by Matt Drabble
He ran quickly, desperately trying to remember the directions to the warehouse where the crew would all be waiting for him. Heads whipped around as he ran and he relished the frightened stares that he had earned. The sound of police and ambulance sirens from the store behind him warmed his heart. The night splitting wails were a standing ovation of noise and a cacophony of applause to his performance.
He eventually reached the industrial estate that was his destination. For one terrible moment he thought that he must have forgotten his directions and he stopped abruptly. He had left most of the occupied shops behind by now and he found himself surrounded only by darkened buildings. He was sure that the warehouse was around here somewhere, but he could see no vehicles, no lights or people. His heart thudded painfully against his ribcage; his breath was short due to his evening’s exertions. He looked down at his hands in the gloomy light. The dried fake blood suddenly felt different; the actor’s performance in the supermarket suddenly felt too real. He tried to centre his mind but it was spinning dangerously out of control. His skin crawled and fear stole up his spine with spiteful fingers. A fresh burst of police sirens sounded out in the night. They seemed closer than before and he ran to the closest building. He washed the obvious blood from his hands under a leaking gutter. The water was icy cold and he scrubbed his skin raw. He buttoned his coat tightly around himself to cover the dark splattering on his shirt.
He pulled on the large wooden double doors praying they would open and offer him sanctuary while he tried to think. The doors gave way with a squeak that seemed monstrously loud in the silence and he cringed for the attention that they might attract. He slipped inside the warehouse, his mind reeling with the terrible possibilities of his actions.
The black interior suddenly exploded into light and life.
“SURPRISE!” A unison shout bellowed out loudly.
Gerald sank to his knees before the crowd and he had little senses left to make any sense out of what he was looking at. His whole body seemed to shake violently and his vision trembled worryingly. Before him were many faces he recognised. Most of them belonged to the bridges that he had burnt so determinedly before he had embarked on his crusade.
“Oh, we got you Gerry,” the voice of his former agent sang out happily, “Man did we ever get you!”
“Have you got any idea of just how much footage we have of you?” the shrill sound of one of his former female co-stars chimed out.
“I…,I don’t understand,” Gerald whispered.
“You my boy, have just been brought back to earth with the biggest bump ever seen,” his manager Thomas said, walking forward out of the delirious crowd. “Have you any idea just how many people you have pissed off over the years?”
“What?” Gerald said, uncomprehending.
“It was all a set-up. After you suddenly found the religion of acting, you pompous little prat and fired everyone, I thought that you needed to be taught a little lesson. I sent you the package about the script, about the guerrilla style filming. I knew you would be so arrogant that you wouldn’t be able to resist.”
“But all the stuff I’ve been doing…” Gerald trailed of thinking of the scenes that he had been performing, and he shuddered with the humiliation. “You weren’t really filming it?” He said hopefully.
“Oh no sonny, we’ve filmed it all. You charging around in the buff, your mad rants to the public, we filmed all of it,” Thomas beamed gleefully.
Gerald sank to his knees. His thoughts were full of relief and anger; two minutes ago he was suddenly terrified that he had really killed someone and lost his mind. Now however he was ruined and humiliated before those he had treated with contempt and derision for more years than he could remember. He scanned the gathering’s faces and winced as the thoughts of his behavior towards them came flooding back.
The door suddenly banged open behind the crowd. From his kneeling position he stood and looked over shoulders as a man entered.
“Johnny!” Thomas shouted happily to the newcomer, “You missed it, Gerald got here on time, why weren’t you right behind him? Didn’t you follow him back from the park?”
“Not likely, the bugger didn’t show up,” Johnny snapped, “I was waiting there for over an hour.”
“Hah, I knew you would chicken out of the last scene,” Thomas said to Gerald mockingly.
“What are you talking about?” Gerald said tiredly, “I went to the supermarket, no doubt made an ass out of myself.”
“Supermarket? What are you talking about?” Thomas said bemused, “The last scene was at the park. I wrote it and sent it to you. What did you do at the supermarket?”
Gerald’s heart sank and his legs gave way as the sirens reached the warehouse outside. Tires screeched and gravel churned. Car doors echoed in the night as they were slammed shut and heavy footed policemen began pounding on the double doors.
17.
BLACKWATER HEIGHTS
“Wait a minute,” Martin said to Jimmy back in the safety of the deserted corridor again. “What are you telling me? Was there a movie or was it all a prank?”
“Well as near as the police can figure it, Gerald was set up on a practical joke by his manager, who apparently had no shortage of willing helpers. The idea being that they would see just how far they could push Gerald, whilst filming it all for their amusement. The thing is that his manager, Thomas, swears blind that he wrote a final scene for the park, but Gerald says that he never got that envelope. He got one directing him to the supermarket where it happens that the actor from the first shoot usually shops on that particular night.”
“So someone replaced the shooting schedule?”
“It would appear so. Poor old Gerald goes barreling into the supermarket and stabs a man to death in plain view of about a dozen witnesses.”
“Who replaced the scripts and why? Martin asked incredulously.
“They never found out. Maybe someone wanted a bloodier revenge against Gerald than simple humiliation. Or maybe someone wanted the actor in the supermarket dead; the police never managed to figure it out.”
“Jesus, so Gerald Dayton has got to deal with a murder on his conscience.”
“Well, once the judge heard all about the prank and saw the state that Gerald was in, he was sent here instead of prison.”
Martin looked around the depths of the hospital and wondered if Gerald was lucky or not.
“So what about the legends?” He asked.
“Sorry?” Jimmy looked up quizzically.
“Earlier you said something about the legends of this place.”
“Oh, just the stuff of fertile minds I suppose. It was said old Horace Whisker, during his later days, developed an interest in the occult. Supposedly his library was considered to contain one of the most comprehensive collections of rare literature on the subject.”
“And?” Martin prompted as Jimmy’s mind had seemed to wander again.
“Um, yes, it was said that Horace dreamt of life everlasting. I’m guessing that the man was just too damn arrogant to ever consider that death would one day come for him, as though he was above such earthly constraints.”
“How does that relate to the Blackwater Heights?”
“Well some of the old folks from the village tell tales of sacrifice and black magic and all of that mumbo jumbo going on up here after Emily took their son and fled.”
“Brave girl,” Martin said with admiration.
“Depends on how you look at it. You could say that she was a deceitful whore who reneged on her sacred vows to love, honour and obey. Just skulked off into the night taking Horace’s only son and heir, the ultimate betrayal,” Jimmy spat.
“That’s one way of looking at it I guess,” Martin said dubiously.
“But only one way,” Jimmy said all smiles again.
“So what did he do up here when he was all alone?”
“Nobody knows for sure, all I can say is that the man poured such heart and soul into building this place that perh
aps he was connected to it in ways that we can’t even begin to comprehend.”
“How?” Martin asked.
“No time for that young sir, we’ve got people to see and tales to tell,” Jimmy said as he opened door number 9.
18.
THE DEVIL’S MUSIC
The studio shook violently. The glass trembled and the floor rumbled furiously with the pounding skins and wailing string screeches of an angry youth rebellion.
Donnie Biggs stared through the glass at the painted demons before him as their twisted faces burned with effort and rage. Their impossibly skinny late teen frames imbued with raging metabolisms that Donnie’s paunch could only dream of.
He lowered the faders further as the piercing screams stabbed mercilessly at his hangover, refusing to heed the volume controls from his booth. He glanced up at the recording studio clock and was appalled to find that it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. He wondered where the good old days had gone; of rock stars with nocturnal body clocks and pale faces scared of the daylight.
Donnie was fifty three and way too old for this crap anymore. These days his independent studio was occupied by a revolving cavalcade of wannabes with too much time on their hands and too little talent. The constant succession of so called talent shows on the TV had led to every spotty little wanker thinking that just because their mothers told them they could sing they were going to make it big. His ears were blissfully damaged by the golden days in the industry and his hearing was not the best anymore; the natural dampening was usually most welcome. Today’s offering was “Redrum” with a backwards letter “R” at the beginning in reference to the Stephen King novel “The Shining”. They were typical of the new thrash metal - all power chords and noise with no soul.
He stared through the glass. Four teens paraded and preened as they played; Donnie wished that at least one of them could possess a mirror so that they would stop leaving their houses dressed in such a manner. All wore the obligatory black; drainpipe tight leggings and jeans were the order of the day. Bony chests protruded through black vest tops that were actually designed for showcasing muscles. Several bullet case chains adorned the puny hips glinting under the studio lights. All of the boys wore high bouffanted hair, dyed a thick syrupy black and jutting at carefully casual angles. All four wore white pancake makeup and heavy black eye shadows. Their sunken skinny faces looked rat-like to Donnie and not in the least intimidating. Their scrawny bodies were almost totally covered with various tattoos, bright colorings standing out against ivory skin.
Donnie caught the eye of the lead guitarist accidently and forced an enthusiastic thumbs up expression towards the teen. They were paying customers after all.
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Jerry Dandridge smiled happily, breaking character for a split second as the producer provided encouragement through the window. He knew they were good and now a legend like Donnie Biggs was giving them the seal of approval. He played harder and faster, caring little that he was leaving the time keeping drumbeats behind. It was several minutes before he realised that he was playing alone.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped, jerking his head up angrily. He was the unofficial/official leader of the band and he wasn’t pleased to be made to look a fool in front of Donnie Briggs.
He was the oldest at seventeen and had the domineering personality to run the band. There had never been a vote, but one had never been needed. Charlie Brewster and Billy Cole both went to his school. Charlie slapped the bass and Billy struggled with the drums. Both of them were a year younger at sixteen and in the year below him. They were easy to control and walked in a state of almost constant fear and awe of Jerry, which suited him just fine. The only anomaly in the band was Pete Vincent.
Pete went to a different school to the three of them; he was a year younger again at fifteen and the quietest member of the band. Pete sang the vocals and Jerry was often amazed by the roaring thunder that sprang forth from Pete’s reedy chest. Most importantly though, little Petey had the money. Jerry had never bothered to ascertain much about Pete’s home life, any more than he cared about his other underlings away from practice. Charlie and Billy tagged along, fetching and carrying as Jerry instructed. They were typical shy teens, eager to stand out from the crowd under the safety of a little war paint. Their dreams were of girls and little else. Jerry’s dreams however were of grander treasures; he wanted the world and was happy to use anything or anyone to achieve his dream.
Pete was quiet and shy and he always seemed to be nervous at anytime other than when he was singing. Jerry thought that Pete might be secretly gay and was happy to just hang around with someone. He never seemed to join in any of their reindeer games and clammed up tightly whenever the subject of sex reared its head.
Pete went to some private school on the other side of town and had only worn his uniform to practice once, before being ribbed so mercilessly that he never made the same mistake again.
The one thing that Jerry had managed to guess was that Pete’s father was a tyrannical force of nature, and Pete often had to sneak around beyond the veil of knowledge. Pete was always terrified about his father finding out about his extracurricular activities and he was always quick to leave after practice and he was always furtive.
Jerry knew that their music was not always well received by the masses. He knew that their style could sell given the chance, but he had little time for those who could not comprehend their message. He longed for a time when music was dark and violent and there really was a reason for housewives to fear for their children’s souls. He was desperate to bring the hellfire back into the world and he could achieve this through his music. For so long the devil worshipping aspect of metal had been corrupted by the corporate machine. Jerry felt blessed with the black caress of their dark father, and his was a destiny born of fire.
Unbeknownst to those around him, Jerry was a worshiper of the devil. His life was a constant search to open the communication lines between the two worlds and bring forth the end of the world. He had spent most of his fledgling years buried deep in research, attempting to separate fact from fiction, myths from truth. He had no idea just how anyone had managed before the internet. He could sit in his darkened bedroom and access the entire world with a flash of his fingertips, however, he was yet to find anything of concrete certainty. He had found rituals purporting to be ancient rites to open the very gates of hell. He had found summoning spells and incantations, all supposedly genuine and effective, only he was to be disappointed time and time again. Jerry had soon learned the hard way that there were only so many household pets that could disappear in his own neighborhood before people started asking questions. His appearance and wardrobe had soon led to him being eyed with suspicion at every turn. Fortunately his father was an important man, a successful lawyer with a similar domineering personality to his own. His father had quashed any rumors violently underfoot, and Jerry had learned the art of discretion.
“What are you doing Jerry?” Billy the drummer snickered nervously, “Did you change the arrangement again?”
“Dammit Billy, if you can’t keep up, then I’ll find someone who can,” Jerry barked, staring hard at Charlie the bassist and the timid vocalist Pete, stamping down hard on any potential dissention.
“Sorry Jerry,” Billy mumbled, apologizing without need.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it William,” Jerry sneered. “None of you understand, we have to be better than anything else out there, better than everyone.”
“Hey we’re trying Jerry,” Charlie chimed up hopefully, “We can get it right, I know we can, we all want to make it.”
“Yeah, we all want to make it rain women,” Billy laughed, high fiving Charlie.
“Limousine riding, jet flying, scene stealing monsters of metal!” Charlie laughed back.
“Shut the hell up,” Jerry said in a low angry tone. “This isn’t about record deals and MTV; this is about so much more.”
“Like what?” Pete asked timidly.
“But Jerry, I paid for the full day,” Pete whispered with as much defiance as he could muster.
Jerry silenced the question with only a look, and then he was storming noisily out of the studio, slamming the doors in an artist’s huff and leaving the band looking anxiously on.
Jerry sat in his dark room; the walls were adorned with the expected posters of the current flavors of the day. Metal bands and movies, bikini clad models in laughably seductive poses, all designed to project the perfect picture of the average teenager. Jerry despised the images; the embodiment of decadence and corruption, wafer thin dreams of the ignorant masses. Jerry longed to kneel before Aguares, an ancient demon that commanded thirty legions of devils in hell and was also the Grand Duke of Eastern Hell. Or Guaricana, a devil from Brazil honored by the Yurimagua by flogging young men until the blood flowed. Jerry knew that such dark desires could never be understood by those peons around him; he would be locked away by his constricting father to save his embarrassment.
“JERRY!” A voice bellowed from downstairs.
Jerry heaved himself away from his research, hiding the files on his computer under a blanket of revolting pornography. He knew his father would at least think that that such filth would be supposedly normal in his eyes.