There was a knock on the door.
I opened it to find two stocky, middle-aged men in white coats.
“Graham Lock?” asked one.
“Yes. Who are …”
Before I could finish, the other had snatched a syringe from his pocket and jabbed it into my neck. I was dimly aware of them walking me down the road towards what looked like an ambulance. Then everything went blank.
When I came to, I found myself lying on a couch in a strange room with book-lined walls. There seemed to be some kind of device attached to my head, so I raised a hand to brush it off.
“Don’t touch that!”
I struggled up to a sitting position and looked around for the source of the voice. Across the room I saw a desk, behind which sat another man in a white coat, staring at his computer screen. Was there something vaguely familiar about him?
“Where am I?” I demanded. “Who are you?”
A smile flitted across his face. “You don’t recognise me? My name is Whipple. Dr Whipple.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “You can’t be,” I gasped. “I made you up … you’re not real!”
It seems I am,” he replied. “And what I want to know now is, who told you about me? Who gave you my name?”
“No one told me anything. Like I said, I made it … I made you … up. For a story.”
“Out of nothing?” He sounded sceptical.
“Well, I got the name from Dorothy Whipple. She’s my favourite novelist at the moment. Is Whipple really your name? And where are we? What’s going on?”
He ignored my questions as he watched his screen.
“Alright, what’s your favourite Dorothy Whipple novel?”
“Hmm, I guess it’s They Were Sisters. There’s this brilliant depiction of a monstrous male ego and …”
“Spare me the lit crit,” he snapped impatiently. “Tell me what you were thinking about in bed last night, just before you went to sleep.” He resumed his scrutiny of the computer.
“Ah …,“ I cast my mind back, trying to recall which moments of dreamy fantasy had preceded my slumbers. Oh no … oh God …
Whipple burst out laughing. “Really? You? The Nobel Prize for Literature!”
“Well, if Bob Dylan can get it,” I muttered sulkily, secretly relieved he hadn’t picked up my other …
“My, my,” he sniggered. “What have we here? You and Ursula Andress! Adolescent fantasies at your age!”
“Well, ah … mmm …,” I spluttered. “I guess … you know, second childhood.”
“I suppose it might explain the Bond reference in your story.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “So, tell me truthfully—and you know that device on your head can show me exactly what’s going on in your mind—who ordered you to write that story, Death by Fiction?”
“No-one ordered me,” I protested. “I told you, I made it up. I’m a writer. It was my story.”
“But where did you get the idea from?” he persisted. “Did anyone suggest it to you?”
“No, no, it was … just a fantasy. A kind of ‘what if’ political satire. In fact, I’ve been thinking of writing a series of them. You know, Putin killed by a Ukrainian agent disguised in a tiger costume; Musk trapped in a CIA Tesla and then shot into outer space; Netanyahu …,” I broke off, aware that Whipple was now regarding me with great amusement.
“Talk about far-fetched! You really are a fantasist, aren’t you?” Was it my imagination, or was there a hint of relief in his voice?
I shrugged. “At my age, fantasy is about all I have left.”
“Alright,” he said, “come with me. And don’t touch that apparatus on your head.”
He picked up his computer and I followed him along a maze of narrow corridors. We were definitely below stairs, but where? Was his name really Whipple? Was he a doctor and, as in my story, also an MI5 agent?
We arrived at a door that was slightly ajar. He paused and knocked politely. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing!
“Ah, Whipple, there you are. Come on in, my good fellow.”
Whipple ushered me into the room and guided me towards a plush, leather sofa. Just like the one in my story! This couldn’t be happening!
“Here he is, your Majesty,” said Whipple.
“This is the man?”
“It seems so.” Whipple tapped his computer. “MC Goggly is convinced.”
The King looked at me. “Your name is Graham Lock?”
I nodded nervously as I glanced around the room. The King was sitting at a large desk. And behind him, in the shadows, lurked another figure I recognised.
“Oh, sorry Prime Minister,” I mumbled. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Just ignore me,” the PM replied. “Imagine I’m not here.”
“No problem.” I was about to add a more sarcastic remark, but I noticed Whipple had opened his computer and was looking at the screen with a smirk on his face.
The King picked up a few sheets of paper from his desk.
“You wrote this story, Death by Fiction?”
“Yes, your Majesty.” I bowed my head, uncertain of the protocol.
“And you depicted the Prime Minister and myself as cold-blooded assassins?”
“Oh, no … well, yes … but not cold-blooded, your Majesty. I made it clear you were acting with the best of intentions. You know, to help save the planet, avert climate catastrophe … and only because you care so much, yeah? I mean, about the flowers and the trees and … eh …” I tailed off lamely.
