by Peter Church
“I am relaxed, Dr. Adams,” came the reply. The man sat erect in the chair, his hands clasped together in his lap. “Let’s get on with it.”
The psychiatrist looked up at his patient. “How long have you been in therapy?”
“Fifteen years.”
“I see.” Dr. Adams skimmed over the file, then looked up and stared carefully at the man in the polo neck. “You’ve changed therapists many times.”
“Once a year. They ask the same questions. It gets boring. A change of scenery is pleasant.” He smiled politely. The only window in the room looked straight onto the brick wall of an adjacent building.
“Do you still think about what happened?”
“Yes. Every day, I’d say.”
Dr. Adams turned a page in the file, examining several photographs attached with paper clips to the cardboard. They showed a nude boy, his dark hair wet and matted, his body covered with welts and burns. He’d studied them closely. This patient wasn’t his run of the mill Prozac mom.
“And do you think it affects your ability to function normally?”
“No.”
“But you say you think about it every day.”
“All the time.” The man in the polo neck ran his hand through his hair. It was smooth and black, the same color as his jersey. He looked briefly at his hand and then placed it back in his lap.
“Do you find these sessions helpful?”
“No.”
“But you never miss one.”
“They’re compulsory. After what happened, it was…a condition.”
Dr. Adams turned another page. He ran his hand across his mouth. A color photograph showed a man lying on the floor. There was a knife in his temple. He looked up and smiled blandly.
“Of course,” he said. “But I need to help you move on now.”
“I have moved on, Doctor.”
“But you still think about it?” He shuffled through some loose drawings. They showed a stick man with a knife in his head, red koki pen dripping from the wound.
“It is a choice,” he answered.
Dr. Adams indicated with his palm for his patient to continue.
“I never want to forget the type of people that are out there.” While he spoke, his fingers worked on his cellphone:
Got your message, Dark Video.
We have some new work to send you
GORILLAS
The digs in Lovers’ Lane displayed no plaque announcing “Gorillas” as its name. But it had been known as such for three decades and now served as home to Devon Deacon, Johnny Jackson, and Richard Walker. Devon, the most respectable looking of the three, had secured the lease with old Miss Duckworth, and the long suffering spinster said they were the best tenants she’d ever had. They were all into their third lapsed year at university, credit wise; none much further than first year level from an academic results perspective. But the rent was always paid and for that she was grateful.
Their attire disclosed personality. Devon, the leader: a thin polo neck jersey, sleeves rolled up above the elbows uniformly on both sides, black stonewashed jeans and black shoes. Johnny, the bruiser: a faded white T-shirt, RHODESIA IS SUPER emblazoned across the front, short khaki pants and bare feet. Richard, the nerd: tight blue jeans with a belt, a short sleeve lounge shirt with glasses case in the pocket, brown and white docksiders matching neither his pants nor his shirt.
The three housemates sat in darkness in the living room, leaning forward, focused intently on a big-screen TV.
A knock on the front door. Devon killed the DVD; Johnny jumped up and padded quickly into the entrance hall.
“Who is it?” called Devon.
“It’s just him,” said Johnny returning to the lounge and gesturing with his thumb as Alistair Morgan followed behind. Alistair nodded his hellos and slumped into an easy chair.
The Gorillas’ abode had once been gracious, an old landmark now neglected. The living room reeked of years of student life and spilled beer; ceilings yellowed, windows warped. Functionally, it exhibited the goods: a faux leather settee in navy blue, a couple of armchairs, some mismatched low tables, thick curtaining—a hodgepodge of aliens in a room with flaking paint. But if the furniture lacked class, no deficiency applied to the electronic equipment in the room: two big screen TVs, a DVD player, video machines, an impressive sound system with amplifier and several large speakers, a collection of sophisticated camera equipment lying on the carpet against the wall, two PC work stations, all connected 24/7 to the internet via an ADSL line.
“Rewind, rewind!” demanded Richard, uninterested in the new arrival. He wiped his mouth. A dim light filtered through the drawn curtains.
“So what’s it look like?” asked Alistair, looking over to Devon.
Devon’s eyes were alight. “Perfect. Do you have a case number?”
Alistair nodded.
“Take a look,” said Devon, navigating with the DVD remote. “Forest Frolic. Scene one. Take one. Scenic impressions of a lush green forest. Lovely foliage. Peaceful. Beautiful setting. What have we here? Three young men and a lady. Spoiling my fine documentary.”
Alistair leaned forward.
“Look at her shaking. She almost wet herself,” said Richard, fiddling with the rim of his spectacles as if adjusting the focus.
The video continued with clarity, a paralyzed girl deposited on the ground, three men surrounding her, their faces not identifiable.
“You blocked the camera there,” said Devon.
“I tried to get rid of my tracksuit,” Alistair replied. “We must cut that piece. If she ever…”
“Relax. She’ll never see it.”
On the screen, a man in a red hoodie demanded and accepted pieces of clothing from the girl. The camera zoomed in on her naked body, shivering and shaking, eyes blindfolded; then in the background came the sound of departing footsteps.
“My master stroke was snagging her shorts in the tree,” said Johnny. “It provides the best cinema.”
The screen remained focused on the girl, hands behind her head, the camera flicking at her breasts, into the dark cleft between her legs. Beneath the image, a counter ticked the seconds away.
“A minute and a half,” said Richard. “She counted slowly.”
The girl removed her blindfold, stood up shakily, and retrieved her vest.
“This is my favorite bit.” Johnny rubbed his hands together, watching intently as the camera hovered tightly around the girl’s rear, swatches of pine needles attached to her buttocks. She reached vainly to free her pants from the tree. “Jump, baby, jump!”
Richard giggled nervously.
“And here’s the Good Samaritan,” said Devon, as Alistair jogged into picture. The girl shrank, clutching herself.
“Can you hear what he said to her?”
“Climb up on my shoulders, baby!” Johnny grabbed the remote from Devon and paused the screen, running each frame in slow motion as the girl mounted Alistair’s shoulders. “That’s the bit you missed.”
Alistair whistled, transfixed by what he saw.
“Now check there,” said Richard. “She’s searching for her bra. She’s too embarrassed to tell you.” He giggled again.
“Here it is, baby, here it is,” taunted Johnny, swinging a white sports bra in his hand. Alistair glanced sideways at Devon, but his gaze was locked on the screen.
The video faded as Terri and Alistair slipped out of camera.
Alistair remained in his chair, stroking the day old growth on his chin with the one hand and gently shaking his keys with the other. Devon looked over to him, awaiting his verdict.
“Very clever shooting,” said Alistair. “You don’t see a single shot of my face.”
Devon smiled.
“Why thank you, Alistair. Not that it matters. I’ll edit out the bits where your tracksuit shows.”
Devon grabbed the remote from Johnny and zapped backwards.
“I want to show you guys something. These are the money shots. You th
ink it’s the tits and ass. That helps, obviously. But it isn’t. It’s the face. The expression. When realization sets in. Look here.”
He froze on the frame with Terri taking off the blindfold, advanced forward frame by frame.
“See her expression. It’s priceless. She’s talking to us without saying a word.”
He scrolled forward.
“Look. Here’s where she hears Alistair. Before he even comes into picture. See. There. She’s heard his footsteps, her whole body cringes, her eyes widen.”
“OK, the expressions. Whatever,” said Johnny. “Give me a go.”
Johnny commandeered the remote and located the moment where Terri mounted Alistair’s shoulder. The camera moved in, her pine-needled ass filling the screen.
“Now that’s my money shot!”
“The girl, she’s flippin’ gorgeous,” said Alistair. “Where did you find her?”
Devon and Richard shared a quick glance.
“Ask Johnny.”
Johnny looked around smugly. “Her new boyfriend’s ex pointed her out to me. Says she’s a smug little bitch. I saw her dancing at the rugby club. A real little white underwear number.”
“The ex-girlfriend doesn’t know, I hope?”
“Of course not, Morgan. Do you think I’ve got shit for brains?”
Alistair looked down at Johnny’s feet. “As a matter of fact…” He thought better of it and changed the topic, turning to Devon. “Have you spoken to Dark Video yet?”
“Yes. I phoned Carlos. He was still sleeping. I briefed him and based on what I said, he reckons it’s worth ten thousand.” Devon looked up and glanced around the room, as if expecting comment. “We get half upfront and the rest after he’s checked the case number and validated authenticity. But he knows me now. Knows we won’t screw him.”
“Ten thousand dollars. A job well done.” Alistair clapped his hands together, stood up, and walked to one of the computers, screensaver bouncing around the monitor.
“So Dark Video’s back in business.”
“Big time!” replied Richard, taking a seat at the other PC. He tapped on the keyboard and the three others joined him, standing behind and looking over his shoulder. He connected via Firefox to www.watchit.com. The Watchit home page appeared in a second, showing the latest amateur videos and innocuous shoots approved for viewing. The most recent had been posted four minutes earlier from someone called “hurricane” in Atlanta, “cool vid of marines chillin in iraq,” read the caption. The next, from “Goldie” in Toronto, was titled “Skateboarders face plant.” The thumbnail displayed a fully kitted skateboarder en route to his destiny against a brick wall. Several more submissions appeared below.
“Man, there’s a lot of rubbish on this site,” said Alistair. “Who makes all this crap?”
“Millions of self obsessed net junkies,” replied Devon. “Welcome to Web 2.0, my friend.”
“What a waste of bloody time. And they don’t even get paid for their troubles.”
“Maybe not on YouTube. But Watchit pays for the better clips. Up to five hundred dollars maybe.”
“Serious? For this shit?”
“Not this stuff. The clips that end up in members only. Watchit may be smaller than YouTube, but it’s edgier. They charge for the racier stuff that YouTube has to censor.”
“But this is minor league compared to Dark Video,” said Richard, joining in. “Watchit is just our entry point.”
He pressed a sequence of control characters and moved the cursor back and forward across the screen.
“Where is it?” he moaned. “Where the….Aha!”
Suddenly a floating advert appeared on the screen: white writing on a black box. Richard navigated the mouse over the advert and clicked on it, but it darted away and disappeared. He waited and the box reappeared lower down on the screen. He swiped the cursor over the advert and clicked.
“You’ve got to be quick,” he said. “Like going after a fly with a swatter. Got it!”
The advertising in the black box melted. The box began to expand until it filled the entire screen and the words “DARK VIDEO” blazed across the center of the screen.
Richard retreated from the keyboard, allowing Devon to lean over and enter data into the fields requesting client ID and password. He passed the keyboard back to Richard and “DARK VIDEO” lettering scrolled upwards to the top center of the screen. Two options appeared:
Submit Video………………
Review Video………………
Richard selected the “Review Video” option. Five thumbnails appeared on the screen showing the first frame of submitted clips. There were no origination details—sender’s name or location—as existed on Watchit, only a simple description advertising each thumbnail.
“Man shot by police in Las Vegas”
“Stoning in Nigeria” ***NEW***
“Shark attack victim carried out the water”
“Hidden camera in frat house”
“Senator making love to stripper in car”
[NEXT] [PREVIOUS]
“The senator! The senator!” yelled Johnny.
Richard clicked on the thumbnail. A message appeared:
You are not authorized to view these videos. Your current authorization is for submissions only. Should you wish to become a client of Dark Video then follow the instructions below.
The instructions read:
Deposit $500 into the account listed below and submit your phone number. A representative from Dark Video will contact you to discuss the various options.
“Can’t we get Carlos to open up the viewing mode for us?” Johnny asked.
Devon shook his head. “Are you crazy? I’ve told you how much Carlos charges his big clients: twenty thousand dollars or more to view one video! Most are made to order and you’ll never even see them posted. These videos are for marketing—to attract new clients. Existing clients go direct. They request a fantasy and Carlos puts the carrot out to his agents.”
