My Hero Read online

  Jane switched on and emptied her mind. Here, with nothing between her and her characters but a thin plate of glass and a few glowing green letters, she was once more alone and with nobody to turn to.

  Well now, she thought. What the hell can I find for these idiots to do next?

  She could feel the screen staring at her, like an over-efficient secretary waiting to take dictation from an unshaven, hung-over boss. She frowned.

  What sort of book do you want this to be?

  Where the question came from, and what it was doing in her head in the first place, she had no idea. It ran around inside her brain like an escaped dog, yapping and trailing its lead.

  Profitable, she replied. I want this book to outsell David Eddings and Storm Constantine and Dragonlance put together. And that’s all there is to it. Now, can we stop this nonsense and get on with some work, please?

  Yes, but think. When you were a little girl, you wanted to be a writer.You wanted to create a magical world that people could go to, full of wonder and magic and deep, powerful resonances. You wanted to make a world fit for heroes to live in. And have you?

  Shut up, she replied. Instead of all that bullshit, tell me how I’m going to get Gordian out of there alive and get Maldezar to Perimadeia before Dunthor notices the Weirdstone’s gone missing.

  Silence.

  That, Jane mused, is just typical of mystic voices in one’s brain. No practical help whatsoever. Understand that fact, and you won’t go far wrong. If Joan of Arc had stopped for a moment and asked, ‘Drive the English out of Aquitaine, yes, fine. How, exactly?’ she’d probably have lived to be ninety.

  Something clicked in the back of her mind. That’s a thought, she considered, I could have a vision. Regalian is standing over Gordian’s recumbent form, sword raised for the coup de grace, and a vision could suddenly appear and tell him not to.

  Yes? And?

  Jane shook her head. One step at a time.

  She lit a cigarette, swigged a mouthful of cold, clammy tea and started to type. Meanwhile, Central Casting started auditioning for the part of A Vision.

  ‘Not you again.’

  Hamlet scowled. ‘There’s no need to take that attitude,’ he said. ‘I’ll have you know I’m dead good at visions. In Act One, Scene—’

  ‘Seeing them, maybe. Being them’s something quite other.’

  ‘Shall I do my bit, or are we just going to stand here chatting all day?’

  Central Casting sighed. ‘In your own time, Mr Hamlet.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Skinner cheerfully. ‘I seem to have run out of bullets.’

  ‘There’s plenty more in the saddleba—’

  With a quick, firm movement, Skinner jammed his gun into its holster, fastened the strap and stood up. In the distance, the last survivor of the posse rode like a bat out of hell across the skyline. Only forty-eight hours before, he had been filling in time waiting tables and parking cars, poised for his lucky break into the big time. Get me out of this alive, he muttered as he leaned down low over his horse’s neck, and first thing in the morning I’ll enrol for medical school like they wanted me to.

  Alone at last. With a sigh, Skinner picked up his saddle-bags, settled them on his shoulder and started to talk, musing as he did so on how all his characters, when stranded in the middle of the desert after a savage gun battle, had managed to find their way to the Lucky Dollar saloon in time for the start of the next scene without so much as a blistered toe. He must have written them very comfortable boots.

  He eventually stumbled into town, dog tired and footsore, seven hours later - just in time to be told that the last room in the hotel had been taken twenty minutes ago but he was welcome to sleep in the haybarn for just three dollars fifty. For a few dollars more, he could have a blanket.

  Three dollars fifty, he reflected bitterly as he kicked the straw into something resembling a mattress, for a night in a lousy barn. He sat down, opened the saddle-bag and counted his money; running low on that, too. When, in Chapter One, he’d envisioned twenty thousand dollars in hidden Confederate gold stashed away in the deserted mineshaft at Las Monedas, he hadn’t anticipated that it would have to last him thirty-six years.

  I have to get out of here, he thought, and soon. Which means I’ve got to get the message through. Which means . . .

  Bright and early next morning - the proprietors of Finnegan’s Hotel provide a highly efficient early morning call service to their guests in the form of a large rat, which bites their toes at six thirty-one precisely - Skinner packed his bags and set out for his next destination. If he’d been in the mood for company, he’d have found it hard to come by. Volunteers for a trip into the heart of the Blackfoot nation were as rare as thousand-dollar bills, and rather more expendable.

