Samples
Below are free samples of Matthew's work
The Burning Bar
Joe stood, shoulders slumped, looking forlornly at the dingy nightclub where he had made his living for the past 2 years, as the fire began to lick at the edges of the grimy windows. It wasn't unusual for a fight to break out amongst the patrons, as they drank their whiskey and argued over card games and women, whilst the band beat out a dense rhythm on-stage. What marked out that evening's brawl was that tonight an oil lamp had been sent flying by a wayward swing of a fist, and the fire had spread quickly through the old and rotten timber.
In the commotion of the fight and the stampede away from the blaze he had lost sight of her, and could do nothing to stop himself from being swept outside with the crowds. He couldn't just stand and idly watch whilst she perished inside – they had been through so much together.
The danger to himself never even crossed his mind as he wrapped his shirt around his face and plunged through the smouldering doorway. Smoke filled the dark and airless room, stinging his eyes through the thin fabric of his shirt as he frantically swept the room looking for her. The heat was almost unbearable, and he could hear a symphony of cracks and pops as the bottles of cheap liquor behind the bar succumbed to the heat one by one. The beams holding up the low ceiling were groaning under the strain, as the old building slowly disintegrated around him. The flames were getting stronger, and the room brighter, as the fire spread and spread. The smoke rolled around the room in waves, as the blaze sucked in oxygen from outside to feed an insatiable appetite for anything that would burn.
Suddenly, through the smoke he saw her lying in a heap on the stage, already covered in thick soot, looking trampled and broken in the hellish light. He scooped her up into his arms, afraid to hold her too tight in case he made worse her already
fragile state.
The noise and smoke had distracted him, and only now he realised that the door through which he had recklessly plunged only minutes before was now impassable, a chunk of ceiling having collapsed before it, blocking his means of escape.
Once more he pulled his shirt tight around his face, and with a strength and clarity of purpose that comes only to a mind and body coursing with adrenaline, he leapt through the grimy window and into the street beyond. The weakened frame gave way easily with an explosion of glass, and he was back out into the open air, gasping for breath, coughing and spluttering as his body fought for oxygen, and his lungs screamed of the heat and smoke he had endured to save her.
The street was still full of the bar's occupants, most of whom had stayed to watch the death of their favourite back-street watering hole, and they now crowded round him, yelling and shouting.
“Man, you must be fucking crazy! You any idea how stupid that was? You ran into a burning building for a trumpet?”
This story is taken from Matthew's collection of short stories, Fifty/Fifty and other stories
In the commotion of the fight and the stampede away from the blaze he had lost sight of her, and could do nothing to stop himself from being swept outside with the crowds. He couldn't just stand and idly watch whilst she perished inside – they had been through so much together.
The danger to himself never even crossed his mind as he wrapped his shirt around his face and plunged through the smouldering doorway. Smoke filled the dark and airless room, stinging his eyes through the thin fabric of his shirt as he frantically swept the room looking for her. The heat was almost unbearable, and he could hear a symphony of cracks and pops as the bottles of cheap liquor behind the bar succumbed to the heat one by one. The beams holding up the low ceiling were groaning under the strain, as the old building slowly disintegrated around him. The flames were getting stronger, and the room brighter, as the fire spread and spread. The smoke rolled around the room in waves, as the blaze sucked in oxygen from outside to feed an insatiable appetite for anything that would burn.
Suddenly, through the smoke he saw her lying in a heap on the stage, already covered in thick soot, looking trampled and broken in the hellish light. He scooped her up into his arms, afraid to hold her too tight in case he made worse her already
fragile state.
The noise and smoke had distracted him, and only now he realised that the door through which he had recklessly plunged only minutes before was now impassable, a chunk of ceiling having collapsed before it, blocking his means of escape.
Once more he pulled his shirt tight around his face, and with a strength and clarity of purpose that comes only to a mind and body coursing with adrenaline, he leapt through the grimy window and into the street beyond. The weakened frame gave way easily with an explosion of glass, and he was back out into the open air, gasping for breath, coughing and spluttering as his body fought for oxygen, and his lungs screamed of the heat and smoke he had endured to save her.
The street was still full of the bar's occupants, most of whom had stayed to watch the death of their favourite back-street watering hole, and they now crowded round him, yelling and shouting.
“Man, you must be fucking crazy! You any idea how stupid that was? You ran into a burning building for a trumpet?”
This story is taken from Matthew's collection of short stories, Fifty/Fifty and other stories
The Liar
In the past twenty-four hours, I have convinced various people that I am a fireman, that I make my own shoes, that I am a qualified pilot, that my middle name is Wenceslas, and that I have an inoperable brain tumour. Only one of these things is true.
This morning I am dressed in a sumptuous designer suit. The leather soles of my polished Italian shoes tip-tap across the marble floor of the corporate bank’s lobby. At the reception desk I shoot my cuffs to make sure the pretty girl sitting there gets a good look at my onyx cuff-links and silver Patek-Philippe watch. In one hand there is an expensive briefcase, and under my other arm a rolled-up copy of the Financial Times.
“Hello, my dear,” I say, in a well-practised drawl, “here to see the old man.”
“Excuse me?” she says, one eyebrow raised in confusion. I look back at her without saying anything.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks.
I can see that she is caught off-balance from my unexpected manner, and by the smile which I flash at her.
I swing my briefcase up and onto the counter, my thumbs opening sprung catches slickly with a snick and a snap that makes her flinch ever so slightly in her seat. There is a stray lock of hair caught in her telephone headset. I make sure she sees the gold monogrammed letters on the side of the briefcase:
P.R.T.C.
I hand her a letter printed on heavily weighted paper, an official letterhead at the top and signed with a flourish and a fountain pen at the bottom.
“Bear with me, sir,” she says, her cheeks a shade or two pinker than when I walked in. I stand over her as she makes the call, and I can hear her heartbeat in her voice as she announces me. She nods at whatever is said on the other end of the line.
“Please go on up, sir,” she says, motioning towards the private elevator behind a velvet rope and a rather large security guard in a black suit. “Mr. Cooper will see you straight away.”
“I thought he might,” I say, trying not to smirk.
The psychiatrist at the last institution of which I was a resident told me that lying is not a compulsion for me. It is simply that I enjoy it so much. I tend to agree. I have never felt the need to explain it away with Freudian babble about parental relationships and ego versus id versus super ego. I just get a kick out of it.
The elevator is lavish. The carpet sucks at my shoes, running to teak panelling on either side of a mirror in which I admire my outfit, the slicked back hair, the tie pin with the exclusive gentleman’s club motif. There are no buttons to press as I rise towards the top floor of the building. I have to admit I am more than a little impressed with myself, and the ease with which I disarmed the receptionist, and her sentinel with the bulge of an automatic pistol under his left armpit. As always, it pays to look the part.
The doors swish open onto more marble and another receptionist, this one much prettier than the first. I ignore her completely and push through the double doors she is ostensibly guarding.
“Hey!” she shouts after me. “Hey! You can’t... Sir!”
Her voice is drowned out as the doors shut behind me, heavy and soundproof. More thick carpeting covers the floor, a deep burgundy colour from wall to wall. A window fifty feet or more across looks out over the city, auto-chromatically darkened to suit the mood of the office. The furniture looks German art-house, minimalist but expensive in front of the great slab of a desk, some kind of dark wood, one piece appearing to levitate on top of another which rises perpendicular to the floor. Behind it sits a man who is not used to being walked in on.
He has a full head of dark and lustrous hair, suspicious for a man of his age – he will be eighty-two in just over a month’s time. Beady blue eyes watch me from behind thin-rimmed glasses. The thick knot of his tie makes his scrawny neck appear long and thin, patches of age showing on his cheeks and throat. He wears a tailored vest over his shirt, the chain from a pocket watch dangling free. The suit jacket hangs on a cheap coat stand which looks out of place amongst the opulence of the room. He lays the phone he is using back in its cradle without a word as I stride across the vast expanse of deep pile towards him.
“Paul,” he says, “it’s been a long time.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” I say. “A very long time.”
“Are you here to give me back my money?” he asks.
“I’m here to take what is rightfully mine,” I say.
He begins to rise from his chair, pulling himself from the seat with a wheeze.
“You snivelling little bastard!” he shouts. He begins to reach into a concealed panel in his desk. He is shaking, whether from rage or effort it is difficult to say.
“Not so fast, old man.” I draw a matte black revolver from inside my suit jacket and point it at him. “Keep your hands out of that drawer.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
“Really? And why not? It’s not as if anyone can hear us. Soundproofing might have been a great idea when you were having your way with that long line of pretty secretaries, but I’m sure you’re regretting it now.”
“You’re just like your father,” he says, sneering with contempt. “A good-for-nothing, waster little shit who doesn’t know the meaning of hard work. You think you can just take what you like and be done with the consequences.”
I laugh at him.
“What about you?” I say. “You cheated poor, vulnerable people out of their money for half your fortune, and stole the rest. Don’t try to tell me that you’ve developed a sense of morality in your old age?”
