Paul Johnson - The Death List

Two men in gray boiler suits and protective helmets were standing on the landing outside.

“Wha-”

Drys fell back into the drawing room when he was struck hard in the face, landing with a crash. His vision was clouded, but he felt himself being dragged across the parquet. For a while he lost his sense of time. When he regained his senses, he found himself sitting with his legs apart, his arms stretched to opposite ends of the coffee table. He tried to move his hands. They had been tied to the table legs.

“What…what’s going on?” he gasped, blinking.

The man who squatted down in front of him was of medium height. He was wearing a mask, one of those sold by novelty shops-but instead of President Bush or Tony Blair, this one had a strangely blank expression, the artificial skin very pale.

“Who…who are you?” Drys asked, glancing round at the other man. He was wearing an identical mask. “There’s no money in the house.”

The man in front of him laughed, a horrible sound. “Oh, we don’t want money, Alex. You don’t mind if I call you Alex, do you? Alexander makes me think of the ancient hero, and let’s face it, you’re not exactly from that mold.”

Drys tried to control his wobbling chins. “How dare you?” he said in the voice he used with the servants. “I’m-”

“A vicious piece of shit who ruins people’s lives,” the masked man completed.

Drys watched as he opened a large leather bag and took out two things. The first was a blue cardboard folder, which he laid on the table. The second caused his armpits to be drenched with sweat. It was a large, stainless-steel chef’s knife.

“Wha-”

The man raised his hand.

Drys noticed that it was sheathed in latex. That made his heart beat even faster.

“Now, Mr. Renowned Literary Critic, I’m going to read some of your deathless prose out to you.” The man’s voice was curiously accentless, as if he’d been to too many elocution lessons. He gave another mirthless laugh. “This is a game, you see. The rules are simple. I read you three pieces. Then you tell me who the author in question is. All the pieces concern the same person. If you get it right, we’ll walk away. If you get it wrong, well-” he picked up the knife and angled it against the light “-you could do with losing some weight.”

Drys tried to speak, but found he couldn’t. This was madness. They couldn’t be serious. This sort of thing didn’t happen to people in his position. He felt a sudden need to empty his bladder. He managed to hold its contents in, but only just.

“Extract one,” said the man in the mask, opening the folder. “‘This novel is a farrago of unlikely plot twists, superficial characters and a completely unbelievable social milieu. The protagonist is one of the most unsympathetic, if not downright obnoxious, investigators to have appeared in recent times.’”

His breathing shallow, Drys tried to think. Over the years he’d written so many reviews, both stand-alones and shorter ones in the roundups, that he couldn’t possibly remember whose book these words applied to. He panicked and tried to wrench his hands out of their bonds. He saw the man in front of him nod to his companion. A rope came round his neck and was tightened. He felt his eyes spring wide open and his tongue swell in his mouth.

“Bad critic,” the man with the file said, the brown eyes behind the mask steady. “Don’t try that again. Let him breathe, Watson.”

The pressure loosened on Drys’s throat. He panted air into his lungs.

“Extract two. ‘The crime genre is replete with superbly realized private eyes and policemen. Who would willingly part with their money to grind through a tediously recounted investigation carried out by this grubby and bungling detective?’”

Another surge of panic gripped Drys. He struggled to think who that could have applied to. So many third-rate writers of crime fiction had been published, some of them unaccountably winning prizes and being feted by critics with less discrimination than he had. The words were vaguely familiar-he couldn’t have referred to too many heroes as “grubby”-but still he couldn’t place them. He stared beseechingly at his captor.

“Please, I-”

“Memory not up to scratch?” the masked man said mockingly. “Never mind. You’ve got one more chance.” He laid his fingers on the knife. “Before it’s time for me to start chopping.”

This time Drys couldn’t control himself. He sat with his face burning as warm liquid soaked his trousers.

“Bad, bad critic,” scolded his tormentor, shaking his head. “That’s an expensive piece of furniture, isn’t it?” He turned to the next page and started to read aloud. “‘This book is enough to make any right-thinking reader despair. The supposed hero is a dissolute rake who extracts sexual favors from his female clients in lieu of payment. The violence is crude and unjustified, and the historical references defective. Why do people write books like this?’”

Drys sat back in the rapidly cooling puddle he had made and tried to restrain a smile. He had remembered; he knew who the writer was. Thank God, he would soon be seeing the last of these imbeciles. Then a frightening thought struck him. What if the man behind the mask was the author himself? He kept his expression as composed as he could.

“Well, Mr. Esteemed Literary Arbiter?” asked the man, leaning forward.

“Matt Stone,” Drys said, his tone patronizing. “Now, will you kindly get out of my house?”

“Matt Stone,” mused the man in front of him, picking up the knife. “Very good, Mr. Drys.” He gave a disturbing laugh. “But not good enough. You see, Matt Stone is a pen name. I need the author’s real name. Sorry, didn’t I make that clear?”

Alexander Drys tried to scream, but a rag was stuffed into his mouth before any sound came out. He had no idea what Matt Stone’s real name was. He’d never concerned himself with the mainly talentless fools whose books he read. His eyes opened wide as he saw the man with the knife bend over his right hand. The other man was pulling hard on the rope round Drys’s neck, keeping his body upright. He felt unjustly done by. Was he really going to suffer for such an insignificant writer? There were others whose careers he had completely ruined, even one who had committed suicide.

“Matt Wells is his name,” the man said, looking at him with empty eyes. “Think about how hurtful your words were while I’m cutting.”

The critic felt the blade slice into his skin and prayed for mercy to the God he’d ignored all his life.

It didn’t come.

I didn’t have to wait for the evening news to find out what had happened to Alexander Drys. My mobile rang a quarter of an hour before I left to pick up Lucy.

“Matt.”

“What have you done, you bastard?” I yelled.

The Devil paused. “A little more caution, my friend.” His voice still friendly. “I know the police have been to see you. How do you know they haven’t got you under surveillance?”

I went to the front window. I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “Look, you murdering maniac,” I said, lowering my voice. “Tell me what you did to Drys.”

“All right. First I cut off his hands-the ones that typed those nasty, unfair reviews of your books. Then I sliced out his tongue and inserted it in his rectum. After all, he’d been licking his rich friends’ arses for years. He was wriggling and squirming a lot then, so his head was beaten to a pulp with a ball-peen hammer. No more vicious thoughts from that perverted brain, eh, Matt?”

I’d collapsed onto the sofa as he recounted the horrors like a schoolboy proudly reciting a poem.

“Matt? Are you there? Don’t tell me you’re unhappy about that shitbag’s less-than-pleasant death. I know how much you hated him.”