The Write Along

Mark Irvine stared at the ceiling in the darkness of his bedroom. He shook his head. Why wouldn’t the words come to him? They always had in the past, and the writer had assumed they always would. But over the past eighteen months or so, the words, the whisper in his head, the ideas, the characters, had dried up. He rolled onto his side, pushing his head into the pillow, telling himself the writing would come back to him, and tried to get back to sleep.

Mark had actually published a novel just over three years ago with a local publishing company. The book had done okay, even picking up some favourable reviews in the Manchester press. The publishers had said they would be interested in a second book. And since then, the words had fizzled out. Perhaps it was the pressure of it all. When he’d been an aspiring unpublished writer, devoted to his craft and writing purely for the love of it, for the compulsion to write, to tell stories, the ideas had been coming to him, even while he was asleep. He would often wake in the night with an idea for a story or a scene and scribble the thought down on the notepad he kept at his bedside. 

And finally, his efforts and dedication had been rewarded and his words, his debut novel, had hit the shelves. It had been a dream come true, but like a football team that wins the cup once, only to go back to struggling every season, once the elation of being published had subsided, and he found that for the first time in his life, he couldn’t write. The ideas didn’t come and the thought of putting pen to paper, to write even a short story, filled him with panic and his mind would go blank.

Whereas once words and ideas had filled his mind, now only two words came to him. Writer’s block. He tried not to panic and hoped that normal service would resume soon. Maybe he was in a bit of a rut, a bit of a lull in ideas. Maybe this happened to every writer. Maybe he needed a holiday, a break, a change of scene.  

A few nights later he joined his friends in their local pub. He tried to laugh along and lose himself in the banter and conversation with the group. He tried to forget about the nagging voice at the back of his mind. Mark had known the lads for years, most had been friends since their school days. They met up regularly for a few beers or a meal somewhere and would have a laugh and a catch up.

Mark and his friends had a variety of occupations. While Mark had started as a reporter for a local newspaper, before publishing his debut novel, was now seeking inspiration and motivation for his second book, Craig was a detective with the Manchester police. Another friend, Tony, worked in credit control. The group joked that he was a boring, boring accountant. Tony would reply that if they saw what went on at the works nights out, they wouldn’t call them boring. 

When the group turned their attention to him, Mark sighed. 

‘Are you okay, mate? You look awful.’ Craig asked.

Of course he did. He was hardly sleeping or eating. Life seemed empty somehow, without a story to be working on, without the ideas constantly coming to him. 

‘You look like a ghost.’ Tony added.

‘Is it the writer’s block?’ Tony asked.

‘Alright, mate, you don’t have to say it.’ Craig insisted. 

Mark simply nodded.

‘You’ve always written, and I’m sure you’ll write again.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Mark said.

Tony jerked a thumb in Craig’s direction.

‘Craig should be able to give you some ideas from his work. You’d be up for that, wouldn’t you, Detective?’ Tony said.

‘It’d be complicated, you’d have to sign the necessary forms but, yeah, it’s definitely do-able.’ Craig replied.

‘Sorry, what would be do-able? What exactly are we talking about?’ Mark asked.

‘If we go through the right channels, you might be allowed to let you in on the cases we’re working on.’ Craig said.

‘Really? The police will allow that?’ Mark said.

‘I don’t see why not. As long as the paperwork is filled in. They may ask to see your rough drafts for approval.’

Mark nodded in agreement, that was fine, as long as he was writing. His head was suddenly filled with the possibilities for stories that could come from this. There could be books, true crime, fiction inspired by actual cases.

‘It could be like that guy, Capote, and his book about those murders. I saw a film about it.’ Tony said. 

‘In Cold Blood by Truman Capote.’ Mark agreed.

A few days later Craig called Mark.

‘I’ve spoken to the DCI and she says we’re good to go. Sign the paperwork and the waiver forms and we’re sorted. Depending on the subject matter, they may insist on seeing your work before it’s published anywhere.’ Mark was nervous and excited. He sensed this was the start of something. 

