you said I wouldn’t believe you if you told me.’
‘And you just let it lie. For a writer,’ he says, ‘you’re not very curious, are you?’
‘We’d never met before. It would’ve been rude to push it.’
‘And now?’
I shrug. ‘If you want to tell me, just tell me.’
He plays with the cigarette, rolling it between the ball of his thumb and the tips of his fingers. ‘You’re just not getting it,’ he says, ‘are you?’
‘I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, Billy. If you want to tell me how you lost your eye, then go for it. If not, let’s cut the bullshit and just do this.’
‘I didn’t just lose my eye,’ he says. ‘An eye isn’t something that rolls out of its socket some night you’re on the rip. You don’t put your eye down somewhere for a minute, then forget where you––’
‘Yeah, yeah, I get it. So just tell me.’
‘You’re some fucking plank,’ he says, shaking his head. He stares at me for a long moment, then seems to make a decision. He sparks the smoke, exhales from the corner of his mouth, his eye on mine all the while. ‘What happened my eye,’ he says, ‘is totally irrelevant. What matters is, Karlsson had two eyes and I only have one. What matters,’ he says, ‘is somewhere between you writing Karlsson and me turning up, an eye was lost.’
‘Ah. Okay.’
‘You see it?’
‘I think so, yeah.’ I’d been wondering when Billy would make his power-play. ‘You’re saying something happened your eye, it doesn’t really matter what or how. The point being, it wasn’t me who made it happen.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So who did?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘there’s really only two options, both of them totally absurd.’
‘And they are?’
‘Well, either someone other than you or me got their hands on the manuscript and rewrote Karlsson, before you showed up here, or you somehow managed to rewrite yourself.’
‘There’s another option,’ he says.
‘Which is?’
‘I’m the writer. I’m the one writing you.’
And there it is, Billy’s attempt to claim more authority, so that it’s he and not I who decides his ultimate fate.
‘You’re saying,’ I say, ‘that you’re the one who’s really in charge.’
‘I’m saying it’s a possibility. If it wasn’t, it shouldn’t even occur to me, should it? Even as a possibility.’
‘Okay. But what if I’m writing you that way,’ I say, ‘so that you get to believe you’re in control?’
He pats his pockets, then glances around, peering out at the lawn beyond the decking rails. ‘I don’t suppose you saw my straws?’ he says.
‘Straws?’
‘I hate to see a man with nothing left to clutch at.’
As always, his chutzpah borders on genius. ‘You’re a fucking loon,’ I say. ‘You know that?’
‘Maybe I am.’ He smirks again. ‘But then, most writers are.’
‘True enough,’ I say. ‘But at least we’re not poets, eh?’
Oh, how we laugh.
Later that evening, Debs comes over with some takeaway Indian, Inception on DVD.
‘So what’s new with Billy the Kidder?’ she says, popping home a shrimp.
I tell her that Billy reckons he’s the one writing us. ‘Or writing me, at least.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yep.’
She chuckles at that, then says, ‘You know, that mightn’t be such a bad thing. If Billy thinks he has free will, then all you need to do is channel him in the right direction, so that when the hospital blows up he’ll believe that he was the one who decided he should go up with it.’
‘You think he’ll buy that?’
‘Maybe. A captain’s sinking ship and all that,’ she says. ‘Besides, the last thing you want is to end up writing a series about this guy.’
‘True. Except I’m wondering if he’s not angling for more credit.’
‘How come?’
‘Well, if he stands up on stage and does an adaptation of my story, he pays for the rights. If he gets a co-writing credit, he pays less. If he gets to stand up and say
‘And you just let it lie. For a writer,’ he says, ‘you’re not very curious, are you?’
‘We’d never met before. It would’ve been rude to push it.’
‘And now?’
I shrug. ‘If you want to tell me, just tell me.’
He plays with the cigarette, rolling it between the ball of his thumb and the tips of his fingers. ‘You’re just not getting it,’ he says, ‘are you?’
‘I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, Billy. If you want to tell me how you lost your eye, then go for it. If not, let’s cut the bullshit and just do this.’
‘I didn’t just lose my eye,’ he says. ‘An eye isn’t something that rolls out of its socket some night you’re on the rip. You don’t put your eye down somewhere for a minute, then forget where you––’
‘Yeah, yeah, I get it. So just tell me.’
‘You’re some fucking plank,’ he says, shaking his head. He stares at me for a long moment, then seems to make a decision. He sparks the smoke, exhales from the corner of his mouth, his eye on mine all the while. ‘What happened my eye,’ he says, ‘is totally irrelevant. What matters is, Karlsson had two eyes and I only have one. What matters,’ he says, ‘is somewhere between you writing Karlsson and me turning up, an eye was lost.’
‘Ah. Okay.’
‘You see it?’
‘I think so, yeah.’ I’d been wondering when Billy would make his power-play. ‘You’re saying something happened your eye, it doesn’t really matter what or how. The point being, it wasn’t me who made it happen.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So who did?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘there’s really only two options, both of them totally absurd.’
‘And they are?’
‘Well, either someone other than you or me got their hands on the manuscript and rewrote Karlsson, before you showed up here, or you somehow managed to rewrite yourself.’
‘There’s another option,’ he says.
‘Which is?’
‘I’m the writer. I’m the one writing you.’
And there it is, Billy’s attempt to claim more authority, so that it’s he and not I who decides his ultimate fate.
‘You’re saying,’ I say, ‘that you’re the one who’s really in charge.’
‘I’m saying it’s a possibility. If it wasn’t, it shouldn’t even occur to me, should it? Even as a possibility.’
‘Okay. But what if I’m writing you that way,’ I say, ‘so that you get to believe you’re in control?’
He pats his pockets, then glances around, peering out at the lawn beyond the decking rails. ‘I don’t suppose you saw my straws?’ he says.
‘Straws?’
‘I hate to see a man with nothing left to clutch at.’
As always, his chutzpah borders on genius. ‘You’re a fucking loon,’ I say. ‘You know that?’
‘Maybe I am.’ He smirks again. ‘But then, most writers are.’
‘True enough,’ I say. ‘But at least we’re not poets, eh?’
Oh, how we laugh.
Later that evening, Debs comes over with some takeaway Indian, Inception on DVD.
‘So what’s new with Billy the Kidder?’ she says, popping home a shrimp.
I tell her that Billy reckons he’s the one writing us. ‘Or writing me, at least.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yep.’
She chuckles at that, then says, ‘You know, that mightn’t be such a bad thing. If Billy thinks he has free will, then all you need to do is channel him in the right direction, so that when the hospital blows up he’ll believe that he was the one who decided he should go up with it.’
‘You think he’ll buy that?’
‘Maybe. A captain’s sinking ship and all that,’ she says. ‘Besides, the last thing you want is to end up writing a series about this guy.’
‘True. Except I’m wondering if he’s not angling for more credit.’
‘How come?’
‘Well, if he stands up on stage and does an adaptation of my story, he pays for the rights. If he gets a co-writing credit, he pays less. If he gets to stand up and say
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