The King and the Prime Minister exchanged glances.
“And no one put you up to it?” the King asked.
“No, honestly, your Majesty. It was my own idea. I was just telling Dr Whipple that I’m planning a series of political satires. In the next one, Vladimir Putin is killed by an undercover tiger, I mean …”
The King held up his hand to silence me. “Never mind that now.” He turned to Whipple. “MC Goggly is sure he’s just a pathetic old hack with a twisted imagination? There was no leak?”
“No, your Majesty. He really is a fantasist. Last night he was fantasising about winning the Nobel Prize for Literature.”
The King and the Prime Minister joined Whipple in a lengthy outburst of raucous laughter.
“What is it about the Nobel Prize?” the King chuckled. “The most ludicrous and deluded people seem to think they’re up for one. Still, at least, he didn’t imagine he’d be winning the Peace Prize! Alright, Whipple, you know what to do.”
As Whipple ushered me out of the room, I heard the King saying, “We’ll need to think of something else, Keir, I’m not inviting that ghastly oik for a third state banquet.” His voice seemed to shudder with revulsion at the thought. “And I suppose Bond can’t even deploy the exploding golf-cart now, since this idiot mentioned it in his blasted story.”
When we arrived back at Whipple’s office, he motioned me towards the couch.
“Thanks for not mentioning Ursula Andress,” I muttered. “So what happens now?”
“You’ll have to sign the Official Secrets Act, and then we’ll take you home,” he said. “Fancy a drink first? I think we share a favourite cocktail.”
“Thanks.” I thought for a moment. “What did the King mean when he asked you about a leak?”
Whipple said nothing as he began to mix the cocktails.
“Surely there wasn’t really a plot to poison that bastard at the state banquet,” I said. “I mean, it didn’t happen, did it? And my story didn’t appear online until afterwards anyway, so what’s the problem?”
Whipple walked towards me, carefully clutching the glasses.
“Suppose, hypothetically, there had been a plot and ‘that bastard’, as you call him, had been poisoned with a potion, as in Death by Fiction. Your story appearing a few days later would have raised a storm of suspicions and conspiracy theories. The Americans might have insisted on a post mortem. So, if there had been a plot, we’d’ve had no option but to abort it.”
“But how would you have known about my story?” I asked, sipping the drink that Whipple had handed me. “You’d have had to abort your plot before anyone had even seen the story.”
He smiled. “But you emailed a draft to some friends, didn’t you? Asking them for feedback.”
I stared at him in horror. “You mean, one of my friends sent you the story? Is one of them an MI5 agent?”
“Not exactly. But a few have AI on their phones. I believe one asked his chat-bot to respond to you.”
“Not G … “
“Yes, one of ours, I’m afraid. We’ve recently started a new branch of the service—M-AI-5.”
I looked at him, feeling utterly bemused, then drained my glass. “I really don’t know anything about the latest tech,” I sighed.
“I know, I know,” Whipple chortled. “When I told the King you don’t even own a smart phone, you know what he said? ‘And people call me a dinosaur!’”
“How did you know I don’t have a smart phone?”
“MC Goggly, of course. AI basically runs everything now. We’ve had you under virtual surveillance ever since we became aware of your story. We had to make sure you were acting on your own.”
“Well, I keep telling you. It was my story, I wrote it myself. I hope you’re satisfied now.”
“Yes, and relieved too. It makes things a lot easier.”
“Easier?” I looked around. “So when can I go home? Where’s this Official Secrets Act I’m supposed to sign?”
“Oh, no need for that now,” he said. “You’re done for.”
“What?”
“You didn’t really think we’d let you carry on messing up our plots with your silly fantasy stories, did you? We prefer a tidy ending here.”
“Wha…,” I felt my senses draining away. “But Whipple, I created you … you can’t … I mean, how …?”
As I slumped to the floor, Whipple raised his glass to his lips.
“Cheers,” he said. “Yours, of course, was a potion. Mine’s a Kir Royale.”
_____
Publisher’s Note: Several readers have asked us how Graham Lock could possibly have written the above story, if, in fact, he’d been poisoned with a potion. Good question! We tried to contact Mr Lock for clarification, but he’s not responding to emails and his phone appears to be permanently switched off. We also asked both MI5 and the Royal Family for their comments and they later issued a joint statement insisting they’d never even heard of anyone called Graham Lock. Which certainly seems plausible. But, if they’d been conspiring to poison him, they would say that, wouldn’t they?
In conclusion, we suggest readers make up their own minds as to whether the key word in the story’s teasing title is ‘Fiction’ or ‘Death’. Or possibly ‘Is’ or ‘After’. Though we’re pretty sure it isn’t ‘There’, if that helps.
Graham Lock
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