“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!” she screamed hoarsely as the plug finally pulled free. She fumbled at the door handle, managing to open it. Wind and rain pounded her face as she staggered out, dragging the computer behind her.
What, you’re going to throw me off the seventh floor into the street? That won’t help the case for your sanity, and we both know there are more than a few question marks over that as it is. They’re going to lock you up and throw away the key, Terri.
“Shut, up! They won’t,” she sobbed, blinking rainwater out of her eyes.
And don’t think you can rely on Mark. He knows he can get away with whatever he wants to. Hell, I bet he’s balls deep in some older woman right now, because we both know that’s what he likes, don’t we?
“Stop it, just stop it!” she pleaded, as she heaved the tower over the edge of the balcony. She watched as it fell, its tail of wires fanning out as it smashed into the street below. Several passers-by looked up and pointed, but she didn’t care; she was just happy to be rid of it, rid of its maddening voice. She laughed loudly, pounding the air with her fists. It was liberating
Shivering from the cold, she walked back into the apartment and sat on the edge of the sofa. She opened the bottle of vodka, tossing the lid away and taking a large gulping drink, which burned her throat and caused her to cough. She could hear them knocking at the door now. Muffled voices asking if she was ok, if she needed help. She even heard Mrs. Molde, telling someone how something hadn’t been right for a while. She ignored them—she knew that their words would soon change. Soon the calls wouldn’t be out of concern. Instead, they would be to push the button, push the button, push the button. They were all in on it. How could she not have noticed before?
She thought of Mark, and knew in her heart that he was dead. Something inside her just knew it to be true. He would be just like the rest of them—like Jane, like Bob, like her mother and father, like her career. Like her life.
She heard snatches of voices at her door, probing, quizzing.
“Threw her computer out the window...”
“Are you alright, Miss Browning?”
“Her agent just died...”
“Always talking to herself…”
“I’m going to break down the door and come in...”
“Someone should call the police...”
She ignored them. She no longer cared. Taking another long drink of the warming alcohol, the burn not as bad on her throat now, she smiled to herself.
“You win,” she said softly as she flipped open the lid of the wooden box.
ERASE ALL
She liked the simplicity of those words. She liked the way they rolled off her tongue. Taking a final drink, she set the bottle down on the table. The pounding on her door was louder now, more intense.
“Don’t bother, I know what you’re going to say,” she whispered to herself. Reaching forward she picked up the box and set it across her knees. No longer afraid, she ran her fingers lightly across the cool plastic. She closed her eyes, then smiled as she pressed the button and waited to see what would happen.
EVERY LITTLE HELPS
Steven Grimes had known the Joneses, Alice and Frank, for almost fifteen years and they had always been the perfect neighbours. Yet as he watched the two of them from the edge of his bedroom window, he was certain that the large black bag they struggled to carry contained a dead body. He had only stopped by the house on Sycamore Street by chance to pick up a few more of his belongings—the place belonged to his ex-wife now. As he looked down into the garden of no. 9, Frank was sweating under the tattered red baseball cap that he always wore, the tufts of his white hair poking out from the back as he strained with the weight of the bag. Alice, with her liver spotted arms, held what looked to be the feet of the body as they shuffle-stepped their way towards the large compost heap, which Steven knew sat in a secluded corner of their garden.
He knew because a couple of years before, he and his now ex-wife Jane had been invited to a barbeque to celebrate Frank’s retirement. Forty-one years with the same company, and they thanked him with a golden handshake and an imitation watch and then sent him on his way. Word was that he didn’t want to leave, but the company had insisted. They had already found a younger, more efficient replacement, so with no real choice, Frank was retired. The barbeque also signified another milestone. It would be the last social engagement for Steven and Jane as Mr. and Mrs. Grimes. By that point, the cracks in their marriage were almost too large to cover, but they managed somehow. He turned his mind back to that day, his stomach tightening up as he remembered a conversation he’d had with Frank. It had seemed so trivial at the time that he wasn’t even sure why he recalled it with such clarity.
It was a blazing hot day in July and perfect weather for cooking outdoors. The heat was dry, the sky blue and cloudless, and the dozen or so guests were doing all they could to keep cool. He remembered that he was speaking to Frank about his garden, which was well maintained. The grass was always neatly trimmed, the soil always turned, and he had a small pond with two rosy-cheeked gnomes that they called Fred and Betty. As the two men stood by the grill (as men tend to do at these types of events) Frank had rubbed his forearm against his head as he looked Steven in the eye.
“You know, Steve, I’m not sure what the hell I’ll do with myself now.”
The old man’s eyes glinted in the sun, and in hindsight Steven should have seen something then, but at the time his attention was firmly on Jane, who was already well on her way to being a mess. He looked on in pained embarrassment as she tottered around the garden with a half-eaten cheeseburger in one hand and a large glass of wine in the other. Cringing inwardly, he decided that feigning ignorance would be better than causing a scene. He turned back to Frank, realizing with sadness just how old the man looked. His face was worn and leathery, deeply lined from years of working outdoors. His nose was a bulbous lump and he peered out from below his bushy white eyebrows with eyes of such a pale blue they were almost grey.
“I’m sure something will come up, Frank. Take some time to relax. Hell, after all the years you put in, you’ve definitely earned it.”
Frank had smiled then, just a curl of the lip but his eyes told a different story. Glassy. Reflective. Ponderous.
“You know me, Steve. I’m not one to sit around waiting for something to happen. I think that’s why people die sometimes, when they don’t have anything left to live for.”
Steven nodded, sipping his beer thoughtfully as Frank flipped the burgers.
“You’ve worked all your life, Frank. Maybe now you and Alice can spend some quality time together.”
“Quality time,” he chuckled dryly. “If I can tear her away from her damn bingo nights then maybe we would. We don’t talk much these days, Steve. But we are too old and too afraid to be alone, so we stay together.”
Steven felt his heart pinch a little. This old man had said exactly what he felt about his own relationship. There was a time when had loved Jane, but as he got to know her, really know her the way people who spend a significant amount of time together always do, he had started to notice the cracks, the flaws in her character. There was a darkness in her that had pushed its way to the surface over time Before they married she was slim and athletic, but during the last ten years she had really let herself go, both physically and socially. She had started to drink heavily, and was fond of voicing her opinion on anything and everything with cynicism and bitterness; particularly if it was a subject Steven himself was interested in. As time went on he developed a weary resistance to her brand of cynicism, and as the love died, so grew the indifference, which in turn gave way to hate. He shot her another quick glance. She had gained considerable weight and now saw the world through small, piggish eyes, which seemed to glare contemptuously at everything she chose to set them upon. It was as if the sweet, loving woman he’d fallen in love with had been consumed by some horrible, malicious imposter.
Frank had said something Steve didn’t q
uite catch.
“Sorry, Frank. I was in a world of my own. Say again?”
“I said at least I have my garden. My pride and joy. My solitude from a world I don’t really understand anymore. Worked my ass off to make it look good.”
Steven looked around appreciatively at the pristine surroundings.
“You certainly did that, it looks amazing. Makes me more aware of how my own could use a little TLC,” Steven said with a sheepish grin.
The two men shared a laugh as Frank continued to work the grill, earning them a disapproving glare from old Mrs. Bendtner from no. 5.
“It’s all about recycling these days, Steve—everyone is going green. Did I tell you we had a circular come through the door a while back telling us that if we don’t change our ways the planet will be beyond saving in just a few years’ time?”
“Yeah, we got the same letter, although I didn’t really read it. Too much damn junk mail. We threw it out.”
Steven glanced towards Jean, who had cornered some unfortunate guest in conversation. Steven didn’t recognize him, but felt sorry for him nonetheless.
“I read it,” said Frank, gently manipulating the chicken legs on the grill with his metal tongs. “Everyone on the planet leaves a kind of impression based on how much energy they waste, like an imprint.”
“Oh, a carbon footprint?”
“Yeah, that’s it, a carbon footprint—anyway, they say that everyone in the world leaves one, and if we don’t reduce it then the planet will be uninhabitable for future generations.”
Steven nodded pleasantly, not entirely interested in all the save the planet talk. He expected his own carbon footprint was pretty huge. He didn’t recycle, he didn’t try to save energy by turning off lights, and he didn’t pay any mind to his aerosol use. He was too set in his ways to change, yet it seemed to be important to the old man, so he went along with it for the sake of being polite.
“That’s pretty interesting, Frank. I never gave it too much thought.”
Frank nodded enthusiastically.
“I did. I like being outside, and the last thing I want is to be forced indoors or underground by acid rain or poison air. If a man can’t enjoy his own garden Steve, then what’s the point?”
“Thing is, Frank, not everyone takes it seriously. And unless the law changes, well... nothing is going to change,” Steven said with a gentle shrug.
“Ahh but every little helps. Every little helps. For me it didn’t mean too much of a change. We started off by recycling. Just plastic and glass from our groceries, and we put some of those new energy saving light bulbs all through the house. Hell, I even started out here. I got myself a good sized compost pile down the back of the garden there past the decking.”
Frank jabbed a charcoal smudged thumb over his shoulder. Beyond the wooden deck and chairs covered by a gazebo, there was a small stone path that wound out of sight behind the large pruned bushes.
“I keep it back there as it’s unsightly and doesn’t smell too good, but it’s pretty remarkable. Everything returns to the earth Steve. It takes us all back eventually.”
Steven had noticed a coldness in his eyes as he said this, but dismissed it as nothing. He didn’t want to spend his Saturday afternoon talking about saving the environment, so he started to change the subject.
“Did you catch the game last night, Frank?” he asked cheerfully. Either Frank didn’t hear or failed to acknowledge his question.
“Too many people, that’s the problem. The planet is overpopulated by people fucking. Fucking and then having kids they don’t want and can’t afford.”
Bitterness had crept into Frank’s voice. Steven had never even heard the old man raise his tone, never mind drop an F-bomb. He listened on, content for now to hear him out.
“Back when I was young, we didn’t have all these electronics. Laptop computers, game consoles, big screen TV’s. People have become lazy. They’re wasting space, wasting resources. We have to compensate for that Steve—so even if it’s not a world changer, it all helps. Every little bit of it helps.”
“Maybe I should look into it.” Steven said noncommittally.
Frank nodded. “Maybe you should. It’s worthwhile.”
Steven watched now as Frank and Alice put the bag down to catch their breath, and he wondered just how far they’d taken the recycling. Of course he had often seen Frank heading out in his blue Nissan on Saturday mornings to take his bottles to the recycling plant, waving and smiling as he passed. But he also sometimes heard the car go out in the middle of the night. Now for the first time, he asked himself why the old man would be heading out at such unusual hours. He watched on, careful to make sure he was out of sight as he peered around the corner of the bedroom curtains. He watched as the pair lifted the bag up again with some effort, then Frank lost his grip. He snatched at the heavy duty plastic, but couldn’t maintain his hold, and the bag tore free as the object they were carrying dropped to the stone path.
Steven recognised the girl. He’d seen her on the TV and on the front page of the local newspapers. She had been reported missing a few days earlier, after disappearing on her way home from a night out with friends. He tried to remember her name from the news report. He thought it might have been Lucy, but it escaped him. She looked quite different from the happy and smiling girl in the news pictures. Now her skin was almost grey and her blonde hair was partially matted with dried blood from the ugly, jagged wound in her throat. Her eyes looked lifelessly and accusingly into oblivion, perhaps asking why me. Why someone so young found herself here, rather than tucked up in her own bed, or snuggled up to a boyfriend somewhere. Steven looked on helplessly as Frank covered her, tucking the plastic underneath the body and getting a firmer grip, before the two shuffled down that small path beside the decking. If this were a movie, Steven thought, this would be the point where Frank would look up and see his nosey neighbour, and so would begin a deadly game of cat and mouse. But Frank didn’t look up; he was too preoccupied to worry about the next-door neighbour, who as far as he knew was at work. Trying to process a thousand thoughts simultaneously, Steven sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.
“What have you done?”
He wasn’t quite sure if he meant Frank or himself, or if he had even said it out loud at all. He cast his mind to all of the missing persons reports on the news in the last few years, and it all made sense. It seemed Frank had found something to do with his days—or more specifically, his nights.
And at what point did Alice find out?
Was she too afraid to leave him, or just too afraid of him to contact the authorities? Perhaps it started off as just as using a different kind of light bulb, or turning off the plug sockets at the wall before turning in for the night, but at some point it had all changed. They had taken it to the next level, but Steven was sure that it all still boiled down to one thing—
Recycling.
A chill coursed through his body as he recalled the conversation about the compost heap.
“I keep it back there as it’s unsightly, and doesn’t smell too good, but it’s pretty remarkable. Everything returns to the earth, Steve. It takes us all back eventually.”
Frank was right, of course. It did.
Steven wondered how large that compost heap was now. What would be found if the topsoil were pulled away, how many—
An idea struck him, one which horrified him and thrilled him at the same time. She would be home soon, and wouldn’t expect to find him here. And why would she? She had thrown him out of his own house after all, and seemed to be enjoying making his life a misery despite his best efforts to keep things amicable. Maybe it was time he stood up for himself. He thought he could do it—sure he could—and more importantly, he thought he could get away with it. He would be doing the world a favour anyway.
After all, every little helps.
Every little helps.
A STRANGE AFFAIR
So much blood.
Harry blinked as his brain t
ried to process the violence in front of him. His wife’s eyes stared blankly, devoid of any semblance of life as the eight inch serrated knife fell to the ground. It was at that point, as it came to rest on a pile of soggy, slick entrails that he felt something in his mind snap. He tried to speak but instead only smacked his lips, a strange gurgling sound welling up from inside. He was sure he could have controlled it, had she not chosen that moment to speak. Her tone was both an accusation and a question—pleading and angry. It was that one word that sent him over the edge.
“Harry?”
As he turned and vomited noisily, he wondered how this could have happened. How his life could come to this.
Earlier.
Flicking impatiently through the news channels, Harry hoped for something to catch his interest. Anything at all to distract him from the horrible sticky humidity that seemed to hang in the room like a blanket. Wiping his arm across his forehead, he wondered just what was happening to the world. The news channels were as bleak as ever. CBS. NBC. CNN. All of them rehashing the latest atrocities.
Militants had killed two hundred civilians in some country Harry had never heard of.
An earthquake in Japan had flattened a village.
A suspected Serial killer was still at large in Ohio.
“Fucking world gone crazy,” he mumbled to himself, as he finally gave up on the news and switched over to Wheel of Fortune. He shuffled uncomfortably as the chair creaked under his weight. His shirt was ringed under the arms with sweat, and he made a mental note to call Daniels and chew him out about the broken air conditioning.
Ever since losing his job he’d been in a terrible cycle of depression. Initially headhunted by Daniels to run his company’s export division, he had been offered a rock solid job with great benefits and a house just off the beach. The only downside was that Harry would have to move from the family home in Atlanta, and relocate to Rio. The decision had strained his and Maggie’s relationship, as she had been reluctant to leave her job as a part time nurse, but she eventually agreed. So they sold the house and embarked on their new life in Brazil.
Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror Page 20