The Final Cut

by Bark, Jasper

  ‘Forgive me.’

  And this was finally too much for Sam.

  That Melissa, in the midst of her torment and degradation, would beg his forgiveness was too much for him to bear. It made him realise the extent of what she’d done to him. What she’d taken away and what she’d turned him into. More importantly, Sam realised that what was going to happen to him, was worse than Melissa was suffering.

  A giant gob of white cream dripped from Sam’s finger as he reached over to his laptop to shut the footage off, to call ‘uncle’ and admit he’d had enough. The movement was involuntary but, even as he made it, Sam knew it was a mistake.

  The laptop screen seemed to bulge and flare with brightness. The room was filled with a light so fierce Sam had to shield his eyes. The image on the screen started to grow, and as it got larger the borders of the picture started to fray, as though little tendrils of light were spilling from the edges, trying to find purchase in the room.

  Sam got the awful sense that the barriers between the reality inside the screen and the reality all around him were breaking down, like a small pool of water joining a larger one. There appeared to be a run-off from the edges of the screen into his room.

  At the very periphery of his vision he saw three blurred and shadowy figures pour out of the corners of the screen. It wasn’t the same three figures in the footage, but three further blurry creatures who seemed to have been waiting just off camera. Sam couldn’t look at any of them directly, but he knew they were there, circling him, until, with a sudden swiftness, they struck.

  Sam winced as one of the figures took hold of his cock and began to stroke it with expert fingers. The figure’s touch brought a tingle to his skin, like a light electrical discharge. Another of the figures slipped its hands under his T-shirt and tugged it up until Sam’s chest was bare. The figure took hold of Sam’s nipples and squeezed hard, making him yelp.

  Sam knew that he ought to be fighting the figures, attempting to break their grip on him and get out of the room. He just couldn’t conceive of any way to do that. He was frozen in place and powerless to stop them.

  The third figure removed his trousers, cupped his buttocks and pulled them gently apart. It pushed first one, then two fingers up his rectum. With a stab of pain, that was almost exciting, the fingers found his prostate gland and began to massage it.

  The pain from the figures’ ministrations grew to such an intensity it was as if they knew how to find nerve endings no physician or anatomist had ever identified. Yet the agony was more stimulating and more thrilling than any sensation Sam had ever known.

  There was no viciousness or spite in the figures’ touch. For all the torment they were causing, their attentions seemed to contain a certain sorrowful kindness, like surgeons weeping over an un-anaesthetised patient.

  Even still, the levels of agony Sam was experiencing continued to rise. As the figures’ hands seemed to meld with his damaged flesh Sam hit a blinding wall of pain with such velocity that he broke right through it. Something inside him broke, too—it was the part of him that had been holding back that phantom orgasm.

  The floodgates had been blown wide open. Sam felt the orgasm he’d been desperate to get out of his system, come towards him from a million miles away, at what felt like the speed of light. When it hit, it was like an internal implosion. His balls retreated up into his body and then kept on going. He felt tubes tear and veins snap as his testicles were drawn right up inside him.

  The force of the orgasm was like a black hole within him, tearing every internal organ towards his cock. Sam felt his bladder collapse with a searing wrench and his lower colon follow it.

  He watched with awe as an impossibly large bulge appeared at the base of his cock, then travelled its length until the helmet swelled up, his urethra was torn open and a torrent of blood and decimated body tissue shot from the end of his cock.

  Sam screamed with pain and terror, and an impossible ecstasy, as thick, red streams of viscera spurted out of him. He saw his stomach wall fold in on itself as his small intestines were ripped out of him and ejaculated into the slick pool of gore that was soaking the grimy rug at his feet.

  The screen in front of him grew larger until it filled his vision with a fierce glow. He remembered something about dead spirits being encouraged to move towards the light and realised this was the only light he was going to see in his dying moments. Sam knew where he was headed, and he knew what was going to happen to him when he got there. He’d spent days watching and now it was his turn.

  He felt the orgasm crush his lungs and shatter his ribcage, then he ceased to feel his body at all. The only sensation left was the orgasm itself, still raging, still clawing at him until all that remained of him was its explosive force.

  It lifted him up and conveyed him through the screen into the footage itself.

  And that was when his real torment began.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Yeah, like I said,” the barman called over his shoulder, “we ain’t seen him in days, mate. Landlord reckons he’s done a bunk.” He was a bulky man who huffed a lot as he led Jimmy up the stairs. He was losing most of his hair, even though he was only in his late twenties, and had grown a huge pair of mutton chop whiskers to compensate.

  “Landlord’s coming back this evening to clear the room, so if you want anything you best go through his stuff and grab it now, alright? Good luck though, it’s minging in there.”

  “That’s okay, I’m only after one thing, I shan’t be long.”

  The barman coughed, looked at the floor and scratched his neck, waiting for something.

  “Oh yeah, sorry,” said Jimmy and pulled two twenties and a ten from his pocket.

  “Cheers,” said the barman, taking the money. He produced a key, unlocked the door then turned and lumbered back down the stairs.

  The smell hit Jimmy the minute he opened the door. The air was stale and stank of Sam’s unwashed body. There was also another stench, underneath the BO, a coppery, sweet metallic scent, that Jimmy’d smelled once before.

  It had taken Jimmy a while to track Sam down. When he hadn’t been able to reach him by conventional means, Jimmy had let himself into Sam’s apartment with the spare key. He’d scoured the place but found no trace of the footage. Sam had left loads of equipment behind, including two laptops and his iMac, but none of them had any files containing the footage.

  Sam appeared, at first, to have disappeared without a trace. Most of his clothes were still in his closet. There was food in the fridge and his horror film and memorabilia collection was still on its shelves. This worried Jimmy so he did some digging.

  Jimmy fired up the iMac and, after a few guesses at Sam’s password, got into his e-mail. A bit of digging through the different folders led Jimmy to an e-mail from a letting agent where he found Sam had rented a room above some pub, just up the road in Chalk Farm.

  Jimmy had no idea why Sam wanted to do that, but he figured it was his best lead. Maybe someone was threatening Sam and he’d gone to ground. Chances are, if they were threatening Sam they’d be after Jimmy next. It could be one of Ashkan’s associates, perhaps they’d finally made the connection with his disappearance.

  It might even be this Mr Isimud character that Melissa and Suzy spoke about. If Isimud was looking for them Jimmy might not have to go looking for this tailor chap, so long as he could track down the footage. Whatever the case he needed to get hold of Sam.

  At first glance the room seemed like a dead end. There was an old sofa and some rickety chairs in the space, that was it. Looking round Jimmy saw some of Sam’s clothes scattered among the empty take away boxes and beer cans. That in itself was kind of weird. Sam was usually meticulous about his clothes and any place he stayed was always spotless.

  Jimmy approached the sofa, his heart beat faster when he saw the laptop sitting on an old wooden stool. He walked round the sofa and tapped the keyboard. It was almost out of charge but the screen came up and showed him what might
be the last remaining copy of the footage. It was only after he’d silently punched the air that Jimmy noticed the huge puddle of blood and shredded body tissue seeping into the rug under the stool.

  Jimmy knew instantly who the puddle had once been. That horrific realisation drained all the life and energy out of him. His limbs lost all their strength and he crashed to the sofa. His stomach turned over and he leaned forward just in time to empty it.

  When he’d finished retching, Jimmy sat back and wiped his mouth. He forced himself to glance over at the puddle and noted, almost peripherally, that it was smaller than when he’d last looked. He took a proper look and saw that the puddle was shrinking incrementally, just like the puddles of Ashkan and his men. Jimmy knew by the time the Landlord dropped in that evening there would be nothing left but a spot on the rug. Although his puke would be drying nicely.

  Whatever had happened to Ashkan and his crew had now happened to Sam. It was connected in some way to watching the footage, but Jimmy had no idea how. He also had no idea why Sam had rented a shithole like this one to work on the footage when they were still paying rent on the studio space. Not to mention all the kit Sam had back at his apartment.

  Maybe he was trying a different environment for inspiration, or just needed some space or something, but it didn’t make much sense. Then again, nothing in Jimmy’s life made any sense since he’d been forced to watch the footage.

  The only person he might have spoken to about it, the only person who might have understood, was Sam. It seemed like Sam was the only real friend Jimmy had left, and now he was gone, chewed up and spat out by whatever crazy shit they’d gotten themselves into.

  Jimmy lay back on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. The loss of Sam, and the sudden grief this brought, was like a boulder on his chest, crushing all the breath out of him. Jimmy had gotten his friend into this. He was responsible for Sam’s death. If only he hadn’t been chasing after some spirit trapped in a piece of film, maybe he’d have been able to help Sam.

  The regret was like an old, old friend. He’d been here before. It was exactly how he felt when Jennie died. Jimmy squeezed his eyes shut and tried to find one slender thread of consolation in the black mood that was closing in on him.

  He needed a lifeline, or he was going to go under fast. That’s what had happened the previous time. He scrabbled around for some tiny consolation to cling to, something to keep him afloat. Maybe this wasn’t like the previous times. It’s just possible that things were different. He’d promised Melissa he’d come for her, just like he’d promised Jennie, but this time he was coming.

  He’d wasted his time trying to save Benny, but he hadn’t made that mistake with Sam, who was probably just as doomed. There was still a chance to redeem himself, to make all this right and make up for the mistake he made with Jennie. If only he could reach Melissa and rescue her from the film she was trapped in.

  Jimmy opened his eyes and took a deep breath, it was like breaking the surface of the ocean after he’d been heading down to its floor. He knew what those black moods could do to him and he’d just about staved this one off. He hadn’t even needed a line of coke. He might just have bought himself a reprieve.

  He just needed to keep active, stay focused and remain one step ahead of the black dog, otherwise that bastard would be on him before he could blink. Jimmy got to his feet, found one of Sam’s shirts on the sofa and dropped it over the pool of puke to cover it up. Then he grabbed the laptop and left the room without a backward glance at the puddle that had once been his friend.

  Downstairs in the pub, the barman was busy with a couple of punters. Jimmy slipped out of the door with the laptop under his arm, glad not to have caught his eye.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Jimmy let himself into Sam’s apartment and put the laptop on the coffee table in the living room. The presence of the laptop in the apartment seemed to confirm Sam’s absence. He was never coming back. Like Jennie he was dead and lost to Jimmy forever.

  Jimmy sat on the sofa and stared at the laptop as though it was booby trapped. In a way it was. It contained the last surviving copy of the footage. Someone, or something, connected with that footage had killed Sam. Jimmy was afraid to even open the laptop, let alone switch it on.

  He knew the footage was dangerous, toxic on some level he could barely comprehend. Everyone who’d watched the footage, since Ashkan first played it in the lock up, was dead. Everyone except Jimmy. Was it simply a matter of time before it claimed him, too?

  The wise thing to do would be to destroy the footage, but it was more important to his plans than it had ever been. Using it in a film had been all about redeeming the terrible situation in which he first saw it. Now he wanted to use it to redeem himself.

  Too many people knew of its existence to use the footage in a film. He’d moved on from that. He needed the footage to save Melissa. That was his next big project.

  In many ways it was an obvious development from the film, especially given its subject matter. The story was spilling over into the real world. He was searching for the girl in the cellar, just like DC Harlow, taking the role of Dumuzi to Melissa’s Inanna. It was art becoming life.

  Jimmy had wanted one good thing to come out of his experience in the lock up. Something he could hang on to. This was it. He could do something good. Melissa needed his help. The footage was the key to that. He just needed to learn how to turn that key and unlock what was going on.