He sits down suddenly, sinking into his leather chair.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“Nothing much,” I say. “All I want is for you to sign this piece of paper”. I set my briefcase on the floor carefully, and reach into my breast pocket whilst keeping the gun trained on the old man.
“The Last Will and Testament of Robert Thompson Cooper? You think you can change my will and then murder me? And get away with it? There are cameras throughout the building; even now you are being recorded! You are a fool!” He gestures towards the camera in the uppermost corner of the room, which blinks red from its digital eye.
“Sign it.”
With a heavy pen he scratches his name across the sheet of paper. I take it, refolding it carefully as I place it back in my breast pocket. Without another word I shoot him in the centre of the forehead. The thick carpets and wall hangings absorb the gunshot. I leave the briefcase behind and walk out of the room.
“Mr Cooper does not wish to be disturbed,” I tell the secretary.
“Yes, Sir,” she replies.
The limousine I rented drops me off at a discreet but fashionable hotel, where I return to my room and order room service. I turn on the shower and place some money on the table. I leave the room, and use the fire escape to access the floor above where in another room I change out of my outfit, shower and remove the prosthetics, which add four stone to my frame, and alter the shape of my face.
Six months later, I am dressed in casual attire; jeans which are frayed around the bottom, a T-shirt which has seen better days and a pair of dusty cowboy boots which I picked up years ago backpacking across Texas. I sit on a folding chair in the conference suite of an upmarket hotel with a large group of people in dark suits and demure dresses. They eye me with puzzlement.
“Thank you all for coming,” says a lawyer who stands at the front of the room at a lectern. “This is the reading of the last will and testament of Robert Thompson Cooper. I shall begin.”
The room is quiet. I clear my throat to the annoyance of everyone else, cross my legs and sit back to listen.
“I, Robert Thompson Cooper,” says the lawyer, “do hereby and knowingly, sound of body and of mind, bequeath my entire estate to ...”
Here the lawyer pauses. He looks over the top of half-moon glasses at the family seated in the front rows.
“Arthur Wenceslas Brown...”
There is a gasp and I can hear them asking amongst themselves, “Who?”
“The illegitimate son of my secretary Dorothy Brown, who retired in poor health after years of sexual abuse at my hands.”
I stand and walk to the front of the room.
“Thank you” I say, shaking the lawyer’s hand. “Thank you very much indeed.”
This story is taken from Matthew's collection of short stories, The Liar and other stories
This morning I am dressed in a sumptuous designer suit. The leather soles of my polished Italian shoes tip-tap across the marble floor of the corporate bank’s lobby. At the reception desk I shoot my cuffs to make sure the pretty girl sitting there gets a good look at my onyx cuff-links and silver Patek-Philippe watch. In one hand there is an expensive briefcase, and under my other arm a rolled-up copy of the Financial Times.
“Hello, my dear,” I say, in a well-practised drawl, “here to see the old man.”
“Excuse me?” she says, one eyebrow raised in confusion. I look back at her without saying anything.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks.
I can see that she is caught off-balance from my unexpected manner, and by the smile which I flash at her.
I swing my briefcase up and onto the counter, my thumbs opening sprung catches slickly with a snick and a snap that makes her flinch ever so slightly in her seat. There is a stray lock of hair caught in her telephone headset. I make sure she sees the gold monogrammed letters on the side of the briefcase:
P.R.T.C.
I hand her a letter printed on heavily weighted paper, an official letterhead at the top and signed with a flourish and a fountain pen at the bottom.
“Bear with me, sir,” she says, her cheeks a shade or two pinker than when I walked in. I stand over her as she makes the call, and I can hear her heartbeat in her voice as she announces me. She nods at whatever is said on the other end of the line.
“Please go on up, sir,” she says, motioning towards the private elevator behind a velvet rope and a rather large security guard in a black suit. “Mr. Cooper will see you straight away.”
“I thought he might,” I say, trying not to smirk.
The psychiatrist at the last institution of which I was a resident told me that lying is not a compulsion for me. It is simply that I enjoy it so much. I tend to agree. I have never felt the need to explain it away with Freudian babble about parental relationships and ego versus id versus super ego. I just get a kick out of it.
The elevator is lavish. The carpet sucks at my shoes, running to teak panelling on either side of a mirror in which I admire my outfit, the slicked back hair, the tie pin with the exclusive gentleman’s club motif. There are no buttons to press as I rise towards the top floor of the building. I have to admit I am more than a little impressed with myself, and the ease with which I disarmed the receptionist, and her sentinel with the bulge of an automatic pistol under his left armpit. As always, it pays to look the part.
The doors swish open onto more marble and another receptionist, this one much prettier than the first. I ignore her completely and push through the double doors she is ostensibly guarding.
“Hey!” she shouts after me. “Hey! You can’t... Sir!”
Her voice is drowned out as the doors shut behind me, heavy and soundproof. More thick carpeting covers the floor, a deep burgundy colour from wall to wall. A window fifty feet or more across looks out over the city, auto-chromatically darkened to suit the mood of the office. The furniture looks German art-house, minimalist but expensive in front of the great slab of a desk, some kind of dark wood, one piece appearing to levitate on top of another which rises perpendicular to the floor. Behind it sits a man who is not used to being walked in on.
He has a full head of dark and lustrous hair, suspicious for a man of his age – he will be eighty-two in just over a month’s time. Beady blue eyes watch me from behind thin-rimmed glasses. The thick knot of his tie makes his scrawny neck appear long and thin, patches of age showing on his cheeks and throat. He wears a tailored vest over his shirt, the chain from a pocket watch dangling free. The suit jacket hangs on a cheap coat stand which looks out of place amongst the opulence of the room. He lays the phone he is using back in its cradle without a word as I stride across the vast expanse of deep pile towards him.
“Paul,” he says, “it’s been a long time.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” I say. “A very long time.”
“Are you here to give me back my money?” he asks.
“I’m here to take what is rightfully mine,” I say.
He begins to rise from his chair, pulling himself from the seat with a wheeze.
“You snivelling little bastard!” he shouts. He begins to reach into a concealed panel in his desk. He is shaking, whether from rage or effort it is difficult to say.
“Not so fast, old man.” I draw a matte black revolver from inside my suit jacket and point it at him. “Keep your hands out of that drawer.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
“Really? And why not? It’s not as if anyone can hear us. Soundproofing might have been a great idea when you were having your way with that long line of pretty secretaries, but I’m sure you’re regretting it now.”
“You’re just like your father,” he says, sneering with contempt. “A good-for-nothing, waster little shit who doesn’t know the meaning of hard work. You think you can just take what you like and be done with the consequences.”
I laugh at him.
“What about you?” I say. “You cheated poor, vulnerable people out of their money for half your fortune, and stole the rest. Don’t try to tell me that you’ve developed a sense of morality in your old age?”
He sits down suddenly, sinking into his leather chair.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“Nothing much,” I say. “All I want is for you to sign this piece of paper”. I set my briefcase on the floor carefully, and reach into my breast pocket whilst keeping the gun trained on the old man.
“The Last Will and Testament of Robert Thompson Cooper? You think you can change my will and then murder me? And get away with it? There are cameras throughout the building; even now you are being recorded! You are a fool!” He gestures towards the camera in the uppermost corner of the room, which blinks red from its digital eye.
“Sign it.”
With a heavy pen he scratches his name across the sheet of paper. I take it, refolding it carefully as I place it back in my breast pocket. Without another word I shoot him in the centre of the forehead. The thick carpets and wall hangings absorb the gunshot. I leave the briefcase behind and walk out of the room.
“Mr Cooper does not wish to be disturbed,” I tell the secretary.
“Yes, Sir,” she replies.
The limousine I rented drops me off at a discreet but fashionable hotel, where I return to my room and order room service. I turn on the shower and place some money on the table. I leave the room, and use the fire escape to access the floor above where in another room I change out of my outfit, shower and remove the prosthetics, which add four stone to my frame, and alter the shape of my face.
Six months later, I am dressed in casual attire; jeans which are frayed around the bottom, a T-shirt which has seen better days and a pair of dusty cowboy boots which I picked up years ago backpacking across Texas. I sit on a folding chair in the conference suite of an upmarket hotel with a large group of people in dark suits and demure dresses. They eye me with puzzlement.
“Thank you all for coming,” says a lawyer who stands at the front of the room at a lectern. “This is the reading of the last will and testament of Robert Thompson Cooper. I shall begin.”
The room is quiet. I clear my throat to the annoyance of everyone else, cross my legs and sit back to listen.
“I, Robert Thompson Cooper,” says the lawyer, “do hereby and knowingly, sound of body and of mind, bequeath my entire estate to ...”
Here the lawyer pauses. He looks over the top of half-moon glasses at the family seated in the front rows.
“Arthur Wenceslas Brown...”
There is a gasp and I can hear them asking amongst themselves, “Who?”
“The illegitimate son of my secretary Dorothy Brown, who retired in poor health after years of sexual abuse at my hands.”
I stand and walk to the front of the room.
“Thank you” I say, shaking the lawyer’s hand. “Thank you very much indeed.”
This story is taken from Matthew's collection of short stories, The Liar and other stories