The Basement

by Stephen Leather

  I shrug like I don't care. I haven't broken any laws. They're in my apartment illegally. I'm cool. ‘Have the people I've been waiting to see complained? Or are we just talking about a few bolshie doormen or secretaries?’

  Marcinko looks at Turner. Something passes between them. Like telepathy.

  ‘What's going on?’ I ask. I hate it when people try to pull one over on me, like they think they're smarter than I am or something.

  Marcinko is the one to answer. ‘You know what this city is like, Marvin. People get uneasy when strangers are around. We'd prefer it if in future you put your scripts in the mail.’ She pauses. Then smiles. ‘Okay?’

  I pause. I smile. ‘Okay.’

  I show them to the door and they leave without saying anything else. I'm sure I haven't seen the last of them.

  * * *

  You dried the spittle from her chin while she was unconscious, on a handkerchief that's now back in your jacket pocket. Her breathing becomes less like a snore and gradually her eyes begin to flicker. You wait patiently for her to awaken. There's no rush. You have all the time in the world.

  She has trouble focusing her eyes and it's obvious that at first she thinks she's dreaming, then she tries to move her arms and she feels the chains bite and it all rushes back. You hold the stun gun out and you can see the fear in her eyes. She shakes her head but before she can speak you tell her that you'll only use it if she disobeys you. Obedience, you tell her, is all you require. And your first instruction is that she is not to speak, only to listen. You ask her if she understands and she begins to say yes, but you raise the stun gun and she nods instead. Good, you tell her, that's good. She smiles like an uneasy child and you put the stun gun into your pocket. Out of sight but not out of mind.

  You speak quietly, almost whispering so that she has to strain to catch each word. You tell her about the room in which she's being held, that it's underground, totally soundproofed and impossible for her to escape from.

  You explain about the door, how it's made of steel and operated by a numbered combination that has to be keyed in to a small metal panel. You show her the panel and you tell her that if any attempt is made to force it open it will lock shut. You explain that there's no key, and that there are thousands of combinations. After three wrong attempts, it will lock shut.

  You walk up to her and look her straight in the eyes. Her beautiful, blue eyes. You spell it out for her. If she does manage to incapacitate you, there is no way she can escape from the room. If she ever hopes to get out, it will only be because you allow it. And you will only allow it if you have her total and complete obedience. You're lying, of course, but you know that they'll grasp any straw you offer them in an attempt to stay alive. She nods meekly, but you're not fooled. Conversion doesn't take place that quietly, no matter how much the stun gun hurts. Pretty little Sarah might be smiling and nodding and moistening her full lips and giving off all the signals that she's yours to do with as you want, but you're too good a judge of human nature to let her pull the wool over your eyes. She thinks she's smarter than you, that she can lull you into a false sense of security and then catch you unawares. She's not the first, and she won't be the last.

  You ask her if she wants a drink of water and she nods. You pick the paper cup off the tiled floor and hold it to her lips and keep it there as she drinks. When she's finished you take it away. She licks her lips and thanks you. You slap her face, hard, and tell her that she isn't to speak. Tears well up in her big, blue eyes.

  You smile reassuringly as a red glow spreads across her left cheek. You can clearly see the marks your fingers left, red streaks across her soft white skin. You reach up to touch her cheek and she flinches like a whipped dog. You smile reassuringly and brush her hair behind her ear.

  ‘Please don't hurt me,’ she says, her voice wavering. The heartfelt plea gives you a thrill deep inside. You tell her that everything is going to be okay so long as she does as she's told. It's a lie and the way she nods eagerly, grabbing at the words like a drowning man fumbling for a lifebelt, excite you beyond words. The training has begun.

