, never to be interrupted. Robert looked down at his bowl to find a soup that probably had a colour, but it was indistinguishable in the dim light. Robert had always disliked soup. It was always either too liquid to be sauce, or too solid to be a liquid, and it was always too hot or too cold for this weather. There were two dumplings sat in the middle of the broth, which rather reminded him of Rachels dress.

'I love the food in this place.' Said Rachel, as she placed a spoon tentaively into the soup, letting it slowly drain onto the metal surface. 'They always have something to tickle your fancy.'

'And what if you don't fancy anything?'

'Then don't come.' she said, placing the spoon to her lips and slurping loudly.

I didn't want to come! You're the one who told me I don't have achoice.'

'You don't have a choice, no, but what you do have is an excellent opportunity.'

'I beg your pardon?'

Rachel put down her spoon, and reached under the table. There was much rustling and commotion as she searched through her bag for something or other. Robert scanned around the place, absorbing his surroundings. The waiter was now behind the bar, but he didn't seem to be particularly busy. The overweight man and the fussy-nailed woman had their faces pressed together, either whispering or snogging eone other. Whichever one it was, the woman found it hilarious enough to giggle.

Rachel emerged triumphantly from under the rable, and handed her prize to Robert. It was a newspaper, a broadsheet folded in half, then in half again, and opened to somewhere deep in the middle. The article was headed with a quote, and a picture of Robert in black and white as though he came from olden times. Nobody likes to be confronted with a picture of themselves, not least one they've seen a hundred times before.

'I've seen this before.' said Robert, handing the paper back to her. 'A hundered times maybe. What's your point?'

'You're making waves, Robert. Your last book was a huge success, a sellout.'

'It was a limited run. Quite frankly I'd have been embarrassed if it hadn't sold out. My sister bought near most of the copies anyway.'

'Exactly!' said Rachel, clearly choosing to ignore what he had just said. 'So why stop now? You are only at the start of your journey, you could achieve so much more. With my help especially'

'But that's exactly the problem. I don't want to achieve anything more. My writing days are over.'

'No, Robert, they're not.' Rachel shook her head, and smiled at him again.

'Did you not understand what I wrote in my letter?'

Rachel let out a small snort. 'Oh, I understood Robert. I just think that it would be better if we both chose to pretend that it never happened.'

'No. I stand by everything that I said to you.'

She sighed. 'Do you really Robert?'

'Yes. I can't help it. Theres nothing I can do.' Rober let the words hang in the air for a moment, but Rachel simple raised a perfetly manicured eyebrow at him. It wouldn't be enough.

'I'm cursed.' he told her, feebly.

'You're not cursed. Robert.What you have is a gift.'

'You think that causing death and destruction is a gift?'

Rachel let out a small groan of frustration, her nails digging into the palms of her hand. 'Robert, I really hoped that if I took you out to a public place, gave you a nice meal – which you haven't even touched, by the way – that you would at least be able to feign some civility, and restrain yourself from talking about such nonsense. You're making a fool of yourself.'

'Nonsense?? None of this is nonsense, I promise.' Robert felt angry, but he didn't raise his voice. If anything, it dropped a few levels in pitch as he spoke. 'Two months ago there was an explosion in California. A whole bus full of people were killed whilst on a trip to the National Circus Convention of North America. There were no survivors. Is that nonsense to you?'

Rachel placed her hands on the sides of her head, and stared down into her bowl.

'Then, three weeks ago, in Melbourne, a piano tuner was attacked by a pack of electric eels on the way back from his nephews birthday party. He died instantly.'

Rachel continued to stare down at her plate.

'And then theres this.' Rober reached across, and picked up the newspaper again, turning to the front page. The headline read 'Three dead in highway crash':

'Only a few days ago there was a three-way collision just a few streets away from here. The drivers were all young men, in their early 20s, and they were all in the acting proffession.'

'So?' said Rachel, her eyes deliberately avoiding his.

'So everything. The exploding bus is straight out of 'Fears ov a Clown'. The piano tuners' death is taken directly from the pages of 'The Manatee Matinae', and all those young actos dying? Well, thats the ending of 'The Final Curtain'!'

'I fail to see the connection.' said Rachel, as she busied herself with her dumplings.

'These are all my books.' said Robert, trying to keep his voice steady. 'Everything I write, these grisly murders, these horrible deaths. They come true.'

'You're being ridciulous.' said Rachel, shaking her head.

'No I'm not.'

'Yes you are.'

'I'm cursed.'

'No you're not.'

'I am, and that's why I can't do this any more: I'm done.' Robert wished that he could have sounded more confident as he said it. Rachels eyes turned to meet his again, that intense stare making its way back to the fore.

