Dark Video

by Peter Church

“It’s Carlos.”

  “Is it though? It could be anyone. The business is virtual, no physical bricks and mortar. What does ‘Carlos’ even mean? He’s a voice on a telephone.”

  Johnny stubbed out his cigarette after a flurry of long drags. He re-entered the room, closed the curtains behind him, and restarted the video.

  “I think Johnny’s in love with Terri Phillips,” joked Richard, sniggering.

  “Hey, when last did you get laid, Ritchie?” Johnny’s back was up.

  “Well, at least when I did, it was with a human.”

  “Watch your fucking mouth, creepo!”

  “Tsk. Tsk. Creepo! The weird words that come out of your mouth.”

  “I wouldn’t talk, you homo.”

  “Hey, you guys. Cool it. I don’t need your bickering!” Devon had had enough.

  Alistair chuckled at Devon’s restraint. “This is why I stay where I stay,” he muttered.

  “Well, why don’t you fuck off back there, rich boy?”

  Alistair shook his head, exchanged a glance with Devon.

  Johnny skipped from one frame to the next. “Why wasn’t I the Samaritan? I found her! That sweet little beaver rubbing on my neck,” Johnny said.

  On screen, Terri straddled Alistair’s back to collect her shorts in the tree.

  “Because you’re an animal, Johnny, that’s why,” Alistair retorted without taking his eyes off the flickering screen. “She would’ve rather run back to her kidnappers than be saved by you.”

  “One of these days, Morgan, I’m telling you…”

  Devon grabbed the remote from Johnny and paused the video, a reluctant wallpaper, a lingering still of Terri’s inelegant dismount.

  “Is she still going out with the rugby player?” asked Alistair. An image of dark nipples under her white running vest suddenly popped into his head.

  “Yeah,” said Johnny. “I saw them together yesterday. Lucky bastard. Wouldn’t he love to check out this video?”

  “Johnny, I don’t need to remind you about the danger of loose lips, do I?” warned Devon.

  “Oh yes,” added Alistair. “Terri said she’d remember the voice of her assailant anywhere. Best you steer well clear of her…”

  “Jesus! Why does everyone keep reminding me like I’m an idiot? I’m in no hurry for a prison term, I assure you.”

  Richard returned from the kitchen with a six pack of beer, passed the cans around. Alistair declined. The word “prison” felt like a kick in the balls.

  “Chin chin,” said Richard. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Carlos told Devon we’d get an extra fifty thousand if we raped her. Dollars.”

  Alistair’s eyed widened. Devon shot Richard a dirty look.

  “Yes, Morgan! If it wasn’t for you,” said Johnny. “All that effort! And then you let her go free without having any real fun.”

  Alistair shook his head. “Making fun of someone is one thing, you psycho. Harming them is another. You have to know where to draw the line.”

  “You don’t think we harmed her?” Devon fixed an inquisitive gaze on Alistair. Alistair looked away, didn’t answer.

  “And fucking Morgan gets an equal split and did none of the work. We should’ve showed her a good time.” Johnny rubbed his crotch.

  “Shut up, Johnny,” said Devon. “Rape is a fucking serious offense. I’ve already told Carlos it’s not an option for us. We’re not desperate.”

  “If we were caught…” Richard muttered.

  “We’re not going to get caught!” Devon interrupted.

  Johnny whistled. “Fifty thousand! Think of all the time and planning. If there’d been another runner on the path, we’d have been screwed. A month of planning. Hard work for ten thousand dollars, split four fucking ways!”

  “I wouldn’t do it for ten times the amount,” said Alistair.

  “You’re an asshole, Morgan,” said Johnny. Devon raised his palm to calm things down.

  “Anyway. She’s diabolically hot! I plan to seduce her the legal way,” announced Alistair.

  Devon turned sharply on Alistair.

  “Relax,” Alistair reassured him. “I’ll be cool. Remember my role here. She’s bound to want to talk to me to deal with it.”

  “Not you, surely?”

  “She’ll be too embarrassed to speak to anyone else. Rather she confides in me than someone else. There’s no connection.”

  Devon gave Alistair a long stare.

  “What?” said Alistair, a thin smile touching the corner of his mouth.