  That’s what Sam would have wanted. Sam had fought to keep this movie going, even when Jimmy had changed tack and gone off looking for Melissa. If he was still alive now, he would be fighting to keep the movie alive.

  The best way to honour Sam’s memory, and make something good come from his death, was to continue the project in its new direction. Doing something truly positive with the footage. Not exploiting the victims in the footage, but saving one of them.

  Jimmy still didn’t understand everything that was going on. He knew Melissa was trapped in some way in the footage. Living through her death over and over again. She could obviously break out for short periods, though he didn’t know how.

  Maybe she knew that Jimmy was watching her that time in the lock up. She’d seen Jimmy close his eyes, and knew he was different from the others watching her. So she reached out to him for assistance.

  She knew he wouldn’t have believed her if she’d told him what was really happening straight away, so she’d played along with the film idea until she could enlist his help. She needed him to find this mysterious Mr Isimud. Jimmy imagined he was the type of man who didn’t want to be found, and took steps to ensure that. This other guy she’d mentioned, the Tailor of the True Cloth, was probably the same.

  It would take a certain amount of resources to find those kinds of people. Resources Jimmy didn’t have. But Sam might have them.

  Jimmy left the sofa and went to the desk in Sam’s bedroom. That’s where he kept his personal laptop. Jimmy booted it up and was delighted to discover Sam’s internet browser had saved all his passwords. This made it even easier to get into Sam’s bank account, especially once Jimmy found the file containing all his security details.

  Upon close inspection, it appeared Sam did have enough money in his savings and current account to fund Jimmy’s project. At some point however, he might have to sell Sam’s apartment, if he needed bigger funds. It was worth quite a bit due to its location.

  Jimmy had a pang of conscience as he transferred the majority of the money to his own account. He assured himself that Sam would have used the money to finish the film anyway. As finding Melissa was just an extension of the film, a new development in an ongoing project, then Sam was in effect still funding the film, and Jimmy was putting his money to use in a way Sam would have approved.

  The only thing to worry about was someone close to Sam noticing his disappearance and investigating his bank transactions. Jimmy thought he was fairly safe there. Sam hadn’t been in contact with his parents for a while and
all his other friends were close to Jimmy, too.

  No one could prove that Sam hadn’t moved the money himself. They were always transferring money between each other’s accounts. Jimmy could never be accused of any wrong doing regarding Sam’s disappearance. Not only did he have an alibi, but there was no body and no physical trace left of Sam whatsoever.

  Sam would have wanted this project to be seen through to the end, he was a diehard. Jimmy was doing this for Sam, every bit as much as Melissa, now. He had the funds and the footage. Tomorrow he would start spreading some money around to see if he couldn’t get a lead on this Tailor guy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Are you sure you’ve got the right spot?” Jimmy said, glancing at his watch.

  “Yeah,” said Rick, a tall, bulky guy with close cropped ginger hair. He stubbed out his cigarette and put his hands in the pockets of his grey hoodie. “He always makes you wait, he’s worse than a dealer that way.”

  They were standing on a dark corner in the back streets of Shoreditch. Rick glanced up and down the road then lit another cigarette.

  Jimmy had met Rick through Alfie. Quite predictably, Alfie had taken the piss the minute Jimmy asked him if he knew anyone who was into hardcore magic, the really dangerous stuff? When he’d had his fun, Alfie introduced Jimmy to Rick. Jimmy explained to Rick that he was looking for someone called ‘the Tailor of the True Cloth.’

  “I think you’ll need Vince for that,” Rick had said. “Have you heard of him?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “No.”

  “Some people call him the ‘Mystic Yardie,’ but never to his face. Other people call him ‘The Baron,’ after Baron Samedi, the Loa he serves.”

  “The ‘what’ he serves?”

  Rick scowled. “Don’t you know nothing about this stuff?”