As someone who writes and talks about writing, I’ve been looking to find a way to bridge the gap between both. The Experiment will see me write and publish the first draft of a novel (‘draft zero’) - with no polishing and no eyes on this other than mine, and then yours, of course. This is a daunting prospect, as one of the things I firmly believe about draft zero is that one should write it safe in the knowledge that no one will see it at all. Yet here I am, sharing it with you all!
What follows is chapter 1. Today I’d like to extend my thanks to Tetyana Denford, who gave me the first line, and Howard Teece who suggested ‘A food delivery driver on a rainy night’.
Do let me know what you think! At the end of this post is an invitation for you to help shape the story as it develops. Enjoy, and keep your eyes open for Chapter 2 within the next couple of weeks. And don’t forget, though the chapters themselves will always be free, paying subscribers will also get all the background and behind-the-scenes posts as the story develops, as well as all my other posts. All that, for around £1 per week (less if you pay for a whole year in advance), and your subscription will help to enable me to continue this project. So please do consider upgrading your subscription.
CHAPTER 1
She tasted blood. Copper, acidic. A coin on her tongue. Except it wasn’t a coin, and there was more of the thick, viscous fluid running down her face.
The blood wasn’t her own. She knew that, she knew she was uninjured, though exactly how she knew that, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t really know where she was, either. Or how she got there. She couldn’t really be certain of anything.
Despite not wanting to, she forced open her eyes. There was a body at her feet. A boy. The blood was his, it was everywhere, it soaked him, coated his clothes, stained his skin. It covered her, too, staining her jeans, and painting her white converse trainers a putrid pink. The boy’s body was twisted so she couldn’t see his face, and she certainly didn’t want to kneel next to him to get a better look. But she didn’t need to. She recognised him, the heft of him, the clothes he was wearing. A leather jacket he’d told her was a gift but which she suspected he’d stolen; the blue jeans he always wore, or had for the last few months at least; the T-shirt. They weren’t unusual, but they were unmistakeable.
It was Isaac — her dear, sweet, beautiful Isaac, love of her life and sometime supplier of her drugs — and there was a pool of blood beneath him and a hole in the back of his head, and in her hand, where she might’ve expected to see the pizzas she’d thought she was delivering when she knocked on the door to this room that is most definitely not his — was a gun.
She’d never even held a gun before. The room she was in — the ragged curtains, the filthy windows, the single sofa that sat forlorn and threadbare in the centre, facing the TV — might not have been that dissimilar to Isaac’s’, but it wasn’t his. She’d never been here in her life. The body at her feet, it was impossible, yet here it was. What was going on? What had she done?
Something inside her snapped. She sank to the floor and, even though her mouth was clamped shut, the noise that had been building since she saw Isaac forced its way out. She couldn’t help it. A low, keening howl quite unlike any sound she’d made before, the noise of a wounded creature, something utterly lost, vomiting its fear and pain and confusion into the rain-filled night.
She held one hand over her mouth and with the other picked up the weapon. It was still warm, and it felt utterly unfamiliar. She got to her feet. It was either that or stay there forever, and she’d learned by now that it was better to run first and think later.
Moving quickly, she wiped the blood from her face and onto her sleeve as best she could, then slid the gun into the pocket of her raincoat before running, out into the darkness, into the howling night. The bike was parked where she’d left it, just on the street outside the crumbling building.
She tried to remember piece the evening together. She knows she’d stopped the bike, then glanced up at the mansion block — six or seven floors, with the same number of flats on each — but it was in darkness, she thought there was no one home. She checked her phone. The address matched, this was the right place. She kicked the stand, climbed off the bike, then circled to the rear where a bright yellow insulated box bore the Stardash logo. She retrieved the pizzas; she even remembered what they were. One American hot, one four cheese with added jalapeños.
Isaac’s favourite, she’d thought to herself as she banged on the door. How weird that someone else in this crazy, fucked up city would want jalapeños on their gorgonzola. But this wasn’t his place, it wasn’t even his part of the city. It’s just coincidence she told herself. It’s not that weird, after all, not like the bananas she still added to hers because that’s what they did in the commune when they tried to get her to eat food they knew she wouldn’t want.
But after that? She’d knocked again, louder. There’d been footsteps. The door opened, and…
And then it got hazy — a fog of memories from which she could make nothing solid coalesce. It felt both hours ago and just a few moments. But it must’ve been him, Isaac, who opened the door. Surely? Who else? It was his body she’d stood over, after all. His blood that soaked her clothes.
She got on the bike. The blood. She knew she was covered, and she was going to have to figure out what to do about that, first. Going home was an option, back to The Rathouse, but she could never clean up there. To get to the bathroom she’d have to go through both the living room and the kitchenette, and there were never fewer than six people there, and more likely sixteen.
Not The Rathouse, then, but it wasn’t the only option. She gunned the bike into life and kicked off the curb. She’d go to Leah’s — she’d be at work now, but that was fine. Leah knew what was what, she was calm, unflappable, and the only person on whose doorstep Toni would even think of turning up, covered in blood. No, she told herself as she wobbled into the traffic. Leah would definitely know what to do.
So there we have it. After a few false starts and ‘Oh-my-what-am-I-doing??’ moments, this is Chapter 1.
Let me know what you think, and more importantly let me know how you’d like to see the story develop. Any ideas I use will be credited, both here and in the novel (if and when it’s published).
THE EXPERIMENT | Chapter 1
How exciting!
Hi Steve, I just watched your talk on Reedsy and the idea of Draft Zero is extremely freeing. After reading your first (well written!) chapter, I'm thinking that maybe the mc was either drugged somehow or is reliving/repressing a traumatic event from her past (thinking of the tv show The Sinner). I'm excited to see where you take this! Keep going!