The Fictional Man by Al Ewing Read Free Book Online Page A

“Seriously?”
    Niles smiled, paying for the drinks and adding a hefty tip. “Have one yourself while you’re at it.” The previous beer had put him in a magnanimous mood, and there was a small part of him that was considering buying a round for the house to celebrate recent events. But aside from himself and Bob, the only other customer was a very striking woman with red hair and a glass of white wine watching the TV, and Niles felt that the gesture might be misinterpreted. And if a gesture like that was going to be misinterpreted, he thought to himself, he’d rather Bob wasn’t around to get in the way. He smiled, admiring her dress – ’sixties retro, a multi-coloured op-art pattern. A good omen.
    He turned back to Bob. “Seriously what?”
    Bob frowned, picking up the new bottle and taking a brief swig. “You get to create a human being?”
    “A Fictional, yes.”
    Bob shot him a look. “You don’t need to say it like there’s a difference.”
    Niles frowned, puzzled. It was the second time today he’d been accused of realism, and he was starting to resent the implication. If there was any realism going on, it was reverse realism – these Fictionals assuming every womb-born human automatically thought less of them.
    “You’re the real realist here,” the author murmured, drawing himself up to his full height. The Fictional, caught by his logic, could only stare at the bar top and reassess his entire life. He immediately apologised and left, allowing the author to get to know the fascinating red-haired woman unimpeded.
    “You’re the...” Niles swallowed. “I mean, you’re not being fair. There is a difference – quite a few differences, actually. You’ve not aged a day in all the time I’ve known you, for a start.” Niles lifted a finger to his receding hairline, pointing to the grey hairs that were starting to come in. “Not a problem for you. One shave and a haircut and you’d be in your mid-twenties again.”
    Bob shook his head, looking pained. “God, don’t talk about that.” He spoke through gritted teeth, clutching his bottle of beer so hard that Niles feared it might break. “If I got a grey hair tomorrow, it’d be the happiest day of my damned life.”
    Niles’ brow furrowed. “I don’t see how that’s possible...”
    “You don’t! Why am I not surprised?” Bob took a swig, looking bitter, and then stared at his drink for a moment. “Sorry. It’s been a rough couple of days. I should thank you for the beer.”
    “Yes, you should,” Niles muttered reproachfully.
    Bob gave him a wan smile. “Come on, then, Niles. Let’s hear it. Who is it you’re translating? One of your own? You’ve got that other detective character –”
    “Madeleine Sorrow.” Niles winced as he said it. Madeleine Sorrow had been a forensic pathologist and ex-porn star with an estranged daughter who solved violent crimes in Edinburgh. Niles had never been to Edinburgh for longer than a day visit, but he felt he knew it intimately after watching Trainspotting, and Irvine Welsh’s trick of writing phonetically had appealed to him.
    He’d written two books with her, the second of which, The Cursed Moon – about a serial rapist who targeted menstruating women – was filled with the kind of searing social commentary and powerfully erotic sexual content that Niles had created Madeleine Sorrow to better express. It was still held up occasionally in places like The Guardian and The London Review of Books as being one of the worst books ever written by a human being. Private Eye had devoted three pages and a particularly well-realised cartoon to ripping it apart. It had only been published in England, and was the main reason he’d left.
    Niles had never written a single word featuring Madeleine since, although part of him still considered that decision to be the literary world’s loss. “They made their choice,” the author sneered as he set the match to the unfinished manuscript – a