Dark Video

by Peter Church

  “Come on,” coaxed the other. He slipped his arm around her waist. A thin smile lit up her face. “Just a little dance?”

  “Deal,” said Yellow Shirt to Johnny, before the smile disappeared.

  “Deal!” bellowed Johnny and banged his fist on the bar counter.

  Johnny removed a credit card from his wallet. He placed it on top of the tot of whiskey and slipped it across so that a narrow arc of the golden liquid was visible. Then he quickly inverted the tot of water on top of the credit card. The two men stared, dumbfounded, as the water and whiskey began immediately to transfer from one glass to the other.

  “Check it out changing glasses!” They clapped and exchanged grins.

  The girl looked down, hair falling over her face, flicked her fringe defiantly.

  “Look, she doesn’t have to do it,” said Alistair.

  Johnny smacked him hard on the chest. “Like hell she doesn’t. Let’s see it, baby.”

  The girl stared at him, the same glare from before, sipped gently on her Southern Comfort. “Screw you,” she spat. “I had nothing to do with this bet.” Johnny turned to her companions with menace. They nodded.

  “A bet’s a bet, babe,” said Yellow Shirt. He seemed to be the boyfriend.

  “Screw you all,” she swore back at them.

  “I want to see your big tits shaking, baby,” said Johnny, performing a merry jig, the words altering the mood in a heartbeat. The men, cowards to his bully, put down their beers, unsure of what to do.

  “Look, man, watch what you say.”

  “Johnny, let’s get out of here,” said Alistair, getting off his stool. “Devon’s going be pissed we took his car.”

  Johnny shoved him backwards, into the stool, clattering them both to the ground, then turned back to the girl. He advanced on her, lunged, ripped the buttons off the front of her shirt. Her companions leaped to her rescue, one jumping Johnny from behind, the other trying to wedge himself in front of the girl. Johnny, enraged, swatted them away, gripped the front of girl’s bra, clawing at her breasts.

  The barman scurried around the counter, fumbling with a canister of pepper spray, but Alistair got there first, connecting Johnny across the back of the head with a full bottle of wine. He swayed and tottered, collapsed, one hand still gripping the torn front of the girl’s shirt, pulling her down on top of him. Alistair stared at the bottle in his hand, amazed it hadn’t shattered, amazed he’d had the balls to use it.

  The girl stood up, furiously brushing herself off. She kicked viciously at Johnny’s face, screaming hysterically. “You fucking animal!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Alistair, the air purple with screamed obscenities. The men pulled the girl away, pendulous breasts flapping from her shirt.

  Jesus Christ, it’s the Jerry Springer Show, thought Alistair.

  With the barman’s help, he dragged Johnny’s unconscious form to the car. Alistair slipped him a hundred rand note.

  “Don’t come back,” he said.

  Alistair delivered a mock salute, dropped the car keys as he climbed into the driver’s seat. The booze had obviously worked on him, too.

  A strange sequence of events; he wasn’t sure if it were real or a dream. He’d woken up—or had he?—still drunk, with a full bladder and thirst; tiptoed in the inky blackness through to the toilet, sound the only guide to ascertain accuracy. Stumbled through to the kitchen, opened the gas fridge, poured orange juice down his throat, like liquid running onto dry sand. Then a noise. Quietly pushed the fridge closed with his bum. The door of Devon’s room opened. Richard stood in the doorway, gas lamp swaying, the dim luminescence highlighting his pale white body and flaccid penis. The words “I love you” drifting toward Alistair. Richard’s footsteps creaking across the wooden floor, Alistair motionless, the secret voyeur, afraid to breathe in case he drew attention to his presence. Then back in his bed, asleep.

  Richard was on duty again before the old black metal hob: fried eggs and bacon, orange juice, toast. Alistair moped at the breakfast table on the wide porch, Devon opposite him, quiet. In the eaves above, a swallow darted back and forth from her mud nest. Johnny lumbered outside, a bear with a sore head.

  A text beeped on Alistair’s phone.

  hey jude nanny got ur tung? givn up?

  He replied:

  Nanny no show. How can I make u smile?

  “Who’re you texting?” Richard set the table, looked over his shoulder.

  “My sister.” Alistair deleted the messages.

  “What’d you say happened here?” Johnny rubbed the dome of his head.

  “You must have had a bottle of tequila. Fell back off your chair and thump. Against the bar counter.” Alistair used two hands to credibly illustrate what hadn’t happened.

  “And here?” Johnny pointed to the cut where the girl’s stiletto had sliced him in the face.

  “Your glass. Smashed as you hit the ground. You might want to check there’s no glass in there.”

  Johnny lifted his shirt, a morass of grazes and carpet burns. “These?”

  “Uh. Well, when we were dragging you to the car…” Stick to the truth, change only what you have to.

  “I’m going to go lie down.” Johnny’s pained face departed, the wounded bear retreating to its cave.

  Devon chuckled. “That isn’t what really happened, is it?”

  “Without a lie.” Alistair made a cross on his heart.

  “I phoned the bar this morning. The barman said two men drank copiously, fought with the locals, and then one man hit the other over the head with a bottle.”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  Richard delivered the plates to the table, sat down alongside Devon.

  “You skate on thin ice with that fellow, Alesandro.”

  “Hey, he’s the idiot who brought it on himself. He skates on thin ice with me.”

  Devon stared at Alistair across the rickety table. The color of his eyes appeared grey-blue, the usual charcoal lightened by the morning sun.

  “Skating? I love skating,” Richard chirped up, mimicking an American accent.

  Alistair shoveled a toast/egg/bacon mouthful and peered across at Richard. He wore a little white vest and runner’s jogging shorts. Of course. Why hadn’t he worked it out before?

  Alistair studied the clip carefully: South Pacific, 1994. Richard controlled the Windows Media Player. The video showed an underwater view of a shark, supposedly docile and predictable, ripping a man’s calf muscle.

  “This is the best one,” said Richard, clicking on another file.

  A man in the water swims slowly, stretched on his stomach, a boat on either side, one from which the camera rolls. No further than five meters away. The voices are speaking English. A number of people watch from the other boat, caught in the background of the video. The pitch of a solitary voice is higher, the message inaudible. The swimmer looks about, his legs drop down below him. A dark black shape passes under him, indistinct, but a slight turbulence. The movement of the swimmer changes. A cry: “Shark!” The picture shakes, the cameraman curses, loses the focus, blurry shots of the deck and his feet, the sound of panicked voices.

  “I wonder why they were filming him?”

  Devon smiled. “And why so many people were watching? I guess we always wonder that now.”

  “And he’s alone in the water while everyone else is on board.”

  “Go back to the point where the shark appears,” instructed Devon. Richard tracked back and paused.

  “That’s the money shot,” said Devon. “You’d want a close up on his face if you could get it.”

  “It’s classic reality video,” remarked Alistair.

  “But you see fuck all,” said Johnny, still moody. “That guy lost his leg. Right off!”

  “You’re right, Alesandro. It’s the perfect scene,” said Devon. “If only the cameraman had held his nerve. Tight shot of the swimmer’s face, slow pan back to catch the reaction of the onlookers.”

  “I think
it’s more effective this way,” said Alistair. “The terror is heightened by the voices, the blurred shots. It’s more Blair Witch Project. But obviously the cameraman stops filming when he realizes what’s happening.”

  “Stupid fuck,” said Johnny.

  “Let’s get back to business,” said Devon. “We’re going to have some fun with this one, an opportunity to do some boating, check out False Bay, spend some time in the sun. Maybe something will come along, maybe it won’t. We launch the boat from Kalk Bay a couple of times a week, to fish or spear dive in the bay.”

  “We should probably vary it, don’t you think? Maybe find some other launch spots, so we don’t look suspicious,” Richard said, trying to be helpful.

  “Sure. Vary it a bit. We dummy run the course of events and ensure other boats notice our presence, so when—or if—a D-day arrives, no surprises pop out the woodwork. The other boats will say we told you so. Then we’ll need to do some chumming when they’re not around, find some good spots, see how hard it is to attract the star of the show. Give Seal Island a recce because we’re guaranteed to find them there.”