'Yes, I remember you saying so in your letter.' She put down her spoon indignantly.

'Well I mean it. I can't keep writing, I simply can't.'

'Because..?'

'Because people will die. This things that I've written, they're coming true, and I can't let that keep happening, so... Well, I suppose stopping is the only thing I can do.'

Rachel put her hands back to the sides of her head and muttered something impatient under her breath.

'Robert.' she said, forcing another smile upon him. 'Darling. You can't just 'Stop' writing. Nobody in this buisness just stops And besides, you're under contract.'

'You can't just exert this control over my creative flow.'

Rachel sighed. 'Well, why don't you try writing about bunnies or something? Not all of your books have to be about grisly murders.'

Robert shook his head. 'My readers don't want that sort of thing. They like murder, and the stranger the better. There's nothing people like more than an odd and unpredictable murder. I'm an absurdist.'

'You are definitley absurd. Just because you write about a load of clowns getting clobbered to death (or whatever it was) and it actually happens, that doesn't mean you made it happen. It's just a coincidence'

'It's much deeper than that. The details, the names,everything is exactly the-' Rachel held a finger up in front of his face.

'It's just: A: Coincidence.' The finger staxed there, as if it was capable of ending the conversattion by itself.

The finger made no difference, however. Robert knew there was no point in continuing it. He had been doubtful that Rachel would listen to him - Nobody else had, and nobody else would. He knew how crazy he seemed, how insane what he was saying sounded. But when he had first heard about that bus explosion, deep down he knew that there was no turning back. He, somehow, had caused this terrible thing to happen, and it could not be allowed to continue.

Rachel's phone began to virbate, and the finger detatched itslf from the conversation to find out what was going on.

'I'm sorry, I'm going to have to go. Somethings come up.'

Robert looked at her doubtfully.

'It's a work thing.' she said, smiling reassuringly.

'You're my agent, I am your work.'

'Well, believe it or not I do have other clients.' said Rachel, as she rose up from the other side of the table. Robert didn't believe it, but over his many years of ecperience he had learned not to get involved with Rachel Jennings, no matter how tempting it may seem.

'Look' said Rachel, as she pulled out some notes to pay for the food. 'Here's an idea. Why don't you write some more of those 'Emily Ottoline' books? They were cheerful:'

'Emily Ottoline?? Those were books were never cheerful. Did you even read them?'

'I try not get too involved with my clients.' lied Rachel, with an impossibly straight face.

'Well, that says it all. Nobody ever liked those, and they never sold much anyway.'

'Darling, you never sold much.'

'I thought you said that I was 'Making Waves'?'

'You are. But some people splash a lot louder than others. Maybe tear yourself away from the grisly murders, and you might sell a bit more?'

Robert shook his head. 'I don't need to write just to sell books. I'd be doing all this anway, even if I didn't have you.'

Rachel laughed. 'Exactly. So what was the point of this conversation?'

And so she left him there, with his bowl of forgotten dumplings slowly gestating in front of him. She was right, damn her. It didn't matter what he said or did, he would always keep writing, no matter the consequences. He was writing right now, in his head, the ideas and thoughts forming themselves into words, structure, character. They were all there. The string-bean man and his beige dinner. The fussy-nailed lady and the overweight man. The waiter with nowhere to go but who'd take any chance to get there. And most of all he was writing about himself, the depressed failed writer,sat in a worn-down resteraunt full of worn-down souls, with no company expect the curse that he could never quite shake.

[B.]

It's a really interesting idea. What is the genre, like mystery/thriller?

I was confused with the first person part being like 'I've got a therapist too you know'- it reminded me of snicket a bit. Was that intentional?

[MisterM]

To answer either of your questions would be to give away the direction the story is heading. I dont think I'd describe it as any genre. Maybe and unthrilling mystery.

[MisterM]

Chapter Two


Perhaps you would like to imagine a hospice as being a quiet, peaceful place, out in the countryside and surrounded by roaring fields full of sheep muching away on grass. This place was not so, but it was peaceful in its own ways.

Robert was sat in a chair that he felt may have once been comfortable, but he had arrived several years too late to experience it. He could feel his bottom starting to go numb on the threadbare upholstery, and he shifted in his seat impatiently.

There was a woman sat behind the reception desk, stern but kind enough to smile back at him as he waited. He leafed through an old crumpled magazine about gardening, but it was mostly something to pass the time. He hated waiting, but on the other hand he hated seeing his mother, so he didn't mind doing a bit of both. Garden centres weren't all bad, after all.