  An arrow, passing through the crown of his hat and neatly parting what little remained of his hair, informed him that he’d arrived. He reined in his horse - bought that morning from Hank’s Cheap ’n’ Cheerful Livery & Hire, and worth every cent of a tenth of what he’d paid for it - sat perfectly still and waited.

  About thirty seconds later, a group of warriors mounted on small ponies burst over the skyline out of nowhere and rode round him in a circle, yelling and whooping. Trying his best to look bored, Skinner took out a nail file and attended to a troublesome hangnail, until the leader of the war party broke off from the main group and trotted over to him.

  ‘How,’ he said.

  Skinner put the nail file away and smiled. ‘Quite,’ he replied. ‘Look, I just want a quick word with your chief, okay? So if we can just skip a few of the formalities . . .’

  ‘How.’

  Skinner frowned. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘save it for the customers. I know for a fact you can speak English, so why don’t we just—?’

  ‘Paleface come from far away bearing stick-that-speak-like-thunder . . .’

  ‘Look.’ Skinner leaned forward in his saddle and scowled. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘I wrote you for Chapter Six of Last Stage to Tombstone, nearly forty years ago. Before that, you were a clerk in a shipping office. Take me to the big guy and your secret is safe with me.’

  As they rode in silence towards the village, Skinner had time to reflect bitterly on the way things worked around here. Forty years since he’d created the character of Dances With Pigeons; forty years during which time had stood still, or rather lounged about with its feet up. Just think, this was supposed to be 1878. He’d been here for thirty-six years. By rights, it should now be 1914, in which case all he’d have to do was take a train to Chicago, walk to 354 Paradise Street and warn his seven-year-old self that under no circumstances should he take up writing Westerns for a living; or, if he did, never on pain of death to start writing one called Painted Saddles, in which the hero—

  ‘How.’ A familiar voice woke him from his reverie, and he saw that he’d reached the village. In front of him stood an aged and unbelievably dignified Blackfoot chief, flanked by an escort of tall young warriors. He nodded politely and said, ‘Hi.’

  ‘Me Chief Three Blind Mice,’ said the Indian. ‘You smoke pipe of—’

  ‘Later.’ With an effort and a certain amount of pain, Skinner eased himself off Hank’s Special Offer Eezi-Go deluxe saddle, straightened his left knee with his hand, and rubbed some circulation back into the leg. ‘Good to see you again, Mice, you’re looking well. Now, there’s a little job I’d like you to do for me. Okay?’

  Three Blind Mice’s expression was so impassive, his bearing so rigid, that Skinner instinctively glanced to the chief ’s left in the hope of catching sight of the cigar store. ‘It’s only a little thing, Mice, won’t take you a minute. Or do you want me to tell the boys and girls about the scene in Ride Down the Whirlwind which we cut out of the final draft? The one with the buffalo skin and the pot of—?’

  ‘Paleface follow me.’

  ‘Delighted.’

  In Three Blind Mice’s teepee, the two men sat on either side of a smouldering fire.

 
‘You crummy bastard,’ snarled Mice. ‘Where d’you think you get off, turning up like this and threatening me in front of the whole goddamn nation? I oughta have your ass stuffed down an anthill for that.’

  Skinner shrugged. ‘Nice to see you too, Mice. Been keeping well?’

  ‘Well?’ Mice sneered. ‘Thanks to you and that lousy fight scene at the end of Five Rifles For Texas I can only eat liquids and I gotta go to the john three times every hour. And you ask me if I’m keeping—’

  ‘Hey, calm down,’ Skinner replied amiably. ‘Most guys’d be thrilled to bits at a chance to meet their Creator face to face. People have been burnt at the stake for less.’

  Mice grimaced. ‘Most guys have a Creator they can respect, Skinner,’ he replied unpleasantly. ‘Not me, though. I gotta have you.’

  ‘At least you know I exist, Mice.’

  ‘Yeah. So does small-pox.’

