Jim Grant cursed and swore at the crawling line of city-centre traffic in front of him. He should have caught the train or maybe the bus, rather than drive. Driving into Manchester in the late afternoon rush-hour, what on earth had he been thinking?

He had been more focused on the book signing event for his latest novel, rather than the logistics of how he would get there. Jim glanced at the clock on the dashboard. He was around half a mile from the book shop. Excited readers would already be gathering for the event. He edged his car on through the traffic. 

Up ahead on his left, a queue of people waited at a bus-stop. Like him, they looked bored, frustrated and fed-up.

Manchester was a great city, his home, but the city centre was always so crowded. He noticed a familiar figure standing in line, waiting for the bus. He recognised the stocky guy in the dark suit, but couldn’t remember where he knew him from.

As the line of traffic shifted forward, and Jim was about set off, the man at the bus stop stepped forward. He looked right at Jim, gave him a wide grin, and a friendly salute. The gesture was so familiar, almost conspiratorial. Jim couldn’t explain exactly why, but the gesture really unsettled him. 

The car behind him beeped, bringing Jim back to the moment. He waved a hand in apology and moved on.

By the time Jim had parked up, shoved the coins into the metre, and dashed along the street to the book store, he had forgotten about the guy at the bus stop. He adjusted the leather satchel on his shoulder and entered the hush of the book store. As he headed to the tills, to let the staff know he was here, he heard a few people whisper, that’s him, clearly recognising him from his book covers.

The reading was going well, the crowd were laughing in all the right places, and thankfully, most of them were clutching copies of his new hardback novel. He was telling an anecdote about being on a flight, sitting next to a passenger reading one of his books, and his dilemma, should he reveal his identity, when a figure crossed the back of the room. He automatically glanced up, his gaze drawn by the movement. 

His speech halted as he saw the guy from the bus stop leaning against the wall at the back of the room. The man in the dark suit was standing, arms folded, now listening intently. Jim looked down to his notes and continued speaking, trying to forget about the stranger and what he could want with him. He quickly found his pace and spoke with his usual drama and flourish once again.

After his talk and the question and answer session, he was positioned behind a desk, and the eager crowd queued up to get their book signed, and as more often happened these days, a photograph with the illustrious author himself. Jim enjoyed chatting to his readers, discussing his new book, his characters, and books and writing in general with like-minded people. The life of a writer could be a lonely one, and there weren’t many people who understood and appreciated his efforts, so to spend time with his readers was something he relished. 

In the hotel bar later that evening, Jim ordered a pint of beer and a whiskey chaser. The bar was pretty quiet, only a few business types, who were in town for meetings, in bland office wear, ties pulled loose, were talking shop at a table by the fireplace. Jim perched on a stool at the bar and sipped his drinks. He would have another few rounds of drinks, before heading to bed. 

A figure appeared beside him, taking the stool next to him. 

‘Hey, Jim, you smashed it back there. Your readers really love you.’ 

Jim turned to see the guy from the bus stop. Again, he looked really familiar, but Jim still couldn’t place him. The guy was wearing the same dark suit, and had slicked-back hair and an easy confidence to his manor.

‘I’m sorry, where do I know you from?’ Jim asked.

‘Very funny, Jim. You know me. We go way back.’ The man said.

‘I recognise you, but my mind’s gone blank.’ Jim replied. 

‘You could say, I put you where you are today.’ 

‘Do you work for the publishers? Were you my agent when my first book came out?’ 

‘I’m Paul Lennon.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t be him.’ Jim said.

‘Why can’t I?’

‘Paul Lennon? The Paul Lennon?’

‘Yeah. That’s me.’

‘The corrupt police officer? The same Paul Lennon that I invented and wrote a series of books about.’

‘Correct.’ 

‘So you are a product of my imagination, a fictional character?’ Jim said, quite unsure of what was happening.

‘I never really thought of it like that.’ Paul said.

‘You are not real.’ Jim said.

At that moment, the barman came over, a puzzled look of concern on his face.

‘Are you okay, mate?’

‘I’m alright, but this feller is trying to play a trick on me.’ Jim said, pointed to the guy beside him.

The barman simply shook his head and went to clear empty glasses from the tables. Jim necked the last of his beer and whiskey, crunching on the ice cubes, and headed for his bedroom. 