There was a rush of noise and air as the door was pushed open, the sounds of the city intruding their way into the cosy reception.

'Hiiii!' Said Sarah, bounding over to him, her arms full of bags, but somehow managing to hold on to all of them as she dragged Robert into an enoromous hug. The scent of perfume was almost overwhelming, but he was used to it by now. Sarah was of the opinion that if you couldn't seduce a man, you should at least try to choke him long enough to climb on top of him.

'Hi.' said Robert, as he untangled himself from the mix of arms and bags.

'How are you doing? You're looking well.' Sarah set in the chair next to him, pulled out a small hand mirror, and began touching up her lipstick.

'No, I don't:' Said Robert. 'I look the same as I always do.'

'Well, thats good enough.'

'No, it isn't.'

But Sarah wasn't listening. Instead, she cast her eyes around the room, as though looking for something, before turning back to him. 'What are we waiting for?'

'Nothing.'

'Aw, you didn't need to wait for me!'. Sarah pulled at his arm jokingly, and stood back up. 'Let's go and see her.'

And so Robert followed Sarah down the hallway, the sound of clanking heels echoing around the both of them. The corridor was very darkly lit. Robert doubted that a hospice would aim for mood lighting but it certainly had that effect.

One they had reached the door, Sarah paused to fidlle with her hair for a moment, while Robert put his hands in his pockets and tried to pretened that he wasn't there. Sarah then knocked lightly on the wood, and then waited a moment before pushing the door open.

Their mother was sat in bed, wearing the same fading blue dressing gown she always wore, with a look of mild irriation on her face.

'Did I say you could come in?' she said, crossly.

'Hiii!' said Sarah, rushing over to give her a hug, yet again a tangle of bags and arms.

Robert looked around the small four walls in which his mother spent nearly the entirety of her current life. The windows were shuttered, with only a few thin strips of light sneaking their way into the room. Between the bed and the window were two comfortable looking chairs, with a tiny table inbetween, a forgotten plant wilting away in its centre. There was another table next to the bed, with a glass of water and several old photographs lined up, as if awaiting his mothers inspection. A clock was sat on the wall nearest the door, with an unused television set below it. Robert headed to one of the inviting chairs, only to find it had managed to decieve him. It was uncomfortable, with springs poking up everywhere you didn't want them to. If there was a competetion between these chairs and the ones in reception, he wasn't sure which chairs would win. It would be a good distraction from talking to his mother at any rate.

Sarah had pulled away from the hug, and had begun to pile up her bags next to the bed, when her mother reached out and touched her.

'You've got too much of that muck on your face.' she said, rubbing at Sarahs' cheek.

'How are you feeling mother?' said Sarah, ignoring the comment, Sarah had such an amaying propensity for ignoring any negative comments or criticism from her Mother that Robert expected she hadn't taken in a word she had said for a number of years.

'I'm feeling fine thank you.' said mother, as she moved a book from her lap to the bedside table. 'Or at least I was until you turned up.'

'We thought we'd surprise you.' said Sarah.

'Surprise? I see you two all the bloody time. A surpise would be if Elvis Presley walked through that door, and as that's not going to happen, I wish you two would just leave me alone.' She waved a hand to Robert, indicating at the window frame. 'Open that up will you, I'll choke to death otherwise, standing next to her with all that perfume on. And how many bags have you got there?'

Sarah forced a smile at her. 'I've been shopping.'

'Well I should hope so too, the state of what you're wearing. You'd think with how much some of that tat you buy actually costs they'd use some more material in those things.'

Robert pulled apart the shutters and opened the window, light and air flooding into the room.

'Ah, that's better.' She smiled at them both, and closed her eyes for a moment as she breathed in. 'Nothing like a bit of fresh air.

Robert decided that the chair was best left on it's own, so he and Sarah stood either side of their mother, and she sat for a moment, still with her eyes closed.

'Are you looking at me?' she said, once she'd opened them again.

'Yes'. Said Sarah

'No.' Said Robert, but now he couldn't help it, and he did look at her.

It is strange, to look at somebody that you love, and notice that they are no longer the person that you once knew. She was still his mother, of course, but the face that he had known as a child was now so different as to be almost unrecognizable. The face was lined and thin, like butter spread over too much bread. The eyes once so bright and sharp were now foggy and tired. Her hair was thin, dry and white, like delicate wisps of spider web. It was like looking into the face of a stranger.

'I'm sorry that David couldn't make it.' said Sarah, smoothing her dress as she sat down on the edge of the bed.

'Which ones David?'

'He's my fiance, mum. You know that.'

'Well, it's very hard to keep up with you sometimes. Is he the one with the limp?'

