2004.

The electronic beeping of the alarm clock made my head hurt. I rolled over and clicked it off. Had I slept at all in this heat? I could tolerate hot weather and sunshine on holiday where you had air-conditioning and swimming pools and cold lager, but how anyone coped in Manchester with this heat, was beyond me. My skin felt sweaty and clammy, the bedroom already baking at this time of the morning. The bright daylight coming through the curtains suggested that today would be another hot one.

Brushing my teeth, I stared at my awful reflection in the bathroom mirror. I looked exhausted, drained. I looked like a ghost. I hoped a shave would improve my appearance. I dragged and scraped the razor over my chin and down my neck. It didn’t help. My face and neck were now freshly shaved, but had been left red and blotchy.

In the past, when I’d not slept particularly well, or had had a late night, the morning after always felt like the middle of the night. This morning though, it didn’t feel like midnight, it didn’t feel like any time at all. It was like I was in some strange other-world, similar to my own but one that didn’t quite feel like my own.

I stepped out of the shower and went to get dressed, already sweating. As I drove to work, I looked out at the people on the pavements. Some seemed grumpy, like me, scowling and squinting, struggling with the temperature. Others enjoyed basking in the early morning sun as they walked to work or waiting for their bus.

The DJ on my car-radio was said he hoped everyone was enjoying the wonderful weather, and said he’d be playing some massive summer tunes. As the next song banged on about summer-summer-summertime, I turned the volume down. I pulled into the office carpark and trudged towards the building, moving like an extra in a zombie movie. I cut through the warehouse, moving between rows of pallets and stacks of cartons, avoiding the forklift trucks whizzing around the bays.

My desk was on the side of the office nearest the warehouse stairwell. Most of my colleagues preferred to go through the office, the longer way round. I always took the shortcut through the warehouse. We worked in shipping so why should we avoid going through the warehouse shed? That was our business, after all. I thought of the sales reps, who quoted for all kinds of imports and exports, but had probably never seen a euro-pallet in their lives.

I passed Kevin, a stocky warehouseman from Liverpool.

‘Morning, mate.’ I said.

‘You okay? You look awful.’

‘I’m just tired. It’s this heat.’

‘Better get used to it. They say this heat-wave is gonna last for ages.’

‘Terrific.’ I chunnered.

I plonked myself down at my desk. I didn’t feel awake, didn’t feel half-asleep. I didn’t really feel anything. I was struggling to think, struggling to breathe. At least work would be a distraction. It would occupy my thoughts, would fill the time. I could throw myself into my role on European exports. I booted up my computer and logged into my emails. The first task of the day was always to go through the messages that had come through overnight. There would be messages from European agents, hauliers and customers.

I stared at the screen in confusion. No new messages. No offers of trailers, no price requests, no demands for back-up paperwork. Nothing.

‘Is anyone else’s emails down?’ I asked.

Dennis, a thin, wiry guy in his fifties who reminded me of Clint Eastwood, looked up from his newspaper.

‘It’s August.’ he shrugged. ‘Summer shutdown in Europe. Even if firms are open over there, they won’t be shipping anything.’

I nodded, of course. During the month of August, the European exports ground to a mind-numbing halt. Nothing would be going anywhere for weeks.

I grabbed my pending files from my tray. The files would usually be crammed with shipments coming in over the next few days. I would then plan my loads, book up trailers with the hauliers. This morning, my files were empty. No shipments had been booked, no trailers to plan. Nothing to do.

I felt sick. My head hurt and the ticking of the clock was really grating on me. I looked around the office. My colleagues were busying themselves by reading books and magazines, or chatting. They were clearly better at killing time than I was. The office had the desperate, gloomy air of a waiting room. The only thing we were waiting for was home-time.

How was I to cope with an entire month of soulless, endless days like this? If I was sleeping then I would have coped better, but I really didn’t think I could handle empty days, stuck at my desk with nothing to do, followed by sleepless nights, climbing the walls in the sweltering dark of my bedroom.

‘There’s gonna be a heatwave.’ Dennis said. ‘This weather is set to continue for weeks, most of August, it says here.’

He tapped his newspaper. I said nothing. I couldn’t bring myself to feign excitement at the thought of this hot weather lasting all month. A few of my colleagues discussed the epic barbeques they would have as the summer stretched on. I struggled in the hot weather anyway, so a heatwave was always something to be endured, rather than embraced. Combined with the lack of work at the office, a heatwave would be too much to bear.

The afternoon dragged by so slowly. I hadn’t bothered having anything to eat at lunchtime. The ham sandwiches I’d brought with me hadn’t seem appetising at all. I’d tossed my butties in the bin and simply made myself a cup of tea instead.

At home-time, when I stepped outside, the heat was like a kick in the stomach. The cliché of opening an oven-door came to mind. They sky above was blue and clear, the sun beating down. It felt like we were in Texas not Trafford. With the sun baking my shoulders through my shirt, I walked across the hot tarmac to my car.

Back home I changed into t-shirt and shorts. I flung my windows open wide and pulled the curtains over. I hoped to let the air in and keep the sunshine out. I sat on my sofa, sweating and breathing hard.

I flicked through the television channels looking for something to watch, to hold my attention. It would have to be something light, maybe a comedy. I couldn’t concentrate on anything too taxing. A silly comedy show would be about all I could handle.

A few hours later, I went up to bed, hoping for sleep. My room was like a furnace, the heat just overpowering. The window was wide open but there was no breeze, no air, and the room was so hot and stuffy. I lay in the darkness, wondering how long I could carry on like this. Beads of sweat trickled down by forehead. I tossed and turned, but only made myself more hot and uncomfortable. I closed my eyes and tried to drift off. I slowed my breathing and counted to ten. Would sleep ever come? Would the temperature ever drop? If it was this hot at night did that mean it would be even hotter tomorrow?

When the alarm sounded the next morning, I was sure I hadn’t slept all night. I splashed cold water on my face, before staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I looked even worse than I did yesterday. Was it possible for a person to simply fade away?

When I arrived at the office, already bored and full of despair, it was a repeat of the day before. Nothing happening at all, complete boredom, and soaring temperatures. It felt like I’d been there hours, sitting, hopeless, but the clock read just before ten o’clock. I slumped over my desk, head in hands. I stayed like that for a long moment. When I looked around nobody had even noticed. Everyone was busy killing time, waging a private war of their own. There was literally nothing to do. Even my filing tray was empty.

That evening, I paced my living room like a caged animal, a film of sweat on my back. I had to do something. Maybe a few cold beers would help, a night in the pub, the beer garden. Yes, that could be the answer. I called one of my friends. I suggested a pint in the Boat House beer garden.

‘Sorry, mate, we’re going out for a meal, just the two of us.’

As my friend was telling him they’d do it another time, maybe in a few weeks, I hung up. A few weeks was no good to me. I needed this week, I needed tonight, I needed now. I was losing my mind here. I called a few other friends but nothing doing. Nobody fancied going for a pint. Most of the lads had settled down in the last couple of years and were either putting the kids to bed or were having intimate family barbecues, enjoying the good weather. I winced at the mention of good weather. That was a matter of opinion.

I slumped to the sofa. Rubbing my eyes, I wondered just when things would get back to normal. My whole body ached. I felt like I was drowning, sinking. I had called all the friends I could think of. There was a woman I was seeing, but it was very early days and I only saw her two nights a week at the most. We were still at the getting to know you, and certainly not at the can I see you tonight? stage. Besides, she would definitely be put off if she saw me like this. I was a mess, a wreck, I was overthinking and not sleeping. We were still on our best behaviour with each other. We would wear our contact lenses and try not to get too drunk when we did get together.

And so there I was, cooped up, caged, in solitary confinement. The next few days seemed as long as the whole summer. I couldn’t sleep at night, had nothing to do in the office during the day, and wasn’t eating anything.

One evening, in the baking heat of my living room, I decided enough was enough. I couldn’t carry on like this. I had to do something, anything. I had to keep busy, find an outlet for my energies. I glanced at the painting over the fireplace. The watercolour artwork showed O’Connell Street in Dublin. My parents had brought it back with them when I was a child. Painting? Maybe I should try art. Painting and drawing, could that rescue me from this fugue?

Could art be the answer? I recalled art classes from my school days ten years previously. I had struggled capturing what I wanted to draw or paint. I’d have the idea painting a cola can in an Andy Warhol style, but the finished product would so disappointing. The painting would resemble something a toddler would produce. If I tried painting or drawing in my current mood, I would grow even more agitated, frustrated and disgruntled than I was already.

I did need an outlet though. I needed to do something. With my school studies still in mind, another idea came to me. What about creative writing? Writing stories. All through school and on into sixth form college, I really enjoyed writing stories. As a child, one of my favourite things to do was to write stories. When we were given a homework task of writing a short story, I would rush home, eager to start. For me writing wasn’t homework, it’s what I would have been doing anyway. And in college, my English teacher had always praised my writing and my stories. She’d even asked if she could keep several stories to show future classes as an example of genre fiction.

Could writing be the answer? Yes, maybe, just maybe. Sitting there in the dark heat of the living room, my mind was racing. I pulled at the thread of the thought of writing. Instead of losing my mind with the heat and the boredom, I should try to escape to a world of my own creating. Writing had always been escapism. When I was a kid, writing my stories, I was no longer cooped up in my small bedroom, I was flying a Spitfire in the Battle of Britain, or in a sword-fighting on the ramparts of a medieval castle, or squaring off against a gunslinger in the Old West.

