CHAPTER 1: WE'RE ALL MAD HERE

Brigid McNamara was dying. All the signs were there: cold sweat, racing heart, shortness of breath, blurred vision. Why, why had she agreed to this? She tucked back a curl and tried to smile as another cluster of faceless bodies approached her, congratulating her, words drowned out by the ringing in her ears. She murmured something unintelligible and slipped past them, nearly gagging at the heavy reek of cologne that hung over the crowd. Someone called out her name but she kept moving. She passed under a happy, pastel-bright banner – CONGRATULATIONS BRIGID! – and headed straight for the exit. She spotted a stray drink sitting on a table by the door and snatched it up without a second thought, comforted by the cool weight of the glass in her hand as she stepped out into the night.

The air was damp and November-cold, but Brigid paid no mind. She breathed it in, feeling the sear of it in her lungs, and sank down onto the step. She pressed the glass to her lips with a trembling hand and sipped cautiously: whisky. Excellent. She had just begun to drink more deeply when a man's voice floated out of the shadows to her right:

"Good evening, Ms. McNamara!"

Brigid spluttered and choked, soaking much of her front.

"Dammit, who's there!?" she demanded, furiously wiping at her dress.

"Oh, just little old me," said the voice, and a figure slid into the dim light cast by the archway. Brigid narrowed her eyes and assessed the man bouncing on his heels before her: slim, dark-haired, only slightly taller than she. He looked as though he were on the verge of laughing at her.

"Right. Well. Sod off, you," she spat. She stood up and half-turned to go back inside.

"Ah, ah, ah…not so fast, my dear," he said, laying a hand on her forearm. Even in the frigid air, his skin burned against hers. She tried to pull away and his grip tightened. She let out a gasp of anger and raised her other arm, the one with the glass, ready to strike. Suddenly his face was very close to hers and she hesitated; as her arm hung in the air, wavering under the weight of the glass, he laughed and released her.

"There, there now, don't think you want to be doing that – at least not before you hear what I have to say."

"You've just assaulted me in a dark alley, and ruined my only good dress besides. I can't imagine you've anything to say that will dissuade me from opening your skull with this glass."

"Oh, Ms. McNamara, you do disappoint me. Is your capacity for imagination really so limited? And here I've been reading all these wonderful articles about your new book. Was it ghost-written, then? Oh, please don't say it was – that would be so boring!"

"No, it wasn't ghost-written," Brigid hissed.

"Goody – that would have really put a cramp in my style, and I hate having a cramp in my style."

"Hm, I suppose you do," Brigid replied, eyeing him warily. He was wearing a dark blue suit that looked as though it cost more than all her royalties combined. The man took no notice of her scrutiny.

"Anyway, Ms. McNamara – actually, can I call you Brigid? Lovely –"

"Hang on," Brigid interjected, "how do you know my name?"

"Oh, come on, don't be slow with me now," he said with a roll of his eyes. "This is your party, isn't it? Your book release? But you're not enjoying it very much, are you?"

Brigid bristled indignantly at this. "Just who do you think you –"

"All your family and friends are inside celebrating your success and you're out here in a dark alley in the middle of November talking to a strange man. You've got sweat stains under your arms—"

Brigid frowned and crossed her arms over her chest protectively.

"—and your hands are trembling so badly you can't even hold a drink properly," he finished, eyes dropping to the the dark whisky flower blooming across the front of her dress.

"Excuse me, can't hold a drink properly? I was doing just fine with my drink until you jumped out of the shadows like a murderous villain."

"Alright, I'll give you that one, apologies, my dear. But come on, I was pretty spot on with the rest of it wasn't I? You don't really want to be here."

"Well, no, not really," she admitted. The man stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at her, waiting for more. Brigid raised her eyebrows in defiance; she was not in a talkative mood.

"Ugh, alright, we'll do it my way, then," he said with another roll of his eyes. "You love writing, simply adore it, so much so, in fact, that you prefer the characters in your stories to real people. The world exhausts you, so you retreat to a world of your own creation. But the problem is, your world isn't real. This world is real. Most days, you can hide from that; but on nights like tonight, there's simply no escaping it. There's no escaping them. The tedious, boring people. So you panic. And sweat. And drink. And threaten well-meaning strangers with brute force. Have I got it all?" He grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

Brigid bit her lip, disarmed. "Um, well, yes, I suppose that's quite – quite –"

"Oh, but I forgot the most important part!" He exclaimed, clapping his hands together gleefully. "The part where I come in!"

"Sorry – you?"

"Yes, me, of course me! I'm here to rescue you from all of….this. Your knight in shining armor, if you will, since we're going for a literary bent here." He bowed grandly.

"If this is your way of trying to get me to go home with you for a lay, you should know I've still got this glass and I'm not above using it on you," Brigid said, raising the glass menacingly above her head once more.

"Oh, please, sex with strangers is so last year," the man said. "I've got something much more interesting in mind."

"Oh?"

"I have a house for you."

"A what?"

"A house. You know, four walls, two doors, windows, a chimney. You'll love it, it's perfectly secluded, deep in the Irish countryside with no one else for miles around. Just a load of sheep, although we can take care of those for you if you don't like the smell."

Brigid was thoroughly confused.

He continued, "And it's all yours for the absolute bargain price of zero. Provided, of course, you do a little job for me."

She raised her eyebrows. "What's that?"

"I want you to write for me. We can get into the details later, but I have something very specific in mind and you're exactly the person I need. What do you say?"

"I – I think you're a bit mad," Brigid said, edging back towards the door. The man made no move to stop her.

"Oh, no doubt I am, Brigid. But let me tell you something – we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?"

"You must be," said the man, "or you wouldn't be here."

Brigid shook her head. "I shouldn't be here. I – I've got to go. My family –"

"Oh, yes, the family, yawn," he replied. "Well, when you get bored of them, my dear, come and find me, will you? My offer still stands."

Something occurred to Brigid. "Find you? I don't – I don't even know your name."

"Oh! Silly me. Got a little carried away. I do that sometimes. Call me…James." He stuck out his hand. Brigid grasped it; he burned. She let go quickly and turned to the door. As she pushed it open, she was hit with a blast of moist heat and flowery scent. She looked back over her shoulder one last time; he was still standing there in the cold, eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"Goodbye, James," she whispered as the door swung closed.