Sarah sighed, and ran her fingers through her hair. 'No, mum, that was Daniel.'

'Right. Well, does it really matter?'

'I think its just polite if you would at least try to remember my husbands name.'

'In a few years I'll either be dead or you'll be married to someone else. Either way, his name won't matter any more, will it?'

Sarah had spent most of the last twenty years either engaged, married, or divorced from a string of different men, often at the same time. Early on in life she had decided that she rather liked money, and would like to have quite a lot of it thank you very much, and that the easiest way for her to achieve that goal was to marry men of increasing wealth. The problem was that most of these men seemed to be of decreasing interest to her, so the relationships never lasted too long.

Of the many aspects of Sarah's personality that grated with their mother, it was this that she could never quite abide by. His parents had been married for more than fifty years, and this had not been without a huge amount of difficutly on both sides. It had alawys been his Mothers assertation that no matter how difficult things got, marrigae was for life, and so every husband, boyfriend, or variation therupon that Sarah had collected had been swiftly dissmissed from their Mothers memory, simply because it was eaiser to forget than it was to argue. Or at least it was most of the time. Robert didn't blame her, he could never remember their names either. He'd have gone with Damien.

Robert turned his attention back to the rows of photgraphs. There was a picture of Sarah and one of her husbands peering over the edge of another frame, reaching out for his attention. The photo could only have been from five or six years ago now, as that was the last marrige that had remained for any period of significance. It had been a pleasant day, though perhaps not pleasant enough to match the enforced smiles plastered upon the faces of those gathered round.

His mother was in the picture, stood next to Sarah, one of the last times before she had started to deteriorate signifcantly. Robert reasoned that this must be the only reason she had selected such a picture to be part of this line up. It was incredible how much things had changed, even his dad was still there. The passing of time had eaten away at all of them. Robert looked into himself. He was still a young man there, in that snapshot of the past. Now he was nearly forty, and a stranger unto himself.

'Pass me that one.' said his mother, fingers waving vacantly at a different frame.

Robert picked up the one behind the wedding image, the frame fancier and weighter than the others, ornate shapes formed into the metal, and passed it to his mother.

She looked at it and smiled, holding the frame between two hands like a beloved teddy bear, balanced gently in her lap. It was an picture of herself, dressed fancilly, face plastered in make up. There was a smiliarity between the woman in the picture and Sarah, one that Robert had never seen before. The hair, the eyes, the expression and poise of her face. For people who disagreed so regularly it was amazing how similiar they both seemed at this age.

Sarah had tried to peer over the top of the picture frame, but from her position she couldn't quite seem the image. She had given up, and peeled her phone from the mess of her bag. After a few moments of gentle tapping Sarah noticed the raised eyebrow of her mother, and put the phone away again.

Their visits often passed like this, full of delicate silences and undisturbed tension resting between the three of them. Robert got the feeling her mother didn't mind too much. She was never one of talk, least of all to her children.

Robert noticed the clock on the wall opposite had stopped, the hands trapped in the past, lost in a forgotten moment in time. And then he saw it, the book his mother had been reading, now placed on the bedside table. It was his.

'This is my book' Robert said, as he picked it up.

'Yes, I know' said his mother, irritably. 'Why else do you think I've been reading it?'

'I didn't think that anyone in my family read my stuff.'

Sarah laughed. 'Robert darling, I buy a copy of your book every time I go in a bookshop.'

'But you don't read them, do you.'

'Well, no. But I'm far too busy to have time to do something as trivial as reading.'

'Busy?' said their mother, incredulous. 'Doing what exactly? Or should I say doing who exactly?'

'Oh well, this and that.'

Robert could sense another argument brewing them, so he interjected. 'What do you think about it?' he asked his mother. It wasn't pure distraction, however. He wanted to know.

She thought for a moment, chewing over what she was going to say. It was strange to see his mother, usual so forthright with her thoughts and opinions on any subject, to suddenly be so hesitant in saying what she felt about something. Eventually she seemed to reach a conclusion, and spoke with an earnestness to her tone 'I think.... I think that is good, Very good. I haven't finished yet, but I'm enjoying it.'

'But?'

She smiled at him. 'Well, it just doesn't feel like you when I read it. It seems very different, somehow, to the real you.'

'Well, maybe thats because you don't know the real me.'

'Perhaps.' She smiled at him. 'Or perhaps you're not quite how I pictured you after all.'

[MisterM]

I think that it would be appropriate for someone to refer to a bowl as a plate, especiallz fi they were distracted.

I knew I'd come across that turn of phrase before, but could not think of LOTR specifically. I'm fine with it though.