by Matt Shaw
©Matt Shaw
The right of Matt Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without written consent from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.
The characters, and story, in this book are purely fictitious. Any likeness to person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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The following book contains scenes which some readers may find distressing.
The book is intended for a mature horror audience.
You have been warned.
SOME KIND
of
C U * T
M A T T S H A W
Present Day:
A Place in the Family
I was sitting in a chair expressionless.
He was standing in front of me.
He has no name yet. He has not earned it. Tonight, maybe, but for now he is nameless.
Another man was present. He was on his knees, tears streaming down his face like the pathetic little shit that he is. He does have a name but it is not important. He is on borrowed time. His friends - not that he had many - called him Mr. Markson. A man in his seventies enjoying what retired life had to offer. He has had it explained to him how he became chosen for tonight’s entertainment. He protested, of course, but that was nothing new. They always protested against the facts presented to them.
The nameless one patted our mutual friend on the shoulder - for why I don’t know. A sign of reassurance that everything was going to be okay? Everyone in the room knew that to be a lie; me, him, Markson and everyone else watching from the other side of where we were sitting. All of them with clear anticipation on their faces; high hopes for what was to come. I watched as Nameless looked towards the black leather bag sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up. I hoped he liked the contents. The group and I had picked them out especially for him to show off his skill to us. He undid the zip - which previously kept the bag sealed - and opened the bag; various tools inside of there including a hammer, pliers, metal wrench - even a handgun that one of the group managed to procure not that anyone ever used a bullet. A bullet proves nothing other than being able to squeeze a trigger. It doesn’t prove you have the stomach for this game. It doesn’t prove you belong. The Nameless one looked at the contents and pulled them out, one at a time, placing them on the table. Each time he pulled something from the bag, our mutual friend squirmed that little bit more. And so he should for he is The Chosen One and tonight is his night.
The night in which he gets to meet his maker.
“Which one?” he asked.
“Your choice.”
He looked down at what laid before him. He looked lost. I looked over to the group watching. I looked at each of their pretty faces in turn. They knew if he didn’t step up then they would; not just for our mutual friend but for him too. Looking at them, I knew none of them would have a problem with completing the task to hand. I turned my dwindling attention back to the two before me; him and our mutual friend.
“Sun will be up in a few hours.”
“I can’t decide.”
“We can’t decide for you. It doesn’t work like that.” I shifted in my seat. “If you’re not comfortable then you can step down. No harm, no foul.”
“I don’t want to step down.”
“Time is of the essence,” I reminded him. “We need to move things along.”
He had a couple of minutes now, not that he knew this. If the deed wasn’t done - or started at least - within the next couple of minutes I’d give the nod to someone else to step forward. There would most likely be a little argument as to who got to step forward; each of them enjoyed it so there’d be no shortage of volunteers. Maybe I would let them all take a turn at sticking the two men before me?
The timeline didn’t mean the job needed to be finished in a couple of minutes - no - for once it was started, he had as much time as he wanted with which to really enjoy himself. But the task had to be started at least. I watched - eyebrows raised - as I started to place bets with myself as to whether he was going to see it through. I swayed towards no.
“This one.”
He held the hammer up. A popular choice among the group - most of whom cheered. A fair few of them had chosen the hammer too, when it was their turn. Some just hit the target enough to ensure the job was done. Some really went to town and turned skull to shattered bone fragments and mush. I could sense some of the voyeurs were hoping Nameless was going to back out so they could re-live their own moment by hammering Markson’s head in.
“This one?” he said again, confused by my lack of response. It’s not my place to give them a yes or a no. It has to be up to them. It has to be their choice. Their decision. With a shaking hand he picked the hammer up and turned to Mr. Markson. Markson looked at him - an obvious fear in his eyes. He shook his head from side to side and mumbled through the rag stuffed into his mouth (held there by tape). Nameless stood in front of his mark. Even his legs were shaking. I still don’t think he is going to do it. Another glance over to the people in the corner - watching and waiting - and they were licking their lips in anticipation. Some of them had even stepped forward in order to get closer to the ensuing mayhem. Nameless raised the hammer high in the air and held it there, his hand wavering. Markson shook his head. A tear rolled down his pale cheek. I leaned forward. I still don’t know. It could go either way… He brought the hammer crashing down onto Markson’s head with a solid crack; his head slumped forward, an obvious split in the skin of the forehead. He’s moaning through the stuffed rag; nothing that makes any sense. Clearly dazed. Nameless looked over to me to try and see my reaction. He saw nothing through my expression but I was both surprised and glad that he stepped up. One step closer to becoming one of us. He raised the hammer again and brought it crashing back down on Markson’s head; another loud crack. The force of the blow knocked both Markson, and the chair he was bound to, onto his side - a crumpled heap on the floor. That hit definitely splintered bone. The group cheered. Markson said nothing, nor did he move other than a twitch from his fingers.
Nameless raised the hammer up for a third time. No hesitation as he brought it back down onto the skull; the same place the first and second hit connected with. The skull folded in on itself revealing the inside of his head to all those close enough to see the finer detail. Nameless turned and vomited onto the floor just behind the twitching body of Markson as the others cheered once more. The foul stench of stomach-lining and blood spilling into the air yet it didn’t dampen the mood. I stood up and walked across the room to Nameless. I took a hold of the hammerless hand and lifted it high in the air like the Champion he was. Other members of the group moved closer, forming a circle around us whilst shouting and cheering for Nameless as Markson continued to twitch at our feet. One group member walked to the stereo-system which rested on the side. A flick of the switch and music blasted from the speakers as the bass shook the windows. As the music filled the room and drowned out the screams of joy, I pulled Nameless closer to me and hugged him tight, one arm around his neck pulling his head to mine. I whispered in his ear that he’d earned his place. He’d earned his name. He was one of us.
There wasn’t much of a night left, certainly not as long as we’d have liked to have for our celebrations, but it didn’t stop us from welcoming a new member to the famil
y. Some of us danced, some of us drank bottles stolen from Markson’s expensive cellar, and some of us took it in turn making love to Markson’s pregnant granddaughter as she lay dying on the stairs. Blood seeping from the gouged out hole in her stomach - caused when she came to investigate the noise of her late grandfather being hit on the head when we first broke in. At least I presume it was his granddaughter. For all I know it could have been his wife. After all - the dirty old man did have a taste for the younger model by all accounts.
Considering I wasn’t sure our New Son was going to go ahead with it, it turned into one hell of a successful night.
I stepped away from Markson’s granddaughter as she was being anally fucked and turned to survey the rest of the scene. I hated to be the one to break it up but time was beginning to turn against us. The sun would be up soon and - even though the house was out in the middle of nowhere - people could well be milling around before we’d had a chance to disappear back into the safety of the shadows that hid us in our Summer of Love. I hesitated before calling to my children. I just wanted to breathe the scene in a while longer as I stood there with a smile on my face; I am a proud father to many.
Our family continues to grow.
36 years Earlier:
Flesh & Blood
The man held up a steady hand and knocked on the trailer park door with a heavy thud. He patiently waited; listening to movement from within the cabin. The door creaked open, illuminating the dark night with a bright light from within, and the man was confronted by a tired-looking waitress still in her uniform from the diner she worked for minimum wage.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
The man nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black and white photograph. The picture was that of a young boy. The waitress recognised it immediately.
“I’m here for the boy,” the man said.
“You social services?”
“I’m his uncle.”
“A deal was done, he’s my son now.”
The man shook his head. He’d travelled a long way to collect his nephew and he wasn’t about to get into arguments over who the boy belonged to. He was of the same flesh and blood, he claimed right of ownership. The waitress was nothing to him or the boy; just some desperate woman unable to have children of her own.
“Can I come in? It’s cold out here.”
“You can’t take my boy,” the waitress said.
The man sighed and forced his way into the trailer, pushing passed the woman in the process. She screamed for him to get out but he didn’t budge. He stood there, to the side of the entrance, with his arms held firmly by his side.
“Where is he?”
“Please don’t. He’s all I have.”
“He’s not yours.”
“I bought him fair and square,” the waitress started to cry.
“Where is he?” the man asked again - growing impatient in his tone.
“You can’t take him.”
The man looked from side to side, looking down his nose to the surroundings. The trailer home wasn’t much to look at from the outside yet the outside was infinitely better than what was inside. The place was rancid; rubbish on the floor, dirty clothes piled up in the corner of the hallway, and a stink hanging in the air that made him want to gag. He turned back to the woman - her black make-up running down her cheeks as tears continued to spill from her green eyes.
“You think this is a good environment for a child to grow up in?”
“I bought him fair and square. His mother…”
“His mother isn’t very well. Which is why I am here and she is not. He won’t be going back to his mother nor will he be seeing her… I’ll ask again, do you think this is a good place to raise a child?”
The woman looked around at the mess, “I was going to clean up tomorrow. I’ve just come off a double shift.”
“A double shift? How many hours was that? Sounds tiring.”
“Please just get out. Leave us alone.”
“Not without the boy.”
“You can’t have him.”
The man sighed heavily and put his hands in his pockets, “Money? You want reimbursement for what you paid? Remind me again what that was? How much you valued ‘your’ boy at…”
“His mother didn’t have any cash for the drinks she wanted. She was the one who made the offer.”
“You saw the state she was in. Tell me - was she under the influence or did she have the shakes from her withdrawal.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Of course you don’t.” The man smiled at the woman. He always found it amusing when people didn’t recall things that made their position weaker. He looked over his shoulder, towards what appeared to be the living room. He walked through and the woman followed. He hesitated in the middle of the room; even worse than the hallway. Newspapers piled up on the floor, pages scrunched up. One paper open on a stained coffee table seemingly in the middle of a crossword puzzle. A television in the corner of the room with some gameshow playing; colours all wrong giving the impression the contestants were all bright orange. The man shook his head and looked back to the woman. She didn’t say anything but her embarrassment was clear. He looked round again and saw a sofa, buried under a small amount of rubbish; crisp packets, wrappers, more dirty laundry. He walked over and cleared a space with his foot before taking a seat. The woman didn’t move from the doorway. She waited for the man to speak again. “Tell me what happened, step by step.”
“If you don’t leave, I’ll phone the police.”
“No you won’t. You see - as I previously mentioned - I’m flesh and blood to the boy. You’re nothing. You merely took advantage of his alcoholic mother. You sold her booze in exchange for her child. You honestly think the police would let you keep the boy? I’m not sure but - what you did - is that even legal? Could there be a court case? A prison sentence? Community service? I don’t know about any of that. What I do know though is that, if you wanted to adopt children through the correct channels, in the future, then it will be a definite no. Those doors will be well and truly closed to you.” He hesitated a moment, “Media might be involved too.”
The woman continued to cry. The man paused a moment to let his words sink in a while longer.
“I wanted a baby so badly. When I found out I couldn’t have them - it cost me everything. It cost me my home, my partner, my job. My life started to crumble around me. Before I knew it, I was rock bottom; I was here working extra-long shifts in this restaurant just to try and make ends meet.”
“You’re breaking my heart. Where’s my boy?”
“If you take him away from me, I don’t know…”
The man quickly interrupted her, “You don’t know what you’ll end up doing? You don’t know how you’ll go on? Something like that?” He sighed. “I can help you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. The woman saw that it was bulging with notes of various denominations. The man set the wallet to the side of where he was sitting, resting it on the arm of the well-worn sofa.
“You’d help me?”
The man nodded slowly. “This sort of life isn’t nice for anyone. Clearly you’re not afraid of hard work, I respect that. You’ve just had a run of bad luck. Events forced you down this path.” He paused, once again letting his words sink in, “Did you want me to help you out?” He looked at the woman, waiting for her answer. Her eyes were fixed upon the wallet. “I take the boy, I help you out. But that’s how it has to be. You don’t get to keep him. Either you let me take him back - and I’ll keep him safe - or we get the police involved and everything gets messy for everyone. The first option obviously being the one where I’m more inclined to help you.” He paused again.
The woman was leaning against the door-frame before she collapsed to her knees and openly wept.
The man asked again, “Did you want me to help you?”
She nodded. Slowly at first and then more sure of herself. The man stood up and walked over to he
r. His wallet was left on the side of the sofa. He helped her to her feet and pulled her close to him with his arms around her. He held her close to his body and told her that everything was going to be okay. He released his tight hug a little and she moved away from him; a genuine look of gratitude in her eyes. The tears were still falling but she was at least smiling. The man smiled at her and then punched her hard in the face sending her crashing back against the wall of the trailer with a loud bang. Before she had a chance to slide down to her arse, he grabbed her by the throat and pinned her there. Her nose was bloodied already, a crack across the bridge of it showing it to be broken. Tears streamed uncontrollably from her eyes from both fear and pain. He squeezed her throat hard, stopping her from screaming, as he continued to rain punch after punch, hit after hit, down upon her once pretty - if not tired - face. Each hit getting more blood on both himself and her own face. By the time he released his grip of her throat, letting her slide down the wall to the floor where she slumped over, she was unrecognisable as the woman who’d answered the door minutes earlier. Bubbles of blood were coming from her mouth as she wheezed through crushed wind-pipes, possibly slowly suffocating. Her eyes were black, nose splintered, teeth caved in - one absent from her mouth entirely, stuck in the man’s sore knuckle. He pulled it out and threw it to the floor where it bounced a couple of times before sliding underneath the coffee table. He looked down at the woman and watched her a moment, struggling to breathe, before lifting his foot high in the air and bringing his size twelve boot down upon her already broken face. The ensuing crunch echoed round the small living room of the trailer despite the gameshow’s end credits playing loudly in the opposite corner. He stamped down and continued to do so until her face was flat about the floor; skull crushed and squashed into a shape not recognisable as human. He took a step back, looking at his handiwork, and turned to retrieve his wallet from the sofa where he’d left it. When he turned round again, a small boy of six years old was looking at him from the doorway with the body; his legs were trembling and a wet patched had formed on his already dirty pyjama bottoms.