His book was about to be published and it was time for him to take a well-earned break.
It was a novel. It had taken him several years to write. It was a large work, dealing with the family history of the lords of the Celtic regions, covering six generations. It was full of detail, cram-packed with the nuances concerning the daily lives of the inhabitants of the isles. The painstaking research had taken up almost all of the long hours it took to write. It dealt with how the lords of the isles clung to the hope that despite all odds, they would endure as a Celtic nation.
Although he had not shared his research notes with anyone, some of his friends had showed interest. With some of them, despite their not having read any of it, even dropping hints about him being something of a genius!
His flight was booked and paid for. Within a couple of days he would be on a warm beach, having drinks brought to him.
He was putting the phone down, having just arranged an appointment for the next day with the nice lady at the publishers, when the room went dark. At first, he thought it was a power cut, but it was the middle of the afternoon. He was sitting in total blackness in the middle of the afternoon!
As he came to, still feeling rather woozy, he found himself standing in what looked like a cage. It was dimly lit, and as his eyes adjusted, he could make out metal bars, a small, high window, and a sparsely furnished room that seemed to be a cell. He also became aware of somebody approaching from a dark corner.
“I suppose I should say ‘welcome,’” he began. He looked around. “Doesn’t seem appropriate though, does it?”
“Where are we? What are we doing here?” the other managed to blurt out, with more than a small tremor of fear in his voice.
“You’re a newbie.”
“A newbie? What kind of newbie?”
“Slow down. All in good time. I’ve been here for almost six months,” he then added with a thin smile, “with just three weeks to go.”
“And me?”
“Dunno. You’ll be told later. You’ll find that on the slip of paper you get with your first meal. If you can call it a meal.”
“Who’s doing this? Who put us here?”
The other dropped his voice to a whisper. “I don’t think they want us to know who they are.” He put his finger to his lips. “You might find out more later, if there’s ‘talking time.’”
“What do you mean?”
“There are lots of cells here. Sometimes at night we get to talk to each other. Sometimes a loud siren goes off and we all keep quiet. As far as any of us can piece it together, it’s all about people that have transgressed against the English language. Some say it’s all down to aliens, but I don’t know. My book, ‘The History of Macramé’ was about to be published when everything went black and I ended up here. You’ve replaced my cell-mate. He’s just been released. He was a speech writer for some president or other. They came down on him hard. He got three years! Poor bugger!”
He scratched his head. “To be really frank about it, he wasn’t very bright. He didn’t seemed to know very much about politics either, which was surprising, considering how he made his living.” He threw up his hands. “Anyway, what about you? How were you taken?”
“I was putting the phone down. I had been talking to the publishing house; making arrangements to go in and sign the papers. The room went black. That’s all I can remember.”
The other sighed and said, “I know. The thing that bothers me is I don’t know what I’m going back to, where I’m sent. I was in a taxi coming back from the publisher’s when they took me. There’s one cabbie that didn’t get his fare. I don’t know how it works, you see? That’s what bothers me most. Did anyone feed my cat?”
He moved to the bars and peered out. “There’s no one to ask, you see. I wish I knew who they were.”
He turned back and went on.
“They play this bloody recording at lights out; must go for about five minutes. It goes ‘A book badly written about a boring subject should never go to print.’ It’s probably meant to send you off to sleep. It doesn’t, I can tell you that. I mean, what a hackneyed statement is that? Do they think that’s going to help? After all, taste is taste right? We all know there’s no accounting for it. Right?”
“Right.”
“Sorry, I’m probably going on a bit. The last guy, the script writer, well, I could never hold much of a conversation with him.”
He looked around and pointed. “Anyway, that’s your bed over there.”