That could be the solution to my current situation. Creative Writing. Yes, that seemed like the answer. I recalled a quote from a famous author. When asked why he writes, he replied, for the noise in my head. If I put my mind to it, then writing could occupy the noise in my head too. It would give me a purpose, something to think about other than the heat or the boredom, other than the stress and strain, other than overthinking and worrying about everything.

As I lay in bed, sweltering, my mind whirred. I felt something other than despair and exhaustion. I felt excitement. I was going to write a story. I was going to create. Even if it was awful, it didn’t matter. The important thing was the writing, the process. It was about the distraction this would provide. That was key. The story was simply to occupy my mind, to focus my thoughts. It would be a disposable thing. I would write a story, for the actual writing of it. Who cares if it was any good? Nobody would ever read it anyway.

I must have drifted off to sleep at some point because I woke at the alarm. The early morning bedroom was already warm. The awful heatwave looked set to continue for a while yet. I smiled to myself. I had a task that day. I was going to write a story.

But what should I write about? I’d not written a story for years. There were so many options. I could write an epic fantasy, a crime thriller, a futuristic dystopian story. All that day in the office, while my workmates read books, did crossword puzzles, flicked through magazines, I thought about the story I would write. It didn’t matter what I wrote, but on the other hand, I had to give some consideration as to what kind of story I would write. No sooner did I decide on a story about a serial killer than an idea about Vikings came to me. Yes, Vikings would be cool to write about, but my mind whirred, what about a vampire story? Oh, hang on a minute, what about a story set in gangland Manchester?

I left the office still undecided. I cut through the warehouse on my way to the car. As I was passing the loading bays crammed with pallets, cartons and stillages, a phrase from my college days came to me. Write what you know. I smiled. Should I really write about a warehouse? That was hardly the escapism I sought. The first short story ever about freight forwarding.

I climbed in the car and wound the windows down, to let some air in. I reached the security barrier, the guy in the gatehouse hut waved and raised the barrier. The security was to prevent theft from the large freight warehouses on the terminal.

That was it. That was the angle I was looking for. As I pulled out onto the main road and joined the flow of rush-hour traffic, I knew I had my story idea. I said the words out-loud. A warehouse robbery.

Over the next two weeks, I outlined and wrote a story about a Manchester gangster who organises the robbery of precious cargo from a warehouse. I really threw myself in to the story, spending most of the day and night, making notes on scraps of paper, before writing it all down. I made it as action packed and exciting as I could. I wanted it to have the punch of a Hollywood screenplay and the thrill of a crime novel. The hero was double-crossed by his fellow gangsters, and at the end decided he couldn’t trust them again. A phrase came to me. Once bitten, twice shy. That was it. I had the title. Once Bitten. A lot of the thrillers I’d read had short, catchy titles. I wanted my story to have something similar.

I thickened up and fleshed out the story, I changed things around, I moulded and shaped and pushed the story together. I really enjoyed losing myself in the writing, in the creating. On those hot nights, my characters spoke to me.

Once I’d finished the story, I typed it up and printed it off. The writing process had been cathartic. It had helped sort my head out, and focus my attention. I stuck the printed story on my bookshelf. As August gave way to September, work picked up with a vengeance. I was soon snowed under with freight and trailers and had more loads leaving the depot than I could cope with. The weather cooled right down. By September, the grey skies and rain had returned. The dog-days of summer seemed a long distant memory. I was more like my usual-self. I was sleeping at night, working hard at the office, and often going out with friends. Things had returned to normal.

In my mind, I put the summer madness and the story I’d written, down to being one of those things. I had written a silly little story, to get my head out of the clouds. I had friends who were always trying different things, one week they were obsessed with Yoga, the next they were learning to play the saxophone. We called them fads. I put the writing thing down to a fad, a phase I went through in the unbearable heat of the summer.

Towards the end of September, I was having a clear-out. I pulled all the books off my shelves, debating which I would keep and which would be for the charity shop. I found my story, the printed pages. Once Bitten. I smiled. I still loved that title, despite the summer seeming like a dream I’d had. I sat down and read the story again. It was good, so much better than I remembered. I just recalled writing it, this could happen, and what if that happened next, but not the actual story. When I read it back, I was surprised at how good it was.

When I’d finished reading, I stared at the first page for a long moment. The story was much better than I remembered, despite any plot holes, it actually read well. The story flowed. It occurred to me that it would be a shame if this was the first and last story I wrote. It would be a waste if I didn’t continue. It didn’t matter if nobody read my writing. If I ended up with a file crammed full of stories I was pleased with, that would be enough. That would be a result. Yes, right then, I knew that I wanted to be a writer.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom