Dark Video

by Peter Church

  “Just find them,” he’d said.

  Easier said than done. How do you walk into a mall and proposition a couple of teenagers?

  Devon had provided some pointers. “It’s not the obvious ones. Not the painted little chicks with lots of hair and earrings and short skirts. Or the guy with the gelled hair. Look for the ordinary ones. They hide behind their normality.”

  Alistair remembered feeling uneasy even then. As long as it was consensual.… But already it was distorted. Two consensual minors.…

  Richard had geeked it up with a young guy in black jeans, spotty face. It could have been a young Richard. He’d raced over to Alistair.

  “Sounds promising. But he’s gay.”

  A couple of texts and they had the go-ahead from Devon. Alistair and Richard had arranged to meet the kid later that evening near the McDonald’s, but when they’d arrived, the boy was waiting with an elderly man.

  “I want to know what’s going on,” he’d demanded. Tall and slim, bespectacled, furrowed brow, anxious, outraged. “I know what you two are up to. You’re in big trouble.”

  Alistair had bolted first, Richard close behind. Dashing across the slippery floors of the mall like two thieves, the voice of the man ringing behind them.

  “Stop them! Stop those perverts!”

  Alistair wiped a thin line of perspiration from his top lip. Red and White Bikini was getting out of the pool.

  Their next projects had been more successful. Night shots of couples having sex in their cars on Rondebosch Common. Usually prostitutes on payday. A hidden camera in Devon’s sleeve that recorded some graphic table dances at Gorky Park Revue Bar. Johnny had loved those ones.

  And then a camera mounted for a month in the bushes above Hospital Bend, which produced a highlights package of car crashes, including a minibus taxi flipping spectacularly on its head—the stroke of good fortune they’d needed. The two minute clip had received half a million hits on Watchit and YouTube.

  That was the one that had caught Carlos’s eye. He’d spotted it, viewed all their postings, particularly liked the facial expressions of the couples in the cars. Then he’d contacted Devon through his Watchit profile. Exactly what Devon had been hoping for…

  Red and White Bikini dried herself carefully. First her long brown legs, then her stomach. Slow downwards strokes, missing nothing. People paid good money to see this, thought Alistair, as he sat up to get a better view. He longed for a tall glass of iced lemonade.

  How long had it been since he hooked up? A few weeks. It was rare. Alistair Morgan had never battled for female attention. Charming, not afraid to use his looks or, if necessary, his family wealth. And happy to chance his arm when necessary. His extremely poor reputation at the girls’ residences ensured he remained in demand.

  Without taking his eyes off the girl, he flicked open his cellphone and dialed Maggie.

  “Maggie, can you get me a cell number for a Terri Phillips at Tugwell?”

  The girl bent at the middle, drew her towel slowly up the inside of her thighs. He would have to roll over.

  We have a super highway, Alistair mused, from eyes to cock; a big digital channel sucking down images, converting them to something the little man understands. A simple, single-stranded network cable. Different with girls. The path to the panties comes from the heart, with numerous little side alleys from the ears, nose, eyes, senses; a complex network with unpredictable routing tables. But sometimes you could find a short cut.

  The girl pulled on a tight pair of denim hot pants and strode in his direction. He turned on his side at the appropriate moment. She paused, lifted her sunglasses to reveal a set of cat-like green eyes.

  “Not bad,” she said.

  “Do I know you?” Alistair asked.

  “I know you.” She licked her lips, gave his body a slow once over before lowering her glasses.

  Hell, what’s there to lose?

  “Would you like to…I’m sorry, what was I thinking? So presumptuous. I’m sure a girl like you would never…”

  “I’d love to. Where?”

  He smiled, ran a hand down his chest, and gestured with his head. “Green 212. I’ve got a bottle of wine in the fridge.”

  The girl paused for a second, considering her options.

  “When?”

  He looked at his watch, a silver TAG, gave it a flourish. “Say, six.”

  She twirled around and left.

  He flopped back onto his stomach. There were other people at the pool, he noticed: an elderly man with a bloated stomach, a mother with two small children, two Belsen boys in the pool tossing a water-polo ball.

  Where’d they all come from?

  He cast an eye over to the empty patch of grass where the girl had lain.

  Nah, she’ll never come, he thought.

  A HOME MOVIE

  “Why can’t I just snap out of it?”

  Katie touched Terri’s arm and peered back at the therapist, who sat on a grey plastic chair near the door. First years at Tugwell got small rooms, two beds squashed into an area five by five. But Terri’s roommate had dropped out and the room was her own. The therapist, Katie’s cousin, had agreed to a house call.

  “I’ve got a feeling I can’t describe,” Terri continued. “As if my body needs something, but I don’t know what it is. Normally it’s food.” She spoke softly, staring ahead.

  Katie smiled at her and patted her arm again. They sat on Terri’s bed, among the cushions and teddies, Terri in a pink tracksuit, zipped to the neck, facing the therapist, Katie side on, turned to face her.

  “Let’s go back a little,” said the therapist. “What happened afterwards?”

  “After we went to the police station?”

  The therapist nodded.

  “He—Alistair—dropped me off. I came up to my room and tried to sleep. I didn’t want to tell anybody. Not even Katie.”

  Katie passed her a tissue and she blew her nose.

  “But I had to. Katie knew immediately that something was wrong.”

  “I heard it in her voice when I phoned,” said Katie. “We were supposed to run together.”

  “You had a puncture,” the therapist completed the logic.

  The girls nodded.

  “I got a lift over and she told me everything,” Katie continued. “About the attack, the voice, Alistair Morgan, the police station. At first I thought she was handling it well. She was angry. She….What did you say?”

  “That I’d pepper spray them next time.” Terri forced a gritted smile.

  “But then when I left, she phoned me. Said she had these feelings she couldn’t control. She’d been staring out the window…”

  “You had feelings of suicide?”

  “Not suicide. But emptiness. I feel so empty. I can’t imagine a time when I’ll be happy again. And nothing will ever remove this feeling. I still have it.”

  “Tell her what happened when Henri wanted to come around?” prompted Katie.

  “Henri’s your boyfriend?”

  “Was. I think.” She bowed her head and started to cry. Katie leaned forward and embraced her. Terri’s gentle cries became sobs, her body wracked with sadness.

  “Terri thinks Henri’s ex-girlfriend instigated the attack. But she’s too embarrassed to speak to him about it. He can’t understand her problem. Why she’s changed and gone frigid.”

  Terri broke free with a mock slap at Katie.

  “Not frigid.” She laughed as she cried.

  “You said…”

  “Oh Katie. I know what I said. Let me tell it. It’s as if something has changed. I can’t help it. I don’t know why or for what reason.”

  “But you blame him? And his ex-girlfriend?”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Shouldn’t you at least give him a chance to defend himself?”

  Terri shook her head vigorously.

  “And the other student? The one who…”

  “Alistair?”

  “He’s a stu
dent at Belsen,” said Katie.

  Terri buried her face in her hands. “I hope I never have to see him again. It sounds like a small thing. Being naked in a forest in front of a boy. But it’s not that. It’s the way it happened. The fear I felt when they pulled me off the path…” Her voice trailed away.

  “And it would have to be Alistair Morgan,” interjected Katie.

  “What does that mean?” asked the therapist.

  “He’s a very popular boy at Belsen. Third year, Law. He’s dated half the girls in Tugwell.” She intimated quotation marks as she said the word “dated.”

  Terri stood up and walked to the window. Below, students like ants were returning from morning lectures.

  “He was very kind to me.”

  “Oh for sure. He’s more charming than the groom on his wedding day.”

  “You were blindfolded?” asked the therapist.

  “Yes.”

  “And the person who grabbed you definitely wasn’t this Alistair?”

  “No! I will remember the voices anywhere.”

  “Voices?”

  “Well….One voice. Only one spoke.”

  Katie walked her cousin to the lift after the session.

  “I tried to make light of it,” Katie said. “Say, what the hell, we all get naked here and there. So what if he saw you starkers? She’s skinny dipped with Henri at the Reservoir before.”

  “It’s not the nudity. It’s the violation of her person. The power, loss of control. They’ve mentally raped Terri. Even though they didn’t touch her. But something else is a problem. That’s why she has the feeling…”

  The lift button illuminated. They entered the lift and descended to ground floor.

  In Terri’s room, her cellphone rang, a new number, not on her contacts list. She pressed the silent key and waited for her voicemail message to beep.

  “Terri, it’s Alistair Morgan. I wanted to find out how you are. I hope you’re doing OK. Please give me a call back on this number.”

  She deleted the message and voicemail then lay back on her pillow, closed her eyes, and relived the morning in the forest.

  Having been voted onto the Kopano House Committee at the end of the previous year, Alistair was entitled to a choice of one of the fourteen larger rooms in the residence. He chose Green Block, second, room 212, due to its proximity to the canteen, the mess, the A3 and the residence entrance.

  His neighbor Silverman called 212 the Va-va-vroom! A fridge, some half decent furniture, and a Persian carpet set Alistair aside from the other students.

  Most of Alistair’s contemporaries had moved out of res after second year, finding a digs in one of the surrounding suburbs; the poorer guys to Mowbray or Observatory, the flusher friends to Rondebosch and Claremont. But Alistair enjoyed the easy life of residence—washing organized, food prepared, the recognition bestowed by his senior status.

  And everyone seemed to enjoy having him there. Even Mrs. Hamilton, the impossible, grey-haired Belsen matron. Alistair’s receipt of special attention was legendary: clothes drycleaned; a double plate of steak, egg and chips on Friday nights; room cleaned twice a week.

  He’d drop into her office with a smile.

  “It’s your birthday coming up, Mrs. Hamilton.” She wore her customary white tunic. The room smelled of washing powder.

  “Oh Alistair. Don’t remind me. At my age.”

  He put his hands on his hips.

  “You’re a spring chicken, Elana!” He seldom used her first name—once or twice to underline their special relationship, but mostly “Mrs. Hamilton” for respect. “You need a cup of tea and some time off your feet.” He patted a chair. Shameless.

  “Oh Alistair. I can’t. So much to do.”

  “It can wait. I’ll turn the kettle on and you put up your feet. You do so much for us. We need to do something for you once in a while.”

  “Smoother than the shiny-assed shoes of a rap boss,” heckled Silverman from Green 214, after Mrs. Hamilton’s staff delivered pressed shirts to his room. Her darkest contempt was reserved for Silverman. In first year, he had vomited behind the door of his room; the cleaner’s entrance had shoveled the mess into a toxic puddle.

  “Manners maketh man,” replied Alistair, inspecting the collars of his shirts and shutting the door in Silverman’s face.

  He whistled to himself, inserted his prized copy of Withnail and I into the DVD player, hopped onto his bed. It remained his favorite movie; he had a copy of the screenplay as well. His lips moved in unison with words of the characters, Withnail, Marwood, Danny and Monty. Last year, after final examination, he, Silverman, and Macintosh in Green 215 had matched Withnail drink for drink, tequila substituted for lighter fuel, Tassenberg for the ’53 Margeaux.

  “Your hair are your aerials,” Danny lisped.

  Alistair dozed off, laughing to himself, woke to an insistent knocking at the door. He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, checked the time: six fifteen p.m. He jumped up and ran to the door—the girl from the pool, freshly showered, in a strappy red dress, gold hooped earrings, little black bag clutched in one hand. No bra.

  “I believe we had a date.”

  The cold Sauvignon blend formed dew on the side of the wine glasses, crystal Riedel Sommeliers collection, a gift from John. Alistair fingered the fine condensation, then held up his glass.

  “Do you know wine tastes better in superior glasses?”

  He’d made a quick recovery, pulled on a clean shirt, complimented her on her dress. Not bad, but Alistair wished she’d come in her red and white bikini.

  “And these are superior glasses?”

  “Bowl, stem and base. Form follows function.”

  “Ah,” she replied with a strange look. She raised her glass to her lips and tasted the cool blend. He watched her intently, the shine of her lip gloss, the way the glass touched her lips, the way she drew the wine into her mouth, swirled it, swallowed it.

  An amateur. What type of video could they put her in?

  He dimmed the central light.

  “Buitenverwachting—a quality wine,” he said. “You taste the figs?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t know there were figs in wine.”

  Two empty bottles cut forlorn figures on the counter beneath Alistair’s window. His drapes were drawn; Katie Melua sang soulfully about “blaming the moon.”

  The girl from the pool sprawled across Alistair’s bed, her head on his chest, his hand rubbing gently on her shoulder, shifting the straps of her dress back and forth, teasing.

  “You don’t want to go out?” he asked.

  “What can be better than this?” Her eyes sparkled in the dim light.

  He’d finally caught her name: Becks. She was a student nurse at Kingsbury. The nurses there all knew of him, she’d told him—at least by reputation. It was news to him. Good news—although he suspected she was about as good as it got as far as the “Kings” talent went.

  She turned onto her stomach, her feet kicking up behind her, lifting her dress tantalizingly higher.

  “So.”

  “So,” he echoed. “More wine?”

  She shook her head, her hair falling into her face. “I think I’m over the limit.” Alistair felt a fresh tinge of desire.

  “Oops.” The remains of her glass spilt on the carpet.

  “Best place to spill it,” said Alistair. “It’s a Persian.”

  She made a face and placed her glass on the table.

  He really loved women, Alistair thought. Look good, feel good; each a unique package of smells and curves, eager to please, tempting and naughty.

  Most of the time, that is. After sex, curves became sharp bends; lithe bodies became heavy; the cute voices, whiny; the anticipatory mood, expectation. Sex spoiled the fairy tale; there was more to savor in the anticipation than the course itself. No matter your charm, the aftermath was a debt owed.

  “So,” she said again, running a finger along his cheekbone.

  “Mmm?”


  “Are we going to get naughty?”

  He laughed and fell back on his pillow, put his hands behind his head.

  The nurse ran her hand under the hem of his cotton shirt, moved it up and down against his hard stomach.

  “What’s that?” She pointed to a Sony Handycam resting on a shelf against the far wall.

  “A camera.”

  “Are you taping me?”

  “No!” Pause. “But I could.”

  She giggled and got up, danced across to the shelf, and checked the recorder on her tip toes.

  “It’s on!” she exclaimed.

  “It’s not!” replied Alistair, indignant.

  “Well, get it on then.”

  She turned toward him and gripped the hem of her skirt with her hands, shimmied back and forth. Alistair jumped to his feet, found a new disc in his drawer, broke open the wrapper and inserted it into the camcorder.

  She placed her hands on her hips, watched as he balanced the camcorder on his desk and aimed it toward the bed, brightened the overhead light slightly, then checked that the door was locked.

  “You’ve done this before!”

  He grinned, closed the gap between them, slipped his arms around her waist and eased her before the lens.

  “I blame this on the moon,” she said, as Alistair slipped a strap off her shoulder, freeing a breast.

  It occurred to him that he’d been thinking about this moment since that morning at the pool; since he’d first spotted her perky little tits in that perfect little bikini. He wasn’t disappointed. No matter how experienced you are, there was always something special about this. About seeing a woman naked for the first time. Slowly revealing her secrets. Every one different. More so when you hardly knew her.

  He bent down and took her nipple in his mouth. She groaned. The other strap came down, her dress slipping to the elastic waist. He moved in behind her, facing them toward the camera, cupped her breasts with his hands, created an unlikely cleavage as he kneaded them together. She giggled and threw back her head. Alistair rolled her hard nipples in his fingertips.