Final Draft (from the first to the last)

ONE

That morning, he threw his curtains open wide, and stood there naked, with his eyes closed, listening to the sound of the birds, and all of nature, mixing with the light hum of traffic,on the ring road-and the squawks of people arguing in a street somewhere.

He breathed in-and out-opened his arms like Moses embracing Gods deliverance of the Ten Commandments, shook his privates about for a moment or two, feeling like a more reticent Mike Jagger-and then hopped in the shower, before donning a pair of clean brown cords, a Crisp white shirt and tan brogues, and taking a leisurely stroll into town.

It was an average day; pulled patches of cotton wool cloud puffed across an anti freeze blue sky, and a light wind rustled about the budding trees, infusing a chill in the air.

He reached the town early enough for it to be almost wonderfully deserted; three minutes past nine on the dot...and, after grazing on the high street, for a bit, checking out every shop-from the quid mart to the exclusive department store-and with the town beginning to fill up, he mulled over his shopping list, in his mind-and settled upon a small independent stationers, nestled between a model shop and a music store; flippantly convincing himself that a more personal, pleasurable experience could be gained from shopping with an independent vendor, whose stationary empire probably stretched no further than the walls of one premises.

TWO

Amidst ringing up 'arts day fun' purchases for glamorous folk mummies, who talked with gushing, plummy voices to their glamorous folk mum friends, while both collectively negotiating a battalion of little Henry's, Pips-and Jemima's, fairy goth girls, painted in make up, and jeweled with dainty piercings-looking for batik pens and gouache paints-and something else that wasn't in stock, or the odd old gent, dressed in green tweed, who was searching for something or other-to fix such and such with, the Proprietor glanced at Fitzpatrick from over his small, brass rimmed clerical specks, with a shifting cluster of internal emotions, that many years as an avid poker player were able to keep shielded by a warm, happy, mild mannered veneer, that told very little, other than a faint drawing together of his eye brows-of what he was actually feeling in side.

While other customers came and went, Fitzpatrick stood surveying the pads of cartridge paper, at close proximity-and for slightly longer than was naturally polite, without arousing some sort of suspicion in the proprietor's mind.

What was this guy going to do? the Proprietor mused. Was he going to suddenly grab a clutch of his prized notebooks-and make a dash for the high street? Was he going to sidle up to the counter-shuv a concealed pistol in his direction-and demand the contents of the cash register and the safe? Which the proprietor considered would, in this day and age, be bloody stupid. Or was he going to go berserker on the joint-pull out a machete, from somewhere in his moderate jacket-and carve him up for the sheer hell of it.

Fitzpatrick didn't look like the thuggish type, the Proprietor mused...In fact, he looked pretty much the opposite of the thuggish type. He wasn't a weed-but he wasn't exactly built like a brick out house, either.

Not that this was exact pre requisite for a thug, or a crazy-but it put the Proprietor at ease, for a minute or two, before he considered the old adage that it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for...

THREE

For a man who had set out on a mission, that morning-Fitzpatrick lost a portion of focus, when he returned home from his shopping trip.

He laid all of his wares-a medium gauge pad of A2 cartridge paper and two black marker pens-a thick and a thin-on his dining room table, and then spent a bit of time watching nature programs, on his lap top, before eating an uncharacteristically strange buffet, selected from cupboard and fridge, of mini scotch party eggs, a packet of Worcestershire sauce flavored crisps, a slice of ham rolled around a cold sausage, secured with mayonnaise cement, and a bowl of breakfast cereal for after's.

Following this, Fitzpatrick was industrious in tearing two sheets from the back of the pad, and sticking them both, with masking tape, to the wall opposite his bed.

He took both of the pens and stood, for a while, looking at the two sheets-and slightly overwhelmed by all of the blank space-before having a cup of coffee and a cigarette-and, over the course of the following legion of hours, constructing a monolithic spider diagram, across the length and breadth of his bedroom wall, and adding in new leafs of cartridge paper every time a previous one became heavy with text.

By just before sun rise, on Sunday morning, the pad was empty, the bedroom wall completely full, both pens were worn virtually to dry stubs-and Fitzpatrick stood back, for the first time, to survey his handiwork.

From his vantage point, ten steps from the wall, he could appreciate that what he had fashioned was an epic work of art, more than anything else, filled with beautifully drawn arrows -and his odd, scruffily neat handwriting-written close to microscopically- so the effect was almost like a population of ants had taken up residence across the sheets, and decided to stay there permanently.

Following a brace of cigarettes, smoked from the vantage point of his postage stamp sized balcony, while looking out across the town resplendent in the misty early morning air, he got into bed and continued reading the book he'd ordered, off of the Internet, about The Battle Of Berlin-and Hitler's last days in the bunker, before turning off his bed side lamp, glancing loosely at the fading shards of light, from the street lamps, that were etching themselves on the ceiling artex-and slipping off into the land of nothing in particular.

FOUR

Fitzpatrick slept like the dead, and woke with a start, a little later that Sunday afternoon,with the sun streaming in through the gaps between his curtains-and an amazing thirst, which caused him to stumble, with sleep addled urgency, into his kitchenette-and sink the edge off the rasp with hastily consumed mugful's of water.

Usually, he only drank bottled water, but a slight over sight had meant that he only realized that he'd run out when it was impossible to go and get some more.

He hated drinking tap water-the thought that it had passed through other people's private parts made his stomach turn, a tad-and he shivered with the thought of this, as he crawled back under his covers, for a moment or two, to collect his thoughts.

After a strong coffee, and a boiled egg, enjoyed while perched uncomfortably on his fold up chair, on the balcony-glancing at the sunshine rippling into the communal garden, Fitzpatrick looked through a guide book, at photos of the most picturesque towns and villages in England.

Then he grabbed a quick shower, dressed in most of the previous day's attire, got into his car- and journeyed to the next town.

Once there, he selected another independent, overly expensive stationers...and spent a little while running his eyes and thoughts over the products, purchasing four more ink pens, and another pad of A2 plain medium gauge cartridge paper, from the Proprietress-a pretty lady in her forties who, unbeknown to him, was having an affair with a married man-but desperately wanted to settle down and have a child with him, before it was too late.

She eyed up Fitzpatrick, as she served him, wondering whether he would make a good father, whether he was a good father-what his wife and children were like, if he had any.

She smiled at him, and momentarily day dreamed that she would haul him Into the back, and they would make sweet love in the tiny apartment, at the rear of the shop, before dismissing such fleetingly random thoughts, and handing him his change and a receipt.

Fitzpatrick left with his purchases-turning round to look at the stationess as he did, then went into a supermarket, where he picked up four large bottles of spring water, and a ready meal for one, just before the shop closed.

He ate the ready meal watching the last forty minutes of 'The Longest Day', before sitting through twenty two seconds of Songs Of Praise-and then the twee drama, that was just beginning on the other side.

After a long period of time fruitlessly channel flicking-he turned in around midnight.

FIVE

Over the following weeks, he woke early most days-and, before going to work, stood studying his diagram-considering, at macro level, whole sections, and either leaving them be-or lovingly crossing them out, sticking new segments of paper, over the top, with glue-and repeating the process.

So dense was his immersion in this project, that Fitzpatrick came close to forgetting how long it took him. Not that it mattered to anyone else.

When a number of mornings had passed, with Fitzpatrick crossing none of the writing out, and applying no new flakes over the top, he concluded that his wild composition was completed.

With the care of a blind watch maker, he removed his work from the wall in fragments-which he infused between the sheets on his bed.

Before turning his light out at night, he used them for bedtime reading; he slept with them, drooled on them-or lost them down the gap between the mattress and the head board.

One Wednesday evening, he collected together the fragments -and sorted them, with seemingly no distinction, into four separate piles, on his living room floor.

One pile, he burned in an empty biscuit tin, on the balcony, while smoking a cigar- and drinking from a bottle of brandy he'd been given one Christmas.

During his lunch break, the next day, Fitzpatrick walked to the rubbish post office in the miserable precinct near his work-and purchased five brown A4 envelopes and stamps from a grumpy looking post mistress with a face like a flat tyre.

He took them home, that evening-and tipped a portion of the second pile into each.

