Alright, guys and gals. I do not own Secret Window, anything, blah blah, I do own Clementine, and Simone, blah. There?
And, I'd like to ask you a favor, because I know you're all terribly kind and lovely. I think, I've lost Mort's character a bit in this one, and I fully admit it, but I would like to make the story better, so. If you are kind enough to review (which I'm sure you will be) could you give me a little help? Like, just pointing out something that I've written that Mort would never say, or wouldn't do, or any ideas of what he should say instead, that kind of thing.
Thank you, thank you, I am forever in you debt. (This doesn't mean you can't say nice things too.) Off we go!
Chapter One: Viva Las Vegas
Safe with the knowledge that Shooter could never return to him, Mort Rainey lived in perfect happiness, he had had three stories published since Shooter had put him in hospital, and was now living with his new wife, Clementine Rainey. If Mort had any worries at all, it would be that Shooter could make his way into Clementine's head. The truth was, he didn't know where Shooter was, he knew he'd left him back at the hospital with the doctor - he'd have to find a way to deal with Shooter himself - but Mort didn't know if he was still there. Maybe two worries, the thought that Shooter was immortal and could hop from person to person was terrifying, he could get through everyone in Tashmore Lake, and even the state, easily enough. But maybe Shooter wasn't a murdering psychopath in everyone. Maybe when Mort wrote Secret Window he wrote his subconscious, maybe he had wanted to kill Amy and Ted, just like Tommy Haverlock had done. He even had the secret garden where the new and old parts of the house met at an extreme angle. So maybe Shooter was just making a dream a reality, and, even though Mort's story had ended in tragedy, Shooter could make other people's good dreams come true.
With Clementine around, Mort had all the inspiration he needed, she seemed to be able to come up with amazing storylines and complications with the greatest of ease, and this seemed to satisfy Mort's need for stories for a while, until she decided to keep all her good ideas for herself, bought a laptop and began to write. Mort was inspired and amazed by her motivation, and belief in what she was doing. She didn't sleep most of the day, but neither did he now, and she didn't have any 'bad writing' as Mort called it, a problem he was regularly plagued with. And it was good to have some healthy competition, so Mort's life was pretty much complete, and he was happy, until he received a letter about a booksigning in Las Vegas.
Dear Mr. Rainey
Your literary agency has scheduled for you a booksigning on May 24th at a Las Vegas bookstore.
You will travel on flight A749 out of your local airport on May 23rd at 7:30pm, please come to the office to collect your tickets. We have arranged for Clementine to accompany you. You will both need to be at the airport an hour before the flight departs, and a car will pick you up from Las Vegas airport.
We have booked you all into the Silver Sunset hotel for two nights, May 23rd and 24th. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to call the office.
Yours Sincerely
Timothy Maloin
Fixtures Representative
"How do you fancy a trip to Las Vegas?" Mort asks Clementine as he opens the mail one morning. Clementine is sitting on the couch, applying a French manicure to her nails, painting the tips the same royal blue as the tips and roots of her hair.
"Las Vegas?" she asks.
"Yup, booksigning," explains Mort, throwing the letter onto the table and going to get some breakfast from the kitchen. He takes a bowl from one of the cupboards and pours cereal into it.
"All expenses paid?" asks Clementine.
"Yup," replies Mort again, sitting beside her.
"Sounds like fun," says Clementine, blowing her nails and craning her head to try and read the letter without having to pick it up.
"Have you been before?" asks Mort.
"Nope, never," she replies, picking the letter up. "May 23rd, that's like, two days, Mort." Mort senses what she's thinking.
"Packing?" he asks sheepishly. Clementine gets to her feet.
"Yes, packing. We've got to pack, and pick up books and photos from the office, and sort everything out!" Mort smiles at the panic-stricken look of her face.
"Calm down babe, we've get all day, provided we're not doing anything else." He takes her into his arms for a hug, but she shrugs out of them.
"Mort, we've no time for anything else. Ok, I'll go to the office to pick up the tickets and sort everything out, you start packing. Sensible clothes, I don't want to come back and find you've packed a change of underwear into a Marshall's bag." She hurries about the house, putting her hair up and picking up her car keys.
"Yes, ma'am," Mort replies, giving her a salute, and promptly sitting back down on the sofa as soon as she closes the door to finish his breakfast.
Twenty minutes later Clementine returned with the tickets for the journey, stacks of photographs of Mort and a couple of boxes of books. As if the bookstore wouldn't have enough. Mort had managed to pack a change of underwear, swimming gear and a woolly jumper into a plastic bag, which was sitting on the table, and he was upstairs by his laptop, playing with his slinky. Clementine looks in the bag.
"Mort!" she yells up the stairs. Mort looks over the banister.
"Oh, hi Clementine," he says cheerily, and gives her a wave.
"Fine, Morton Rainey. I will pack your stuff, and God help you when you get there!" she exclaims, running into their bedroom. She pulls down Mort's jeans and shirts and rummages through his closet. Mort comes into the room like a puppy who knows he's been naughty, and puts his arms round Clementine's waist.
"We don't have to pack today," he says. She looks round at him.
"Yes, we do. Because tomorrow you'll say that you can't be assed, and then the 23rd will roll round, and we'll have a change of underwear and swimwear. So if Las Vegas floods, we'll be fine, but I doubt that will happen," says Clementine, turning to the bed to sort through their clothes. "And I'll have to put stuff in at the drycleaners," she says, selecting a white suit skirt.
"That one's not dry clean only," says Mort. He stops at her glare. "If this booksigning's on 24th, then we can do some sightseeing in the evening? We have to go on the rollercoaster on the Stratosphere, and watch the parade in the Bellano, and gamble. Can't go to Las Vegas and not gamble."
"Sure we can sightsee, lets get packed first though, and get there, and booked in," says Clementine. She piles up three three piece suits on the bed and makes a pile of jeans and shirts for Mort.
"Why am I taking that?" he asks, pointing at one shirt.
"Because you must look your best," says Clementine. Mort takes the shirt and hangs it back up in the closet.
"But I hate that one."
"What do you think you're fans are gonna think when you turn up in an old stripy dressing gown?" asks Clementine.
"Ok take the shirt."