Character in Search of An Author
by Michael S. Collins

Great stories begin with murder. That’s, after all, what the reader wants. A nice gruesome murder to whet the appetite. Who cares who dies, their motivations and life: what does it matter? A fictional character will not feel pain, but  living reader will feel joy. Like every great story, this one starts with murder.

They found the author, and it was evident the hand would spin no more tales, since it was dead. Henry Hilson, writer of more tales than can be counted modestly, lay dead at the foot of his garden. Foul play was suspected, and quickly confirmed, the bite marks on the body confirming that. The element that most surprised the gardener who found Hilson was the unmistakable look of pure terror written on the mans face. 

How could a character of such esteem meet so horrible a fate? What twist of fate led him to the foot of his garden? In any normal case, the police would have been stumped. But then, this was no ordinary case.

And Henry Hilson was no ordinary writer. His Mills and Boons meet Agatha Christie stories lent themselves well to an audience who loved a bit of sense and sensibility with a high death count. His love stories frequently contained the wrong sort of happy ending, and an embittered, single, fan base lapped it up. And it made him money: enough money for this fantasy cottage in a disenfranchised town in the middle of a safe constituency.

What could solve this fiendish murder? There was only one man to call upon.

Detective Chief Inspector Jim Sembilan. The man sat in the most comfortable chair he could find in the dead mans living room. His new assistant –  DCI Sembilan, so useful for the Yard, had an unfortunate ability to lose assistants –his new one stood by the chair, scribbling frantically into his notebook. He was shadowing Sembilan as part of his career development.

In the the room sat two other people. The witnesses. An ageing old man, dressed in overalls with a rake still lying at his feet, and a younger woman, who would look potentially glamorous had her face not been blotchy with tears.

“So, tell me, Mr Harris, you’re the one who found the body of yer employer, yes?”

The old man nodded.

“And what’s it you do round here then?”

The old man pointed at the rake.

“I do the gardens. What’s it look like?”

Sembilan's eyes narrowed in disdain. No smile crossed his face.

“For all I know, you could’ve been up in fancy dress and be going to a picnic. None of yer back chat, boy.”

“I'm sorry.”

“And so you should be! Right, when did you find the deceased?”

“This morning.”

“Any idea of the time?”

“About seven.”

“Seven. That's lovely. Did you call the police right away?”

“Of course.”

“Great stuff. Any idea why the writer was at the foot of his garden dead, instead of under the covers of his bed, alive?”

“I have no idea. Honest.”

“Right, fair enough. One more question. When was the last time you saw Mr Hilson alive?”

“Last night.” said The Gardener.

“OK. And how was he? Did he look worried?”

The Gardener paused.

“Come to think of it, he did look a bit worried.”

“Go on...”

“Walking around his study, throwing pages of his manuscript into the fire. Asked him what’s wrong... he said “Let's see him try now!” ... was ignoring me so I left him and went to bed.”

“Is that what he said?” Sembilan's eyes glanced between his Second and the man. “Is that exactly what he said?”

“Yes...never thought much of it at the time.”

“Right, you can go, for now.”

The Gardener left, his wet Wellingtons leaking across the soaked carpet as he clambered out the open window, carrying his rake with him. The calming sound of leafs being swept away from the side of the house soon recommenced.

“I hope yer taking all this down” said Sembilan to his Assistant. The boy nodded.

Sembilan turned to the woman.

“You had something you wanted to show the pollis, Mrs Hilson?” said Sembilan. No soft talk or anything like that. Sembilan was not one for the softly, softly approach. He preferred to wade in and get results. It worked for the Slow Melt Murders and the Body in the Locked Room, so why not here?

The woman rose to her feet and handed the policeman a book. Then she walked out of the room, Sembilan and his Assistant following. Soon, there were in the writers workshop. Messes of paper cluttered on the floor. Open books, scribbled on, piled around the door. The desk was full of pens, and pages were stuck to the walls. Ideas were scribbled on the walls in black ink and then struck through. Well, no writer is ever that tidy.

“He was writing another book” said the woman.

“What we have here, is the notes of his latest, nay his last, novel. How many of these things did Mr Hilson write?” Sembilan asked.

“Oh hundreds” said the woman, “there was quite a market and he didn’t half churn them out.”

“I can see that”, said the Policeman, staring at the realms of notepaper casually lying around the workshop. Character developments, plot changes and chapter outlines fell discarded as the clumsy policemen walked over to the bed. The assistant picked up one such piece of paper.

“That’s interesting”, he said.

“What’s interesting?”

“He was going to write out Hallet!”

“Is that relevant?” asked Sembilan.

“Yes, Hallet was his main character. All of Hilson’s books, they told a recurring story, an arc. And Hallet was the dashing hero of the romances, hell, he was engaged to the heroine.”

“Well, that’s one relationship that will never be consummated” quipped the Chief Inspector. They both laughed.

“I’m not sure why Hilson would kill off Hallet though, he was the most popular character.”

“Well, unless he wrote it down, the reason that is, we’re hardly likely to know.”

They turned to the widow.

“I think I know why” she said.

“Do enlighten us then!” said Sembilan.

“I sometimes thought he loved his characters more than he loved me” said the woman, “And me, his wife too! Then I learnt that I was right. He did love his characters more than he loved me.”

“How’d you learn that?” said Sembilan.

“He created that girl, his heroine, as his ideal girl. Slide her into his Jane Austen world. His ideal wife. Not me. I wasn't good enough, clearly. And his fantasies, all came to fruition in his own writing. He would sit and write and write and write and write, and create all kinds of characters.”

“So?” said the Assistant.

“I used to joke”, said the widow, “that he created characters so well, so fully fleshed and believable, they became more alive than his friends. At the very least, they seemed more alive to him than his friends did. He used to claim that Hallet was a far better friend than any of his real ones had ever been. It would upset some, others thought it was just part of his eccentric charm. Then things started to escalate.”

Sembilan was forming ideas in his mind.

“You say Henry thought as Hallet as alive. Was he? I mean, was he based on a real person?”

“I don't know”, said the woman, “but as far as Henry was concerned, he was as good as alive.”

Sembilan turned to his Assistant.

“Remind me, Scott”, he said, “What was Hallet's role in the books?”

“He was the girl's lover.”

“You say his characters were alive to him? You don't think he wanted to remove Hallet from his books, because he now saw him as a rival?” said Sembilan

The widow turned to the policeman.

“Mr Sembilan”, she said, “I think Henry had inserted himself into his novels.”

“What do you mean - as a character? Is that possible?”
“On the contrary, it happens all the time.” The man said. “It’s called a Mary-Sue. The writer who adds themselves into the drama.”

“And you think Mr. Hilson did that?” said the policeman.

“Naturally. There was quite the buzz about the sudden transforming of Neville the grounds keeper into a major character. Why, the man had had about ten lines of dialogue top in the previous ten books. Suddenly, he’s on a par with Hallet and Diane for solving the inconveniences at the heart of each novel. Sure sign he was Mary-Sueing.”

“I think this was a clear case of a revenge killing, myself” said Sembilan. He turned to his Assistant. “Time we were leaving, not much we can do here. That paperwork wont fill itself in!”

“Have you worked it out?” said Scott.

“Yes, well, it’s quite simple”, Sembilan said. “Henry Hilson was murdered by one of his own characters.”

“That’s not simple at all” said Scott.

“I suppose not” said Sembilan, “but it’s the only answer we have.”

Hilson wrote novels. He created characters. His characters were so alive, that he brought them to life. They became more important than his living friends, and he seemed content with them. Hallet was like a surrogate best friend the writer had created for himself. If a writer creates a living character,  then he has to reap the consequences if he then agitates that character. Who says it can’t come to seek its creator? Maybe Hallet was a character scorned, his happy existence shattered by the ego of his creator. Maybe Hallet was brought alive by Hilsons genius, and that genius brought about his own demise. Maybe Hallet was a character in search of an author.

Or maybe the wife did it, because she felt neglected. But that would be a far more boring solution.

BIO: Michael S Collins is a member of GSFWC (the Glasgow Strange-Fiction Writers Circle). He has been published in several countries (including Literature E-zine websites, ad writing for Bob Furnell) and do book review for magazines such as The Fortean Times. His short fiction has appeared in magazines such as Aesthetica, Clockwise Cat, The Short Humour Site, MicroHorror, TBD, and was included in the DemonMinds anthology in 2008. Michael S Collins is a member of GSFWC (the Glasgow Strange-Fiction Writers Circle). He has been published in several countries (including Literature E-zine websites, ad writing for Bob Furnell) and do book review for magazines such as The Fortean Times. His short fiction has appeared in magazines such as Aesthetica, Clockwise Cat, The Short Humour Site, MicroHorror, TBD, and was included in the DemonMinds anthology in 2008.