Craig met Mark a few days later, calling round to his house. Seated at the kitchen table, with mugs of tea, Craig brought him upto speed with the cases his colleagues were working on. He provided photocopies of police documents and printouts, including photographs of the crime scenes and where forensics were up to. He laid the papers out on the table, as though Mark himself was being questioned. There was an authority, a command, in Craig’s voice that was never there when they were messing around in the pub. Mark sensed this was his friend in work-mode, a detective in the zone. Mark went through the documents, trying to get his head around everything his friend was telling him. He scribbled away in his notebook, jotting down things that were of particular interest, and that may provide useful when it came to writing stories inspired by the case notes in front of him. He stared at the print-outs of the CCTV. The grainy images show three figures in balaclavas in the foyer of a bank, each carrying sawn-off shot guns and sports bags. The robbers made it away with bags crammed with cash from the counter and the safe. Craig went through the clues with Mark and where the investigation would go next. 

‘Do you think you’ll catch them?’ Mark asked. 

‘We usually do. The team will keep looking, going over everything, any finger-prints. They usually give themselves away, either during the robbery itself or afterwards.’

Over the next few weeks, Craig and Mark would meet, either at Mark’s house, or Craig’s flat. The detective would hand over photocopied documents, and like a tutor and student going over exam questions, they would pore over the paperwork. Craig would give updates on the older cases and impart information on new cases. 

In-between their meetings, Mark would go through everything, read over his notes and scribble away, ideas for stories and characters and plot twists loosely based on the details Craig had provided. Mark would write everything down, filling notebooks. His writer’s mind raced. There was all sorts of possibilities for stories here. There was the cases themselves, the true crime, non-fiction work. There was also lots of scope for works of fiction inspired by these events. As a writer, there was so much he could take from the details.

One evening Craig knocked on Mark’s door. His expression was serious. Mark showed him through to the kitchen. 

‘We’ve got something big.’ Craig said.

As Mark sipped his tea at the kitchen table, Craig paced up and down, mug in hand, and explained. There had a murder last night, which when looked into, matched a killing a few weeks earlier. 

‘We suspect the killer will strike again. All leave has been cancelled while we try and get to the bottom of this. The team are also going through any other recent incidents that could also be connected.’ 

As he tried to sleep that evening, rather than writer’s block, two other words floated around his mind. Serial killer. 

Craig would stop off at Mark’s house on his way home in the evenings. The detective would give the latest news on the investigation. One night, he called round. When Mark offered him a cup of tea, Craig asked if he had anything stronger. Mark nodded and reached for the whiskey. Craig took a sip of whiskey and spoke.

‘There has been another murder. A body was found down by the Manchester Ship Canal. Same MO as the others. A mad, frenzied attack. The victim didn’t stand a chance. We really have to catch the killer.’ Craig said.

Mark winced at the words unsaid, but that were hinted at. We have to catch the killer… before they strike again. 

There was a killer at large. Craig and his colleagues were dealing with a spate of gruesome murders. While Mark could not visit crime scenes, Craig briefed Mark on everything, showing him the file notes, autopsy reports and crime scene photographs that would give him nightmares.

Mark was over at Craig’s flat one evening, they were drinking mugs of tea and talking about the case. Craig’s mobile phone rang. The phone call was short, and Craig’s replies were curt. Yes, understood. Yes. Okay. I’m on my way.

Craig hung up the phone and turned to Mark. 

‘This is it. We’ve got a name.’ Craig said.

At that moment, Craig’s mobile phone pinged as the messages came in. Craig tapped at the screen before showing his friend. On screen was a photograph of a man somewhere in his thirties.

‘This is William Gallagher, a nasty piece of work. Been in trouble with the police for years. Looks like our man has escalated his activity. The dates fit, forensics say it’s a match with the crime scene evidence.’ 

‘So it’s him?’ 

‘It’s him.’ Craig nodded, a steely look in his eye. 

Craig downed the last of his tea and shrugged into his coat. 

‘Come on.’ Craig said. ‘We’ve got an address.’

‘And I’m coming with you?’ 

‘If anyone asks, we were in the car when the call came in.’ Craig said, as he headed for the door. Not really knowing if he was doing the right thing, and unsure what they would be walking into, Mark grabbed his coat and followed his friend. 

As they drove, Mark’s mind raced. He tried not to panic about the possibilities of what could happen when they arrived. This man was a dangerous killer, a murderer of several people. What on earth was he doing going along with the detective? 

Ten minutes later, having driven out into the suburbs, in focused silence, Craig pulled up at a house at the end of a cul-de-sac street. Craig looked up and down the street and checked his mirrors. He swore.

‘We’re the first on the scene.’ He said. ‘Back-up is on the way.’

‘Are we to wait for them?’ Mark asked.

‘We don’t have time for that. We could lose him. Let’s go.’

‘What? Me? Shouldn’t I stay in the car, as I’m not an officer?’ Mark said.

‘Normally, yes. Right now, I need all the help I can get.’ Craig said, nodding his head in the direction of the house. 

Mark shuffled alongside Craig as he moved quickly down the path to the front door. There was light coming from inside. Goodness knew what lay across that threshold. Images from horror films he’d seen over the years came to mind. This was like something from one of his stories. He felt as if he himself was in a scary story. 

With everything feeling as though it was a film scene, Mark looked on as Craig tried the door handle. When Craig turned the handle and the front door opened Mark could have cried. He just wanted to be at home, nice and safe working on his stories. He wanted to write about cops and killers, not be standing here about to enter a real-life murderer’s house. A thought came to mind, maybe this moment would make a climax to a story, depending on how this all ended, of course. He just hoped he lived through the next few minutes, to be able to write it all down. 

Craig took a deep breath and stepped boldly through the door, Mark crept along behind him.

‘William Gallagher, this is police. We need to talk to you.’ Craig bellowed from the hallway. 

He waited, listening for voices, noises, any sounds of life. There was only silence. 

‘You check down here, and I’ll check upstairs.’ Craig said.

‘Really? I don’t think we should split up.’

‘Mark, we don’t have time. He could be getting away. If you find anything, you shout. Now, go!’ Craig said.

Mark just wanted the moment to be over, he wanted the time to pass, to click his fingers and it to be this time tomorrow. He didn’t know where he’d be by then, but he wouldn’t be right in this spot, in the hall of a suspected killer. Things would have sorted themselves out one way or another.

He slowly opened the door and peered into the living room. The room was empty. The television was switched off, the TV screen reflecting the empty sofa. He stepped carefully across the room. There was a door on the other side. Mark headed towards the door as quietly and as quickly as he could. He pushed open the door and peaked into the kitchen. The room was also empty. He sighed in relief, hoping that Craig was finding upstairs just as vacant. This William Gallagher must have been out. That suited Mark. The officers themselves could catch the suspect, rather than him and Craig on their own.

He turned back into the living room and gasped. Standing across the room was a man in his thirties. Mark recognised him from the photo Craig had shown him. It was him, it was the suspect, William Gallagher.

‘Craig! He’s in here!’ Mark yelled. 

William just stood there, glared at him. Mark stepped back, wanting to distance himself from the man. Craig appeared behind William. Then the atmosphere changed. Craig and William burst out laughing. Craig patted William on the back, before shaking his hand. 

‘What’s going on? I don’t understand.’ Mark said.

‘Mark, this is my colleague Detective Will Gallagher.’ Craig said.

‘The killer a police officer?’ 

‘There is no killer. It’s been fake, the whole lot of it.’ Craig admitted.

‘You mean all this has been sick joke? A prank you played on me? I don’t think that’s very funny. I bet you had a right laugh down the station about this.’ Mark snapped.

‘It wasn’t a prank. I was doing you a favour.’ Craig said, crossing the room towards Mark.

‘How’s that? I’ve been worried sick. How have you been doing me a favour?’ Mark ranted. 

‘I was worried about you. You were so down about not being able to write. When it was suggested that you look into the cases with me, it gave me an idea. I decided I had to do something to help you out. What if we gave you something that would really fire the imagination?’ 

Mark said nothing, still reeling from the revelation that the serial killer had been a hoax.

‘You have been writing again, Mark. You have more ideas than you’ve had in years.’ Craig said. 

To prove his point, Craig reached into Mark’s coat pocket and pulled out the notebook, one of many, crammed with notes about the case and ideas inspired by the investigation. 

‘Come on, mate. I was only trying to help.’ 

Mark snatched his notebook from Craig’s grasp and barged his way past Craig and Will, heading for the door.

‘Where are you going, Mark?’ Craig called.

Mark stopped and half-turned.

‘I’ve got writing to do.’ He admitted with a grin.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom