Dark Video

by Peter Church

  The door opens. In walk two people. Johnny and a girl. Sasha. She looks barely conscious. He props her up, her legs bandy and elastic; lets go and she falls onto the bed. She is laughing, definitely drunk. Drugged? Johnny obscures her face; he stands beside the bed, back to the camera. Who’s doing the filming? Johnny roughly unfastens the buttons of his shirt, rips it off and throws it to the floor, turns toward the camera with a big smile, puffs out his chest, starts on his fly. Some muffled words are barely audible above the shuffling sound of Johnny undressing. Sasha saying something. Johnny’s trousers slip to the ground, he turns back to the bed, pulls down a tight pair of blue Y-fronts. The camera zooms in on his large white bottom. A snigger from the cameraman. Johnny reaches for Sasha’s jeans. She tries to swat him away, but one hand pins hers and he undoes the button, unzips her, pulls them off from the ankles. She kicks her legs, laughing; crying maybe. They are off. No panties underneath. The camera quickly zooms to her crotch, a thin covering of curly black hair. Johnny pushes apart her thighs, holds her legs open for the camera for a moment. Then he climbs on top, licks his hand, and shoves an open palm between her legs. The camera moves to her face. Her eyes are closed, barely an expression. “Hey!” Johnny’s clear voice. Sasha’s eyes open, the camera pans to a thick erection, he steers it deliberately home, pushes, slowly first, easing and feeling, then in and out, faster, increasing momentum, his ass rising and falling in slow, even movements. He turns to face the camera again, a huge smile on his face, a hand raised with thumbs up. The camera focuses on her face, her willingness is unclear, her eyes are closed, lips move slowly, a murmur, pleasure?

  Her eyes flicker open and the lens retreats to a wide angle. He lifts her, carries her, still inside, one arm under her buttocks, one behind her back, toward the open window. He disengages; a monstrous penis shines in the dim light. He rotates her body and presses her against the window ledge, her body limp, resistance free. He fumbles below, transferring lubrication, insert himself slowly, higher, more resistance, parts her buttocks with his hands for a good view, fucks her rhythmically from behind, her head in her arms resting on the window sill, face obscured.

  Johnny looks around to the camera again, big smile, one arm around her waist holding her up, the other beckoning to the camera. The camera moves toward the couple. Shuffling and rustling noises. Johnny shifts across, still holding her with an arm around the waist, the screen locked on her buttocks. The camera jumps around, shaky images of her thin white bottom, two flapping penises. The picture steadies and zooms out, light back on the couple, the angle widening. The man behind the girl is different now. Thin, wiry, he heaves and thrusts vigorously. He turns to the camera with a wide smile, a single image of his face. Who is he? The camera turns on its operator. The face is Johnny’s. “Now let’s have a little fun,” he says, his eyes shining, grinning. The camera moves through the bedroom door, down the passageway, to the front door, sound of the door opening, footsteps crunch across the grass, turn left, shaky images of the night, zooms into an open window, Sasha, her arms resting on the window sill, eyes closed, body nodding back and forth to the sound of grunting from behind her. “Not yet,” a voice says through the window. The rocking intensity increases, the girl’s head bangs against the window and she opens an eye. The image is dark. A torch suddenly illuminates the girl, arms on the sill, head resting on her arms, short dark hair.

  “Sasha, what the fuck are you doing?” Johnny booms.

  The girl lifts her head, squints into the bright light.

  Behind her a shout: “Argh! I’m coming.”

  “What are you doing, Sasha?”

  She twists around, confusion all over her face. “Johnny?” she says, looking behind her.

  “Here I am,” says Johnny loudly. “I’m out here. What the fuck are you doing, Sasha?”

  Realization sets in. The camera captures every moment. The money shot. Her eyes widen and her elbows spin around. Johnny’s laughter is raucous. Behind Sasha, his accomplice pulls up his pants, a glimpse of his laughing face. She is naked, her hands at her face, eyes wild, uncertain.

  “You’re a very naughty girl, Sasha,” says Johnny’s voice clearly. “A very naughty girl.”

  Sasha starts to scream hysterically…

  Devon flicked off the picture.