Back in his hotel room, Jim threw his jacket over the chair, and flopped onto the bed. He fluffed up the cushions behind his head and flicked the television on. He was just having a cup of tea, made in the tiny hotel-issue mug, when he saw a figure in the shadows across the room. 

Jim gasped and tumbled from the bed, spilling his tea. 

‘How did you get in my room? I’ll call reception.’ Jim yelled.

As he reached for the telephone on the bedside cabinet, the figure stepped into the lamp-glow. It was the guy from earlier, who claimed to be the character from Jim’s novels. The smile was gone from the guy’s face. He crossed the room, to stand in front of him.

‘And what are you going to tell them? A fictional character is in my room?’ the guy said.

‘You are not Paul Lennon, you can’t be.’ 

The guy simply stared at Jim for a long moment. Jim sensed that, however it was happening, this was the character he had created. What was going on? Was he losing his mind? How was he seeing and talking to the man he had created, the lead character in his book series? Had he been pushing himself too hard? Maybe the writing, followed by the book tour was finally taking its toll. Perhaps working so hard, and then going out on the road to promote his book, his mind had blurred the lines between fantasy and reality, between the real world, and the world he had created. 

Jim sat down on the edge of the bed, Paul sat next to him. 

‘So, you’re him, Paul Lennon.’ Jim sighed.

‘Yes, I don’t know how or why I am here, but, yeah, I’m Paul.’

‘And you know you are fictional? You’re not real?’

‘You say you created me, that I’m a character from your books?’ Paul replied.

‘Yes, that’s right. I’m not sure if you’re a figment of my imagination, but you are made-up.’

Paul said nothing, thinking it over, letting it sink in. Jim didn’t say anything, giving this person, whoever he was, and however he was here, the chance to mull things over.

Eventually, Paul spoke.

‘None of that was real, my years on the police force, the money and the drugs, my whole life, it was all nothing more than chapters, than pages in a book.’ 

Jim simply nodded. He noticed Paul’s hands, they were fading away, turning transparent. He could see the carpet through his hands. Paul stared at his hands, turning them back and forth as they vanished in front of him. Clearly the realisation that he was not real, was causing him to disappear. 

‘I am sorry.’ Jim said, his voice a whisper.

As Paul’s arms and legs started to fade away, so that only his torso remained, he spoke.

‘What makes you so sure that you are real, that you, yourself, and all this, is not part of a novel, a short story?’ Paul said. 

Before Jim could reply, Paul faded away, like a mist clearing, and he was alone. Jim rubbed his face with his hands. His hectic schedule must have caused his mind to play tricks on him. Maybe other writers experiences similar things. He recalled tales of a Science Fiction writer in the 1970s coming up with real-life theories and ideas that were straight out of one of his novels. 

Still wearing his clothes, Jim crawled under the duvet, and closed his eyes. 

He woke with a start and checked the time on his mobile phone. Just after midnight. He couldn’t recall the strange dream that had woke him up, but his heart was still pounding from the shock. He threw the duvet to one side and headed for the bathroom. In the harsh glare of the bathroom light, he recalled what had disturbed him.

With his mind racing, Paul’s words came back to him. What made him so sure that he was real and not part of a story? Well, of course Jim himself was real. He just was, he had to be. He was a real person, not a character in some story. The idea that he was made up was just ridiculous.

Wasn’t it?

He went to rub his face, but stared in horror. His hands were now see-through. He could see the bathroom sink through the palm of his hands. This couldn’t be happening. He wasn’t fiction, he was real. He had to be. 

He gasped as a corner of the bathroom faded away. He stared at the corner of the room. Where the towel rack and radiator had been, another room was now revealed. 

It was as though the layers of the world as he knew it had been peeled back, to reveal another world underneath. A horrific thought occurred to him. What if Paul had been right? What if he was also a fictional character? 

As he peered at the other world, the bathroom floated away from around him, as though it was nothing more than theatre stage scenery. Suddenly, he was in this other world completely. 

He was in what looked like a home-office. At the desk a man with thinning hair and glasses, typed away on a laptop, referring to notes on the sheets of paper beside him. He studied his notes in the lamp-glow. 

The guy at the desk turned and gasped, clearly as shocked as Jim was.

‘Who are you?’ He asked.

‘I’m Jim Grant.’

‘That’s not possible.’ The man replied.

Over his shoulder, Jim saw his own name typed on screen under the title, The Author by Chris Platt. Jim screamed in distress as he faded away to nothing.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom