Red, Deep Red

The first time I met Miss Marsha Black I didn’t even look up. She was just another face, in the sea of young, eager faces in the bookstore that day. I was bored. My agent had practically dragged me there kicking and screaming to do the signing. My hand ached from writing “Show some teeth, Love Charlie Washington” on about a million copies of Bitten: Revival. And my ears should have been fucking bleeding from listening to the kids queuing up to get their copy signed. “I’m your biggest fan”, “you’re such an inspiration”, blah blah blah. The more I heard these pubescent drama queens profess their undying love for Lex, the hero of the books, the more I hated myself for dreaming him up. I’m a good a writer. Or I was once. When I wasn’t much older than the girls in the store, I couldn’t wait to write, couldn’t wait to lose myself on paper. And honestly, Bitten was only a bit of fun. I showed it to my agent as a joke, but she just snapped it up, if you’ll pardon the pun. It was on the shelves within half a year, and there I was, six years, eight books down the line, and I couldn’t even remember how I’d got there. Ten years ago, being surrounded by swarms of nubile young women would have been my dream. It’s all I ever wanted. But now, I wasn’t so sure. These fans, these kids, had cost me a lot. The incident with the seventeen year old at the press release had cost me my marriage, my home, everything. I only see Mikey on Saturdays now. Sarah won’t come any more. The girl at the press release was in her home room.

Anyway, when Marsha Black came giggling and panting into my life I hardly batted an eyelid. She said something like “you’re my idol…I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you”, some shit like that. I waved it away and scribbled the line on the cover.

A week after that I was sifting through the sample of fan mail I was given each Monday morning. Out of the hundreds of thousands of letters and pictures and even draft novels and screenplays I was sent, I answered ten a week. Giving back to the fans, I’d say to my assistant, with a smirk. She was a stupid girl, a graduate of English Literature. I kept her around for her big blue eyes, her tight ass and the fact that she hung on every word I said. I flicked through the pages. There was a naked picture of some emo kid, covered in generic tattoos and piercings. A few angsty, apathetic poems. And then a couple of letters. One from a woman in prison who told me her daughter loved my books, and she planned to get out of the joint in time to take little Christy to see the movie adaptation of Bitten: Kiss of Death. I finally settled on a letter on purple paper. The colour stood out, and the pages were scented with some kind of sugary perfume. It reminded me of my daughter’s room. I started to read:

Dear Charlie,

Meeting you last week was the defining moment in my young life. I’m not stupid; I know you won’t remember me, but I just want you to know, you are the greatest artist of your time, and you’re wasting yourself on this vampire shit. I can see through the clichés and teen gore, and I can see something so much more in you. I hope one day you’re brave enough to see it in yourself. I hope we can meet again someday. You’re something special.

All my love,

Marsha Louise Black

P.S My number is 555-43-12-66 if you ever want to talk. Call my crazy, but you look like you could use a friend.

I couldn’t believe it. This girl was the same age as my daughter. And there she was, looking straight through me. I had never heard a girl talk like that, so blunt and honest. Most kids that age try to sound smarter, and come across dumb, or try to sound dumb because they think it’s sexy. Here was a girl that quite clearly didn’t give a shit. I knew the name, I remembered signing it but for the life of me I couldn’t picture her face. Something told me she had red hair. Not red like the stupid little goth girls with hair dye stains down their neck, real red, deep, flowing auburn falling down her back like leaves. I strained my mind, desperate to remember more. I stopped as I felt myself getting turned on. I shook my head and poured a drink. She’s a kid Charlie, just a kid. You can’t go through all that again. And with that I pushed her from my mind, and forced myself to put her letter at the bottom of the pile.

The first time I called her it was a Sunday night. Me and Laura, my ex-wife, had had a huge fight the day before. I showed up at Sarah’s school on Friday afternoon, trying to make her talk to me. I thought enough time had passed that she might as least be able to be civil. I am her father. She refused to talk to me and I followed her to her car. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend; a gangly, muscly teenager, and when I grabbed her arm to make her look at me, he got aggressive. He pushed me back and told me to get the hell away. Maybe I should have. But I didn’t. I punched the kid right in the face, shattered his jaw. Mikey didn’t even come over that Saturday, and Laura told me to stay away from her family. It was strange to hear her talk about her family, hers, as if it was separate from mine. On the Sunday night I was alone in my office. The little assistant, Kate, lingered about the doorway at the end of the day, as she was used to being asked to stay behind for a while, to talk about her “her future in the business”. She seemed to think that the best way to get ahead in the business was to sleep with the talent, and who was I to correct her? But that night, I was in no mood for her adoring words and her trembling fingers. Normally, that kind of innocence, or at least a façade of innocence would have drove me crazy. But I sent her home early, and finished the bottle. And another. I was so wasted I couldn’t even cross the room to turn on the lights. I staggered to the big gas fire behind my chair and turned it on, and collapsed in front on the mantle. I looked around the office, at the pictures of my children, of me and Laura on our honeymoon in Hawaii, of my first Booker prize giving. My mind travelled to the piece of shit I had written to win the award, and how I had milked the fucker for another two awards and a contract for at least five movies. I reached for the bottle, getting to my knees and crawling to my desk again, my hand searching in the dark for the glass. As I groped through the documents on my desk, my mind arrived at Marsha Black. I had cleared out my desk of all the old receipts and failed efforts in the past few days, but I had kept her letter. I wasn’t sure why, perhaps just for written proof that someone, no matter how insignificant and anonymous, someone believed in me. Whatever the reason, I scanned the desk, looking for the letter. I found it under a copy of Bitten: Revival. I smelled the paper before I saw it, and spent a few minutes breathing in the sweet scent. I wondered if that red hair smelled like this. I read again, and again, and my eyes lingered on the number at the bottom, and the nonchalant post script. Call me crazy, but you look like you could use a friend. It was true. There was nothing wrong with it I decided, with just wanting a friend. I hauled myself onto the chair and dialled. Glancing at the time, I wondered if she’d be in bed; it was a school night. The thought made me feel sick. I was about to put the phone down when a voice answered.

“Hello?” She didn’t sound as young as I’d feared. Her voice was husky and serious.

“Uh, hi, um…this Marsha? Marsha Black?”

“Marsha, yeah. Can I ask who’s calling?”

“Uh, you probably won’t believe me, but this is Charlie Washington. We met at Little Oaks Bookstore a few weeks ago and you wrote me with your number? Uh, I hope this is okay.” Images of caller ID and parental protection flashed through my mind.

“Oh! Um, yeah, yes, of course it’s okay. I didn’t think in a million years you’d call. I’m so, so glad you did. I, uh…what’s up, I guess?” Her grown up manner faltered for a second in shock. I liked it, it made her seem slightly more accessible. I was used to girls reacting like this, I knew how to handle them, or so I thought.

“Not much, babe”, I said, turning on the old Charlie Washington charm. The whisky helped me along. “Just a little lonely tonight, I guess. Your letter was really sweet. Seem pretty smart. How old are you anyways?”

“How old do you think I am?” I wasn’t prepared for that. Shake it off, Charlie boy.

“Shit, I, uh…like, twenty?”

“Do you think I’m twenty? Or do you hope I am because it’s better than eighteen?” I was speechless. I made a sort of strangled noise through the phone, and was saved when she started to laugh.

“I’m fucking with you, Charlie. And you flatter me, I’m twenty three.” I exhaled. This one had me by the balls. No one screwed with Charlie. I felt completely at her mercy, and I liked it. And hey, twenty three. Twenty two years wasn’t so bad. At least she could get service in a bar.

“Twenty three, huh? So you at school, or?”

And that was it. We just hit it off. I hadn’t had a conversation with anyone like that since I met Laura in college. We talked about her classes, about my kids, just everything. And she understood, she did. I explained how I fell into this teen horror bullshit by accident, and she didn’t fake any sympathy, or try to give any explanation. She just listened, and although she didn’t say much, I could tell she got it. I fell asleep on the phone to her that night, and when I woke up I couldn’t wait to text her. She was exactly what I needed. A self- esteem boost without the sugar coating. We kept up the texting for about three weeks, and spoke on the phone a couple more times. Each conversation just got better. She didn’t just want to pry into my life, I wouldn’t be just locker room gossip. She wanted to know me, and I wanted to know her too. It wasn’t long before I decided I want to meet her again. I couldn’t believe as I got to know this incredible young woman that I’d seen her before, I’d heard the voice that was quickly becoming my lullaby right in front of me, and I couldn’t remember.

I wrestled with my conscience over whether we should meet again for weeks. My agent was on my back again; apparently I had a gig working on the screenplay for the second Bitten movie. I’d been on the last one, and couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do less. I needed a break, a vacation from all the bullshit and the acclaim that I didn’t think I deserved. I decided, fuck it. I took the plunge and texted her asking to meet me. I felt so foolish, the way I agonised over writing the few lines. After what seemed like hours, I finally settled on: Do u wanna meet up sum tym? Coffee or sumthin? She didn’t reply for twenty five minutes, and I felt sick waiting. The strangest thing was, I enjoyed it. I liked how she made me feel, giddy and wrong like this. I hadn’t felt like that with anyone before; as far as I was concerned, I always had the upper hand when it came to the ladies. But not now, Marsha had shaken me up big time. It made no sense to me that I could feel like this about someone when I couldn’t even picture her face. My cell buzzed; the reply was: Time and place? I grinned, wiping the sweat from my upper lip. We agreed to meet the following Friday night at some little bookstore café, and I could hardly wait for the next tedious week to pass by.