  “I know you too well, Alesandro. It’s non-negotiable. Carlos would have a heart attack. If anyone makes contact with her, they’ll answer to me.” His expression tightened.

  Johnny snorted. “As if Morgan would have any chance with her.” No one responded. Their eyes were fixed to the flickering screen, Terri in just her vest, tight little ass, jumping vainly in the air. “She’s fucking going out with Mr. Rugby. The next captain of the First Team.”

  “What if she comes to me?” asked Alistair.

  “You make sure she doesn’t!” said Devon. He flicked the remote and Terri’s semi-naked body instantly disappeared from the television.

  RED AND WHITE BIKINI

  “Hey Maggie.” Alistair Morgan darted through the Belsen entrance hall, shirtless, towel around his waist.

  “Hello Allie,” the receptionist replied. “You want your messages, angel?”

  Alistair hit the brakes and turned around. Maggie handed over several sheets of square paper. He scanned the first and crumpled it, flashed a smile at his corpulent admirer.

  “Girl problems, angel?” Maggie enquired, shifting her large rump on the hard wooden chair.

  “Always.” He smiled again, noting her discomfort. “One day I’ll buy you a nice soft armchair to sit in, dear Maggie.”

  “Oh that would be fabulous,” she cooed. “I can’t sit on this chair for much longer. It’s breaking me.”

  The retort was obvious but Alistair didn’t let his charm veneer slip. He looked past her to the clock on the wall. A little after ten, the morning languished—his messages could wait for him to find some sun.

  Five minutes later, he reclined next to the Belsen swimming pool. It was officially university property, but Belsen residents claimed moral ownership by virtue of its proximity next door.

  Alistair seldom made it to his Monday morning lectures any more; there was always a pretty girl who made good notes. Or a not so pretty one, if need be. He hadn’t been completely idle, though. Earlier he had hosed down the A3, a silver number with dropped suspension, his pride and joy. It had been a Christmas present from his father, John Morgan, CEO of Morganstar Communications, non-executive director on no less than seven listed boards. He had been eager to spend double the amount on his only son, but Alistair had certain impressions to uphold. “Too flash and you scare off the younger girls,” he’d told Silverman, his neighbor on Green second.

  He sprawled on a large, aquamarine towel, eyes hidden behind rimless Police sunglasses, unashamed of his tight blue Speedo masquerading as a banana hammock. A Speedo at the pool was mandatory for an even suntan.

  He rolled onto his stomach, cast a lazy eye across the water to a blonde in a red and white bikini. On both sides, a grass embankment sloped down to the concrete edge of the swimming pool; opposite him and behind the girl, a long concrete viewing stand occupied the length of the pool.

  He formed a mock screen with his fingers, framed the girl in a makeshift lens. He’d seen her some place before. Or perhaps she’d seen him…

  Now what sort of a project could he make with her, he wondered? He adjusted the finger screen. Could she be a candidate for their next sting?

  It had been a hard week for the Gorillas household, he reflected. As always, Devon would have planned Forest Frolic meticulously, rehearsals repeated over and over. Preparation involved days of painstaking research: single out the victim, observe and understand habits and patterns, discuss times, locations, customize the came
ra equipment. Practice. Repeat.

  Choosing a girl might have been his responsibility. But Johnny had muscled in several weeks earlier, said he had the perfect candidate. For once, he was right. She was pretty, much prettier than Alistair had expected. A tight package—or “toit,” as Silverman would say.

  If Johnny had had his way….An image of Johnny Jackson closing his rough arms around Terri sent a shudder through him. He was glad he hadn’t chosen her.

  Johnny had discovered that Terri ran early on Sunday mornings with her friend, Katie. She was clean living, rag royalty, in bed before midnight, leaving the boyfriend to down tequila with the rugger buggers. The two girls always followed a route above Rhodes Drive that passed Newlands Forest, before making their way back through Claremont and Rondebosch to Tugwell Residence.

  For a three minute video, the operation had started at four in the morning, with Johnny driving to Observatory and sticking a nail in Katie’s car tire. No girl changes a wheel at six a.m. on a Sunday, they’d figured. From there, there were three possibilities. Ideally, Terri would run alone after a call from stranded Katie—green light. But what if Katie borrowed a housemate’s car or knew how to handle a car jack? Two girls was risky. They’d have to be more confrontational: Johnny would bring along a knife for show, they’d gag and blindfold Katie, disable her with masking tape and deposit her further up the mountain; she wasn’t the main attraction. Then there was the chance that Terri might simply abandon the run—the planning would have to start over.

  But Terri was a disciplined girl, it turned out.

  Alistair flicked through his remaining messages from Maggie: Mrs. Hamilton, the matron, to say they’d located his missing shirt in the laundry; a reminder about the Belsen Sportman’s Dance; and his father.

  He flipped open his cellphone and speed dialed a number.

  “Alistair,” said the clear voice.

  Alistair could picture his father in a dark, fitted suit, the collar of his white shirt pressed flat against his neck, the knot of his tie immaculate.

  “Dad.”

  “Thanks for coming back to me, Alistair.”

  “You should’ve phoned me on my cell.”

  “Oh. That’s Alice. New secretary. A real secretary.com hire. Probably saw both numbers.”

  “Cool,” said Alistair.

  “Cool,” said John Morgan.

  “So what’s up, Dad?”

  “How’s the work going?”

  It was a standard opener, not the reason for the call, but neither an unimportant aside. The father gaining a few measurables to satisfy his curiosity.

  “Ninety percent for ethics.”

  “Not bad. Always good to get the right ten percent wrong in that one.” He chuckled on the other side of the line.

  Alistair didn’t mention that he’d only scraped a high second for his most recent corporate law test. Not up to his usual standard. He’d have to put some actual work in for the next one.

  “Listen,” his father continued, appeased by ethics. “It’s your mother’s birthday in two weeks. I’m taking her to Arniston. We’ll fly in to Cape Town. Are you available?”

  “If I’m not, I will be.”

  “Excellent. Your mother will be thrilled.”

  Alistair heard voices in the background and John Morgan’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  “I’m in a conference call,” he said. “Dead boring. Got to go. Will text you the details. Big love, my boy.”

  “Big love, Dad,” replied Alistair, but the line was dead.

  He shrugged and reached for his suntan cream; spread it over his face, nose, the tips of his ears. The girl in the red and white bikini discarded her book and strutted confidently toward the pool. She sat down at the concrete edge and dangled her feet into the water. Alistair fancied a swim too; the sun baked down, perspiration pooled in the small of his back.

  What was the exchange rate? Eight or so? Multiplied by ten thousand. Eighty thousand rand divided by four. Twenty thousand in his back pocket—but he knew it would be less. Devon would deduct expenses. Ten percent channelled into the “company” pool to enhance electronics or spend on other matters of mutual interest. Maybe seventeen or eighteen thousand? Not a huge amount in his books. John Morgan would send him that much if he asked for it. But independence was desirable.

  Alistair was the golden boy, only son, youngest child. Provincial schools rower, like father; talented ball player, like father; gifted law student at UCT, better than father—when he put his mind to it. John Morgan idolized him, and his mother, Glenda, adored him.

  Alistair licked his lips as the girl positioned her hands on either side of her, raised her ass, and eased into the water without a splash. A ripple floated from her point of entry across the pool. Alistair watched it make its way toward the far edge, bounce back and lose shape, colliding with the next ripple. The girl kicked off the bottom of the pool and burst out into the air, face sparkling in the light, water showering about her.

  She was definitely a candidate.

  Eighteen thousand, he thought. Not much. But Forest Frolic was their first production for Carlos—no need to push him too early. And Devon made a good point: the risks and dangers increased exponentially on the bigger ticket items. Besides, how do you come up with a big seller that’s…morally acceptable? Where do you draw the line?

  Alistair thought it appropriate, given his area of study, that the law—or his best interpretation of it—be his guiding influence. What was the worst that could happen if they’d been caught with Terri Phillips in Newlands Forest? It would be laughed off as a silly student prank. Maybe they’d be suspended from university, disciplined. Community service once they’d repented. But Johnny, that fool, talking about “prison.” Get real! Sure, Alistair wouldn’t want his parents to know, but his father was a student once, in Belsen himself—he’d probably secretly approve of his exploits. My boy! Hadn’t he told Alistair about the day they spied on the Warden’s daughter?

