“Jack,” she said.

“His case is, truly, a most singular one. I’m sure you already know that he was the last person to die before the death sentence was repealed.

“The facts regarding his relationship with Clio are common knowledge, easily accessible through the records of their time, combining to form the ‘objective truth’.”

She smiled, “Jack, however, would say that ‘Facts, truth and objectivity are not clear-cut.’“

I first saw her in a magazine. She was seventeen at the time, modelling for some extra cash.

I was twenty-two. Don’t ask me stupid questions, Doctor. Are you even a real doctor? You seem too young.

You know what I think?

I think you’re a promisingly bright student, and they sent you in here to give you a shot at getting the basketcase to talk.

Ah, humility, how I miss thy rosy cheeks. Do you know why you’re really here?

You’re here because they think I might be interested in some fresh young pussy. But they’re wrong. You’ll get your interview, though, because everyone needs a break. Maybe someone will see this and fall in love with your brain the way I fell in love with her face, yes?

Now hush up; nothing offends more than someone who thinks they know everything.

I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. Need I go into details? Everyone in the country loves her – that elliptic smile, the depths of those eyes, the seamless flow from lady to whore as occasion demands. She’s a goddess. The greatest icon this century will ever know.

She inspired me.

Do you know what is the psychotic thing about stalkers?

A stalker believes that he has a real relationship with his stalkee. His world is one where there is a full two-way flow; she knows him, as he knows her. But she has been separated from him, cruelly, to both their demerit. Or she has spurned him, left him behind in her quest for fame and glory. Unlike pubescent celebrity-worship, like any true psychotic, the stalker cannot separate the fantasy from the reality.

Dear Jack,

I am not sure if I should be writing to you. Maybe I should tell you that I am sorry for all that you have gone through, but I sense that you will rather have the truth than the hollowness of a lie.

Maybe I shouldn’t tell you that I am sorry that you have stopped writing me your letters, or I have been stopped from receiving them.

No, I am truly sorry for your travail, but I am not sorry for being the instrument of your imprisonment. I was young and afraid, and I didn’t know any better.

I take one of your books with me wherever I go – the beauty of your verse lends me strength in the cold darkness of these nights. The nights are getting longer. You know, of course, that I am “over-exposed”. One too many billboard, one too many magazine cover. My first two, my only two, movies were flops of the most dismal kind. I don’t think I can afford another failure.

I write you now (selfishly, I admit) to beseech your help. The critics, the directors, even my once-adoring co-stars are quick to confirm my status as pariah. They say I lack “spark”, whatever that means. I am surrounded by fools, and so I turn to you. My agent tells me I may have a chance at a role, if enough people decline it before me.

I do not know how, or if you can, help me, but I pray that you find it in the greatness of your heart to try.

Yours sincerely,
Clio

1/1001

Dearest Muse,

It would, indeed, please me more to drink from the cup of truth than the bowl of illusions. You have never lied to me – have, in fact, convicted me with your testimony sworn – I see no reason why you should start now.

Be sorry, be otherwise, I have no regrets. I am in a prison, not a hospital. My cell is full of you, and I am allowed to do pretty much as I please. They care only for my body, my mind and soul are free to roam the landscapes of my choosing. The reason there are no letters is simply because I have stopped writing them – Occam’s razor, beautiful one. The simplest explanation is the most likely.

It is good to know that you enjoy my work. Allow me to tell you something, about the muse and the artist – it is the artist who gains immortality, while the muse is forgotten save by scholars and the most loyal of fans. Even now you see this curse starting its effect.

A model, like a muse, needs only exist. An actress, like a poet, needs something else.

And, might I add, models, muses and actresses are not clear-cut.

Yours faithfully,
Jack

The letters of Jack and Clio during the term of his first incarceration survive to us intact only through the copies Jack made of his replies. There have been endless analysis from various standpoints – psychological, literary, even sociological – most notably “Beauty and the Beast: The Letters of Jack and Clio”.

Two things are common to a significant amount of studies.

Jack numbered each of his letters, one to a thousand-and-one; he stopped all correspondence thereafter. Although Clio kept sending him mail, these were neither replied to nor kept, it is possible he didn’t even read them, though they were not returned. After he had stopped replying, she tried several times to visit him. He refused her each time.

It is not known what significance was ascribed by Jack to the thousand-and-one figure. Two theories prevail –

The first states that that is the exact number of letters he sent her before his incarceration, and he holds it as a sort of poetic justice that the number of wanted letters should not exceed the number of unwanted ones.

The second theory states that the thousand-and-one is a parallel – albeit an inverted one – to Shahrazad’s thousand-and-one nights. That Clio, like Shahrazad, sought to preserve her life – her career – through the tales is used to illustrate this fact. Another point lies in the first letter and its mention of the immortality of the muse and the artist – the King’s name is forgotten while Shahrazad’s lives on.

The second common thread through the various studies lie in the tone of the writing over the course of the 2002 letters.

Jack never wavered from the cool intellectism he is recognised for – recognised everywhere, at least, without the passionate intensity of his poetic work. In each letter, he addresses her’s, point by point, and concludes with a story about a story; a meta-story. These vary widely in length, but always begin with “Allow me to tell you something, about...”. After that title, the meta-story would be something contextual to her concerns – though not always obviously so.

A side debate concerns the originality of these meta-stories, since some of them are quite obviously the “morals” of common tales. One side maintains that he repeats or creates as he sees fit, another side maintains that none of the thousand-and-one stories are true; that he deliberately pillaged them, as Shahrazad’s tales are a collection of folklore.

Clio’s letters would be surprising to an onlooker – it is generally agreed that in the course of their correspondence she fell in love with him.

In each of her letters, she would begin by thanking him for his advice, and continue to tell him of the fruits of her efforts; efforts, for the most part, guided by him. She would tell him of her current concerns, desperate for his assessment and wisdom. Unlike the confident persona she is publicly known for, she appears in the letters as alternatively confused and lovestruck, insecure of her relationship with him. Some would also point out her clichιd use of imagery and childish attempts at verse, but I personally feel that she writes well enough for one whose only need for the written word is this one correspondence.

The frequency of the letters indicate that they were replied to within the day of their receipt. The entire course of the correspondence started a year into his confinement and ended six months before the end of his seven-year term. He published four books of his poetry during his initial incarceration.

A fact that is commonly forgotten is the nature of the surviving letters. Jack’s copies of his replies may or may not be his actual replies. He could have changed and edited his stories, he could have separated from his cold tone, nurtured her growing need for him. He could have written anything.

Heart of my Heart,

I know you know, but nothing feels real until I have said it to you. I am officially the “comeback of the decade”. The offers are steaming in. People who won’t give me the time of day before are asking me how high they can jump for me.

My life is now perfect (every little girl’s dream!) except for one thing. You.

I wish you would consent to let me try and get you out of there. I believe in your innocence. I am so sorry that I overreacted and got you into so much trouble. You didn’t even try and rape me, and now I wish you had and I had let you.

You have ignored the question many times before, but I ask you again, what do the numbers on your letters mean? I cannot help but notice that it is now 1000/1001. Please, please tell me, before I fall into the pits of madness.

Yours, forever,
Clio

1001/1001

Dearest Muse,

Again, I am forced to tell you that you are not to blame. I repeat myself;

I am as innocent of my crimes as I am guilty. I was, indeed, carrying a firearm on that fatal night, though I meant to draw the mightier pen from my jacket when you started screaming. The self-same pen that I used in writing to you numerous times before, in the hope that you would appreciate the work that I had written in your name.

That scream was, of course, the turning point of my life. I had never sought publication nor wealth nor fame, and one after the other came offered to me. Again, I thank you.

With the media behind the hot young supermodel and her very first stalker, the court had no choice but to give me the maximum sentence for every possible charge they could come up with. My letters to you were threatening, if something as nebulous as “obsession” could be considered such. My firearm could have been intended for you, if it meant I could stay alive to write for you. I had, indeed, travelled across the country to see you that one night, but so had many other people.

Crime, innocence and guilt are not clear-cut, I reiterate.

The numbers mean exactly what you fear they mean – try and recall what I have told you before about fear.

Now, allow me to tell you something, about a pair of star-crossed lovers – they were young and in love, but separated by the circumstances of their time. Through the rose-tinted glasses of our current age of enlightenment, we find the reasons of their separation ridiculous and petty, in the realm of unbelievable fantasy. And yet these reasons were real enough for them, be they race, religion, age or birth.

But the lovers would consummate their union, even if all that meant was to die in each other’s arms.

You are thinking the story to be Romeo and Juliet’s. That is true, but it is also the story of Hades and Persephone, and many other stories besides, and they always end in tears – sometimes of sorrow, sometimes of joy. If I remember correctly such is the tale of the Butterfly Lovers, but I cannot confirm that because they do not have Chinese literature here.

Such is the nature of Love – someone whom you would not sacrifice everything for is not worth sacrificing anything for.

Yours faithfully,
Jack

That final line of Jack’s final letter is another point of endless contention.

It would appear he drew it out as the “moral” of numerous love stories – self-sacrifice for the sake of the lover. The line indicates that “conditional love” does not qualify as love at all. Jack wrote a lot about his ideal of Love in numerous places, and proposes the question, “What would you do for your lover that you would not normally do? Something entirely for their benefit, with no gain for yourself save their joy. What price, indeed, would you pay, to secure for them that single moment of joy?”