  “Phew,” said Alistair, his back stiff and rigid, perspiration dripping under his arms.

  “Three hundred and forty seconds. What do you think?” Devon turned to face Alistair, rotating the controls in his hands.

  “Jesus. What do you want me to say? It’s a…” He almost said “turn-on,” looked up at the blank screen, felt suddenly appalled. “It’s pretty shocking.”

  Devon opened and closed his fist. “Johnny did this on his own. Last night. My camera.”

  Alistair knew Devon wasn’t partial to anyone borrowing his equipment under normal circumstances. This, though, was something else altogether.

  “Did he show it to you?”

  “No, I was out last night. When I got back, I noticed some of my equipment had been moved around. Checked my computer and I see there’s a new drive mounted on the network. I click play and it’s this.” Devon pointed to the screen.

  “Does he know you’ve seen it?”

  “No.”

  “Hasn’t he asked for it?”

  “Not yet.”

  Devon stood up. He straightened a poster on the wall, a picture of King Kong brandishing a giant tree trunk, people with arms outstretched tottering on the edges, the caption: “Consideration. In everything you do, try not to piss off the giant fucking Gorilla.”

  “It’s unacceptable. In my house, with my camera, he shoots this, this…sordid fucking.”

  Alistair sat silently. He’d seldom heard Devon swear. He wondered what he would think about his effort with the nurse.

  “What are you going to do?” Alistair asked.

  Devon shrugged, sunk his hands in his pocket, and paced to the other end of the room.

  “It gets worse,” he continued. “I removed the disc from the drive and went to bed. Head on the pillow and my cellphone rings. Carlos from Dark Video. Frothing at the mouth. He says someone I know contacted him about becoming an agent. He asks the guy where he’s from, how he heard about DV, how he got his Skype address. Says the guy is cagey but tells him he has some great material. An assfucking rape, double team—can you credit that? Carlos is spooked. He wants to know how this guy knows about him. I mean paranoia is Carlos’s middle name.”

  “How did Carlos know to call you?”

  Devon laughed humorlessly and shook his head. “Johnny! The world abounds with stupid people who think they’re clever.”

  Alistair swallowed hard. Was he one of them?

  “Johnny configures himself as a Skype user from Canada. Carlos listens to his accent, his style. Is suspicious anyway. How did this guy get his contact details? He asks Johnny where he’s from. Johnny says, ‘Toronto.’ Carlos asks ‘Where in Toronto?’ Johnny says ‘Never mind.’ Carlos smells a rat. So he checks through Johnny’s profile—you know you can share stuff with Skype?—Johnny’s got a shared directory from a previous setup. Carlos looks in it. There’re the names of all Johnny’s mates’ contact details. Including mine.”

  “Shit.”

  “Luckily, Carlos trusts me. I explained as best I could. But it’s embarrassing. Johnny’s an accident waiting to happen.”

  Devon restarted the video from the point where the swap takes place. He froze the face of Johnny’s accomplice on the screen.

  “Who doubled for the lucky leftovers?” Alistair asked.

  “Jeff.”

  Alistair frowned.

  “A dealer,” Devon explained. “Sasha’s supplier. Trouble.”

  “Is the clip worth anything?”

  “Not to Carlos, that’s for sure,” said Devon. “Sasha’s high as a kite, doesn’t know where she is. After I explained to Carlos, he wasn’t interested at all.”

  Alistair was surprised. H
e figured there would be a huge audience for this kind of thing. Surely this kind of shit was perfect for all sorts of sickos out there?

  “It’s disgusting,” emphasized Devon.

  They were quiet for a moment. Alistair was feeling uncomfortable, keen to get away. He changed the topic.

  “Speaking of distasteful. You heard about the murder in Camps Bay?”

  “Camps Bay?”

  “Shot through the head, in front of his computer. Porn on the laptop apparently.”

  “Oh right. Heard about it. You walk in shit, you start to stink,” said Devon without interest.

  Alistair stared at him. “Jeez, man. Bit harsh maybe?”

  “Look, who knows what the scene was? I have no sympathy for the freaks who watch this shit.” He indicated the screen. “I do it for the money and that’s it. People on the other side of the screen are pure scum.”

  “Could he have been a Dark Video client?”

  Devon ignored him, advanced the sequence frame by frame, froze on Sasha’s expression.

  “Could he have been?” Alistair persisted.

  “Could be. Could be,” Devon said, trancelike, Sasha’s frozen face etched with recognition. He looked away from the screen. “But he could have been a million things. Probably just some pervert. You’ve read one newspaper article and you’re as paranoid as Carlos!”

  Alistair looked back at the screen. Sasha stared back. He swallowed. Imagine if she were his sister?

  “So what do you think I should do about Johnny?” asked Devon, killing the picture again.

  Devon always knew what to do, thought Alistair. Why ask his opinion?

  “Simple,” said Alistair. “Keep the DVD. Johnny will look for it. It’ll be gone. What’s he going to do? He can’t ask you for it.”

  Devon smiled. “A bit lenient, don’t you think, Alesandro? This guy could prove to be very dangerous to us.”

  “Hide it. It’ll drive him crazy. He’ll imagine he misplaced it, he’ll go crazy looking for it.”

  Devon allowed himself to smile. “I like it. But there’s a bigger issue. If I—if we—can’t trust him, then what? What about the girl? Suppose she goes to the authorities?”

  “We didn’t do anything.”

  “Do you really think if the shit comes down on Johnny, he’ll shoulder the responsibility quietly?”

  “But what could he say?”

  “Alesandro. You’re in denial, my friend. Need I remind you? A young girl in the forest.”

  Alistair ran his hand through his hair. “There’s no proof.”

  Devon put both his hands on either side of Alistair’s cheeks and squeezed. “Such big blue innocent eyes.” He slapped the cheeks lightly. “Do you want me to spell it out for you?”

  Alistair shook his head. Devon was right.

  “I don’t want to piss Carlos off,” said Devon. “I’m not scared of much. But those guys…”

  “Listen Devon,” said Alistair. “Johnny has Terri’s bra. That wasn’t in the plan. What did he do that for?”

  “Souvenir.”

  “We must get rid of it. It’s probably marked with her name, that’s what the chicks in res do.”

  “I’ll deal with it. You think I should have a talk with Sasha?” Devon asked.

  “She was drugged. She won’t remember a thing.”

  “And if she does?”

  Devon stared into Alistair’s eyes as if he was watching for the words to travel through the ether, into Alistair’s brain, see the gears of logic and understanding shift, return an obvious result.

  “Should I tell Warnabrother about her?” Devon continued. He seemed to be enjoying Alistair’s uneasiness.

  BUMP AND GRIND

  Alistair looked himself over in the mirror. The Sportsman’s Dance at Belsen, dress up in sports gear, boys in white cricket flannels or tight McEnroe tennis pants, girls in sexy little hockey skirts or, if they dared, bikinis.

  Keep it simple.

  He settled on an angle of attack: red baggies and a pair of slip-slops. He had the ripped stomach and slim body to pull it off.

  From his bedroom window, he observed the crowd gathering outside in the hall below, the music volume rising, tempo upped, the sound of excited voices. He opened his door and stepped into the corridor. Now to find a henchman.

  He banged on Green 215, diagonally opposite. Colin Macintosh, masquerading as Cindy Jones on Facebook, second year, white hair, round head, freckle face, good sense of humor. There was no answer. Macintosh was a useless wingman, anyway; too childish, insufficient focus; he’d be downing beers and giggling with his friends.

  It would have to be Silverman. He knocked on Green 214. No answer; not unusual.

  A dull noise emitted from within and he pushed open the door. Silverman lay in a huddle on his bed, a haze of sweet-smelling smoke hovering like a pest, the room in squalor.

  “Where’s the video? The princess?” Silverman railed.

  “I wanted to speak to you about that, Silver. A serious chat.” He looked at Silverman’s red eyes, his one hand tucked into his underpants.

  “The video! Let’s watch the video.” Silverman straightened up and giggled moronically.

  “Silverman, this place reeks.” Alistair took a look around: rotten apple cores on the desk, windows closed, ashtrays full, dirty clothes strewn across the carpet. Not an item in its original place. Alistair walked to the window and threw it open.

  “You’ll asphyxiate in here.”