The week went in just as quickly as I’d hoped; a monotonous blur of signing papers and sitting in on dull casting sessions. I tried to honestly appraise the willing young “actresses” who read for myself, the casting director and the producers, but I couldn’t think of anyone but her. I tried to picture Marsha reading lines for me, but nothing that I had inspired did her justice. She was too smart, too different from the vapid girls in my imagination, and, up until recently, in my real life as well. I could never have wrote a Marsha. I was so nervous on the Thursday night I went out to a few strip bars and got very drunk indeed. I woke up at my office, drowsy and weak but vaguely excited for the coming evening. When night time finally came, I headed to the coffee place thirty minutes early, and chose a table that gave me a perfect view of the doorway. My cell phone sat in front of me constantly, and I deleted about a thousand texts asking where she was before I could send them. I ordered a cappuccino, then changed my mind and asked for a regular black coffee. Marsha seemed real, she wouldn’t want to come meet some frothy, pretentious artist. I knew I was over-thinking everything, and checking the time too much. The doors stayed closed until half past seven; exactly the time we had arranged to meet. I stood up, then sat down again. Fucking hell, Charlie, cool it. But in the end I was disappointed; it was some middle aged guy walking in the door, some chubby, boring old man, not the girl of my dreams. I dropped my eyes again, and tried to ignore the growing suspicions that the great player had been played, and she had set me up to make a fool of myself. I was just swallowing the dregs of my coffee when I realised that the man who had walked in was sitting across from me.

“Jesus! Hey, uh, can I help you with something?” I was annoyed that he had interrupted me, and perturbed that I’d barely notice him.

“Well now, I don’t know. You are Mr. Charles John Washington of 311 Hunter’s Way, Portland, Maine?” He spoke with a lazy Southern accent; like an overweight Mark Twain. His whole body seemed to be sweating, beads of moisture gathered on every inch of exposed skin. He wore a black suit, and blue shirt, with what looked like spaghetti sauce stained into the fabric. I leaned back from the smell of BO and potato chips that poured from him.

“Look if you’re one of the guys from the movie, I really don’t have time for this, buddy. It’s my night off, talk to Lisa, I’ve taken a few days off.” I began to stand but he put a greasy hand on my shoulder.

“Oh, now I think you have time for me, sir. Forgive me, my name is Cyrus Halloway, and I am a detective with Portland PD. I’d like to talk to you about a Miss Marsha Louise Black.”

The next eight hours were the longest of my life. Longer than when Laura went into labour with Mikey and there were complications. And longer than the trial last year for drink driving. Both of those occasions had ended well, but this didn’t seem to go away. They kept me up all night, reading my own speech back to me, like another casting session. I didn’t know my phone had been tapped. Apparently after my relations with a minor, it had been a necessity, apparently my lawyer had explained all the conditions to me at the time. The officers read the damning conversations to me, the worst being the ones of a more adult nature. It had been harmless phone sex at the time, I never dreamed it could be used as evidence against me. They wouldn’t tell me what had happened until the next afternoon. My lawyer was there, and he didn’t look at me the whole time. Marsha Black had been killed, they told me, the night before. She had been stabbed thirteen times in her bedroom. The sweaty detective told me, with some relish, that she had also been raped before the murder, and that the results of the DNA tests had shown that my finger prints were on some items in her room , specifically a book entitled Bitten: The Revival. I laughed then, explaining the situation. Noone laughed back. They asked me to explain then, how my semen had been found on the victim’s body and on her sheets. I had no answer for that. My lawyer stepped in, demanding to speak with me before I answered any more of their questions.

“Charlie, I’ve known you since college, and you’re one of my oldest friends, but how the hell did you get into this? Didn’t we talk about this, about getting involved with fans? I’m going to ask you once, and you damn sure better be straight with me. Do you have anything to do with this?”

My mouth opened and closed; the truth was I didn’t even know. I didn’t know myself. The week had flown by, and I could honestly say I didn’t remember anything about it. They showed me pictures when they came back in, pictures of her body. They were disgusting. Once again I thought of my ridiculous books, and was shocked at how much I didn’t understand about death and murder when I penned the pale faced little boys nibbling on the necks of their girlfriends. She was naked in the bed, and her neck with black with blood. Her eyes were blank and stared up at me, accusing me. And I was right about the hair. It was dark red, and lay on the white sheets behind her head, soaked in the blood from her wounds. And suddenly, I remembered her. I remembered the sensation of running my fingers through that hair. I remembered washing blood from my hands. I started sobbing, and they suspended the interview. I was charged with first degree homicide. My trial is next week. Strangely enough, Laura, Sarah and Mikey are all coming to see me.