“Carrot?” quizzed Alistair.
“We’re his mules. He’s after the top end, big spender sickos. All submissions must be one hundred percent authenticated, case number, newspaper articles. Proof. So the viewer is guaranteed he’s viewing the genuine article.”
“But we could’ve faked it. Terri could be in on the scam. How’d he know?” asked Alistair.
“He knows. He’d know if she was acting. His clients want to see emotions, the whole trembling, quivering, crying bit. If he finds out we conned him, we’re history. I heard a story about—”
Johnny cut Devon off. “Ha! He’s in America or wherever and we’re in Cape Town. Fat chance he’d catch us.”
“Listen to this. I first made contact with Carlos a year or so ago. A few weeks later, a big black guy walks up to me in the street in Claremont, just like that, evil-looking bastard with a big seventies afro like he’s from the Jackson Five. T-shirt with a Warner Brothers logo—you know, like the Laugh Out Loud T-shirts, but the caption says, ‘If you see the police then warn a brother.’ Anyway the dude says he’s my angel and Carlos sent him to meet and greet. He’s got a honey-sounding voice with a shrill pitch. His voice and body don’t match. He tells me a fairy story about how an angel is a devil that has lost its horns, and…”
Johnny guffawed and pulled a packet of smokes from his pocket. “Sounds like a big fairy.”
“You’re not going to smoke in here,” whined Richard.
Devon continued unperturbed: “Warnabrother. Any problems, Carlos says he’ll be paying us a visit. They can’t afford to mess about so I reckon we can expect him soon. He’ll check out our story. Carlos earns over a hundred K from one standard video, if the quality’s right. Subtract the lousy ten thousand he pays us and there’s plenty of budget remaining to validate the product. Low volume, high quality.”
“Does he live here?” asked Johnny.
“Who? Warnabrother? No, he flits around the world on Dark Video business.”
“A hit man? Y
ou serious?” Alistair this time.
“Sure I am.”
“Shit, that’s heavy. I never realized—”
“He’s the stick, then,” cut in Johnny. “There’s the carrot and there’s the stick.”
“I guess you could say so,” laughed Devon. “He’s got soft, soft hands. He told me they get dry when he travels by plane. So he coats them in Vaseline and sleeps with gloves on to keep them moist.”
“Fucking freak,” said Johnny, drumming with his unlit cigarette.
“And he’s always whistling,” said Richard, as he continued flicking from screen to screen with deft slashes of the mouse. He’d heard it all before from Devon. “Whistling and humming. A big weirdo.”
“Ja, you’d know.” Johnny snorted, opening the curtains and walking out onto the balcony. He lit his smoke and turned back to face the room.
“Where does Carlos live?” asked Alistair.
Devon shrugged his shoulders. “He could be anywhere. It’s irrelevant—the more anonymous, the better. His clients are heavy rollers: ambassadors, big shots in government, movie stars. We think he’s American.” He patted Richard on his shoulder.
“Carlos must be loaded,” Alistair continued. He’d never thought much about the logistics behind Dark Video; he was always more interested in the thrill of the action, happy to let Devon take the lead and deal with the details. But this was their first big project for Carlos and his interest was piqued.
“Absolutely rolling! DV’s got a monopoly at the top end. I know only one other outfit daring enough to play the market. They’re small, called Mangle.”
“Mangle?” enquired Johnny from the balcony. “What sort of a fucking name is that?”
Devon ducked his head. “Shhh! Christ sake, Johnny.” Devon scanned the room, a brief encounter with each set of eyes. He lowered his voice. “Don’t ever mention the name to Carlos. He goes ballistic. I asked Warnabrother about Mangle. I’ve never seen the color drain out the face of a black man. He interrogated me for ages. Surprised he didn’t put bamboo shoots under my nails.”
“Who are they? Where are they from?” asked Alistair.
“No one knows. I mean, who is Dark Video?” replied Devon.