His thoughts were interrupted as he looked around the room. It was ordinary at first glance. Pale green wallpaper, single bed pushed against the far wall. Clean and tidy. All was as you might expect, apart from the shrine that dominated the wall by the window. Set upon a large table, it was covered in photographs and candles and sprinkled with pink and yellow flower petals. The centerpiece was a large color photograph of a smiling man, perhaps twenty, with blonde hair and a crooked-toothed smile.
Recognition.
That horrible sinking feeling of recognition. He knew this face. He’d seen it before, only not smiling. When he last saw this face, it was terrified, its owner begging for his life. He searched his memory, trying to put a name to the face, and then he had it. Billy. Not William, but Billy. Billy Somers. He recalled the picture downstairs, the one that crazy old bitch insisted he had recognized, and thought he understood now. Of course he didn’t recognize Billy from the photograph. After all, Billy was just a baby, held between his loving mother and father. A mother and father who had no idea that Billy would grow up to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, that he would one day turn to a man called Victor for help. And when he couldn’t pay his debts, when he couldn’t pay Victor back, Victor had sent Alex to pay him a visit. The memories flooded back to him now with sickening detail. Rough handling Billy into the Firebird, ignoring his pleas, ignoring the desperate tears.
He remembered meeting Victor by the docks at dusk, the air crisp and salty with the taste of the sea. He remembered thinking to himself how ridiculous Victor looked in his white suit, wearing sunglasses even though it was near dark. He remembered stopping the car and dragging young Billy to the end of the dock where Victor stood waiting.
Aleeeex,” he had said as they approached. “This is why they say you are the best. I ask you to bring the trash, and you do exactly what I ask.”
He had shoved Billy towards Victor, enjoying the stench of fear. Enjoying his own feeling of power and self-importance.
“Tell meee,” Victor had said to Billy. “Why do you fuck with me? Why don’t you pay back what you owe?”
Billy had begged, pleading for more time.
“You make a fool out of Victor Mallone, and then have the balls to ask for more time? You must be made an example of.”
Victor nodded, and that was all it took. Alex had tied Billy’s hand and feet. Not with rope, but with heavy-duty cable ties. It was quick, efficient. Hands bound in front of him, feet together. Secure. Inescapable. Victor had watched this appreciatively, enjoying Alex’s work almost as much as he had.
“Now Biiiilly, you understand that you give me no choice here? How can I run a business if people think they can fuck around with me, eh?”
Another nod to Alex, who shuffle-stepped Billy to the edge of the dock, the black water below frothing and crashing against the wooden pilings of the pier. Alex knew the procedure. He reached into Billy’s pocket, taking out his wallet and handing the cash and credit cards to Victor. And yes—that was where he remembered the photograph from. A much smaller, wallet sized version he had thumbed past to take out the MasterCard.
“Take this as a lesson, Billy. Nobody screws with Victor Malone,” Victor had said around his cigar, which he lit with an expensive looking gold lighter
With a barely perceptible nod from Victor, Alex shoved Billy hard in the back, watching him plummet into the cold, icy waters. He waited and watched until the air bubbles subsided, ever the professional, making sure that the job was done.
He blinked and was back in the present, the shrine looming ahead of him, a symbol of his guilt. He shuffled forward on his knees and prayed to God for forgiveness. Sure enough, Billy wasn’t innocent—he had debts he should have paid, but not at the cost of his life. Until that moment, he had never really understood the pain he’d caused over the years. He had moved on and changed his lifestyle, thinking it would be enough to bury the man he used to be. But what about them? The people he had hurt? The Billy Somers and Tony Valentines of the world? He felt sick and ashamed, and was about to call out to Mrs. Bendtner, when the doorframe exploded in a shower of splinters behind him. Even as he shielded his face from the deafening roar of the gunshot, he saw her standing in the doorway. She was still crying, the Russian-issue pistol clutched in her right hand.
“This is William’s room, puppet,” she cackled at him as she stepped closer. There was nowhere left to run, nowhere to go. It was over.
“What a cost for this life, eh?”
It was babble, and he was fairly sure she didn’t know what she was saying anymore, but this seemed a good question. What a cost for this life? What would he have to pay? How could he atone for his sins? She came towards him then, licking her horrible blood-red lips.
“Does the puppet remember now my William?”
“I remember, and I’m sorry… I truly am.”
He lowered his head and wept as she inched closer.
“Cry now, eh? I know how that feels, puppet. Many lonely nights I have wept!”
He knew now what he had to do. He lunged, tackling her to the ground. The gun came out of her hand and slid across the floor. He was on her, hands around her wiry throat, crushing down with what remained of his strength. She didn’t fight, she only watched him and glared at him defiantly.
“I’m so sorry,” he said as he watched her, and pleaded for her to die quickly. He thought at the end she understood, the insane glimmer in her eyes seemed to clear, if only for a second. Then she faded.
It was over. She was gone.
It took him until evening to finish cleaning himself up. His tendon wound would require medical attention, but he managed to remain mobile by using the old walking stick he retrieved from the sitting room. He patched up his other injuries using a first aid kit he found in the bathroom. The dog had been dispatched with a single shot from the old woman’s service revolver. He had tried to let it out into the backyard, but it had turned violent, and he was left with no other choice. He cleaned up the house as best he could, but knew his fingerprints and blood were in too many places to really do a thorough job. He laid Mrs. Bendtner in her late son’s bed along with the wedding photograph. It seemed fitting to him that they all be together in the end.
He knew he could no longer hide behind the fragile belief that he was free of his sins just because he believed in God. He had much to atone for, and passing out leaflets and spreading the good word was never going to be enough. He limped his way around the house, checking through the old woman’s records. She had quite the file on Victor, some of the information even surprising him. He found a half can of gasoline in the garage, and paying particular attention to the bloodied areas and the shrine room, had poured it through the house, leaving a trail to the front door. Pausing by the open door, he hesitated, listening to the house. He thought he could still hear that swish swoosh sound of slippers on carpet, but knew it was just his exhausted mind playing tricks on him. He took out the matches he found in the kitchen drawer and lit one, touching it to the rest of the pack and dropping it on the carpet, igniting the petrol with a satisfying whump. He quietly closed the door and made his way back down the ornate path, past the neatly trimmed lawn and out onto Sycamore Street. He was careful to close the gate behind him. Yes, this was a lovely street—although he no longer thought it could be a place for him. This was a place for the sin-free. For the happy people looking to retire after a good life of hard work. His work, his real work, had yet to truly begin.
He got into his car and watched the dull orange glow coming from the windows of the Bendtner house. It had dawned on him as he read through the wealth of files that in order to truly earn his chance at forgiveness, he would have to cut off the head of the snake. The snake that made him. The snake that was Victor Mallone. He had no illusions. He knew that it would be difficult—some might say impossible. But he would find a way. He would use his skills, the ones he had buried away over the years, and turn them against their creator. He would find his forgiveness, an
d avenge the Mrs. Bendtners of the world. He slipped the car into gear and rolled down the street. He glanced only once into the rearview mirror as the flames took full hold of No. 5 Sycamore Street.
THE BOX
The box was outside her door. As she looked at it, she wondered why the delivery driver hadn’t knocked or left a note to say they had tried to call. She was just about to head out and meet Jane, when she had almost fallen over it. It looked innocent enough. It was wrapped in brown paper and had her name, Terri Browning, hand-written on top. There was no return address, no postmark. She wasn’t expecting a delivery. It had been months since she’d given in to the urge to browse the web for more books or clothes. She wondered if it might be from Mark, another desperate attempt to make up for the affair that had shattered her life. She had no intention of taking him back, and as much as the loneliness of living alone got to her, she had been hurt too badly to let anyone get close to her again. The box was maybe fifteen inches across and the same high, and as innocent as it looked, she still hadn’t picked it up. Shifting her weight and still holding her front door open with one hand, she glanced down the hallway of the apartment building, hoping to catch a glimpse of who might have delivered it, but the hallway was empty. Perhaps one of her neighbours might have heard something. She was sure that Mrs. Molde from down the hall would know who left it. She was a one-woman neighbourhood watch, and knew everybody’s business just as well as her own, if not better. Terri briefly considered knocking on her door, but couldn’t stomach the idea of having to listen to the nosy old trout ramble on about the gout in her leg, or the noisy students who lived upstairs in number thirty-two. With a final look down the hallway, she picked up the box, went back inside and closed the door.
The apartment looked empty now that it was devoid of Mark’s belongings. All that remained of them was a box of books, some old T-Shirts and a bottle of cheap aftershave he always insisted on wearing. She had told him he should come and pick them up, but through either stubbornness or unwillingness to accept that it was over between them, Mark had been putting it off for weeks now. They had argued frequently, the affair festering like an open wound. She wanted him out of her life so she could attempt to rebuild, and he was full of excuses; reasons why they needed to stay together and not let something ‘silly’ like cheating keep them from being together. Though she knew she would never allow him back into her life, she still loved him, and she feared that his persistence would one day break through her fragile defences.
She set the box on the dining table and went to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. As she waited for the kettle to come to the boil, she sent a text message to Jane explaining that she was running late but would meet her at the coffee house at ten thirty instead of ten. Setting her blackberry aside, she eyed the quiet apartment. It was open plan, and now that it was devoid of male clutter, it had a definite feminine (if minimal) look. Early morning sunlight streamed through the large balcony windows that ran across the far wall. She sometimes sat out there late at night, crying silently and hating herself for the rut her life was in. She cast a guilty glance towards her computer, silent and unused. Its black screen seemed to glare at her.
Hey, Terri, remember when we used to spend time together? When you used to write? Write all day, write all night. What happened? You haven’t written a word since Mark left. Come on, show me some love.
It was true. Her latest novel was supposed to have been handed over to the publisher two months ago, and not only was she nowhere near finished, she still hadn’t decided on an ending. It seemed that every time she sat down to try and work, her mind would go blank and she would simply stare at the screen, fingers poised over the keys. The couple of times she had managed to string a few paragraphs together, the results had been disastrous, the copy poor. Now with her deadline long past, her editor was giving her hell and had taken to calling her daily for progress reports, which had resulted in a frostiness between them. The kettle clicked off and as she poured her coffee, she realised that her life was a complete mess. At twenty-nine she really should have a handle on her situation, but the fact was she was struggling to cope. Her eyes drifted to the mystery box on the table. The more she thought about it, the more sure she was that it was from Mark, and perhaps that was why she was so reluctant to open it. She didn’t want his gifts to soften her and allow him to worm his way back into her life. She suspected the box might contain a new snow globe. He knew she had been collecting them since she was a child, and had over three hundred in her collection, some of which were extremely rare. It was a hobby she was slightly embarrassed of, and kept it secret from her small circle of friends. Mark knew well enough though, and it would be just his style to try and win her over with a glass dome filled with water and fake snow.
She took a sip of her coffee, set her ‘Little Miss Perfect’ cup down on the counter and approached the table. The box looked innocent enough sitting beside the fruit bowl and her half-finished John Grisham novel (unread since Marks departure). It was packaged differently than she would have expected. It was tied with string and wrapped in brown paper. It was how she imagined packages were sent in the fifties, before the days of UPS and DHL. She looked again at her name written in block capitals and had a strange, inexplicable feeling of dread. Deciding she was being ridiculous, that if she couldn’t manage opening a box then getting her life in order would be impossible, she pulled the knot on the string and peeled away the wrapping.
Beneath the brown paper was another box. This one was red and had the horrible velvet outer material that was designed to say ‘luxury,’ but to her said ‘cheap.’ It looked like some incredibly tacky, late Christmas present. Now that she had opened it, she wasn’t so sure Mark had sent it. He hated tacky stuff like this, and more to the point, knew that she hated it too. He was a dirty-cheating-lowlife-bastard, but he wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t send something like this to try and win her back. She was contemplating this when the phone rang. Her heart leaped into her throat and she cursed herself for letting something so stupid get her so jittery. She made it to the handset before the answering machine kicked in.
“Hello?”
“Terri? It’s Bob.”
Shit. Bob was Bob Greenwood, her editor. She wished she had let the machine pick up the call.
“Hi, Bob, how are you?” she said, forcing herself to sound cheery.
“Fine, Fine. Just had some time to kill and thought I would check in.”
Unlikely. They both knew the reason for his call. Her book should be long finished and in the advanced stages of the copy editing process by now—not three chapters from an end she hadn’t even conceived yet. He wanted a progress report. The agency Bob worked for wanted to cut the dead weight from their client list, and she was included in that category. He was under immense pressure to cut her loose, but had stuck with her in spite of this, which raised some speculative eyebrows within the company. Now they were both relying on the success of this unfinished book to justify the delay. She could imagine him sitting in his office, chewing his nails or running his hands through his thinning hair. Bob had a reputation of being hard to please, but she had always found him professional and more importantly unafraid to share his opinions on her work. Bob had a small nose and deeply set eyes, topped by large almost comically bushy eyebrows. She could see him now in her mind’s eye, frowning in his brown office chair, perhaps scratching his carroty beard as he considered the best way to approach the unfinished novel.
“Hello? Terri, are you there?”
She had drifted away while he’d been talking.
“I’m here. Sorry, Bob, you caught me at an... awkward time.”
“I’m sorry—I didn’t disturb you working did I?”
She had to give it to him. As far as approaching a sensitive subject goes, he had done well.
“Not exactly. I was just heading out.”
“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have called at all, it’s just—”
He trailed off, hoping tha
t she would pick up the bait.
“You want to know about the book?”
“You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. It’s just that the powers that be are breathing down my neck and I need to tell them something. Can you at least send me a few pages so I can shut the damn pricks up?”
She felt sorry for Bob, and would have done as he asked without question if only she had something to send him.
“Look, Bob, you know I’ve been going through a tough time lately. I just haven’t been able to concentrate on my work as fully as I would like. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”
“I understand, really I do, but I need something from you, Terri. I hate to tell you this, but there have been serious discussions about cancelling your contract.”
She was stunned.
“Can they even do that?” she blurted, hating how whiny she sounded.
“They can and they will if we don’t move on this. I’m fighting for you, Terri, but I can only do so much.”
“Bob, I’ll finish the book, I swear to you I will, but you have to see it from my point of view—I can’t just pull it out of my ass. I gave them two books in the last year, surely they can give me a little leeway?”
“Hey, I know you and Mark breaking up has put you under serious strain, but they are already forty grand in the hole with the marketing campaign. They’ve had to push back the release date twice now. On top of that...”
“What?”
“Well, the fact is that although the first book sold well, Moonlight Shadows barely scraped up enough to cover the distribution costs.”
“They put me head to head with J.K. Rowling. What did they expect?”
“You and I know that, but they don’t see it that way. They paid you an advance for three books and only have two, now they’re already losing money on the third. They want this one finished and in print whilst they can still make some money off your name.”
Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror Page 16