The Man Who Built the World

Visit Chris Ward’s Amazon Page

Novels

The Tube Riders

The Tube Riders : Exile

(Part Two of the Tube Riders Trilogy – due summer 2013)

Head of Words (due spring 2013)

Collections

Ms Ito’s Bird & Other Stories

Short Stories

Benny’s Harem*

Forever My Baby*

Going Underground*

Joyriders*

Ms Ito’s Bird*

Saving the Day*

The Ageless*

The Cold Pools*

(*found in the collection, Ms Ito’s Bird & Other Stories)

Castles Made of Sand

Death Depends

Forks

The Tree

Writing as Michael S. Hunter

(The Beat Down! action/comedy novella series)

Beat Down 1 - Clones

Beat Down 2 - The Heist

Beat Down 3 - Badassaur! (due January 2013)

About the Author

A proud and noble Cornishman (and to a lesser extent British), Chris Ward ran off to live and work in Japan back in 2004.  There he got married, got a decent job, and got a cat.  He remains pure to his Cornish/British roots while enjoying the inspiration of living in a foreign country.

In addition to
The Man Who Built the World
, he is the author of the novels
The Tube Riders
and
Head of Words
(forthcoming) as well as t
he Beat Down!
action/comedy novella series under the name Michael S. Hunter.

“Like” Chris on Facebook at Chris Ward (fiction writer) or follow on Twitter @ChrisWardWriter.

Join the mailing list for new releases

http://eepurl.com/qceDj

Chris also has a blog about his writing and his life –

http://amillionmilesfromanywhere.blogspot.jp/

“The Man Who Built the World” Copyright
©
Chris Ward 2012

The right of Chris Ward to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.

Cover design by Su Halfwerk @ www.novelprevue.com

This story is a work of fiction and is a product of the Author’s imagination. All resemblances to actual locations or to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

For Sharon

Because you liked this one

Herein are recounted

the events of

November 15th to November 17th

1999

Part One

Men

1

‘Matt?’

Rachel’s groggy voice drifted up the stairs from the kitchen.
‘Matt?’ Then louder: ‘Matt!’

He groaned, rolled over in bed and pulled the pillow over his face.

Rachel didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I think you’d better come down here.’ He heard a grunt of annoyance then something hard and plastic slammed down, the noise muffled through the floor. A curse, then her heavy, tired feet on the stairs.

No escape this time.
He rolled over to face her as she appeared in the doorway, her eyes bleary like cloudy water and her hair unkempt as though she’d just been outside in the November wind. Her dressing gown hung open to her waist, the swell of her breasts pressing into the space but the nipples just hidden by the silk. Her belly was admirably flat considering the kids. He would have found her alluring if it weren’t for the marching band playing
Land of Hope and Glory
against the inside wall of his skull.

‘I’ve got a call for you.
I take it you didn’t hear the phone?’

‘Can you get them to call back?
Rachel, I’m –’

‘I don’t give a shit if you’re hungover.
You’re
always
hungover.’ Her face hardened momentarily then softened a little. ‘I think you’d better take this one.’

She stepped forward and began to pull the bedclothes away.
Feeling a sudden surge of anger, Matt leaned over and wrenched them back out of her hands. She dropped the sheets and stepped back, her eyes lowered, afraid.

‘All right, I’m coming.
Get off my fucking case will you?’

Rachel didn’t look at him, just pulled her dressing gown tight and knotted the belt around her waist.
‘It’s your
father
, Matthew.’

Matt thought he had misheard.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t spoken to him in years.
Years,
Rachel. How would he even know our number?’

‘You heard me.
I have to get the kids ready for school now.’ Still not looking at him, she turned back towards the door. ‘I’ll tell him you’re on your way,’ she added, her voice losing its mettle. She reached up and touched a blemish on her cheek, the fading remnants of a bruise. Then, as though becoming suddenly aware of what she had done, she jerked her hand away. ‘And I’ll mix you an aspirin.’

Matt rubbed his face, rolled his eyes
and shook his head. ‘Yeah, okay, thanks. Look . . . I’m
sorry
.’ He climbed out of bed naked and reached for a T–shirt and boxer shorts that were slung over a chair near to the window.

Her voice floated back to him from the hall.
‘Okay, whatever.’ He heard the tired thud of her feet as she descended the stairs.

