The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 16

by Stephen Jones

  “Campaigners have tried private prosecutions,” admitted Fred. “Stooges fronting the sex shops or porn cinemas get slapped with huge fines, which are paid promptly in big bundles of cash. Confiscated stock is replaced by closing time, and some new face is behind the counter the next day. Burly Gates rarely even gets mentioned in court.”

  Macendale brought Busy out of the file-room.

  “So?” asked Richard.

  “He’s shamming,” said Macendale.

  “I’m not,” whined Busy. “Honest. All that’s missing is old stuff. Records from the ’60s. Memorabilia.”

  “Memorabilia?” asked Richard, intrigued.

  “Publicity eight-by-tens, brochures, mags. Too tame for today’s market, but nostalgia is booming. Private collectors pay high prices for vintage smut. Anything with Pony-Tail is worth a packet.”

  Fred and Richard exchanged a look. Pony-Tail, again. Was Grek still trying to rescue his tasselled princess?

  “Booth had it salted away. Came with the place. Called it his school fee fund. He had kids.”

  “That’s all that’s gone?” asked Richard.

  Busy wriggled, which was what a shrug looked like with handcuffs.

  “There’s something else,” said Richard.

  Busy couldn’t look away from Richard’s eyes. “It’s other . . . investments,” admitted Busy. “Eight millimetre films of tarts who’ve got new lives and want to keep old ones forgotten. Explicit photos of girls, and some lads as well, with prominent people – film and TV stars, business magnates, politicians, policemen, judges, pop singers. You can imagine the kinkiness, and how eager they are to keep it hush-hush. Some were paying off like rigged slot-machines.”

  “Blackmail,” said Richard.

  Busy wriggled again. “That’s it. That’s all of it.”

  Fred remembered Zarana had mentioned Booth was milking a former stripper to keep her stag films out of the Sunday papers. Evidently, it was a cottage industry. That bulked out the suspect list, though – with the goods flown – it’d be hard to add actual names.

  “It’s no surprise Booth and Gates were in the blackmail racket,” said Fred.

  “Not Gates,” said Busy, surprised. “The other one, Schluderpacheru.”

  X The Party Scene

  Golden Square, London W1. Handy for Wardour Street, where all the film companies – major and (very) minor – keep offices. A semi-secluded haven of dignified mansions off Brewer Street, the (even) sleazier continuation of Old Compton Street.

  A hop south was the Windmill Theatre, where nude girls had been appearing nightly since the War. The Windmill boasted WE NEVER CLOSED, despite air raids and police sweeps, working within the law of the day by presenting bare lovelies in posed tableaux. Vice squad officers kept reserved seats, allegedly prepared to haul the curtain down if a gooseflesh girl so much as blinked. Fred assumed the predecessors of Boot Boy Booth just enjoyed the ogling opportunities, and the thick envelopes of ten-bob notes mysteriously slipped into their programmes. The Windmill was now a Dad’s idea of naughty – patriotic songs and patter comedians, and mere glimpses of skin. It was rendered outmoded by flickering “X”-certificate fare on offer in Piccadilly Circus at the Moulin and Eros sex cinemas (the latter opposite the statue of Eros), let alone the clubs, “reviews” and in-all-but-name brothels clustered at the lower end of Berwick Street. Plus Oh, Calcutta!, settled in for a long run at the Royalty Theatre: a Windmill show with sarky sketches and nudes that moved, suitable for trendy poseur and carriage trade alike.

  Konstantin Schluderpacheru’s town house might as well have sported a huge neon sign with BAD SCENE written on it. The windows were open but curtained. Shifting, multi-coloured lights gave the building a flashy, disco come-on look. Live music poured out, heavy on the bongos and the fuzz-pedal. Glittery people came and went, in states of disrepair. A Eurovision Song Contest runner-up clung to the square’s railings, bird-thin shoulders exposed by her backless dress, heaving liquid vomit into the bushes. A working-class novelist swigged from a pint-mug of vodka, and berated the pop princess. He blamed her for his inability to write anything worthwhile since moving from Liverpool to Hampstead and Ibiza.

  “No wonder Lord Leaves hates these people,” said Richard.

  Two doors down, His Lordship’s house was dark and shut up tight. At 10:30 in the evening, all good moral crusaders should be tucked into their twin beds, eyes screwed shut, ears plugged against the seepage of party noise. Or else peering with night-vision scopes at the comings and goings two doors away, keeping careful note of the names and faces.

  Schluderpacheru might be the King of Blackmail, but Fred had no doubt that the Festival would use the same tactics. Lord Leaves needed a flock of politicians and newspaper people in his pocket. No one made a better, more vocal supporter of decency than a dignitary with something to hide.

  As expected, Schluderpacheru’s front door was guarded like a führerbunker. With the soaring death rate among the host’s known associates, extra muscle was packed in. Skin-headed ex-boxers in tuxedos stood by. Fred spotted a couple of off-duty plods stationed about the square, moonlighting to cover their hire purchase payments.

  “Come on, lads,” said Zarana, linking arms with Fred and Richard, and steering them towards the door. “Teeth and smiles.”

  There were flashbulb photographers in wait.

  After Richard had theorized that it would be difficult to secure an entrée into the Schluderpacheru house, Zarana pointed out that it was one of the many places in London to which entrance was impossible unless you were, or were with, a stunningly beautiful girl. She then dug out her standing invitation, initialled K.S. in green ink. When not working her Queen of the Nile routine, Zarana did a high society act as “Contessa de Undressa”. With different make-up and costume, she looked like a different person. In full Contessa drag, she wore a floor-length red silk evening dress secured by four tiny-but-sturdy clasps, an upswept blonde wig (complete with tiara) and a box full of impressive paste jewels. Thanks to spike-heels and the towering wig, she was a foot taller. She looked down her patrician nose like someone who would snub the Royal Family as middle-class German parvenus. If she kept her mahf shut, the illusion was perfect.

  To Richard, this was a stroke of luck. He had no qualms about letting an “s.b.g.” join the fun. A semi-official amateur himself, he would take help from whoever offered, assuming they were capable of taking care of themselves. Even with multiple deaths and supernatural maniacs in the case, Richard saw it as a bit of a lark that would be jollier with a pretty face along. Fred was less cavalier: from their earlier chat, he knew Zarana would put herself in an uncomfortable position by taking up the green-initialled invitation. She assured him that Schluderpacheru’s guests could hardly be a bigger shower than the Skindy’s clientele and besides she could rely on him to protect her. That was a joke, but he took it seriously. She covered doubt well – she was a skilled performer, after all – but Fred picked it up. Again, it struck Fred funny that where Zarana was concerned, he was more in tune with the vibes than the supposed “sensitive”.

  Zarana presented the invitation to a squat, thick man who wore sunglasses after dark and turned on a full-wattage smile.

  “This is Happenin’ Herbert, the pop artist,” she said, indicating Richard, who flashed the peace sign. “And this is the famous Fred, who you must have read about in the Sunday supplements.”

  The goon clocked the “K.S.”, returned the gilt-edged card to Zarana, and stood aside. The door opened.

  The mirror-lined reception hall multiplied their images to infinity. Fred wore a white dinner jacket appropriated from the Skinderella’s costume store (what act was it part of?) and now saw it didn’t really go with his jeans and docs. He tried to be the sort of Fred who made sure he got written up as fashionable, then wore something else equally stupid when people copied him.

  One of the mirrors had a tell-tale grey-veil tint. There would be two-way glass all over the house, especially in th
e upstairs bedrooms, and cine-cameras grinding away, adding to the Blackmail King’s investment portfolio. Fred resolved not to use the toilet while he was here.

  Zarana made a kiss-mouth at the mirror.

  They proceeded into a large, half-sunken room full of chattery people and flashing lights. On a stage, a combo performed “She’s Not There”, trying not to mind that nobody was paying attention. In the centre of the ballroom was a bath of light – a swimming pool the size of a family plot, with a lighting array inset into the walls. A very drunk, very white girl wearing only a bikini bottom sat on the edge, splashing with her little legs, making waves that broke against the chest of a fully-dressed, white-haired man who floated with a dreamy smile stuck on his face, puffing happily on a pipe of tobacco and hash, the wings of his Ganex raincoat spread out like lily-pads.

  “That’s . . .” began Fred.

  “Yes,” said Richard.

  “And with him is . . .”

  “Yes, her. She’s in all the Sexploits films, and Stow It, Sandra. Not much of an actress, but she does this trick with her mouth and two golf balls that turns strong men to custard. I worked with her once. She’s a right cow.”

  “Blimey,” said Fred. “You wouldn’t have thought it. I’d have expected him to be with Lord Leaves’ crowd, protesting. He couldn’t exactly show up at his party conference with her on his arm and expect to get re-elected.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Freddy,” said Zarana.

  “I’d say something about ‘strange bedfellows’,” said Richard, “but I suspect that the beds here have seen a lot stranger.”

  A small, round man in a skin-tight moiré kaftan approached Zarana, pupils contracted to pinpricks, sweating profusely. He stuck out his tongue, which had a half-dissolved pill balanced on its end, and reached for Zarana with chubby, wriggly hands. Fred slapped him away and wagged a finger. He looked as if he was about to cry, then latched onto a passing black girl with a silver wig and matching lipstick and paddled along in her wake.

  “Business as bleedin’ usual,” she said.

  “Ou se trouve mine host?” asked Richard.

  She scanned the room. “Not here. There’s a room upstairs, for his inner circle. Wood panels, ghastly pictures of satyrs and fat bints, hundred-year-old brandy, private screenin’ room. Popeye holds court there. Though most of his cronies are here. You can tell them because they look bloody worried.”

  Dotted throughout the senseless crowd were furrowed faces.

  Richard hummed. “The oases of desperation do stand out somewhat. Or, at least, sobriety.”

  “Did you see that Vincent Price film about the fancy-dress ball?”

  Fred knew what Zarana meant. “Masque of the Red Death?”

  “This is that, isn’t it? Rich people makin’ animals of themselves tryin’ to have a good time, with the plague outside, ravagin’ the countryside.”

  “And the Red Death approaches the castle doors,” said Richard.

  “It’s time Death knocked here like bleedin’ Avon callin’,” said Zarana.

  “Let’s slide upstairs and try to see Prince Prospero,” said Richard.

  Fred turned to Zarana to tell her to find a loitering spot in the crowd and wait for them.

  “No fear, Freddy,” she said. “You’re not leavin’ me behind. It’s not safe here . . .”

  A couple of football players with enormous bouffant perms and mutton chops shaped like Roman helmet cheek-pieces caught sight of Zarana and began dribbling towards the goal area. They wore suits that flapped like flags.

  “Point taken,” said Fred.

  XI Coming in at the End

  Without Zarana, they would never have found the inner sanctum. Schluderpacheru’s house was like a funfair maze: zigzag corridors that cheated perspective, flock wallpaper with an optical illusion theme, floor-to-ceiling joke paintings of doors, set decoration left over from Gruesome Pictures, actual doors chameleoned into walls, burning bowls of heady incense. There were chalk-marks on the floor, recently scrawled runes.

  “Schluderpacheru has taken precautions,” said Richard, toeing a symbol. “I suppose he learned in the old country.”

  Zarana led them round a corner and they found themselves looking up at a 9-foot-tall man, with a distinguished rising wave of grey hair and a superbly-cut, wide-lapelled suit. He was sleek, with shining, somehow wicked eyes, and wore a mediaeval armoured glove.

  It was a lifelike portrait, painted directly onto a wood panel.

  “That’s Popeye,” said Zarana. “Larger than life and twice as creepy.”

  One of his eyes was brown and lazy-lidded, the other green and staring.

  Voices came from behind the picture, raised but indistinct, arguing in a language Fred didn’t recognize.

  “There’s a trick to this,” said Zarana, patting the portrait. She found studs on the metal glove, and twiddled them. “Boys and their bleedin’ toys.”

  With a click and a whoosh, the painting split diagonally and disappeared into recesses.

  Beyond was a room illuminated by a blazing fire in an open grate – in contravention of the Clean Air Act, Fred noted – and burning oil-lamps. Two men were outlined by flame-light, both wearing symbol-marked dressing gowns, locked in struggle, argument turned physical. One was Schluderpacheru, under-sized in person, hair awry. Half his face wrinkled with effort, but the left side was plastic surgery-smooth, with the fixed, glaring green eye. He had the upper hand, but Lord Leaves – for all his years – fought fiercely; his fingers sank deep into Schluderpacheru’s windpipe, incantations rattled in the back of his throat. In one corner shrank Lady Celia, holding a fold of habit over her face like an Arab wife, eyes startlingly bright and excited.

  Swirling in the air before the fire were scraps of matter in the shape of a big man, struggling to cohere but tearing apart as much as it came together. Mr Sludge – Grek Cohen – had an invitation to the party, but wasn’t here yet.

  Everyone froze to look at them. Even the phantasm.

  “We seem to have come in at the end of the story,” said Richard.

  Schluderpacheru and Lord Leaves spared them barely a glance, then got back to their grappling. The artificial side of the host’s face bulged. His eyeball popped, escaping its wet red socket. The egg-sized glass eye fell heavily, thumping Lord Leaves on the forehead. His Lordship, stunned, lost his grip and Schluderpacheru – who presumably couldn’t pull that trick twice – dropped him. The King of Blackmail passed a hand over his hair, prissily fixing its dove-grey wave in place, but didn’t seem concerned about his empty eye-socket.

  “I know who you are, magician,” Schluderpacheru told Richard. “And I don’t need help. This war of witchery is about to end. To my satisfaction.”

  He took a metal triangle from a stand, holding it like a trowel. It gleamed, two sides sharpened to razor-edges. Schluderpacheru dropped to one knee, raising the triangle high, then brought the killing point down heavily. Lord Leaves’ breast-bone snapped.

  Lady Celia yelped, but her husband said nothing.

  The wedge-knife was embedded in His Lordship’s chest. He kicked, leaked a little, and was still.

  “There,” said Schluderpacheru. “That’s done. No more Festival. No more bother.”

  Smug and suave, he considered the man-shaped cloud.

  “Go away, Grek,” he said. “Your summoner’s dead. You’ve no place here, no toehold in this world. You should have stayed where you were.”

  Matter swarmed thickly, lacing together. Embers from the fire were sucked up and clustered into a burning heart. Stuff came from somewhere, from all around, and knitted. Greyish liquid seeped out of the air, running into and around the big shape, slicking over. A big-browed face formed out of the darkness. It looked down on the one-eyed man.

  For a moment, Schluderpacheru was puzzled. He glanced at Lord Leaves, to make sure he was dead, then – panic sparking in his remaining eye – around the room, fixing on each face in turn.

  “You—” he b
lurted.

  Grek Cohen was solid now, a colossal statue of sludge, boiling with ghost-life. He gave off a spent-match stink.

  Huge hands clapped, catching Schluderpacheru’s head. The top of his skull popped and his one eye leaked blood as his face was ground to paste between rough, new-made palms.

  Zarana shoved her face into Fred’s jacket, again. Richard whistled. Cohen lifted Schluderpacheru – his arms and legs flopped limp, his shoes dangled inches above the carpet. Cohen tossed the corpse into the fireplace. The robe flared at once, then fire began to eat into the flesh. Foul cooking smell filled the room.

  “That’s the last of them,” Richard addressed the colossus. “The three who betrayed you, Mr Cohen. The three who did away with the girl you died for. And Lord Leaves, too. You have no master here. Your purpose is achieved. Yet you remain. Why, I wonder?”

  Richard walked up to the golem, and examined it as if he were thinking of buying. Grue dripped from its spade-sized hands. Fred held Zarana, and looked around the room.

  Lady Celia was mad, poor love, tearing at her habits.

  Richard made some experimental gestures. Cohen stood solid.

  “Hmmn, interesting. By all rights, you should evaporate. This is a rum do.”

  Lady Celia’s wimple came apart, leaving her pale face framed by an alice band. Her unconfined hair poured out – impossible lengths of it, blinding white-blonde, shining in firelight.

  In a flash, Fred put it together. It was dizzying, sickening.

  “Pony-Tail,” he said.

  Zarana dared to peep. “So it bleedin’ is,” she exclaimed. “Wonders never cease!”

  Richard also directed his attention to Lord Leaves’ young widow.

  Lady Celia stood up, shedding the remains of her habit as elegantly as she had ever undressed, slipping the band off her crown, shaking out her hair.

  “Now I see what they were talking about,” said Richard.

  The woman was nude, Godiva-curtained by her hair. It seemed alive, like Medusa-tendrils. She gathered the mane in her hands, and held it at the back of her neck, winding her band about it. She had her pony-tail again.