Fast Fiction: Ghost Writer
…The next thing I knew the man had grabbed me, rolled me up and pushed me into a sack…
There’s an abundance of tension, mystery and surprise in Richard Mallinson’s tale of a ghost writer.
After spending a night sleeping rough on the streets, I was approached by a broken-nosed, dirty-looking character who offered me a cigarette.
Perfect. Just what I needed. I smoked avidly, then flicked the tiny tab away.
The next thing I knew the man had grabbed me, rolled me up and pushed me into a sack.
He lifted the sack onto his back and began to walk.
'I can't breathe,' I yelled.
The man stopped, lowered the sack to the ground and said, 'Here goes'. He made airholes by hacking at the sack with a knife, just missing me.
'Satisfied?' he said and lifted the sack onto his back again.
Soon he must have turned off the main street because the traffic noise had faded and all I could hear was the clang of his hobnailed boots.
'Where are you taking me?' I shouted.
'You'll see.'
'But I can't see, can I?'
'Shut up.'
I guessed we were now in a large empty building. He began to go clanging up some steps. Up and up. To the top floor?
He wasn't even panting - but, then, I weighed next to nothing.
'Put it in the corner,' said a voice and the man dropped the sack on the stone floor and pulled me out by the hair.
Three gangster types peered down at me.
'We've brought you ere,' said one, 'because we need a ghost writer.'
At which I laughed as best I could and said, 'Now that's all very flattering - but how the devil did you know that I was a ghost?'
Now it was their turn to laugh.
'Spot you a mile off, mate,' they chortled.