He then plucked five random addresses from the phone book, wrote one on the front of each envelope-and posted them.

On Saturday, he cut the fragments of the third pile into strips, put them in a Jiffy bag, and walked to a grotty newsagents at the other side of town.

He'd discovered it, quite by accident, one late night, the previous winter, when it'd been lashing it down with rain-and he'd been stuck in some long work meeting, which concluded long after Coronation Street finished.

Fitzpatrick had wanted Chinese takeaway, that evening-and knew of a good one round that way, but it was shut-as these places always are at the optimum moment- and he knew that there was nothing, in his cupboard, but a quarter of a packet of sunflower seeds-and various types of breakfast cereal, which he didn't feel like at that hour.

The newsagents was the only thing that appeared to be open, in that area-illuminating the wet street with cold, cheap, clinical strip lamps.

Going in, he found little but a samosa, in the chill cabinet, and a microwaveable burger, that looked like it had been there for decades.

He considered, that evening, wandering around the threadbare isles that, if anyone really wanted to shop lift anything from there-then it would probably be easier than procuring a grenade from a baby.

The general demeanor of the newsagents was no different that Saturday, when he wandered in, trying to conceal a pocket full of the third pile.

The bored cashier stared sparingly at a grainy old TV, playing old sports re runs, and paid no heed to the fact that Fitzpatrick was steadily gluing strips, from the pile, across several of the most boring hobbyist magazines in the world, that were languishing on the shelves.

Centre spreads of naked caravans were now clothed in scant strips of spidery writing, that would make no sense to anyone; books of sudoku and bathroom fixtures and fittings rendered distinctively Dada.

Part of him wasn't sure how he managed it, in fact-thinking that, at any moment, the bored teenager would catch him at it.

When he had finished, he lightly mopped his brow with an old napkin, and picked up a packet of digestives and a beer.

He walked back into town through the local park and, after stopping off at the stationers to buy another pad of A2 cartridge paper, he returned to his flat, where he consumed a light lunch, coffee and a cigarette, before taking two slices of paper from the pad and, as he had done before, fastening them to his bedroom wall.

Then he took the fragments from the pile he had left, applied them to the wall-and began the whole mind mapping process again- but working faster, and harder-until the wall was filled with the intricate tentacles of a new, more rigorous diagram.

At last he stopped, with the wee small hours of Sunday morning creeping in, slipped on some Erik Satie, smoked a cigarette- and went to bed.

SIX

The next five days passed in a flash and, that Friday, Fitzpatrick pulled a sicky from work, spent the morning staring out of the window then, for the next twenty four hours, sat in front of his big master piece, devotedly absorbing all of the information in front of him, while smoking endless cigarettes-and drinking from a two litre bottle of spring water. During this time, he broke away from the diagram twice, to relieve his bladder-but, otherwise, remained stealthily at his post.

That Saturday night, feeling a little insane, he tore the spider map off of the wall again, and shredded it into tiny, tiny, pieces which, at midnight, he scattered in a local duck pond, before returning to his flat and crashing out.

Just before lunch, on Sunday, he finished making a brief, but concise list, using the antique Parker pen that his Grandfather had bequeathed to him in his will-and on a sheet of expensive writing paper, that he had found at the back of a cupboard at work; he carefully folded the list into an envelope, added a first class stamp, and posted it in the letter box in the next street.

SEVEN

Monday morning brought a typically dull day, with a grainy texture, which made the world look like some old drama from the late nineteen seventies. It wasn't cold, though the summer had turned-and the air had a heaviness about it, the pull of which made everyone doubly fatigued, after the warmth of the weekend.

Fitzpatrick woke to his alarm at six fifteen, spent a while lulling there, in the semi darkness-then went through to his kitchenette, in his pants.

He snapped on the television, turning immediately to the vacuous morning magazine program, and selected Mondays cereal, from its place in his largest cupboard.

Monday was the day of kids cereal, something that resembled little chocolate covered donuts-with a cartoon on the box.

(Tuesday was crunchy nut cornflakes, Wednesday was little folded strands of mulched wheat with raisins in the middle, Thursday was toast-and Friday was toast and jam-with a small bowl of the sugary loops).

