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talked relentlessly about commercialism and profit which he felt was simply bad manners. Finally it took a quiet word from one of his former masters to a college old boy to ease his way into his chosen profession.
    Four years in, he was relishing his environment. He savoured the ritual humiliation he was able to pour onto the new manuscripts that arrived on his desk. He took extreme pleasure in delivering his withering critiques to aspiring novelists and basked in the glow of his own importance as they thanked him for it. Yes, life was good. And now he was about to dispose of his most irritating author. He rubbed his hands in anticipation.
    The man he was about to see wasn’t exactly enamoured with the editor either. A seemingly modest and inoffensive character, he earned a living doing what he enjoyed most: writing horror novels. That alone was enough to pique the editor’s ire. As far as the editor was concerned, it wasn’t a genre, it was only a step away from children’s comics and unworthy of his attention. When he’d ascended to his lofty position he was stunned to note that this author was still on their list. The reason he was became apparent from studying the records. The man’s books sold just enough to turn a modest profit. Under the gentle tutelage and guidance of his predecessor the man had been just able to make the grade. Of course when he’d taken over his first task had been to undermine the writer relentlessly. He heaped scorn on his stories and attacked his grammar like a rapid dog. He studiously ignored phone calls and steadfastly subjugated the poor man to re write after re write. The resultant manuscripts were so poor they never had a chance. Even the man’s most ardent fans drifted away.
    His last book had bombed. The contract said that they had to at least consider one more. Certainly the editor mused, he’d consider it and then reject it out of hand. Problem solved. With the wretched man out of the way he could concentrate on more substantial works. He eagerly anticipated creating a withering torrent of invective when he gave his assessment of the soon to be delivered final manuscript.
    The meeting was shorter than he’d expected. The man shuffled into his office reeking of cigarette smoke and slapped his new manuscript down on the table with a resounding thump. “You’re not a very nice man,” he said to the editor. “This is my last book for you. It’s a work of quality; I wrote it especially with you in mind.” Before the editor had time to laugh the man had gone, closing the door softly behind him.
    Sitting down at home that evening in his favourite Chesterfield, he felt deep regret that he hadn’t been able to execute the coup de grace himself. He felt somehow robbed. He vigorously stoked his fire and with a sniff of regret he lit a thin cheroot, took a sip from a large balloon of brandy and picked up the manuscript as if it were a used tissue.
    Consoling himself this was the last time he’d have to endure the mans infantile and childish endeavours, he opened the manuscript with a heavy heart and started reading.
    By the time he’d reached the end of page three, he felt his heart begin to race as his eyes scanned the horrific description being outlined in front of him. By the time he’d reached page ten his forehead was shiny with perspiration. He wasn’t just shocked, he was revolted. The next two paragraphs were enough. He dropped the manuscript and ran to the bathroom, where he vomited. As he knelt before the toilet he felt rocked by the depravity he’d forced himself to read. When he eventually cleaned himself up he quickly poured himself another brandy. Christ, he had a legal obligation to read and critique this awful document. He steeled himself, sat down and again started reading. As he turned each page slowly wave upon wave of horrified fascination assailed his senses. He wanted to stop reading but he couldn’t. There was something about the structure of the work