Ransom

by S D Brooks

          Stephen flipped through his original manuscript of his latest due-to-be-published novel. By the time he reached the last word processed page, he knew that the evidence was incontrovertible. To all intents and purposes, he was the author of Ransom. The only author. The sole author. There was no proof that he’d ever copied it from an aging manuscript written by his long-dead grandfather. No proof whatsoever. The original manuscript had been burned, along with the original manuscripts of all of the other published novels and short stories.

          In that case, Stephen realized with a sudden mental wrench, the ones that remain to be published must still exist in their original form.

          Scarcely daring to believe he hadn’t thought of that until just that second – which was probably the main reason he’d remained such a mediocre writer – Stephen opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet – the drawer in which he kept his grandfather’s unpublished manuscripts.

          The nine vividly coloured cardboard wallets were all sitting neatly in there, but Stephen could see at a glance that they were all empty. He pulled the nearest one out. Empty. Nothing was written on the front. No title, no name, no nothing. He opened it. Nothing. Not even an A4 sheet with an outline on it.

          “What the fuck is going on?” Stephen asked aloud, his voice fearful.

          You know what’s going on, Stephen! a voice in his mind told him. You know exactly what’s going on, don’t you?

          No! Stephen mentally denied hastily. No I don’t, so shut up, you bastard! Keep your fucking mouth shut!

          But it was too late, of course. Stephen did know what was going on – knew exactly. He also – very suddenly and very clearly – knew that he had never plagiarized any of his grandfather’s work at all. Roger Brooks had never written anything apart from a few design specifications and details for some aeroplanes – and maybe the odd note or love letter to his wife.