  * * *

  I reread the Chain Male comedy and laugh out loud as I prowl around the apartment. It's good, even if I do say so myself. I decide to have another go at getting it to Woody Allen. It's a cold day but I decide to walk anyway. On the way up to Fifth Avenue I have an idea. A cracker, a sort of black comedy. I'll call it The Jinx, something like that. It's about a guy, an ordinary guy called Ralph Delaney. Ralph is jinxed - wherever he is, whatever he's doing, bad things happen to people. At his high school sports day a pole vaulter is impaled on his pole, a swimmer drowns. At college, a professor is electrocuted while demonstrating a scientific experiment, buses crash after Ralph gets off, buildings burn down after he leaves them.

  Ralph is blissfully unaware that he is the unwitting cause of the disasters, though he himself always emerges unscathed. He gets a video recorder as a graduation present and carries it everywhere. Before long he's capturing the most amazing rescues and disasters on video and sells them to TV reality shows and news broadcasts. He is soon offered a staff job as a cameraman on a local TV station, and his career flourishes - no matter on what job he's sent, something bizarre happens and he captures it on film. His jinx means he never fails to get a big story and is close to landing a job with one of the networks. Then he meets a girl and falls in love. The jinx vanishes and his career stalls. He loses the girl and the jinx returns. Ralph realizes he must choose between love and his career. It's a great first act, all I need is the rest of the story.

  I can't stop grinning as I walk and I get a few doubtful looks from passers-by. New York isn't a city where people smile in the streets, unless they've overdosed on their medication. Bearing in mind what happened last time, I wait some distance away from the main entrance. After a while, I start pacing up and down, trying to work out the second act of The Jinx. I'm so engrossed in the plot that I don't notice the two figures behind me until one of them speaks.

  ‘Mr Waller?’

  At first the voice doesn't register and I carry on walking with my head down. ‘Mr Waller?’

  I turn around. It's Marcinko and Turner. Turner is glaring at me but Marcinko has a butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth smile plastered across her face. ‘I told you, Mr Waller is my father.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Marvin?’

  Turner walks behind me and stands there as if he thinks I'm going to run away. ‘Just waiting,’ I say.

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘Am I committing an offence?’

  ‘I'm simply asking you a question, Marvin.’

  ‘Fuck this, let's just take him down to the station,’ says Turner. I don't even bother to look at him, I just continue smiling at the angelic face of Officer Marcinko. She has a beautiful mouth.

  ‘Am I catching a train?’ I ask.

  ‘Funny man,’ says Turner. ‘Funny, funny man.’

  ‘What's that?’ asks Marcinko, nodding at the envelope.

  ‘An envelope.’

  ‘Do you mind if I take a look at it?’

  ‘Yes. I do mind.’

  Turner puts a heavy hand on my shoulder and squeezes. ‘We want to look at the envelope.’

  Still I don't look at him. ‘I am withholding my consent. Unless you have reasonable articulable suspicion that I have committed an offence, you cannot officially stop and search me. Are we clear on that?’

  ‘We've had a complaint from the building owners,’ says Marcinko.

  ‘Not good enough,’ I say. ‘You'll need more than that for a Terry stop.’

  ‘You know about Terry stops, do you?’ growls Turner. ‘Quite the little lawyer, aren't we?’

  ‘You're certainly not, Detective Sergeant Turner, or you wouldn't be wearing out your shoes on the city's sidewalks. And you wouldn't have such a cheap watch on your wrist.’

  A Terry stop refers to the Supreme Court case which established that the police are allowed to question a suspect providin
g they have what's called reasonable articulable suspicion. Just a feeling that something is amiss won't do, they have to be able to explain what made them think something illegal was going on. And even then they only have the right to frisk for weapons, they can't go through pockets or do a strip search. For that they need a warrant, or an arrest. And neither are possible without probable cause. Standing on a street corner with an envelope isn't probable cause. No way. I know it and they know it so I just stand and smile and tell them no, they can't look at the envelope. So long as I don't try to run away or make any threatening gestures, they can't do anything to me.

  ‘Who are you waiting for?’ Marcinko asks.

  ‘Officer Marcinko, you know who I am, I've explained that I'm waiting for someone, unless you feel that you have probable cause to make an arrest, I'd rather you left me alone.’

  Turner tightens his grip on my shoulder.

  ‘And I regard that as physical detention against my will, and an infringement of my rights under the Fourth Amendment.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ says Turner, but he moves his hand. Marcinko frowns at him, then smiles at me. She's so transparent, this one. So used to getting her way on the back of her looks.

  ‘Marvin. Please show me the envelope.’

  The magic word. She said the magic word. For that she deserves to be rewarded. I show it to her. She reads the name and address and then hands it back.

  ‘We did ask you not to hang around outside buildings, Marvin. Why didn't you mail it?’

  ‘I don't trust the doorman.’

  ‘The doorman can't stop the mail.’

  ‘You think not?’

  ‘Mr Allen isn't the only person who lives in this block, Marvin. There are a lot of single women.’

  ‘You think I'm a stalker, is that it?’

  ‘Or worse,’ growls Turner. ‘Why don't you fuck off to LA, Waller. There's lots of directors and producers in La-La Land. You could really make a nuisance of yourself out there.’

  ‘Are you trying to run me out of town, sheriff?’

  ‘No one's trying to run you out of town, Marvin,’ says Marcinko.

  ‘But you'd be a lot happier out there, that's for sure,’ says Turner. ‘Sun, sand, starlets. Why don't you go buy yourself a one-way ticket?’

  ‘Yeah, you'd contribute would you, Sergeant Turner? On a cop's salary? I don't think so.’ There's a flash of anger in his eyes. I got to him. I smile.

  ‘You know that several young women have been murdered in this city over the past few months?’ asks Marcinko.

  ‘I watch TV.’

  ‘So you do know that there's a serial killer on the loose?’

  ‘On the loose? You make it sound like a wild dog.’

  ‘That's what he is, Marvin. A wild dog. And we have to catch him. So I think you can understand why we don't want strangers standing outside people's homes. Right?’

  I smile sweetly at her. ‘Officer Marcinko, if I was a serial killer, I'd hardly be standing out here in plain sight, would I?’

  ‘How would you know how a serial killer behaves, Waller?’ asks Turner, his voice loaded with contempt.

  ‘I'm a writer,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, a writer who's yet to sell a screenplay. A wannabee writer.’

  For the first time I turn and look at him. I don't say anything, I just look at him. Into his soul. ‘I'd like to go now, please,’ I say. They step apart, and I walk away.

  * * *

  You tap the code number into the keypad, check through the peephole that she's still on the bed, and you open the door. There's no way she could possibly slip out of the padlocked chains, but it's always better to be safe than sorry. She turns her head towards you, her eyes wet from crying. You close the door behind you and it clunks shut with a dull, solid thud that echoes around the room.

  You ask her how she is and she says she wants to go home. You hold up the stun gun and explain to her that you never want to hear her ask to be released again. You press the button and it crackles and sparks and she nods quickly and says that she understands and that she's sorry. You smile and put the stun gun away. ‘Good,’ you tell her, ‘that's good.’ You walk over to the bed and sit down. She swallows nervously. ‘How are you, Sarah?’ you ask, your voice soft.

  ‘I'm fine,’ she says. She smiles nervously, a quick flash of perfect, white teeth.

  ‘Good, that's good,’ you say. ‘Would you like me to unchain you?’

  The look of anticipation on her face is so transparent that it makes you smile. She thinks that once she's unchained she's only one step away from freedom. You shake your head, almost sadly. You explain how it's going to work, that you'll remove the chain from her wrists and her ankles and that you'll replace them with one chain around her waist which will keep her fastened to the wall. It will allow her to sleep on the bed and to reach the bathroom, but she won't be able to get to the door. She nods, still assuming that it'll be easier to escape once the chains are off. You stroke her face again and she smiles. You can tell it's not genuine, she's trying to fool you, but that's okay. It's a start.

  ‘I'll be good,’ she says, but you know she doesn't mean it.

  ‘I know you will,’ you say. ‘But I haven't finished explaining what I want. Be silent until I've finished.’ She nods, eager to please. ‘The first thing you must remember is that you only speak if I ask you a question. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies hesitantly, as if it's a trap and you're going to punish her for replying.

  ‘Good,’ you say, ‘that's really good. Now, I'm going to take the chains off today so that you can get to the bathroom and wash. Tomorrow, when I come in, you will get off the bed, you'll stop whatever it is you're doing and you'll stand before me, your head bowed, your eyes on the floor. I want your complete obedience, nothing less. Whatever I ask you to do, you will do without question.’ Her eyes open wide as she realises the ramifications of what you're saying and you press a finger to her full lips to silence her because if she speaks you'll have to punish her. ‘I'll ask you to take your clothes off and you'll do it, won't you?’

  She's frightened, you can see it in her eyes. She doesn't know what to say. You reach behind you and show her the knife. It's a big one, heavy and sharp, the sort you could use to carve raw meat and it glints under the overhead lights. ‘If you don't do it willingly, I can do it right now with this. And a lot worse, too, if you make me. It'll be better if you do it yourself. Do you understand?’

  She nods, but the reluctance is clear in her eyes. You take the knife and run the tip of the blade down the silky material of her shirt. ‘I could cut them off now, if you'd prefer.’ She shakes her head furiously and you know you've won. You smile and lean forward to plant a light kiss on her forehead. You can still smell spearmint on her breath.

  * * *

  I go to the movies for an afternoon show and see an actress who'll be just perfect for the female lead in Checking Out. When I get home I pace around the room for a while, wondering if I should send her a copy of the synopsis to see if she'd be interested. I'm hesitating because I've had a few bad experiences writing to stars. In fact, I don't include my name or address when I write to stars anymore, unless I use a PO Box. It's not because the stars themselves don't appreciate fans writing to them, but for some reason they tend to surround themselves by over-protective idiots.

  I don't know if they set out to hire unsuitable people, in fact I'm sure they don't, but I guess that the people they employ start to resent their employers after a while and stop acting in their best interests. I can understand that, I really can. I mean, it must be hard for an ordinary person to work in the shade of a star, someone like Cher or Madonna or Julia Roberts. They'd always know that no matter how hard they worked they could never hope to achieve one half of one per cent of their employer's success. That sort of thing could turn anyone sour, anyone who wasn't mentally stable, that is.

  Anyway, people like that, after a while they become over-protective, they do everything
they can to keep between the stars and their fans. They form a sort of defensive wall, I guess because it adds to their own sense of importance.

  I wrote to a really cute blonde in a daytime soap a couple of years back. She's beautiful, really sexy, and totally wasted in the soap. I wrote and told her, and said that she'd be a natural to play the lead in a movie I'd written and that I'd like to talk to her about it. A month went by and she still hadn't replied so I wrote again and sent her a photocopy of my first letter, but the day after I sent it I got a letter from her, and a signed photograph. Well, it wasn't actually a letter specially for me, it was a standard letter: thanks for my support, glad I liked the show, that sort of thing. No mention of my script. So I wrote again, saying that she must have misunderstood, but a few days later I got another photograph, the same one, believe it or not, and another standard letter. The wording was identical. I got mad then, and wrote a letter saying that I could only assume that my letters weren't reaching her and that someone on her staff must be intercepting them. A secretary probably. The old secretarial wall strikes again. Anyway, I sent the letter by Federal Express direct to the studio where they record the show but I never got a reply.

  I realised that the only way I was going to get to her would be to go in person, so I bought a huge bouquet of flowers, a hundred bucks worth, and took it round to the lot. I told the security guard there that I worked for a delivery service and that they had to be delivered to the director. I got to within ten feet of her - and yes, she looks even sexier in real life - but then an overweight woman with bad skin and greasy hair came up to me and asked who I was and what I wanted. I gave her the delivery story but she called the security guards over and had them throw me off the set. I was sure that she was the one who'd been intercepting my letters.