Night Driver

by Marcelle Perks

  In two strides Stefan was facing him. They stared each other out.

  ‘He’s going to be organ-harvested, brother; he’s worth more alive than dead,’ said Stefan in a worn-out voice as if he was already an old ’un.

  Lars blinked furiously. ‘You’re going ahead with that shit?’ he screamed, looking at Hans.

  As usual, Hans wouldn’t even bloody look at him. He’d gone into officious mode again. ‘You weren’t interested, so I’m sorting it,’ he said with a wide smile. ‘Drugs is getting too dangerous; whores is a mug’s game. Someone’s got to have a rational head, keep the money coming in.’ He stood there, pleased with himself, as if he’d just won an award.

  Lars seethed at the cheek of the guy. Caught red-handed and still giving it all that. He stood there with twisted shoulders, in turmoil. At that moment he was not capable of rational thought. Then a sly thought came into his head, and his whole body seemed to unravel and straighten itself up again. His hand brushed against his crotch. He was full of himself again. Now he was grinning at Hans with a foolish grin like a child blackmailing for yet another sweet.

  ‘Do you know where I just saw Dorcas?’ he said. His head moved from side to side like a blackbird’s.

  Hans said nothing, just thrust his hands into his pockets. Lars’s face was shining in the sunlight. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow.

  ‘She was with that Snell woman, the English bitch,’ said Lars smugly.

  Hans’s features visibly tensed, as if his whole form had been struck by a giant bolt of lightning. He seemed to shrink inside his suit like a frightened little boy. Now he didn’t look arrogant. It looked as if he was afraid Lars would get up and leave.

  ‘Come upstairs and see me,’ he said almost in a whisper. He waved his hand at Hugo and Stefan to get on with the loading, got closer to Lars. ‘You know, you’ve taught me everything I know,’ he said, flashing his eyes that were an unreal mixture of blue and crème de menthe.

  Lars felt his emotions tugging at him. He knew he couldn’t trust Hans any more, but he had such glowing, vivid skin, that ridiculously soft pursed-up mouth. The memories of their passion together seared him, had imprinted part of Hans on to his soul. Their bodies had fevered their way into each other. He was stood there, trying to make up his mind what to do.

  Hans smiled and went to walk off, then looking over one shoulder he turned and said, dead casually, ‘I’ll be waiting, but move the car first, eh.’

  Frannie froze, but Dorcas sprang into action. She pressed the automated bell that prompted a nurse and started to empty Frannie’s things into her night case, which was set neatly next to the table.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Frannie, too shocked to intervene.

  ‘Now that he’s seen us, we’ve got to get you out of here,’ shouted Dorcas. ‘If he tells Hans, he could get to you in here.’

  With her dexterous fingers she packed all Frannie’s things and had her going-home clothes waiting on the chair before the nurse arrived.

  Dorcas spoke in rapid-fire German to Krankenschwester Bonn. There were raised voices and commotion. A doctor came in and out twice and shook his hands in exasperation. He shouted at Frannie in heavily accented English, ‘Think about your baby!’ But Dorcas was unstoppable. Finally, she got what she wanted.

  ‘Here, sign this,’ she said, brandishing a pen. An official-looking document Frannie couldn’t read lay on the table.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A Schwarzer Peter; it means you refuse treatment,’ said Dorcas. She tapped the chair when Frannie paused. Much as Frannie wanted to escape her penalising cuff and the endless intrusions, the thought of potentially putting the baby at risk made her hesitate. But Lars had been here, outside the door. She couldn’t take the chance and stay here; trapped in her bed, hooked up to a drip, she was a sitting duck.

  She bit her lip, her hand hovering with the pen in mid-air, but Dorcas guided it to the right line and pressed. Frannie signed. The doctor came in as Dorcas was ushering her out of the door and looked her directly in the eyes.

  ‘If anything happens to your baby, it will be on your head,’ he said. Dorcas banged the door shut and pulled Frannie outside.

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  Lars stood outside Hans’s office. He’d been in there hundreds of times, but it didn’t feel right coming back to the place he’d spent the most time with his lover. Déjà vu and all that. The things they’d done on that sofa, it was a wonder it was still in one piece! The relationship was kaputt. But he knew that Hans would push him, do anything to get what he wanted. And he always wanted something.

  They’d met when Hans was a twenty-something prostitute: gawkily good-looking, surreally submissive. He’d lie down like a puppy dog, let Lars do anything he wanted. And somehow, after he’d taken him under his wing, it was as though he’d given him a magic potion but pushed him in the wrong direction.

  Sadism energised Hans. Instead of being a vampire himself, he looked on greedily while others drank. Now look at him: a regular bloody gangster. Always wanting to hurt, destroy. And all the bloody women loved him.

  Lars still couldn’t get his head around Hans’s dodgy mates, the terrible money-making schemes, the way he treated everyone like shit. Just looking at him now, he was all worked up, couldn’t deal with the dangerous thoughts in his head. His headache banging so hard he thought it might crack.

  There was killing: quick, so swift it was practically painless. It sure was ugly, but it was a release. He only killed those he liked. But this keeping ’em alive in little boxes, making them suffer. Nah. He couldn’t be doing with that. Proper sick, that was. Hans had given him a knowing look, thought he could just wriggle under his skin again. But there was a line – with everything there had to be a line. And Hans had crossed it.

  Lars liked to think he had something of the wolf in his genes: the right to hunt, to seek out and press his teeth down on an inviting neck. There was a name for people like him, but most people couldn’t get it. ‘Swift like an arrow,’ he said to himself, thinking of warm, tantalising flesh.

  His head and face was throbbing again, but he made himself knock, sauntered in with sagging knees. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Hans was outstretched on the sofa, naked to the waist, a big fat cigar in one hand. His fancy suit pants were held up with shiny braces that looked erotic strapped over his naked shoulders.

  He looked absurdly camp, like he was a roaring homo from 1930s Berlin about to pop his cherry. The air buzzed with a haze of thick cigar smoke, and Hans just lay there, smiling, sunbeams winking on his naked upper torso. Jesus, what was he trying to do to him?

  Hans laid his head back provocatively, giving Lars a good view of the delicate skin underneath his neck. There was a little dent just under his Adam’s apple that moved every time he spoke.

  Lars felt himself stiffen, bit his lip. He could just imagine kissing that dent, licking it, going further; going mad right there on the black leather sofa. He didn’t know why the boy was taunting him. A bitter taste welled up in his mouth. He wished he could spit all his badness out. But he wasn’t going to be tempted by Hans. No. No. No.

  ‘You can start by putting some clothes on,’ he said roughly. He went to the fridge and took out a can of Red Bull; instead of drinking it, he held the coolness of it against his head.

  Hans looked surprised. His eyes appraised him. ‘Headaches getting you down again?’ he said softly. He gave a diabolical smile. ‘It’s all the bad things you’ve done coming out of you.’ He carried on looking into Lars’s face. ‘Ya’ll better come here right now. I just killed a man!’ he screeched in a mock-serious voice. He was doing the serial killer shit again. Lars couldn’t remember which one it was, but it was one of the American ones. Hans loved to throw odd quotes about.

  Lars fidgeted with his hands, looked at the mosaic pattern of the marble on the floor. The antique feel of the place had always unsettled him. It had given Hans a chance to wallow in his ‘true crime’ obs
ession. And being the boss only made him more narcissistic. Once upon a time he’d just been a shag, a potential, and now he thought he was calling the shots. He had to ask him.

  ‘Did you send Dorcas after that English bitch?’

  Hans paled visibly. For a moment he stopped smoking his cigar. ‘No. She came here looking for Anna’s brother, and I managed to fob her off.’ He played with the lit cigar, made his voice high like a little kid’s. ‘I didn’t want to hurt them, I only wanted to kill them,’ he screamed. He kicked his legs out on the sofa, slapped his own bum. ‘He won’t let me stop killing until he gets his fill of blood,’ he screeched. Then he added, ‘That’s the Son of Sam talking about his neighbour’s dog.’ He threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘But Dorcas was with her today at the bloody hospital,’ said Lars, his voice getting louder as vented his frustration. ‘You telling me that’s nothing to do with you?’

  Hans’s shoulders stiffened, as if someone had snapped his braces. ‘The first good-looking girl I see tonight is going to die!’ he screamed.

  Lars sighed. He was always like this, talking in riddles.

  Hans sat up. ‘I didn’t know Dorcas even knew this English bitch. I mean Dorcas and Anna were hardly pals,’ he said with a little smile. ‘You know, it would be easier if you hadn’t got rid of Anna. This mess keeps getting bigger.’ He stopped for a moment then carried on. ‘Even when she was dead, she was still bitching at me. I couldn’t get her to shut up!’

  Something buzzed in Lars’s head. His hands bunched into clumsy fists. In this elegant, air-conditioned room with the old-fashioned fancy furniture, he felt like microwaved shit. The dark red wash of the walls was hypnotic. The heavy, ornate furniture made him claustrophobic.

  That last time, in the VIP room, he couldn’t even remember killing Anna. What he recalled, vividly, was Hans’s voice whispering to him that he’d done it, that he wouldn’t tell. That seductive voice calling his name over and over until it washed over him and soothed him. Hans fed his lusts then made him feel bad for indulging in them. What did the fucker actually want now?

  ‘Do you get off on trapping that guy in the crate?’ he said, sitting down on the little chair opposite Hans. It was the first time he’d questioned him like this. Normally between them it was a given that he was the Killer, the One, and Hans lapped it up along with his books and murderabilia material. He was a true crime freak.

  Hans laughed lazily. ‘You heard of Dennis Radar the BTK killer?’

  ‘No. BTK?’

  ‘Just three little words: Bind. Torture. Kill,’ said Hans wickedly. ‘He wanted to kill an Anna, but she escaped him.’ His eyes glazed over and he began to quote mechanically, ‘You don’t understand these things because you are not under the influence of factor X. There is no help, no cure, except death or being caught and put away.’ Hans stopped and gazed at Lars’s sweating face. ‘That could be you speaking.’ He stopped and took a little breath to check his reaction. ‘If they find you they’ll put you back in the loony bin.’

  ‘No, not that,’ said Lars, flinching at the mention of the asylum.

  ‘What’s wrong, Lars, you think you’re not suitable for treatment?’ said Hans with a sly grin.

  ‘Is that how you think?’ said Lars. ‘That I’m some sort of living crime library for you to explore?’

  Hans blinked and sat up. When he didn’t get constant attention, he suffered. All the fight had gone out of his shoulders and his head hung down, all dejected. His eyes stared into Lars’s as if they could kill him as soon as look at him. Lars didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him or afraid of him.

  ‘After all we’ve been through together, it would be smart to be nice to me,’ said Hans, making the big eyes again. His face was perfect in any profile. That was one of the problems with Hans: no matter what nasty stuff came out of his mouth, he always looked so bloody legit, nobody paid attention to what the fucker actually said. The women all got off on his eyes, which were neither blue or green and constantly changed colour. This time, he wanted to nail the bastard.

  ‘The one who loves you is Dorcas – you know, the broad who’s knocked up with your kid?’ said Lars with a sneer. He walked up to the sofa and threw the can of Red Bull at Hans and it hit his ribs with a clang. Hans cried out and the can exploded as it hit the floor. A squirting plume of foam shot out. Its savage hiss deepened the tension between them.

  ‘I can do it with woman, but they don’t do it for me,’ said Hans in a monotone voice. He lay there lazily, puffing away. His bare chest was splattered with foam. He went off on one again. ‘I would loved to have raped them, but not having any experience at all… That’s Edmund Kemper, the necrophile,’ he said, puffing out his chest with pride at his own cleverness.

  Lars felt like a father with a disobedient son.

  ‘Sometimes I even have to fake orgasm,’ said Hans. He continued puffing his cigar and looked at him. ‘Never had to do that with you.’

  ‘What about what Dorcas wants? Lars tried to get him to look in his eyes but Hans was out of it. He’d probably popped a pill or something worse. Lars couldn’t believe the things that kids got down their necks these days.

  ‘What does do it for you, then?’ said Lars, genuinely puzzled. Hans turned to him with a little grin, took out a remote control from his pocket and turned one of the TV screens on. The office was lined with a bank of overhead TVs that could be used to monitor the CCTV system, or something else. A machine somewhere whirred into life, a TV flickered on and grainy footage started to play.

  Lars stared. Wasn’t that the bookcase in the VIP suite? He could count the fancy bottles even. And the guy sitting there, didn’t he do him about four months ago? He recalled the fancy shirt; it was one of the things that had first made him consider him as a potential.

  Then he saw himself on camera. It was the oddest feeling watching yourself, seeing all your little faults and not being able to shield your ego from the fat belly, broad face, the slight stoop in the shoulders. With bated breath he watched himself advance on the boy – Joe, he’d called himself.

  All he’d wanted was to mutually wank. But the boy knew what was coming. There was a series of high-pitched screams as the sharp blade made contact with the flesh, the terrible searing sound as it grazed off the bone, dug right in and then the artery disintegrated into slivers.

  Lars tried to cover his face with his hands, but still the boy’s screams reverberated around the room. That one had been a bit of a bodge job, taken ages to bleed out with him pleading every second. He hadn’t enjoyed that. There was something hideous about the way he finally crawled like an insect across the floor, all squirming shoulders.

  Lars turned to Hans to tell him to turn it off and was horrified to find him furiously wanking, trousers undone, openly playing with himself as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Schweinehund! Lars watched as Hans continued to pleasure himself. ‘Hans, what are you doing?’ he asked, in a squawk of indignation, rising to his feet.

  ‘You asked me what I like,’ said Hans, with a crude wink. ‘Well, you can see for yourself. It’s been like a dream getting you to kill to order. My custom-made killer in my own club.’ He lay back laughing, the cigar clenched between his teeth.

  Lars flinched. He knew about the security cameras, of course; he partly owned the club after all. But this? This was what turned Hans on? All the colour drained out of his cheeks. He’d been a bloody puppet for a sicko all along! He stared at the recording with alarm, and saw Hans’s face go through the mock-agonies of climax. He turned away, lost for words, and slumped down in the chair, absolutely gobsmacked. Hans had been pushing him too hard for months, always wanting a bit more, but he’d never even imagined this.

  Hans cleaned himself up and got dressed. With a clean suit on he was on his high horse again. And when he’d come he had always been unbearable. Lars sat with his face in his hands and groaned. Now his headache was really kicking in; he couldn’t take much more. He flinched at the touch o
f Hans’s hand on his shoulder, let out a sob.

  ‘Thing is, Larsy, with this Anna thing we’re in trouble. It would be best if you got this Frannie in here and did her in,’ said Hans in a sly voice, patting Lars as if talking to a very small child. ‘And you can use the VIP room again, like old times. If you’re going to do something, do it well, and leave something witchy – that’s what Charlie Manson says.’

  Lars trembled under Hans’s half-hearted embrace. There was a time when Hans had meant everything to him, when he’d assumed that the bloody boy had accepted the fact that he killed because he was in love with him. Hans’s tireless organisation, the way he’d comfort him afterwards, it had all been a sham. The fucker was getting his rocks off all along!

  He couldn’t be doing with this any longer. He slapped Hans’s hand away, screaming, ‘Murderer!’ loudly in his face before turning and running heavily through the room.

  As he left Hans seemed in another world. He went into one of his serial poses again. ‘I had no other thrill or happiness…’ he said with hands outstretched.

  Lars got out of there. His mind was a mass of emotions. He had to go quickly, before he lost all control and lashed out. With his mind tired but half-crazed, the only thing he could think of was getting a kill, fresh blood running into his mouth. With a moan he ran through the crowded club, barely seeing the dancing bodies he had to push through forcibly to get out.

  Dorcas had done the decent thing and dropped Frannie off, although the stroppy cow was so emotional that she had had to agree to go in there with her in order to get her out of the car. Her house was in a large, imposing street but it was unkempt. The windows badly needed a clean and the garden was full of weeds. Inside Dorcas wrinkled her nose at the general state of disorder, although she admired the spacious grace of the house. The things she could do with it if she lived there!

  A wedding photo on the mantelpiece revealed a much thinner Frannie and a giant of a man with brooding good looks. He was so tall he hulked over his bride and would have been a bit of alright if a sullen look hadn’t ruined his looks. When she looked at the plump English woman with a rump like a well-fattened cow, Dorcas wondered how women like her managed to keep hold of their men. Just as well she didn’t work in the sex industry. Wouldn’t last two minutes! She smoothed down her dress, tried to find a way to leave.