  “But won’t it always be surrounded by tourist boats and cage divers?” Richard again.

  “I’ve called around. There are three licensed operators for False Bay. One guy very rarely makes trips, a handful per year, but the other two go out regularly, whenever conditions are good. But they mostly go in the morning, from the sounds of things, so we might have to check it out later in the day, catch them feeding at dusk.”

  The others nodded, absorbing all the information. Alistair was unsettled by Devon’s research, immaculate as usual. And the planning—nothing left to chance.

  “I also want to test the cameras. See what type of clarity we can get, check that the pole mount works…”

  “But what’s the point without a victim?” Johnny interrupted. “This sounds like a lot of work for no reason. What’s the point? Where’s the money coming from?”

  “Relax, Johnny. Learn some patience. Alistair will find us a terminal patient and use his charms.”

  I will, thought Alistair. Well, he did know a nurse…

  Johnny shook his head. “It’ll never work.” He prodded a finger into the stiletto wound, a trickle of blood appeared.

  “Old dying guy signs up for last payout,” laughed Richard. “It’s a bit far fetched.”

  “Alistair thinks it can work, don’t you, Alesandro?”

  “I do?” Alistair looked quizzically at Devon.

  “It’s bullshit,” said Johnny, his face contorting as he drew on a smoke.

  Richard waved his hand in front of his face. “Can’t you take that outside?”

  “You’re in on this now, Morgan?” asked Johnny.

  Alistair looked at Devon and shrugged. “Well, I’m keen to see some sharks, so I’ll come along for the ride. And if you really insist, Devon, I’ll check out a hospice or an old age home, just to prove what a ridiculous idea trying to convince someone to jump into a shark’s mouth is. That’s it, nothing more.”

  Johnny nodded, seeming to agree. “The sharks are tame! Cage diving’s altered their behavior. They swim up to the boats when they hear the motor. That’s why my deal makes sense. We bet Carlos I swim with the lurkies. Even chum up the water. I’m cool with that. How many shark attacks are there, for fuck’s sake? What’s the chance?”

  “They may not deliberately hunt us, but I wouldn’t call them tame,” said Alistair. “They’re curious. They’ll give you a bite just to see what you are—and that’s your leg gone, thanks for playing.”

  “Attacks are a mistake!” Johnny replied. “If you know what you’re doing, keep your eye on them, you’re fine.”

  “You sure, Johnny?” Richard piped up. “Reckon you’ll be thinking that when it’s swimming past your nose? I would be crapping in my pants. I almost am just thinking about it.”

  “You saw those guys free diving in that video? They looked fine to me.”

  “They’re experts! Been around sharks for years!”

  “Whatever, little Ritchie, last of the fearless warriors. I feel shit for sharks. Let me get in the water with the shark. I’ll bring home the cash. We can cut through all this waiting shit.”

  “You been in the sun today, Johnny?” Alistair getting in a dig.

  “I’m warning you.” Johnny wagged his finger at Alistair. “You keep provoking me, one day I’ll take you down. Down to mother ground, my friend.”

  “Woo,” said Alistair with a mock shiver. He smiled at the memory of crashing the wine bottle on Johnny’s head.

  Alistair slept on the back seat for the duration of the ride home. Belsen was quiet when he returned, students preparing for the onslaught of a new week of lectures. His room was warm and musky, bed unmade. He fell on it and pressed his head into the pillow.

  Project Grey Suit. He felt strangely detached, as if it didn’t really matter. What were the chances? In the current, he’d just have to go with the flow.

  He checked his watch, ten thirty, wondered what Terri was doing. She had replied to his earlier text:

  if u have 2 ask u will never know

  He looked up a solution on the net. “How do you make someone happy?” One: “Walk in the rain.”

  He texted back, 10:31

  Lets go 4 a walk in the rain?

  She replied, 10:32

  its not raining

  Two: “Do something that involves sweating.” Pass.

