It was a strange call, the caller had said it would be something to his advantage.
It was from an admirer. Something special had been arranged, he had said. From a great admirer of the author’s work, he had said. He wouldn’t have thought that little Hooty-Hooter the owl and his loveable woodland friends would have any admirer over the age of six. Not only that, it would be Hooty and not the author that would get the adoration, and not by a grownup. There again, maybe it’s some tycoon whose son or daughter has fallen in love with his endearing feathered character and its adventures, and can afford to repay him for creating such happiness for his offspring. All the same, it was an unexpected call.
What did he have to lose? Tomorrow he’d be going home, back to the old drudgery. Writing children’s books might bring in good money, but there was no excitement in it. He was in a hell of a rut, but the royalties paid for these overseas trips. His books were read by people all over the world. Anyway, this was his last day in the city and although the tower was one of the highest in the world, he hadn’t actually visited it. He called for a taxi to take him across the city to the nominated meeting place at the time he’d been given. When he arrived he was approached by a jovial looking man who introduced himself as a staff member of the corporation owned by the writer’s fervent admirer.
At the base of the tower, he looked around. It was very quiet. They entered the foyer and started up the steps. After several minutes of hard climbing, the novelty and excitement began to wear off. Short of breath, he gasped out, “Why aren’t the lifts operating?”
“Closed for repairs,” came the brief reply.
“Closed? Then what are we doing here?”
“Ah! We have special guest permits.”
“We have?”
“Oh! Yes. It’s like I told you, this is a very special day for you. My benefactor wanted you to experience something that most people could only dream about.”
The kept climbing, until finally, they were nearing the viewing gallery at the top. Utterly exhausted the author said, “Sorry, we have to stop. I can’t go on much longer, I just need to sit for a while.”
It was at this point that the other produced a gun. “I’m sorry. I can’t permit that. Time is of the essence, you see. Keep moving, it’s not far now.”
As they entered the great circular viewing platform, surrounded by giant panes of glass, he saw that one was missing, allowing a cool wind to blow across to where they stood. The man used the gun to force the author to the opening.
“What happens now,” asked the author, fearing the answer.
“Now, you jump.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re depressed.”
“But I’m not depressed.”
“Yes you are.”
“Who says?”
“I do. Me, the reader. There is no admirer; no benefactor. Me, the reader. I say you’re depressed, and so does the note I slipped into your pocket when we met. Your suicide note. No! Don’t touch it!”
“You’re mad! No way I’m going to jump.”
The man moved closer. “True, you may need a gentle nudge.”
“Why?” The author screamed, “For heaven’s sake, why are you doing this?”
“Why? It’s obvious isn’t it? If not me, someone was going to do it.” His face hardened. “You really shouldn’t have killed off Reginald the rabbit, in your latest story, he was my favourite.”
“My God! Is this what this is all about? A bloody rabbit?”
The gun was pressed against his forehead. “Don’t you talk about him like that!”
“But he’s just a rabbit, and not a real one at that!” He was teetering in the open window, stretching out to grip the frames on either side. “Look, I’ll bring him back!”
“You can’t.”
“I can!”
“He’s dead. You killed him, nobody can bring him back.”
“Of course I can ring him back, I’m the author, I can do anything don’t you understand? I can do anything I want.”
“Yes, that’s right, you can do anything you want, like killing Reginald, you swine!”
With that, he gave the writer a shove.