  “Wholly,” said Silverman. He lay on his bed, naked, but for torn green underpants that had lost their elastic.

  “I thought it was ‘fully.’”

  “Fully,” agreed Silverman, drawing deeply on a little stub of burning paper in his right hand.

  “Now, Silver, listen to me: there’s no video. I promise you.”

  “The princess! The princess!”

  “I swear to god. Do you hear? She…” Alistair could think of no immediate reason to supply for Terri’s visit. “She’s a friend. I haven’t even kissed her yet.”

  “The video,” Silverman dribbled into his pillow.

  Alistair gave up trying to convince him. He hooked into Silverman’s underpants and ripped. The material stretched and tore; Silverman contorted on his bed in the clutches of a gigantic, green wedgy.

  “You’ve cleaved my buttocks,” he yelled. “You bastard!”

  Alistair shook his head with resignation. “Say no to crack,” he said as he made for the door. He would have to fly solo.

  Entrance is everything.

  Alistair’s trick was to pretend he wasn’t really going to the party. He eased down the steps of Green Block, turned right, down more stairs past the mess hall, the shiny pine floors silent, more stairs to the entrance hall where the crowd was massing. He had a prop, his washing bag, tossed over the shoulder, confident, ready to bump into…

  The nurse. She leaned against the wall, a tennis player, tight shirt, exposed belly, sexy skirt.

  “Hello, Alistair,” she said, all the actions going, eyes fluttering, hair flicking, stomach pulled in, one leg pushed forward.

  His eyes darted around the room, a mental snapshot of the opportunities.

  “Hello!” said the nurse again for attention, putting both hands on his chest and jutting her chin forward. He gulped and kissed her chin.

  “Baby,” he said. It didn’t really matter what he said. He knew he had her in his tractor beam—whether he wanted it or not.

  “Nice outfit,” she said, eyes wandering down his front.

  “Oh,” he laughed. “It’s not an outfit. I’m taking out my laundry.”

  “How are you?” Even bet to be the most overused line for the evening. Alistair sighed.

  “I’m fine,” he replied, poking a finger in her belly button. “How’s the little belly ring?”

  “Want to lick it?” she said, giggling. There was something not quite right about her, he thought. Perfect from a distance in the bikini, up close, something…

/>   She flicked her hair back.

  Maybe it was her eyes; they were too far apart.

  “Now?”

  “Right now.”

  He bent down and wiggled his tongue in her belly.

  When he straightened up, he saw Terri Phillips. She was standing against the wall, talking to a friend, wearing a red something or other; he looked away so quickly that he couldn’t quite see. Had she spotted him?

  “I have to go,” he told the nurse indicating the washing bag slung over his shoulder.

  “No! Where’re you going?” She grabbed his wrist. “You told your friend I go down like an oak tree,” she accused.

  Alistair wriggled free. “I know my trees. I said a redwood.”

  He hurried away, in the opposite direction to Terri, hoping she hadn’t seen him. The nurse watched him go, fists on her hips.

  “Trouble?” The big black guy who the Gorillas gang called Warnabrother answered his cell, sipping on a margarita.

  “Affirmative, Samuel. Where are you?” asked Carlos, naked at his office desk, unable to bear a stitch of clothing. The beautician had murdered him; his skin was red and painful. At least he was hairless again—front, back and crack.

  “Tel Aviv. Just enjoying the night life.”

  “Oh yes. The military fetish. What’s it like?”

  “Chilled.” A table of students stared; he stared back and they turned away. Everywhere he went, he was the odd man out. He checked his reflection in the café window: no surprise, really.

  “Everything check out?” Carlos rubbed his hand along his leg.

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Nice to know.”

  “I was thinking I could do with a li’l holiday cruise now, a horny li’l honey…”

  “Later for that, my boy. We’re getting some interference.” Carlos interpreted the silence as disappointment, but it didn’t deter him. “Cape Town. Another one bites the dust.”

  “Uh-oh. I need that place like a hole in the head.”

  “That’s just it. A second client got one, sitting at his computer. I can’t ignore it.” Carlos connected the backup hard drive and double clicked a window, the drive whirred; everything he possessed was filed on that drive.