  Skinner spread his arms in a gesture of magnanimity. ‘Be that as it may, Mice. I need a favour. Now, it’s like this . . .’

  Jane sat bolt upright, groped for the light switch, and then realised she was still asleep. In the circumstances, this was a pity.

  Hi.

  ‘You again.’

  Me again. Look, thinking back over our previous conversation, it occurs to me that maybe you haven’t got my letter yet.

  ‘What letter?’ Jane’s eyes moved under their closed lids. ‘And who are those people behind you?’

  The dream grimaced shamefacedly. They’re medicine dancers of the Blackfoot nation, if you really want to know. They’re helping me. Some goddamn snake-oil king of a medicine man has sent my spirit out of my body so’s I can talk to you. He paused, glanced over his shoulder and went on. Actually, I’m not at all convinced they know what the hell they’re doing, so if we could make this snappy . . .

  Jane tried to open her eyes, but for all the good that it did she might just as well have tried to open a soft drink can off which the little aluminium loop has just snapped. ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  My name’s Skinner, said the dream, I’m a writer and I’m in terrible trouble. And only you can help me. Okay so far?

  Jane nodded. Virtually all the writers she knew, herself included, were in terrible trouble of some sort, usually with their spouses or the credit card companies. The beak of sympathy started to tap against the inside of the shell of bewilderment.

  Right, where do I start? Basically it’s quite simple. I used to write Westerns, under the name of Carson Montague. Maybe you’ve heard . . . ?

  Jane shuddered slightly. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

  Oh. The dream looked slightly wistful. Oh well. Never mind. People were just starting to say I was going to be the next Zane Grey . . .

  ‘Who’s Zane Grey?’

  The dream gave her a cold look. Anyway, it went on, as a result of an unfortunate accident, the details of which I won’t bore you with right now, I got stuck in one of my own books.

  ‘Stuck?’ Jane tried to blink, closed eyes notwithstanding. ‘In one of your own . . .’

  Yeah. Painted Saddles. Not one of my best, at that. And I’ve been here ever since.Thirty-six years come June sixteenth. The dream swallowed hard and passed a finger round the inside of its collar. It hasn’t been fun, I’m telling you.

  ‘I can imagine.’

  Which is why, the dream continued urgently, I need your help. You gotta get me out of here, before I’m killed or I go crazy.

  ‘How can I help?’

  For an instant, the dream almost smiled. That’s my girl, it said. It’s very simple. All you have to do is rewrite the book.

  ‘Hang on.’ Jane licked her lips, which were as dry as very stale bread. ‘You want me to write a Western?’

  The dream nodded. Nothing to it, I promise. Any fool can do it. I used to do it, for Christ’s sake, and Dostoevsky I ain’t. If it’ll make it any easier for you, I can tell you where my manuscript is. Or where it was. I guess in the last thirty-five years, someone might have moved it.

  Sadly, Jane shook her head. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I can’t do that. I’m hopeless at pastiche.’

  Hey! The dream pressed its nose against the reality interface and scowled at her. Don’t give me that. Look, it doesn’t have to be any good. Jesus, Westerns are supposed to be crummy. All you have to do is write something in which I get out of this dump, and . . .

  Jane shook her head again. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I really am terrible at everything except mainstream fantasy. I’d probably only make things worse for you. I don’t know the first thing about horses, and I’m not even sure where Arizona is, let alone what it’s like, and I haven’t a clue whether a Winchester .45 is a rifle or a pistol, so . . .’

  The dream looked thoughtful. Maybe you have a point, it mused, at that. I hadn’t actually thought it through, I guess. Okay, just a second, let me just . . .

  The dream stepped back out of the interface, and for two minutes or so Jane dreamed unpleasantly of Blackfoot warriors dancing doggedly round a smouldering fire making peculiar noises with no apparent enthusiasm whatsoever. Then the dream reappeared.

  Got it. All you have to do is send your hero. He’ll find a way to get me out.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Your hero, the dream said impatiently. You have got a hero, haven’t you?

  For a few moments, Jane’s mind was blank. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘the hero of my books. But he’s a fantasy hero, I’m not quite sure he’d—’

  So? The dream shrugged. I’m no bigot. So what if he dresses in dumb clothes and talks like a cross between Grimm’s Fairy Tales and the Bible? All he needs to do is get me out of this book and across the county line into one of your books, and then you can write me home from there.What could be simpler than that?

  ‘But . . .’

  Look, he’s a hero, right? Which means he’s brave, resourceful, cunning, altruistic, noble, good with horses and weapons, all that shit. Well, isn’t he?

  Jane paused, thinking of her central character. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘sort of. I mean, he tries his best.’

  Jeez! You mean to say you’ve got a wimp for a hero?

  ‘No,’ said Jane, thoughtfully, ‘not a wimp. Not,’ she added, ‘as such. I mean, he’s a deep and really quite complex character.’

  Fuck.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Look, that’s all right. Anything’s better than nothing. If he can ride a horse and read a map, he’ll do just fine. So long as you get him here quickly, I’m prepared to take my chances. You are going to help, aren’t you?

  ‘I . . .’

  Beside Jane’s bed, the alarm clock went off.

  Livid sheets of blue fire rolled through the shed, flickering hideously. Oblivious, Albert knelt beside the workbench and howled at his creation.

  ‘Stanley! Stanley lad! Live! Wake up, tha bloody great pillock!’

  The body on the workbench twitched; then, as another bolt of lightning seared through the already crackling air, it jerked convulsively, snapping the D-clamps as if they were made of porcelain, and sat upright.

  It was alive. Heart beating. Lungs drawing. Tendons flexing.

  All it needed now was a soul.

  Mr Hamlet?

  ‘Yeah. Whoosat? Look, have you any idea what time it—?’

  This is Central Casting. We’ve got a job for you, if you’d be interested.

  ‘Be with you in a jiffy.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Slowly, it turned its head and stared at its Creator; who, for the very first time, began to wish he’d paid just a little bit more attention to the aesthetic side of things. True, when you’re putting together a fast bowler out of whatever you can lay your hands on, you take what you can get and are thankful. Nevertheless . . .

  ‘Now then, Stanley lad,’ muttered Norman, backing away and finding that the shed was rather smaller than he remembered. ‘Stay ont’ workbench until I tell thee otherwise. Stanley! Be told!’
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  With an eerie grinding noise (Oh bugger, thought Norman, forgot to oil t’eyelid bearings) its eyes opened. And - graunch graunch, grind grind - blinked twice. Its lips mouthed noiselessly, as if it had suddenly discovered in mid sentence that it had forgotten how to speak.

  ‘What about,’ squeaked Norman, ‘a nice cup of tea?’

  A shudder ran through the Thing, and it made a little gurgling noise at the back of its throat. Norman tried walking backwards through the shed wall, ineffectually.

  ‘. . . And, by a sleep, to say we end, The heartache and the thousand natural shocks. That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation Jesus bloody Christ where the fucking hell am I?’ it said.

  ‘Dewsbury,’ Norman replied.

  ‘Dewsbury?’

  ‘In Yorkshire.’

  ‘Yorkshire.’ Slowly, the Thing raised a hand, rubbed its eyes and yelped. Specially roughened palms, for obtaining better purchase on a wet cricket ball, had been one of Norman’s more satisfying design modifications. ‘That’s in England, isn’t it?’

  Ordinarily, Norman would have had something to say about a remark like that. In this context, however, he simply nodded.

  ‘Ye gods,’ snarled the Thing, swinging its legs off the workbench and getting unsteadily to its feet, ‘they did it! The slimy little sods actually did it! Just wait till I get my hands—’

  ‘Tha what?’ Norman queried.

  ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,’ the Thing replied. ‘This time they actually did get me to England, all that crap with the pirates notwithstanding. I’ll . . .’ Something seemed to dawn on it, and it looked down. ‘Hoy!’ it said. ‘That’s not my body. What bloody practical joker’s been mucking about with my body?’

  That, as far as Norman was concerned, was it. With a terrified squeal he jumped back and hid himself behind the draught-excluder curtain that hung over the shed door. The Thing sighed.