Matt pulled on the clothes.
He rubbed his eyes again, feeling no better. With a sigh he stumbled out into the hallway.

‘Hi, Daddy.’

He almost tripped over Luke, their son, as the five–year–old came out of his bedroom, a school satchel hung over his shoulder, a blue woolly hat pulled over his head. Matt steered the boy around him, feeling unsteady on his legs. Luke looked up at his father, nervous brown eyes peering out of a soft, putty face.

‘Are you and Mummy mad at each other, Daddy?’

Matt sighed.
Not this again
. ‘No, Luke, it’s just the morning, everyone gets a little touchy in the morning. It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.’

‘But you sounded really mad.’

Matt patted Luke’s head, distressingly aware of the way the boy flinched away from his touch.

‘Everyone gets a little mad sometimes, Luke,’ he said, trying hard to hide the impatience he felt.
‘It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other, or you and Sarah.’

God, the words sound so fucking hollow
.

He turned away towards the stairs.
Luke followed him down, humming a tune from a kid’s TV show. Through the open door of the living room, Matt saw Sarah inside, cross-legged in front of the TV, watching cartoons.

‘Go and sit with your sister for a bit,’ he said, steering the boy through the doorway with one hand, while
holding the stair banister for support with the other.

Rachel was waiting in the kitchen, holding the cordless telephone.
As Matt entered, she lifted it to her lips and said, ‘He’s here now,’ into the earpiece. She handed it to Matt and walked out without another word.

Matt sighed.
The stupid cow didn’t have the faintest idea how hard this would be. Fourteen years was a long goddamn time, and a word of support wouldn’t have hurt. He stared down at the receiver in his hand as if he had just found a dead animal there. He wanted to drop it, turn and walk away, forget about it.

What do I say to him?
And what could he possibly want to say to
me
?

He took a deep breath and lifted the receiver to his ear.
‘Hello?’

‘Matthew?’

That deep–throated growl, like the boom of distant thunder, was unmistakable.

‘Dad.’

‘How are you . . .
son
?’

He felt as though the cold air had filtered in through the windows and wrapped itself around him like a protective blanket, pressing in against his skin, smothering him.
He felt it squeezing into his mouth and down into his lungs, icy fingers tightening around his neck.

It was difficult to keep the sarcasm out of his tone.
‘I’m okay, couldn’t be better. Life’s grand and all that. What do you
want
, Dad?’

###

Bethany’s Diary,
October 10th, 1984

Hello diary, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Bethany, and I’m your new owner. I’m sure we’ll have lots of fun getting to know each other, won’t we? I’m a little girl and I am seven years old. I have copper coloured hair, the same colour as a shiny 2p, and brown eyes. I live in a big, big house with my dad and my brother. My Daddy loves me, Matty loves me, and Uncle Red loves me. But Mummy doesn’t love me. Mummy can’t love me. Otherwise she wouldn’t have flown away to the stars, to the stars, to the stars . . .

2

Rachel got back about half past nine, after dropping the children off at school and stopping off at the Esso on the way back to fill the car up and pick up some bread.
The house was quiet when she entered and at first she thought Matt had gone back to bed. He had taken to rising late over the last few months, which suited Rachel fine when she considered the moods he had been in. Only when she sneaked into her bedroom to get her slippers and found it empty, did she remember who
had been on the phone.

His father.

She found Matt in his study, a cramped, cluttered space converted from a small third bedroom between the bathroom and the kids’ room. He had his feet up on his desk and was slumped back in his recliner. A half full glass of whiskey hung precariously from his fingers, and his head lolled back against the chair’s neck rest. At first she thought he was sleeping. The computer and radio were both turned off, but a window was open to let in a fresh, chilling breeze. She shivered, unsure how he could stand it.

‘Matt?’

She walked around the front of his desk. Her nose wrinkled as she smelt the whiskey, and she looked down at the glass he held and scowled, noticing he had mixed it with soda so he could stand it so early in the morning.
Takes the bite off the first drink
, he had told her once, when they had been fellow happy drunks at university.
Especially if you have a hangover. Once the first one’s down, you’re away.
She remembered the way he would have grinned after saying that, fiery, mischievous. One of many things about him she had fallen in love with. How long had it been since he had last smiled like that?

His eyes were closed, but she realized he wasn’t asleep at all.
He was moving, almost
reverberating
, and a hollow clicking sound was coming from deep inside his chest.