  But he knew it wasn’t really about the money. It was the thrill. It made life…invigorating. The Gorillas three were so unlike any of his normal varsity friends, the private-school types he was supposed to hang out with. Devon, what was he? Portuguese? Lebanese? Johnny, an Afrikaans speaking Rhodesian, if that’s possible. Richard, a computer nerd with moony skin and blotchy complexion, from the other side of the tracks, a small school in Fish Hoek, or was it Muizenberg? They made his skin crawl and yet he was drawn to them.

  How could he forget that first meeting with Devon? At a big twenty-first party in Wynberg, Devon the deejay. Alistair had been bored, the girl he’d been stalking all over some other guy. He’d given up, sidled over to Devon to request a song. Next thing they were chatting like old mates. The variety of music on Devon’s laptop hard drive had astounded him; Devon was a computer wizard, it turned out, specializing in downloading pirated CDs; earned ten grand a month on the side playing music and selling CDs. Easy cash. Interesting guy. Made videos, too. A little later, Alistair was flirting with a girl called…what was her name again? Alistair told her to meet him in the upstairs bathroom. She did. But so did her meathead ex-boyfriend, a part-time bouncer. Alistair knew he was in trouble as the first blow landed to the left of his nose, knocking him against the shower stall, the bouncer finding his sights. He’d braced himself for the second, knockout blow. But it never came. When he opened an eye, Devon was standing behind his attacker, one hand on his shoulder, the other gripping tightly between his legs, the bouncer’s red face contorted in pain.

  “This here is my friend,” Devon had said, giving a squeeze; the bouncer nodding agreement—under the circumstances there wasn’t much alternative—as Alistair eyed the girl in the corner. Her name was Kirsty. No, Kristy.

  As he lay at the pool, an abrupt vision of her flashed before him. He remembered her ribcage; he had felt it a lot that following week. Each bone showing; he’d been able to count them from the bottom to the top; a little corrugated journey ending with the freshest, fir
mest, fakest breasts he’d ever felt. Beautiful.

  His new friend had restrained his assailant by the balls, all fight gone, tamed, a neutered cur. Alistair had considered an overhead right, but the thought of fist on bald skull dissuaded him. A head butt? He’d never delivered one before. Devon had sensed his hesitation, swivelled around, hooked his index and middle finger into the bouncer’s wide nostrils and thrust him backwards, his head smashing against the mirror above the basin. Amazing, Alistair had thought, that’s all it takes; the bouncer prostrate on the ground, the mirror shattered. And his new friend had shoved a business card into his hand, as the girl—Kristy, Crystal, whatever—had tucked up next to him.

  That was a little over a year ago, the beginning of an intriguing friendship.

  Alistair shifted on his towel. A boy on the grassy slope aimed his cellphone at Red And White Bikini. Alistair chuckled. The whole world was paparazzi now.

  Devon’s words resounded in his ears: “You think we didn’t harm her, Alistair?”

  He wondered what Terri Phillips would be doing? Sitting on her bed at Tugwell, tissues on the floor, hugging her knees, rocking back and forth…

  Nah, he thought. It wasn’t a big deal. She hadn’t been hurt. She looked like she could handle it. And she’d never know that her terror was being scrutinized in darkened rooms across the globe. It was Devon who’d said she’d probably blame it on her boyfriend’s ex.

  But there was something she’d said. What was it again?

  “I feel so violated. As if someone has taken my most precious possession.”

  Come on! She didn’t know how lucky she was. It could have been so much worse.

  Alistair rolled on his back, the world upside down as he watched the girl swimming lengths of breaststroke.

  The ante of their video projects had been raised, that he had to concede. From completely consensual to “what you don’t know can’t harm you.” What would he have thought a year ago if Devon suggested they strip a girl naked by force?

  It had always been consensual.

  He remembered their first Cavendish assignment. He and Richard had been dispatched to the mall to find two teenagers willing to have sex in the public toilets. It was a trend at the time, in all the papers; horny youngsters with their cellphone cameras; concerned parents outraged. Devon wanted to produce something “with proper production values.” Something that might make a name for them on Watchit.