Stalk Me

by Richard Parker

  Chapter 12

  “Wait a minute, guys. I haven’t got us both in frame.”

  That was the problem with having short arms – not very good for snatching iPhone shots of yourself. Spike extended his as far as he could to try and get him and Tiffany in.

  “I know that’s just gonna be the tops of our heads.” He stretched it a little further and angled the lens down towards their faces. “How’s that? Cosy?” He pressed his face against Tiffany’s and spoke to the people he’d share the clip with. “Shame Tiffany’s not going to remember.”

  Tiffany DiMarco was unconscious. Her bruised eyelids were inflated and purple, her lips were split and caked blood stuck her blonde hair to her scalp. Spike moved his shoulder and allowed her to slump to the park bench. He winced theatrically for his audience as her skull thudded against the slats.

  “That’s gotta hurt. See you both at the pond tonight, usual time.”

  Spike sent the clip to Jeb and Benny and stowed the tacky nightstick in his sports bag. His blood was still hurtling through him, and he could smell Tiffany’s perfume around his face. He tied his hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a leather hoop. He at least looked respectable again. Time to head for home.

  The ultimate example of recording something you shouldn’t – that was Spike, Jeb and Benny’s constant goal. To shoot something that would implicate them if the clip ever escaped their triangle; that could potentially land them in jail. It was about implicit trust, and it was better than a blood oath.

  The three of them had hung out since first year in high school. Jackass had been their springboard but that had quickly become lame. They’d tired of injuring themselves on camera and had gravitated to hurting other people. They’d captured it on their iPhones and had circulated their increasingly daring attacks – first, bitch-slapping friends and enemies, then complete strangers. That’s when it had become interesting.

  Spike squeezed through the hole in the hedge and found himself back on the edge of the golf course. Nobody would be using this route as a shortcut after they found Tiffany. Time to scope some new territory.

  The first time Spike had sent his friends the clip of him randomly bludgeoning a female tourist in Lone Pine State Park, he’d known it was the ultimate test. Stephanie Meadows had been in a coma for three weeks after the attack. Spike had pretended he hadn’t cared and hadn’t betrayed his relief when she’d woken from it.

  He’d known the other two wouldn’t talk. They were fiercely loyal, but more importantly, they were scared of him. He hadn’t hooked up with them for those three nerve-wracking weeks. Hadn’t been able to eat. But when Stephanie had opened her eyes in hospital, he’d met them at the pond and had acted like he didn’t give a fuck which way it had gone.

  He’d told Jeb and Benny it was their turn then. He’d realised the sooner they’d replicated his actions the more unlikely they were to betray him. Their clips had reached his phone soon after, two muggings in the same location. The police had thought it was the same attacker. Spike had realised it gave them an alibi.

  It had become a game. When one had recorded, the other two had made sure they were somewhere public. If an assault were ever pinned on one of them, it would be impossible to implicate the others. They’d used the same weapon – a nightstick that belonged to Spike’s father. He’d stored it in the bottom of the closet when he’d been prematurely retired from the Kalispell PD. Spike knew his Dad was a crooked cop, and even though his pension had been withdrawn, they still lived in the same relative luxury they always had. His father had some influential friends.

  His mother had split a long time ago, but he’d already chosen Dad and his philosophy:

  “Nobody gives you anything. Take it when you have the opportunity.”

  And Spike had. He’d taken the nightstick and had pimped it by hammering six nine-inch nails into it. But it had only been when he’d taken the innocence of Lauren Cassidy that he’d realised how right his father had been.

  He’d seen her around the neighbourhood, vaguely remembered her being a few years below him in high school. She wasn’t pretty but she had that “pussy dipped in detergent” expression that, in his mind, entitled her to be taken down a peg or three.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d actually raped her. The TV news said she’d been sexually assaulted, but the attack had been quick because the rec area had been freezing cold. Beforehand, he’d felt aroused by what he’d been about to do, but when he’d whacked her with the nail club and she’d dropped insensible to the frosty grass, he’d immediately lost his erection.

  Even after he’d positioned the phone camera in the prong of the tree and had begun his movie performance for his two buddies, he’d felt alone. Lauren had had tight jeans that he could only roll down to her knees. She’d also had thermal panties on. He hadn’t had time to unlace her hiking boots so he’d squeezed his body through the tight gap between her legs.

  His exposure to the cold air hadn’t helped his enjoyment and his thrusting had been exaggerated for the lens. He’d come into his rubber but wasn’t sure if he’d penetrated her or been caught under the elasticated hem of her sweatshirt.

  Spike had been angry with himself afterwards and had barely resisted the temptation to delete the clip. When he’d watched it back, however, it had looked awesome. He’d chopped off the beginning and end and had sent the money shot to his buddies. He’d certainly set the bar high for them.

  Chapter 13

  “Positive?”

  “Positive.” Beth watched the anxious African features of Erica, her temporary hairdresser, reacting in the mirror. She’d already had all of her uneven brown locks cut short, and the stunted tufts jutted stiffly from her head. She felt emotion piercing the back of her throat but kept her lips tightly clamped.

  “Tell me if you want me to stop.” The hairdresser fumbled her long, glued-on fuchsia nails at the attachment head of the electric trimmer for a few moments and then switched it on. It didn’t buzz as loudly as Beth had anticipated. She nodded at Erica to reassure her she still hadn’t had second thoughts.

  Its low hum resonated through her jaw as it swept from her fringe to the centre of her scalp. Erica paused, allowing them both to examine the strip of smooth, white skin.

  Beth hadn’t wanted to go to her regular hairdresser for this, didn’t want to fence any questions about Luc. She just wanted to sit somewhere unfamiliar and not encounter any disapproval. It hadn’t worked out. Teenage Erica’s own multi-tonal, strawberry-blonde bob was immaculate, and Beth could see shaving everything off was going to be almost as traumatic for her.

  “Should I carry on?”

  Beth nodded gravely, and Erica could tell there was more to her visit than a radical image change. She widened the strip with another stroke, checking Beth’s set expression again before repeating the process. Beth parted her teeth slightly so they wouldn’t vibrate and closed her eyes while Erica finished.

  When she looked up again it was like peering at a displaced version of herself, familiar features stranded on someone else’s head. The scarring about her mouth looked even more obvious now. She didn’t like the person staring intently back, but was glad to feel different, relieved to have shed the remnants of the Beth she no longer was. After a glance down at the curls in her lap, she put her hand to the exposed area and felt the resistance of the short prickles there.

  “OK, hon?” It didn’t sound as if Erica was referring to her handiwork.

  Beth moved her head, its motion effortless without the encumbrance of hair. She felt the cool atmosphere wafting around her scalp and wondered what Jody would say.

  *

  At around four in the morning, Cigarillo Man started to bug Beth. All the participants in the first YouTube clip she’d viewed had an explicit role, whether they were a member of the emergency services, or part of the exchange student ghouls recording the aftermath of the accident. Cigarillo Man didn’t seem to fit either category.

  She threw back the duvet, s
lipped on her robe and padded barefoot past Jody’s room. Her brother had raised an incredulous ginger eyebrow when she’d walked in the door earlier that evening, but had mitigated his initial reaction to her haircut by saying he knew their mother would detest the number one look, which made it more than OK with him. He’d been sensitive enough not to question her about it further.

  She turned on the light in the lounge. The tablet was still on the coffee table where she’d left it from her previous viewing. Beth quietly closed the door and turned it on. As she settled in the armchair, she questioned why she would subject herself to the ordeal again.

  But although witnessing the moments at the roadside a second time had been gruelling enough, she couldn’t deny that filling some of the gaps between the events made her feel she was connected to them and not just a removed victim of the consequences.

  She opened YouTube and ran her fingers over the tiny spikes of her scalp. She felt brave enough to watch thatTODdude’s clip full-screen this time. She skipped the commercial and waited for Cigarillo Man to make his appearance. He came into shot six seconds in, just as the camera phone was about to do its pan to the left. It only lingered on him briefly. Beth paused it.

  He was in the foreground, waist up and wearing a short-sleeved lemon shirt. The man was around sixty with a deep tan, even deeper crow’s feet and grey tendrils of wet hair in disarray on his bald patch. She couldn’t see below his waist. No glimpse of his trousers or shoes.

  Beth paused the action and examined his expression. It didn’t look as if he’d acknowledged that he was being recorded; was taking a toke of the slim cigar and staring at something below the camera. A piece of wreckage?

  The person holding the phone had captured him a second time as they’d glided the lens briefly to the left again, sixty-seven seconds later. Cigarillo Man was still in the right-hand corner, hadn’t moved and was still looking pensive. He didn’t seem to be taking the same interest as everyone else. He smoked, squinted down at the ground and occasionally glanced over to where Beth was comforting Luc. This time he looked up and registered he was being recorded. His features began to change, but the person swung the camera back to the wreckage.

  Even when she froze the clip, it was difficult to tell if the reaction was one of surprise or annoyance. It appeared the person shooting was eager not to be caught spying on the able-bodied and focused on the main event.

  Later, at eighty-three seconds, when Beth was climbing off the trolley, the phone panned to the spot again, but Cigarillo Man had gone. Had he simply moved to a different position to get a better view?

  Beth watched the remainder, right up to the helicopter taking off and the ambulance leaving, but didn’t see another sign of him. Who was he, the coach driver? The police had said everyone present in the recordings had been accounted for. Would he appear in any of the other four? She scanned the related uploads down the right-hand side of the screen that, until that moment, she’d had no intention of immediately watching.

  But now there were only three dark images of the roadside representing the remaining crash clips. There had been five in total but now the one title she couldn’t forget – “nut job crash bitch goes postal” - was missing.

  She typed it into the YouTube search, but found nothing. She opened another window, put it into a Google search and located a link to the old page but when she hit the URL, the viewer was a blank white square. She’d only seen it there yesterday. Perhaps a moderator had taken it down. She doubted that, particularly if the titles of some of the other YouTube clips were anything to go by. Had bloodlegend felt remorse and removed it? After months of it being uploaded, it seemed unlikely.

  Bizarrely, Beth felt cheated. It had been withdrawn before she could view it, and it made her realise the clips felt like her property. She’d prompted their recording and one of them had been snatched from her.

  The missing clip had been viewed 6,877,201 times. It had been liked 842 times and disliked only 44 times. She took in the comments below the blank square.

  OMG! wot a schizo

  looks like she woznt the only one injured LMAO

  ROTF!

  WTF? Best concussed right hook ever

  Some guy recording you with their phone more important than your dying husband Who knew?

  LMFAO did you need stitches yourself ????????????

  bloodlegend replied to the question:

  bitch would have looked like she was in another car accident if she had got another step nearer to me

  Beth swallowed hard and didn’t bother clicking to the next page of comments. Instead, she watched bloodlegend’s handful of other channel uploads. They were three dark recordings of an amateur death metal band shot in the same sleazy bar venue. From the drumhead Beth could see they were actually called Blood Legend. As she peered at the darkened faces of the bassist, guitarist, drummer and vocalist she wondered if she was looking at the person who had been watching her from behind the police tape.

  The sound was distorted and the person shooting the band was obviously too short to see over the heads of the row of people watching them. The clips were mercifully brief and looked to be recorded during the same song, although it was hard to tell for sure.

  They’d only been viewed a couple of times, but there was a link to the band’s Facebook page, which she clicked through to. Blood Legend didn’t have many friends other than the band members, and the page hadn’t been updated for a good while. May 2013 was the last post advertising a Blood Legend gig at The Neon Idol, Kalispell.

  She found photos of the band posing amongst some piles of rubble somewhere. They all appeared to be in their late teens. The drummer was an emaciated girl with multiple piercings in her eyebrows, brandishing her drumsticks amidst their guitar poses. She lingered the cursor on her and a box told Beth her name was Skylar. The others’ names were Funnelweb, Trip and Mark.

  The group was based in Montana, although when she Googled them, it didn’t appear as if they’d had any recent gigs. She opened first a Facebook account under the name ‘jawbone2014’ and requested friendship, then a YouTube account with the same details. She subscribed to bloodlegend’s channel and posted a message in the comments:

  What happened to that awesome clip of that crash bitch? Friend me on Facebook (jawbone2014). Need to get a copy. Will part with cash!

  Chapter 14

  “I thought it was you fucking with us,” Jeb said warily, still expecting it to be a joke.

  Spike was standing on the boardwalk with his back to his two gangly cohorts, looking out at the dark, weed-clogged pond soaking up the failing violet clouds. He wished he had been. “It wasn’t me.” He tried not to let them detect the alarm in his voice.

  He knew Jeb and Benny had those dumb half-smiling, half-flinching expressions on their faces and were waiting for him to turn and tell them he’d suckered them. He’d played these games before. But Spike remained motionless.

  He didn’t want them to see that somebody else had the control, and if he turned around he knew they would. “Which one of you talked?” Stay in authority, he told himself. But he knew that neither of them would have let anything slip. Even they weren’t that fucking stupid. He could almost hear their mortified exchange of glances and head-shaking.

  “Not me.”

  “Or me.” Benny trampled over Jeb’s denial.

  Had Benny been a little too eager? No, they knew they’d all be sent down if they breathed a word of what they’d been doing. However the three of them had been exposed, one fact was certain. “They know everything.”

  “Do you think they’ll go to the police?” Benny’s tone was flat. He knew it wasn’t a joke now.

  “I don’t know.” Spike turned and their alarm intensified because, he knew, he looked as scared as them. They were all the wrong side of their eighteenth birthdays. Prison gang-rape beckoned. “We’ve got to stay cool.” But he didn’t believe that. He was just quoting something he’d seen in a movie. Jeb and Benny were shitting in their
pants, and he was just about to join them.

  Spike wanted to run home but knew there would be no protection there. This was hardcore and his father wasn’t going to be able to smooth it over, regardless of his contacts. Somebody had intruded on the triangle and the consequences of that hadn’t even begun to sink in. Spike opened the message on his phone again.

  I see the three of you have been nailing the local girls. How is Tiffany DiMarco and what would you do to keep this between us?

  It had been sent to all of their cells. The number had unsurprisingly been withheld.

  “Who has all our numbers?”

  Jeb and Benny didn’t meet his eye. They’d been expecting to find reassurance there, but now they knew he was as petrified as them. They shuffled their feet and looked at their phones.

  But Spike knew that the handsets they used to communicate their dark mischief to each other contained only theirs. Each of them kept this second phone locked when they weren’t in touch with each other. The contents were too sensitive to include anyone else. Two were switched off while the other stalked and only switched on the next day to receive the images. How could they know about Tiffany DiMarco? She couldn’t have told anybody. She was still critical in Kalispell Regional.

  “Fuck!” Spike doubled over to shout it at the pond. The word echoed back, and the three of them silently studied the crescent of great pines on the other side, as if expecting to glimpse somebody within them.

  *

  When Beth checked her messages, she wasn’t surprised that bloodlegend hadn’t replied to her query about the clip. She returned to the band’s Facebook page and clicked through to the other members. Rather than wait for one response, she planned to request friendship from all of them and try to increase her odds of contacting somebody that way.

  She hit the request buttons for Funnelweb, Mark and Trip. They didn’t appear to be regular users, though. She found herself on Skylar’s page. She’d logged in yesterday and had 434 friends. She was her best bet, but how would she react to a faceless stranger wanting to friend her out of the blue? She was about to hit the request button when she looked down at Skylar’s recent interactions: