"Hmm,” I murmured in quick defeat.
"So, why are we here?” he asked, his hand on the table beginning to twitch.
"To ... to resolve this amicably,” I replied.
"Good,” he said. The next word came out half-burped. “Well?"
"Well,” I said. “What ... what is..."
"What is?” he repeated, his round chin rising slightly.
"The position,” I replied.
"The position,” he confirmed.
"That's right. What is the position?"
Donald's left hand, concealed somewhere beneath the desk, made a vague scratching sound, suggesting it may have been resting in his pants. His right continued to twitch before me, spread out like a fattened chop, clammy and yellowed through nicotine with ink-stains upon each finger.
"I want what's mine,” he said.
The hand drew back slowly toward a large pile of paper stacked upon the right hand side of the desk, near where the diorama had fallen. The fingers left grubby black trails in their wake as the palm collapsed loudly upon the top sheet, sending several smoke-stained pages fluttering to the floor. Beneath lay the object of Kenyon's search. He slid the creased, greasy document across the desk toward me with a greedy lick of his lips.
"That details in depth what you can and cannot do. It's all verified, signed on your behalf, and nothing in it's changed since you read it here in front of me last week. Perhaps this time you'll keep it."
"I gave this business...” I said, stumbling. “I gave this business the best years of my life."
"Once,” said Donald.
"It's a small company of my own.” I was gabbling now. “It isn't competition. I'm not asking for any of my designs back—just the freedom to make new models for myself."
"Denied,” Donald declared, lighting another cigarette. “Ever since the day you signed your initials flagrantly and blatantly on the base of your last prototype.” He coughed lightly on inhaled smoke, and continued. “That was a cardinal sin, Ed. I don't allow artistic expression here. Breaks the machine. Bad for you, bad for me. Terrible for business, which, like I've always said, moves forward like a rhino. With us or against us, you know that."
"Why are you suing me?” I asked. “You know I can't afford a fight."
Donald gave an ugly laugh. “That's why!"
About now the faint clicking sounds returned, growing steadily louder until the door behind me eventually nudged itself open.
"Tea's up,” announced Kenyon. Behind me a shiny and rigid forearm poked itself awkwardly through the small opening, its top half disappearing into shadow beyond the angled door. The extended hand grasped a brimming cup firmly between thumb and fingers. When I reached out myself and took hold, the stiff limb seemed to stick slightly to the saucer before withdrawing.
"Thank you,” I said to Kenyon, taking a sip. I nearly gagged, but swallowed the liquid down to keep face. The tea was stone cold, and upon close inspection a greenish-white film floated on its surface.
"Nice?” he asked.
"Lovely,” I replied.
"A signature's as good as a challenge, Ed. You're the house style. My reputation for excellence within the toy industry. To me personally, you've spent an entire lifetime carving nonstop piles of worthless plastic crap, but to my pocket you're the brand, and the main reason I've managed to fleece these Chinese boys for a song. So I've clipped your wings, Ed. No choice. You're developing the old airs and graces.” He paused for breath, which came at a price. Now I had him.
"Really?” I snapped.
"Really,” he replied, and belched.
"You think I'm all airs and graces?"
"I do."
"Right,” I said, and waved his blown smoke away, pointedly. Kenyon ignored the gesture.
"From now on you're a fading name on the accounts book. Pot kettle on the breath, by the way,” he added, drawing deeply on his cigarette. “No sense looking uptight, McCarthy. They're just toys, after all."
"Just toys?” I repeated, aghast.
"Real cheap crap, as well. Bags of soldiers for the local co-op.” Those words shook me.
"I sculpted you a one-off diorama of the Hougoumont defence."
"And a very profitable birthday present it turned out to be. Happy returns to you too, by the way. Fiftieth, is it?"
"Forty three. And it was last week."
"That's right."
"I've taken on a mortgage,” I admitted, as Donald blew more smoke across the desk.
"Poor you."
"I can't afford it now. I can't work."
"You can work,” he said. “Just find other things to do with those fingers. Write to co-op. Hands that do dishes also stack shelves."
I took a good long look at Kenyon, nodded sagely to myself a couple of times, paused for further effect, then began.
"You've grown monstrous, Donald,” I said, as dramatically as possible. “It's my job to see such things. Sculpting with the mind's eye."
Agitated at my well-timed rebuke, he slammed both hands down upon the desk in what, for him, was mild rage.
"Let me tell you something,” he bellowed. “You carve clay figures. You fill your head with heroic strangers who wouldn't look at you so much as spit. Have you once been capable of a single heroic act yourself?"
I pondered that question deeply.
"When you first came here all those years back you were a mouse. People laughed openly at you. Timid little toymaker, with you too dumb and meek to notice. Silverflies, they called you, because you were always dropping molten lead on your trousers making moulds."
"Hence my request for a reinforced apron."
"We used to joke that was the hottest you ever got down there. Till by some hideous miracle you became a dad, which sickened the girls here. Today you flounce in like Errol Flynn, in a cheap suit, with bad breath and some half-arsed attempt at a posh accent, dreaming of big business. You're a laugh, man. You're a joke. Take it from me, you're finished."
And then he did something ridiculous. He poked his tongue out at me. Stuck it right out like a child would. And yet his looked nothing like a child's. Donald's tongue was black and thick, and covered in dark bubbles. I laughed ironically, feeling a little sick as he prepared to counter with harsher words. I looked down at my feet, ready to receive a stern dressing down. This, I should point out, wasn't a sarcastic act. I was by this stage somewhat confused and emotional.
"You've got airs and graces, boy—well, well above your station. You're a small man, with a timid wife and a pokey house, with small kids who'll go on to live even smaller lives. They might think something of you now, given you can bring home the odd stolen toy here and there, but do you honestly think in a few years they'll be proud of what you do here? A grown man who sculpts toy soldiers and bloody farm yard animals?"
He laughed and coughed at the same time, and from where my head was bowed low I glimpsed something wet and black splash across the desk.
"Get out, go home and be a real man. Or try, at least. For the sake of those three ugly undernourished brats you accidentally spawned.
Those last words startled me, more so because the voice uttering them had gargled obscenely, as if the throat was full of liquid. When I finally looked up at Kenyon, his face was a pallid milky white, and far fatter in shape than before. Beneath the vaguely transparent skin I observed a number of wiry black vessels spreading outward in small clusters, channelling themselves chaotically across the vast flatness of Donald's changing head. Ranging downward toward his swollen, corpulent body, these tiny dark trails throbbed visibly with each rapid beat of his heart. Kenyon squatted motionless on the chair, his legs tucked in tight beneath his belly. A pile of discarded clothes lay crumpled below in a messy heap. His eyes were black and still. Eventually he burped. I reeled from the smell as his lolling black tongue popped out and licked wetly at the desk.
"Are you ill, McCarthy?” he croaked. “You look odd."
"I'm fine,” I said, although I believe the irony was l
ost on him.
"Tea not agreeing with you?” he said as what hair remained on his head fell away in clumps, exposing a hard, yellow pate with two tiny bumps at the rear of his skull. These began to excrete a clear, syrupy liquid.
"The tea, sir, was cold,” I snapped. “And late."
"Now, now, McCarthy,” belched Kenyon, shifting himself around in the seat so that I could observe more clearly his throbbing throat. “If you grow difficult I shall have you thrown out again, and this time I'll do more than just dust you up a bit. I'll sit on you."
I looked at the thick green stain soaking the seat beneath him, and it was at this point, I think, that I grew angry.
"If today were two hundred years ago, Mr Kenyon,” I began, feigning ignorance of the enormous tongue dabbing heavily at the signed document laid out in front of me, “I would have declared a duel."
"Pistols at dawn?” his voice sputtered, sending a thick stream of brown spittle across the underlined pages. This utterance ended in what I presumed was laughter, although sounds in my head were becoming hard to differentiate. “Two centuries too late,” Kenyon continued, “although I would have gladly accepted.” His skin, yellowy white now save for those endless black veins running beneath, glistened with small specks of moisture.
"You're becoming stressed,” I said. Kenyon gave no reply, and for a moment I thought he was dead, he had grown so still. The illusion soon vanished.
"I'm brewing up a big one,” he said, straining.
A loud rumbling noise sounded from the region of his stomach. Something trapped inside sloshed violently to and fro as Donald shuffled his knobbly rear on the seat and flexed stubby limbs. His throat bobbed uncontrollably.
"Not quite right down there,” he explained as I swallowed the rest of my cold tea. Something jelly-like hitherto concealed at the bottom of the cup slipped unannounced between my lips. I grimaced and drank it down as Kenyon spewed violently, showering the desk with the contents of his guts.
"Good boy,” I said.
"Thank you,” he replied, chewing on a half-digested item of food his stomach had not fully expelled. Small and pink, it hung limply over the peppered rim of his mouth, and I recognised immediately the red plastic wristwatch strapped at one end. Within seconds the arm had been sucked back down Kenyon's gullet, and the tongue emerging in its place immediately licked clean all remaining trace of my daughter.
"I had high hopes of sorting something out today,” I said, sweeping aside the swilling waste on the desk before placing my briefcase down upon it. Kenyon grinned.
"Everything was sorted years ago. To my satisfaction, if not yours."
"I thought maybe we'd level and shake. I even brought you a farewell gift for old time's sake.
"This is farewell,” he said. “Why hold back on the gift? Or are you feeling petty?"
"Not at all,” I replied, opening my briefcase. “I had intended to sculpt you Major John Howard charging the Orne River Bridge."
"Up the Ox and Bucks!” shouted Kenyon.
"But before I knew it I'd added my initials on the base and cast the entire scene into the hungry flames of my pointlessly renovated fireplace."
"Sound business thinking. If a trifle emotional."
"Which leaves me with just my modelling knife,” I said, drawing it out from its worn tin case. “Perhaps you'd care to have it? You can frame it here in honour of our achievements together."
"Ed, you can keep it."
"Thank you,” I said, gasping in mock gratitude. “Thank you, thank you, thank you."
"Thank you,” said Kenyon.
"This place has got to me, Donald. You're right,” I said. “It needs change. A bit of redecorating. Some restructuring. Everything's out of shape, like your good self."
"Easy, Ed."
"Things want restoring. Incidentally,” I added in the manner of an afterthought, “this will hurt."
I lunged over the desk as fast as possible and slit his fat throat. Black liquid spattered my hand before a huge rush of it spilled out over his paunch. Donald thrashed about helplessly.
"You fat little inkpot,” I said, walking calmly around the desk. I lifted the fallen diorama gingerly from the floor and replaced it in its original position. I readjusted a couple of the figures as Kenyon attempted to speak, but I think I must have cut something important.
"We're here because we're here because we're here because we're here,” I sang, then flicked my blade into his right eye. The insides ran out down his white cheek, staining it black. He farted twice with fear as I swung deftly behind his gnarled back and did the same to his left.
"Watch,” I said, and carved my initials roughly into his forehead with my knife. Kenyon pounded his arms uselessly against mine, until at last the blade grated against something hard, and they dropped. The two bumps at the back of his skull were oozing liquid now, clear and thick like modelling glue. Casually, I severed both tips and stuffed pens from his desk down each hole. Picking up a large paperweight, I hammered them both deep into his brain. Donald farted again.
I moved to his front, then, twisting his chair round so that I had a clear, uninterrupted view of his stomach.
"Careful, careful,” I said, drawing a line across it with the last of his pens, pausing to slap his face each time his body began to convulse. I added a couple of scientific symbols for artistic effect, then, holding my breath, sliced neatly along the marked line with my modelling knife as Donald's small legs kicked out miserably. After the worst had rushed out onto the floor, soaking my trousers, I reached in and took out the remains of my daughter. Sellotaping her back together on the desk, I rang reception.
"I want some blotting paper sent up,” I said. “Donald's contracts have run. Several thousand sheets should do it."
I slammed the phone back down, feeling thrilled to have ‘hung up’ on someone. Gathering what I could of my daughter into my arms, I caught my sudden vomit in Donald's wastepaper basket and tipped it over his head. Bits of him whistled as trapped air fought to escape through his nostrils.
"Pleasure doing business,” I said, and left his office. The outer room was completely blocked with towering piles of old paper; someone had obviously been doing their best to trap me here. With strength I never knew existed, I smashed the thick columns aside with my elbows, watching proudly as they collapsed in an untidy mess to the floor. Below, the brown tiles were covered in clustered heaps of dead flies that crunched dryly underfoot, which I tried to ignore as I climbed over years of accumulated muck and broke through at last into the long corridor. The window at the far end still showed a greyish half-light outside, but it appeared welcoming to me now as I rounded the corner approaching the stairway.
My escape route, however, was blocked by Donald's plastic assistant. Her hard, green body beckoned me toward it coyly. She was naked, and her puckered lips drew together with an unpleasant splitting sound that echoed the harsh clicks of her stiffly gyrating limbs.
"Mummy!” cried a muffled voice from between my arms, and at that I charged Donald's assistant head on, pummelling the body violently with my shoulder. She flew down the stairway backwards and smashed against the ground into several pieces.
"Your foundations are weak, dear,” I said, stumbling past her remains. One of her plastic eyes winked up at me.
In the workshop the young sculptors stared as I passed them, gasping in horror at my stained trousers. I reached out and tipped the ageing prototype they were copying onto the floor. As expected, everyone began to swear and shout, so I stuck up two Agincourt fingers, an insult they failed to fully comprehend, and laughed with sarcastic joy at the pointless disruption I had caused them.
Passing through reception, I noticed Janice had nipped off to the toilet. On her desk sat a late lunch, awaiting her return. I removed the brown A4 envelope from my briefcase, lifted up the top half of her sandwich and tucked the flattened toad inside. Then I stole her salt and vinegar crisps. I ate them on the journey home, trying to rid myself of a foul taste
rising up from my stomach. I parked the van outside my house over an hour later, having ridden the Thanet Way roundabout forty three times at increasing speeds. Locking up the vehicle for the last time, I spied two more dead toads in the road. Through the gate a live one was struggling up our unfinished pathway, plopping and slapping its arse over my nice clean tiles. We were completely surrounded. I would perhaps see my family only briefly before the police arrived, so I worked quickly to save them that particular embarrassment. I never once let the toads move in on them. But then, I never used to be like this.
Copyright © 2008 Matthew Holness
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Black Static Horror Magazine #3 Page 17