Read by Max Berendt
Chris pulled the semi-automatic weapon from its holster and thrust it into the terrorist’s face. The eyes that looked back at him were full of hate. Bloodthirsty, terrorist hate. He tightened his finger on the trigger. Above his head he could hear the whirr of the helicopter, with its cargo of reinforcements. But there was no time for that now. There was only time for action. He pressed the muzzle of the weapon against the terrorist’s forehead.
“Where are the hostages?” he barked, his voice rough from too many cigarettes, too many nights of drinking, too much shouting.
“I not know,” stammered the terrorist in broken English. “I not know!”
“Well, maybe this will refresh your memory,” said Chris, and with a sudden, decisive movement he pulled the trigger. Blood and brains and skull fragments splattered the wall. The lifeless body slumped to the floor. Chris holstered his weapon.
It wasn’t an ideal outcome. He still didn’t know where the hostages were. But what the hell. The world had one less terrorist in it now. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
So, what do you think? It’s good, isn’t it? I don’t mean to blow my own trumpet, but it really grabs you by balls, doesn’t it? Makes you think: Yeah! Fuck terrorism! That’s really what I was going for. I’m quite socio-political that way. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be a page-turner too, you know?
All I really ever wanted to be was a writer, to tell stories. I want to make people laugh, to make them cry, to help them to leave behind their sorry lives for just a few hours. If I can achieve that, I’ll die a happy man.
I’m open to criticism, though. Honestly. I’m not precious. And I think I can tell already what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: ‘Yeah, it’s ballsy. Yeah, it’s gung ho. But is it ballsy and gung-ho enough?’ And I think you might be onto something. Let’s try…
“Where are the hostages?” he barked, his voice rough from too many unfiltered cigarettes, too many nights of drinking neat methylated spirits in filthy Middle Eastern whorehouses. “Where the bastard are the hostages, you low-life mongrel!”
“I not know,” stammered the terrorist. “I not know!”
“Well, maybe this will refresh your memory,” said Chris, and with a sudden, decisive movement, he slammed the butt of the gun into the terrorist’s face. As the man fell screaming to the floor, Chris stepped back to survey his handiwork.
“Now you have a broken nose to go with your broken English,” he said, lighting a cigar.
“No, please no!” screamed the terrorist. Chris levelled his weapon. They always said he had an itchy trigger finger. Well, it was itchy now. Itchy like hell. And it was time to scratch.
That’s more like it. Phew. I can feel my heart racing. Man, it’s so exhilarating, being a writer. And it’s, like, a privilege too, you know, being able to conjure these things up. “A broken nose to go with your broken English.” How do I come up with these things?
But it’s not all macho grand-standing. Sure, I can do action. You know that already. Tell me that you’re not just about ready to puke with excitement. But you need to be able to do the quiet, boring bits too. What they call ‘the lull before the storm’. It’s about contrast, yeah? How much more poignant it is to see Chris blow the head off of a terrorist, if you know that only days beforehand, he was sitting in a beautiful meadow with his girlfriend?
Chris reached across and held Lisa’s hand. Her fingers looked so tiny and delicate in his huge paw. A paw that had, only that morning, thrown a grenade at a tank. She looked up at him, and smiled. The sun shone in her golden hair, and glittered on the diamond earrings that Chris had bought her for their anniversary. Three years they had been together. Three wonderful years, and Chris knew he would do anything for her. Anything except betray his country, should she ask him, which so far she hadn’t.
“You look beautiful,” he said, lifting his huge paw to toy with one of the earrings. Lisa giggled and fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly.
“You’re just saying that,” she said.
“No, I’m not,” said Chris.
“You are!” said Lisa, slapping him playfully on the arm.
“I’m definitely not,” said Chris.
Later they walked along the riverside, and watched the ducks swimming to and fro. Lisa tossed them a piece of leftover sandwich that she had bought at Tesco, and giggled delightedly as the birds thrashed violently around in the water, desperate for a crumb. Chris looked at her, and fingered the engagement ring in his pocket. Was it the right time? Was any time the right time? Damn it, he could interrogate a Russian double-agent for days on end, using rusty spanners if necessary, but he couldn’t ask the girl he loved a simple question.
Then, with the steely resolve that had been ingrained through years of training, he thought: fuck it.
He put his huge paws on her shoulders and turned her to face him. He got down on one knee. The tears were already welling in Lisa’s eyes when he produced the box.
“Will you…” he began. He didn’t even have to finish the question.
“Of course I will, you big, silly tough guy!” she cried bending down to hug him, and he hugged her back, as hard as he dared, knowing that with the strength he had in his gym-honed biceps, he could accidentally snap her spine like a toothpick.
Not a dry eye in the house, I guarantee it. And what we have here, you see, is what they call ‘a fully rounded character’. He’s a fighter, but he’s also a lover. And he has a heart of gold, too. There’s a bit later on where he rescues an injured dog from some quicksand. This isn’t some two-bit, ten-a-penny, bargain bin fodder. This deserves to be up there alongside Andy McNab. This deserves to give Dan Brown a run for his money. This deserves to be something… awesome.
So why, do you think, would I receive a letter like this:
Dear Sir,
Thank you for your unsolicited manuscript. Unfortunately we don’t feel, in its present form, that it has the literary merit that we would require for publication.
Kind regards, blah de blah de blah.
I mean, come on. “Now you have a broken nose to go with your broken English.” That line alone is enough to make it fly off the shelves. Have they even read the thing? And it isn’t just the one letter. Oh no. Twenty-eight, I have of these. Twenty-eight people, twenty-eight so called experts in the field, who don’t think that the story of a hard-bitten SAS officer called out of retirement to avenge the death of his brother is something that people will want to read. Look, I’m just flicking through at random here:
Chris cradled his brother’s wounded body in his arms. Michael was bleeding. Bleeding bad. And he was in a world of pain. Chris pulled his gun. He knew what he had to do. He had to shoot his own brother. He had to shoot his own brother in the head. In a low, desperate voice, he said the words out loud: “I have to shoot my own brother in the head.”
Had Michael heard that? Did it even matter?
See? You don’t get drama like that with bloody Martin Amis, do you?
His gun clip was empty. Damn. Out of ammo. Chris grabbed a slotted spoon from a nearby surface. Could you kill a man with a slotted spoon? There was only one way to find out ...
I could go on. I won’t, but I could. After all, if this hasn’t convinced you of my talent, nothing will. But I won’t give up, I promise you that. I will see my name up there, in WH Smith, up there on the bestsellers shelf with the big boys. And if I have to send this out to a hundred publishers, and get back a hundred replies just like that one, then I will. The world hasn’t seen the last of me. Talent will prevail. Justice will be done.
I’ll leave you with this. It’s what they call an ‘epilogue’:
Chris sank back into the wicker chair. He felt spent, done with. He was an old man now. An old man who had lived a life that most people, most normal people, wouldn’t be able to believe. But yes, he had done those things. He had met those people. And he had killed. He had killed many times. Blood drawn from a hundred nations was on his hands.
With a sigh he picked up his pen, a simple Parker ballpoint. He looked down at the thick stack of paper on the table beside him. A lifetime of adventure was pressed between those pages. A diary of pure adrenalin. And next to that a smaller stack of papers, a stack of papers that meant, in all likelihood, nobody would ever read it.
Lisa was dead, long dead, killed by a Peruvian sniper. His son, Leo, decapitated by a helicopter blade while trying to evacuate a school full of orphans. And friends? Ha – what did a man like him ever want with friends?
All he wanted was for someone to hear his story. And to believe him. After all this time, that was all. Someone to believe.
He picked up a fresh sheet of paper, and began to write.
--
Dial A For Action by James Smyth was read by Max Berendt at the Liars' League Fact & Fiction event on Tuesday 8 March 2011 at the Phoenix, Cavendish Sq., London. (c) 2011, James Smyth
James Smyth spends his career fiddling with video compression algorithms and audio protocols, occasionally stopping to dream of a life more Bohemian. He writes short stories, not having stamina for much else, and in his spare time enjoys frowning sadly at misplaced apostrophes.
Max Berendt studied drama at Manchester University and trained at Mountview. Max’s theatre credits include The Trial (BAC - Total Theatre Award), Peer Gynt (Arcola), Journey’s End (West End), The Devil is an Ass (The White Bear). Max works regularly as a voiceover artist. He always enjoys reading for the Liars’ League.
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