After breakfast, he put on his suit-followed by a tie. He wore the same sort of tie every day-and the same sort of white shirt-and alternated between three of the same type of suit.

He put on one of five pairs of black socks, and shoes-and selected various keys, wallet and sundry trinkets from their space on the table, before locking the house, and getting into his car.

The morning passed uneventfully. He spent a while going through his correspondents, replying to emails, attending unnecessary meetings-and chatting with people on the phone.

At break time, he went for a cigarette, where he listened to two nut sacks, from the other department, and some dick from down stairs, talking enthusiastically about nothing that would ever really interest him in a million summers; all the time using buzzwords-and phrases-like 'touching base', 'blue sky thinking', 'end of play today', ' all good fun, though'-and a variety of alienating acronyms, which made them sound more than a little like they were reciting some form of computer code.

Before returning to his desk, Fitzpatrick brought a gritty tasting cup of tea from a machine-and then spent a while fiddling about on the Internet, reading a number of crap stories relating to various banal celebrities, before typing in the names of old school acquaintances, to see what they'd done with their lives, glancing loosely over the reports he'd been grappling with for what seemed like an eternity, and had little to no actual interest in-then skived off for a twenty five minute shit, before soaping and washing his hands, and ambling down to an early lunch.

He passed the pretty stuck up girl, who he'd once had slithers of lust for, in the corridor-and then walked into the canteen and ordered something off of the lunchtime menu called The King Burger (with chips), and reluctantly picked up a banana and a mineral water, to balance out the effect that he was eating the equivalent of a heart attack on a plate.

He went to his usual space, by the window overlooking the car park, and sat surveying the very nineteen eighties looking landscape.

Following lunch, he casually walked to the smokers area, and stood on his own, staring at nothing in particular, and pleased that there was no one in sight to ruin his moments contemplation.

He smoked his cigarette, walked back into the building, had a piss, washed his hands-

pepped himself with a cup of tea, which he took back to his desk, spent a while fiddling about on the Internet, reading a number of crap stories relating to various banal celebrities, before typing in the names of old school acquaintances, to see what they'd done with their lives, glancing loosely over the reports he'd been grappling with for what seemed like an eternity, and had little to no actual interest in, emailed his main boss, regarding questions about the report, that he already knew the answers to, but wanted to buy himself some more time with-then got in his car, and drove home.

That evening, he watched an old film about life in the Amazon basin. It was old, made at some point in the nineteen seventies, and with a narrator whose dulcet tones rose barely above a whisper. He laid on his sofa, watching the grainy comings and goings of a trio of youthful rain forest Indians attempting to cook beefy spiders on a small fire they'd made on a rock.

They used their stone knives to shred the parched hairs off of the legs, before dangling them in their mouths, swallowing them-and licking their lips frugally; all the time seemingly not aware of the camera being shuvved into their personal spaces. Later, young plump women, with bands of red painted across their eyes, lulled in hammocks, breast feeding tiny infants-and an old woman patted mud onto an aged mans shoulder, while semi chanting to him, attempting to relieve some jip he had in it.

At various points, there were views of the mighty river, at sunset-reflecting blazing evenings-and the odd menacing lashings of river snakes in the water side under growth.

As the documentary flickered on, Fitzpatrick closed his eyes, and played with the drifters, that fluttered in psychedelic mis-shapes from his side of his eye lids.

He woke later, the documentary having finished, and the channel having turned to some clever dick questions, answers, facts and figures show, with sundry television personalities, the rapturous applause of audience members-and the smug side lines of a two bit host.

He turned the TV off, unfolded himself from the sofa-and staggered towards his bed, where he collapsed, wriggling out of his trousers, and sliding his duvet over himself, before falling soundly asleep again.

EIGHT

Three days later, the letter arrived.

Fitzpatrick picked it up, from its landing site on the door mat-and spent five minutes in something close to silence, running his eyes over his hand written address, on the front of the envelope, almost as if it was his A-level exam results all over again.

Then he opened the envelope with the enthusiasm of a child ravenously skinning a Christmas present, and unfurled the piece of writing paper carefully, opening it out into its tryptic.