“That last present you gave,” Jack writes, “was it something that would remind them of you, or was it something with no connection to you save that you gifted it?”

You will recall, of course, that Jack is not a religious man. He makes no mention of Christ or Cross in his writings on Love, though certainly the parallel is not lost to him – quite likely he made a deliberate effort to avoid the metaphor. Similarly, he makes no mention of mother and child, or any other form of love. His writings are strictly restricted to a couple of male and female, a choice from his personal experience and to ease his writing; he was supportive of the gay movement. It is possible that he was bisexual or homosexual – he makes a clear distinction between love and lust, between the ideal emotive and the sensorial.

Jack further states, “Selfishness, selflessness and sacrifice are not clear-cut.”

A week after that last letter, she made her first visit to his prison. He had cautioned her against it as it would negatively affect her public image; she took his word on that, as she had in everything else. However, with a silence resonating too loudly for her peace of mind, she could withstand it no longer and attempted to visit him. He declined to see her. The media crucified her.

The publicity also made her current movie the surprise hit of that year. That it would be a hit was guaranteed by her name, that it would dominate the year was not. Had she expected this? Or did she sacrifice her career simply to have a word with him?

Her subsequent visits, as expected, were of little interest. Like Elvis sightings and celebrity affairs, they justified no more than a lonely line in the gossip columns.

Also as expected, the media was out in full force on the day of his release. She went to pick him up in her limousine.

The gates opened. He stepped out, announced that his newest book – the last published during his lifetime – would be released that day, to coincide with his redemption and return to society. Then he politely asked to be granted some space, since he had had so little of it for the past seven years.

The crowd parted. He did not walk towards her, standing by the car, wearing her yearning like a dress, pleading in her eyes. He spared her barely a glance in passing, before he walked down the road, providing the first of the two most often seen pictures of that day.

She turned around, mascara trails of tears across her face, and entered her car; providing the second picture.

The fire that night is amply recorded.

Clio had returned to her mansion in a state of distress and disarray. She had dismissed her entire staff, and had begun drinking before she had even reached home. She had refused to see anyone, friends or colleagues alike. No phone calls were made or received. Clio’s manager, her closest friend, was the final one to depart her mansion, the last person to see her alive.

The blaze was so thorough as to leave little in the way of evidence as to its origin. A female body was recovered when the fire was finally brought under control. It cannot be certain, but it is assumed, to be Clio’s.

A lot has been said about the effects of alcohol, that it may cause accidents or compound grief. While the twenty-three members of her staff all swear to her state of agitation, despair and inebriation that day, they would also swear to something else, had that question been asked of them – Clio was a most accomplished actress.

Jack had given her her spark.

Jack was arrested that same night, while he was attempting to leave the city.

He displayed no affect when he was told the news. The lack of surprise would be used by the prosecution in their case.

He had no alibi, he pleaded guilty.

By right of every citizen in a capital crime, a trial was mandated. He chose to represent himself. Every chance he had to speak, he would recite one of his many poems. The judge gravely noted that contempt of court would hardly be a worthy threat to one already on trial for his life. An attorney was appointed to defend him, his privilege to speak revoked.

Jack was deemed to be of sound mind, the defence of insanity thrown out. However circumstantial the evidence was, the judge did not believe in coincidence. Nor did he find it plausible that the greatest star of that generation would take her own life at the height of her career. He believed that a man who had tried to shoot her once would very likely complete the job the moment he was free to do so. He believed it beyond reasonable doubt.

Due process, as long as it took, didn’t amount to the seven years of his initial term of incarceration. He was sentenced to die by firing squad, for murder in the first degree.

“Allow me to tell you something,” Jack writes, “about the firing squad –

“The squad is comprised of seven men, all of whom are to aim for the heart. Six of those men are armed with blanks, only the seventh with a live round.

“The theory behind this is that no man can be sure that it was he that had fired the fatal round. Yet, I cannot help but realise that if I were the type of man who would lose sleep over having killed someone, I would as well lose sleep over having possibly killed someone. Likely, I would lose more sleep, musing over the possibility instead of dealing with the certainty.”

“Also,” Jack adds, “you would have to coerce no more than three people – the officer who prepares the rounds, the doctor who proclaims the death and the unfortunate who removes the corpse – to live through the experience of the firing squad.”

He concludes with “Blanks, bullets and death are not clear-cut.”

Jack was the last person to die before the death sentence was repealed.

He left behind one final collection of poetry, published posthumously, and the two-thousand-and-two letters of his correspondence with Clio.