On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 222, of 240 so far.

Patron of the Arts

To say that the invitation came as a surprise would be a significant understatement, and to say that Mearns was initially suspicious regarding his prospective host’s motives would be entirely accurate.

Mearns had written twenty-six novels in his life — so far — and it was a source of much vexation that his most popular work was very much in the past. The recent stuff had far more artistic merit, in his view and in that of his occasional critics, but the market’s opinion always won. It was the earlier books, the ones with the guns and the sex and the high-stakes, high-octane, low-brainpower action, which had sold the best and which were most liked. His last decade or so of forays into literary fiction and more speculative work certainly had their fans, but those readers were a separate and much smaller group.

He’d come to dread anyone asking what he was working on lately, or whether the old series would be continued. Mearns had become proficient at answering those questions, but the responses cost him a small piece of himself each time. So it was with skepticism and conflicting emotions that he’d read the forwarded communique that came via his agent, written by a man whose name was distantly familiar. A search online had jogged Mearns’ memory, and then he was just confused. The message came from an extremely wealthy man whose life had been spent extracting riches from the financial markets before becoming a notoriously bullish investor in life sciences ventures and technology startups, and whose present abode was nothing less than a private island in the Caribbean.

It spoke of an offer to bring Mearns to the island to enjoy his host’s luxurious hospitality for a few days, with all accommodation, food, travel and so on included. The phrase a life-long fan was mentioned, which made Mearns feel both flattered and old in equal measure, and the purported reason for the trip was merely to enjoy the novelist’s company and discuss his whole body of work. The thing that clinched it in the end, other than the appended generous monetary donation and the prospect of exotic travel, was the addition of several paragraphs of praise for his most recent novels, which set Mearns’ mind at rest somewhat. If the rich guy turned out to be a sex pest or an axe murderer, well, at least it wouldn’t be raining at the time.

Upon sending his carefully-worded acceptance, a travel itinerary arrived within a further day via email, and Mearns was pleased and impressed to see that after a shuttle flight to the nearest major hub, his booking was first class to Puerto Rico, and then a sleek private jet to his destination, all of which was a new experience. He departed a week later, and the journey was fast and slow in different ways. Despite leading a solitary existence, the opulence of the transit made Mearns feel oddly lonely, and it was with both trepidation and relief that he finally stepped onto the sun-baked concrete of the remote island’s airstrip, taking in the uncanny vividness of the sky and the sea, and immediately feeling the oppressive heat of the place.

His phone had no cellular signal, which was expected, but there was also strong wi-fi available even on the runway, which Mearns supposed he had probably expected too. The super-rich spared no expense on themselves, after all, and the fabulously grand house which dominated the vista was evidence of that. A staff member stood patiently nearby, and greeted him by name with a handshake that was warm in every way.

A short ride in an electric vehicle brought him to the house, passing any number of solar panels which bloomed like strange flowers everywhere. An elegant young woman was waiting at the open front doors, her very essence broadcasting the role of executive assistant, and she greeted Mearns cordially. There was an undertone of coldness about her, though, and Mearns dismissed it as a survival necessity given her working environment. She offered him a chance to freshen up after his journey, which Mearns gratefully accepted, and then he accompanied her through the labyrinth of a house to a beautifully-appointed library, replete with leather furniture, bound volumes, and to his private delight, everything in Mearns’ own oeuvre displayed prominently and presumably for the occasion. In the middle of the room stood his host himself, dressed effortlessly in a style which Mearns thought of as tropical business yacht casual.

“It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mearns,” his host replied. “I’m Tom.”

Mearns knew the other man’s surname very well — it was Eldon — but apparently he wouldn’t be needing it. “The pleasure is mine,” he replied. “I’m very grateful for the invitation. And it’s Allan.”

Eldon nodded and smiled, then gestured towards a pair of armchairs nearby. “Let’s have a drink before dinner.”

They sat down, and one drink became two, and then the promised dinner and a third drink followed, the men talking all the while. Eldon shared his voluminous and multifaceted compliments on Mearns’ novels, and even his other writing. He remarked particularly on an article Mearns had written only a year or so earlier, talking about how his tastes had changed as he aged, and how he believed that writing in certain genres required a corresponding energy level in the author, making them more suitable for younger writers. Mearns had known it was self-serving and vaguely petulant when he wrote it, but Eldon was enthusiastic, agreeing with him fully.

The long light of the evening at these latitudes eventually faded, and the two men still sat talking, moved to a balcony lounge now with hundreds of miles of dark ocean stretching before them under the glittering stars. Mearns had a bit of a headache coming on, but of the pleasant type that comes from fatigue and alcohol and focus, rather than ill health or poor temper.

“Can I ask you truthfully why you invited me here?” Mearns asked. “I mean, I accept your reasons and I’m grateful for them, but surely there are bigger names who would have jumped at the chance.”

Eldon smiled. “Now we come to it,” he replied, adjusting his position and looking out to sea for a moment before speaking again. “I’m a patron of the arts, Allan. I love the written word. And I was moved by what you said in your article because I very much loved your adventure series. I think it truly deserves more instalments, but as you so beautifully put it, some stories need an energy reserved for youth.”

For the first time since arriving, Mearns felt his heart sink. It seemed that this eloquent and convivial billionaire ultimately sought the same thing that so many increasingly angry readers on the online bookstore sites wanted: to cajole or shame or otherwise coerce him into continuing a series he no longer had any passion for. But then Eldon held his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I think you’re a hundred percent right. Those books really are a young man’s game. You hit the nail on the head. And they’re uniquely yours, just like every writer’s signature work. It would take the you of twenty years ago to create the next book in that series, much as I’d dearly love to read it.”

The assistant had wandered into the room while he spoke, moving casually but with a self-aware woman’s feline grace, and she crossed to where the men sat, stopping beside Mearns’ chair. He prepared himself to politely refuse another drink and ask for water instead, but the assistant reached a slender hand towards the side of his face in a gesture so shockingly intimate that he felt his heart tremble in his chest. He looked up at her, incredulous and embarrassed, and then he felt a sharp sting on the side of his neck, just under the shelf of his jaw.

“What in the hell?” he exclaimed, with anger rising in his voice, but the woman had already retreated to stand beside her employer. Again, Eldon made the placating gesture.

“This is win-win, Allan,” he said. “Maybe even a double win for you. You know as well as I do that you want to be able to write those books again, and you would if you could. Well, I brought you here so I can tell you that you can.”

Mearns got up, intent on storming out and insisting on leaving at the earliest opportunity, but he swayed on his feet and grasped the chair’s plump backrest to steady himself.

“You’ll sleep well tonight,” Eldon said, his voice suddenly seeming to come from far away. “The retrovirus works quickly, and we’ll keep a close eye on you.”

Mearns’ vision swam into a kaleidoscope of colours, and he was dimly aware that strong arms had gripped him from behind. Before slipping into darkness, the last thing he heard was Eldon’s voice from the other end of the universe.

“When you wake up you’ll be twenty years younger, and then you can start writing like you used to.”

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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