After washing his hands, and drying them on a tea towel, he picked up his grandfathers Parker pen, and scribed an angelic little tick at the side of the first point:

1. Open the envelope that contains the list. (Tick)

He put the envelope in the bin, and marked off the second, with a similar little tick:

2. Put empty envelope in the bin. (Tick)

Then he sat, with his hands clasped together, for a moment-and listened to the drum-drum-drumming of his heart in his chest.

Feeling a flutter of strange anxiety, mid way between a strange doom, and excited anticipation, he turned on his lap top, connected it to the printer, opened up the letter of resignation he had written ages ago, added in the date-and printed it out.

He did toy with the idea of sticking his right forefinger up his ass, and wiping the residue across the top of the letter, but decided against it. Yes, his boss could be an anal prick, on occasion, but he didn't deserve that, he figured.

He folded it into another neat tryptic, slid it into a stamp addressed envelope, dressed very casually, and went and posted it in the nearest post box.

When he got home, he neatly ticked the next thing off on his list.

3. Quit job. (Tick)

Following a cup of coffee, and a cigarette, he sat down and began a heap of necessary admin tasks.

These included replying to emails, paying outstanding bills, a chore that was both tedious, and painful, in equal measure.

He didn't look up until he was done-and he owed no one anything-not in terms of bills, or charges, or loans, of any sort.

Then he cleared out his inbox.

After sitting for so long, and in such stealth concentration, he rose from his seat, by his desk, stretched-let out a rumbling burp, followed by a satisfying blow off, that resembled a drunken brass band falling down a hill side-and made some grumbling sounds, to accompany his stretch.

He looked at his list:

4.Complete admin tasks

(And also sub tasks that are too long and tedious to list here)

He took out his Parker pen, removed the lid, and stroked some small ticks down each sub task-before dashing a big one in on the main task:

4.Complete admin tasks (tick)

He looked at the next task on his list:

5. Tidy flat

Firstly, Fitzpatrick started with the kitchenette, which took all of five minutes-as all he had was enough milk for a few cups of tea-and a bowl of cereal, the next morning.

He chucked away anything out of date, in his fridge, which included half a tub of rancid butter, which he'd had since some time before the last ice age, a clear packet full of what looked a bit like algae, that had been languishing behind some unopened jars of pickled onions-and beet root-which he also binned.

He did consider egging his neighbours car, with two he had left over-but cracked them down the sink-and washed the shell away, instead.

Next, with the fridge as clean as a thistle, Fitzpatrick had a gander through his cupboards-but there was nothing in them, aside from tea, coffee, sugar-and takeaway menus.

He then spray cleaned all the surfaces, mopped the floor-and moved onto the bathroom, which required little more than a cosmetic splash and dash.

He remade his bed, re folded all his clean clothes, and set them in cupboards and wardrobe.

Then he hoovered and dusted his bedroom and living room.

Over the years, Fitzpatrick had successfully whittled his past down to fit into three relatively small boxes.

He was quite proud of his forward planning-that all the baggage he had left, from his past-aside from the memories in his head, could be squeezed into such a small space.

In the scented summer twilight, Fitzpatrick pulled the communal incinerator out of its space behind the shed, set it on the concrete area away from the flats-and emptied the contents of each box into the incinerator.

Then he squirted half a bottle of lighter fluid into the incinerator-and lit it.

"Old ends-new beginnings" he muttered to himself, smiling, igniting a cigarette, and getting out his list.

He stared for a moment into the crinkling inferno, that was going on at the bottom of the incinerator-and then drew a blue line by the task.

5. Tidy flat (tick)

NINE

About 5AM, the next morning, Fitzpatrick put out the last of his rubbish, ate a bowl of cereal, drunk a tea and a coffee-and set out on a long walk.

He trekked out of town, and deep into the countryside.

At lunchtime, he found a quaint little country pub-and ate there, as well as sinking several pints and a whiskey, before continuing on.

A little later, he unfurled his list, having climbed to reach a secluded beauty spot, took out his Parker-crossed the last increment off, folded it up again, placed his Parker and the list back in his jacket pocket-and jumped...