  Three: “Be nice.” Hmm. He tried again, 10:35

  I like the way ur hair shines

  He regretted it as the sent message flashed. She replied instantly, 10:35

  yawn

  Four: “Be honest.” 10:41

  Sorry. Not good at making u :) Glad I met u tho

  She replied, 10:42

  sweeter than a boy scout on do good sunday.

  g2g sleep

  Devon had slipped him a brown plastic phial of thin blue tablets when they’d dropped him off. He took two and went to sleep.

  MANGLE

  He’d finally pinned her down. Waited on the grassy mound outside Tugwell, lots of girls waving, asking him what he was up to—“Just chilling”—until he saw her hop off the Jammie Shuttle Bus. Her blonde hair was tucked under a scarf, emphasizing her face. He did a double take. It made him realize how perfect her features were.

  “I’ve been phoning and phoning,” he teased. “Every time you ignore me, it’s a dagger to the heart.”

  Terri smiled, wasn’t sure what to say.

  He threw a cursory look over his shoulder. “You want to come for coffee down the road?”

  She swayed her head from side to side, pondering the decision.

  “I really have been trying hard to get hold of you.”

  “I know.” She hugged her varsity books to her chest. She wore a fluffy white T-shirt with a light brown skirt, laceless tackies, no socks. “Who did you go away with?”

  “Just some guys. No nannies.”

  She seemed to be assessing him, he thought, evaluating his capacity for honesty.

  “Coffee?”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Tea? I want to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “Why are you making it so hard for me?”

  “Alistair, I told you, I…” She placed her hands on her hips.

  “And I told you I understand.”

  She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

  “I can’t explain,” he mumbled. “Come. Please. Humor me. I’m pleading here.”

  She sighed and started to walk, beckoning him to follow. He skipped after her.

  They wandered down to Main Road, Rondebosch, walking in the shade of the giant oaks. He led her to Bella Vista, a student café above Pick’n ’Pay, knew he wouldn’t bump into any of the Gorillas’ gang there.

  “Do you have Buitenverwachting?” he asked the stout waitress.

  “We got white and we got red. By the glass.”

  Terri
undid her scarf and shook out her hair.

  “Two glasses of white, please.”

  “Wine?” said Terri. “No, not for me.”

  But it was ordered. And it arrived quickly, worked its magic. They chatted about varsity, beaches, happiness, cellphone contracts.

  “So. What did you really want to talk to me about?”

  “I feel so terrible about what happened to you.”

  She frowned, sipped at her wine. Her second glass. She shrugged her shoulders. “I really want to put it behind me, Alistair.”

  He pursed his lips. Two students came through the door, slammed their rucksacks on the counter, ordered beers; they looked happy and relaxed.

  “Have you?” he asked.

  “I’m trying.”

  Alistair closed his eyes. Jumpy images flashed back to him. Cars upside down on Hospital Bend, brakes screaming, steamy visions of naked strippers, legs spread, Sasha’s vacant expression, her head in her arms, body thudding back and forth….Why were the images stuck in his head? Why wouldn’t they just disappear?

  “Alistair?”

  He opened his eyes and blinked. “You know you said something about a feeling? A premonition?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s strange. I’ve got a feeling too. I keep wondering about it. And it just won’t go away.”

  “What’s the feeling?”

  “It’s dread.”

  “Aren’t you hot?” his wife asked. Carlos brushed off the remark, dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead. Beneath his clothes, the sweat streamed down his flanks. But he wasn’t about to take off his cardigan or his long trousers. Not with all the hair growing back; the ingrowns and the patches.

  He watched his wife at the water’s edge, barefoot, such a nimble little fairy, dress hoisted up into her panties, feet kicking off the jetty into the water, holding the kid. Gramps and Gran rocked on the bench, enjoying the view, the day, the family frolic. If only they knew where all the money came from…

  He looked back toward the stately mansion, its multilevel garden rolling down toward the water.

  This life, he’d created.

  A decade before, he’d got together with a partner, a fellow Brit, borrowed £250,000 to buy a few blurry photographs of a princess dying in a tunnel. The bad ones that the tabloids wouldn’t even consider. Sold them for double a week later. And they were in business, riding the internet boom.