by Peter Church
“That’s the thing about shit,” his partner had told him. “There’s a shitload of it!” And when the heat finally came, the partner couldn’t take it—swallowed the barrel of a Walther—so he skipped the UK, ditched the then-wife, a new and anonymous life beckoning in the States. Met a new princess, blonde and fifteen years younger. And respectable, just looking for a prince to lavish her…
He’d been determined to do it right this time. And it had taken some time.
For all their old money and wariness, Gramps and Gran weren’t shy to accept the SUV he got them, or the beach cottage, or the European holidays. He’d behaved immaculately, held his temper. Kept the fists down. This new life of his….He wondered if it was worth the effort.
Carlos turned his face up toward the sun. He could feel his pale skin burning. What would the week be like? Two potential new agents to screen: one in Venezuela, another in Japan. And a few more letters to the Department of Justice; the legal video sharing companies were airing some really ugly stuff these days. Appalling. Decent citizens shouldn’t stand for the stuff. The Israeli army massacre on Watchit was just terrible…
It wouldn’t happen again, that’s for sure; he’d seen to the errant Israeli mules. But he’d use that cockup to his advantage.
“And how are your parents, Carl?” They always asked that. Parents-in-law always ask about their counterparts. He didn’t answer.
“Carl!” the wife called sharply. “Mom is talking to you.”
“Uh, sorry.” He forced a weak smile. “They’re, uh…fine.”
“Oh, I’m pleased to hear that, Carl.”
He mentally scanned through his database of clients. He didn’t need a printed list; he had that sort of brain. In his head he visualized the typed names, their addresses, their preferences, one hundred and sixty-five active, five new ones last week, each with a unique obsession. He’d need to brief the agents, up the ante.
And then there was the email from Mangle. Bloody Mangle. Who the hell were they? Making strange enquiries, checking him out.
The baby shrieked. He scanned the perimeter of the property. So what if he had the only electric fence in the suburb? And if they got over that, there was the laser. It was impregnable.
“Carl,” his wife hissed. “If you’re gonna lurk around all day like some dumb English monkey, you may as well go inside.”
Fucking bitch, he cursed silently. But he took the gap. The first email he opened elicited more curses: Mangle!
Richard heard a dull thud. He stood up from his desk—swotting new search algorithms—and opened his door.
“Hello?” He ventured out.
The passages of the house were quiet. Johnny was at rugby practice, Devon probably asleep after a long night. He’d heard murmurs of his voice deep into the morning.
He walked down the passageway to Devon’s room, familiar creaks on the wooden floors preceding his intent. A dent in the closed door of the room caught his attention.
“Devon?” He knocked gently.
“Come in.”
Devon’s room was sanctity. It was always locked. Richard pushed the door open, looked around the room, meticulously ordered.
“What was that noise?”
“My fist. The door.”
Richard tried to touch Devon’s hand, but he pulled away.
“We’ve got a big problem.”
“What is it?”
“Look at this!”
He showed Richard the email.
To: D. Deacon
Sender: Dark Video
Subject: What’s going on!!!
Devon,
What the bloody hell is going on!??
We picked up this clip from Mangle—the tech boys reckon it came from Cape Town. Is this the rape video Johnny tried to vend? It’s visual poetry, did you see her reaction? We could have made big cash here. We are still tracing but do you know anything about it!?
Get back to me urgently.
Carlos
Click on: www.darkvideo.com/priv176.wmv
and password 4255266
Devon clicked on the link and entered the password at the prompt on a blank blue screen. A black box appeared with controls beneath. Three minutes forty seconds. The header: “Assjacker. Sasha is a dirty girl.”
“Freak!” said Richard, before a grainy black and white copy of the video flickered to light. “It’s Johnny’s video. How the hell?”
Devon slapped the side of the desktop and killed the video window. He slumped in a chair, one hand on his head.
“I thought you destroyed the copy,” said Richard.
“I did.”
“You played that video. To Alistair.”
“Yes.”
“A cached copy on disc?”
“You think I didn’t think of that. I deleted it from the Devon directory. And I also checked Johnny’s. There were no copies.”
Richard logged in from Devon’s work station and scanned the network. His fingers flew at the keyboard, his eyes darting at the screens as file names and numbers flashed across.
“It’s not here now,” he said. A list containing emails sent flashed on the screen. Devon ran the cursor down through the list. “Not sent from here either.”
He logged back onto the Dark Video reference and clicked on the video again, as if hoping it would disappear.
“How could Dark Video get it, if it was sent to Mangle?” Devon asked himself aloud.
“And who would have sent it to Mangle?” asked Richard.
“Johnny. Obviously.”
“Dark Video could be clients of Mangle,” proposed Richard.
“Yes. Good thinking. It’s common practice. Know your enemy. What I want to know is how Johnny hooked up with Mangle in the first place?”
“We’ve spoken about Mangle before,” suggested Richard, his eyes flicking, never leaving Devon, watching Devon’s hooded eyes, his clenched jaw.
“But not how to contact them.”
Richard scanned Carlos’s angry words.
“Shit,” he said. “Johnny’s an asshole. What’re we going to do?”
“The question is what’s Carlos going to do?” Devon ran his finger across his throat.
“Johnny?” said Richard. “Surely not.”
“Carlos is mighty pissed. This is serious.”
Richard scanned the message from Carlos. “Visual poetry? I thought you said DV didn’t want the video. Why didn’t you send them the copy?”
“It’s not my style. And it was rape, no two ways about it.”
Richard looked away.
“Who helped Johnny?” asked Devon, his eyes narrowing. “He couldn’t send a file if he had it in his hand. Someone helped him find and send it.”
Richard shrugged.
“What about the girl?” Devon said.
“Sasha? She’s not going to send her own video. Is she?”
Devon nodded. “She’s a junkie whore. Needs money.”
“What about Alistair?”
Devon straightened up and turned to face Richard. A thin smile tickled his mouth and he slapped Richard lightly on the cheek.
“You’re still sweating Alistair, aren’t you, Ritchie? Relax. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not worried. I’m just being prudent.” Richard picked unconsciously at his face. “We know he has been seeing Terri.”
“Yes. We know. Please don’t scratch like that. You’re bleeding.”
Richard wiped his forehead with his sleeve; Devon grimaced.
“Well, I worry about Alistair. Don’t you?”
“I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Richard, I watch and understand people. You do IT, Alistair law, Johnny phys ed. And I do psychology—among other things. Alistair is the most dependable. Do you know why?”
“Tell me.”
Devon reached into his pocket and extracted a tissue, dabbed at Richard’s forehead. “Because he has the most to lose…of themselves, who act most ruthlessly to pro
tect their interests.”
“What about Terri?”
Devon held an open hand up.
“We’ll handle it.”
A MILLION BUCKS
Without make up, the nurse appeared demure in her uniform: dark blue trousers and tunic, purple epaulettes on the shoulder. She was surprised to see him; the corridors of Kingsbury Hospital were unusual surrounds for Alistair.
He smiled his cheeriest, friendliest smile.
She dropped out from her group, nurses coming off shift, waited, deliberately making him come to her.
What did you call a group of nurses, he wondered? A gaggle? A harem? No, none of them sounded right. He’d have to think of one.
“Look what the wind blew in.” She acknowledged him coolly, knew he’d been avoiding her.
He rubbed his hands together.
“Well, what’re you doing here?” she asked.
“I came to see you,” said Alistair. Nonchalance without a blink.
“Sure. What happened to you at the dance? All the messages I left? I even came to see you. My friends warned me.” She started to walk again and he followed.
“I’ve got a punishing schedule at the moment, lots on the go. What did your friends say?”
“You’re the Cape Doctor—a bad wind. Anyway I’m seeing someone now. He’s a real doctor.”
“Congratulations. Who’s the lucky quack?”
“Charles Walker.”
“Chip Wanker? He’s not a flipping doctor. He’s a med student. He’ll probably end up a male nurse. His nickname’s Chipolata, Chip for short.”
“You’re such a bitch, Alistair.”
He grabbed her by the arm. She felt the tingle race through her body.
“Can’t we be friends?”
“No.” She stopped and turned to him.
He leaned in toward her ear, whispered: “You let me lick your belly button.”
“I wanted to remind you what you were missing out on.”
“And I did. I ran back to my room and wept on my pillow.”
A small smile tickled her lips. “Sure you did.”
“I did too!”
She pointed to the cafeteria. “You can buy me a coffee.”
“I guess you won’t be needing the video any more?” said Alistair, sipping a plastic cup of coffee.
“I’ll hang on to it. As collateral.”
“I’d really rather you didn’t. But maybe if you and Chip need to spice things up….So what’s it like doing it with such a small, er…”
She grinned and rolled her eyes. “Charles does not have a small penis, Alistair. It’s quite big actually.”
“But not as big?”
Her grin widened. “No, Alistair. Not as big. But at least it stays in his pants.”
“You can say that again. Or in his hand.”
“You’re a funny thing, you know that. As funny as you are mature.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The smile dissipated and she stared at him. “You’re a bastard, actually. We had a vibe going.”
“I know,” he lied. He had lost the momentum, his ego getting in the way of his original intentions. “Listen, do you know anyone who works at the Rondebosch Hospice?”
“Why’d you want to know?”
“I have my reasons. They’re private.”
“Tell me or I won’t help you.”
“OK.” Alistair coughed into his palm. “I’ve been feeling a bit guilty about my lifestyle. All the money and the material things and girls….You know. It gets a bit much. You realize you can’t just take things for granted. You want to give something back. I felt, maybe, I could spend some time with old people. You know, read to them in the afternoon or something.”
His eyes were genuinely misty. To be a good liar you almost had to believe your own story. It occurred to him for an instant that maybe he did.
She eyed him suspiciously, her lip puckering a little. She did that, he remembered, the snarl—scary.
“Give me another one. You? Alistair? This I’ve got to see.”
He narrowed his shoulders piously. “By all means, you could join me.”
She stuck out her tongue.
“That is, of course, if Charles consents. I’m not exactly his favorite. He may think I’m trying, you know, to lure you back with my amazing pecker.”
“There’s more to life than a big cock, Alistair.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Why can’t I keep my mouth shut, he wondered?
She lifted her cellphone and flicked through the address book. “Rondebosch Hospice. I’ll send you a business card.”
His phone beeped.
“You’re a darling.” He sprang up and blew her a kiss. “I must shoot now. Send Chip my love.”
“Wait. Your turn to help me out.”
“Anything.” He took two steps away from the table.
“My place, over the road, now,” she said, looking him directly in the eye. Alistair gulped and took another step. He put his hand on his heart. “What would Charles say?”
“I’ll give you back the video.”
He paused, gave her a quick once-over. Not quite the tight white outfit of fantasy. Consented. “Lead the way.”
Alistair reached into his pocket and produced the brown plastic phial. He extracted two tablets.
Alistair was sweating profusely, the nurse’s naked body an oppressive weight on top of him. He commanded himself to concentrate as her hand completed a cursory reconnaissance to confirm what he already knew.
“What’s the matter?”
The apartment was a minute’s walk from the hospital; small, shared with a couple of fellow nurses who were now mercifully absent, a poster of Wentworth Miller above a two-seater couch. She’d quickly ushered him into her room, pushed him onto the single bed, undressed in an instant, uniform kicked into a corner.
At least the unflattering tunic and trousers were gone, Alistair had thought as she unsnapped her bra and straddled him. But the sight of her body—the same lithe flesh he’d ogled across the Belsen pool, filmed grinding in his room—had not elicited a positive response. And now, even as she worked her hand under his boxers, there was still no reaction.
“Uh. Nothing. I don’t know.”
The superhighway was blocked. No messages going through.
Concentrate, he urged himself. Imagine…
He ran his hand over the curve of her bottom, slipped a finger between the crease, pulled her up against him.
This can’t be happening.
“I know what to do,” she breathed, easing herself down his body. But he stopped her, drew her back up to him.
Take control. He embraced her firmly, one hand behind her head. At least his tongue was working.
OK, think of something else. Think of the best sex you’ve ever had, think of all the girls you want to do it to, think of Terri’s video, her body bobbing up and down on your shoulders. Think of…breakfast…Where did that come from?
What was going on? He’d seemed to be back on track. Return from Arniston with new resolve. Exit Dark Video and focus on studies. Terri in the Rose Garden. She made him feel something. What was it? Like he wanted to give. Not take. And now…
Time for a reboot. He pushed her aside, jumped up out of bed.
“Just need the loo and I’m right back,” he explained, adjusting his boxers, covering himself.
“Down the passage.”
He slipped into the bathroom, closed the door and dropped down to his haunches on the mat, slumped sideways against the bath.
OK, now what? Viagra would be good.
He stroked his errant companion. Nothing. As though he’d drunk a case of beer.
Come on! Come on!
He rolled onto his stomach and fired off ten quick pushups. The blood swirled around his body—but not where he needed it. He heard a knock on the door.
“Are you OK in there?”
“Aah…I’m not feeling very good.�
�
“What?”
“I think I ate something bad. At lunch. Seafood.” He imitated a heavy retch into the toilet, flushed, groaned loudly. A minute’s wait, then he flushed again, exited the bathroom, head down, wiping his face.
“I think I better go,” he said, hurrying to the bedroom and gathering his clothes. The nurse followed him, arms folded, naked but for a pair of red panties; she stood in the doorway watching him dress. As he pulled on his jeans, he cast his eye around the room.
“Er, I don’t suppose…”
“You looking for this?” A silver DVD glinted in her hand. She threw it at his feet. “You’re pathetic, Alistair. Get out.”
Twenty gaunt, glum, emotionless faces stared at Alistair. He lowered the script in his hands: Withnail and I.
“We should put a jukebox in here,” said Alistair to no one.
The patients at the Rondebosch Hospice looked like prisoners in a concentration camp. If ever a place deserved the nickname Belsen it was here, he thought wryly. He doubted any of the inmates could hold a lucid conversation, let alone plunge into False Bay and paddle around.
It was all a joke anyway. To humor Devon. Give it a few weeks and then call it off.
Three days later there were nineteen.
One candidate stood out: the youngest, terminal illness but otherwise in what appeared to be a fairly sound state of mind.
“Rather bad luck, sir,” Alistair said, after his second half hour reading session. The old fellow nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Derrick.”
“How old are you, Derrick?”
“Fifty.”
“Just fifty? You’re a spring chicken.”
“Soon to be poultry.”
“Can you swim?”
His eyes glassed over. “Sure. Who can’t? Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“We had a swimming pool at home. Used to swim every day before the repossession.”
Alistair swallowed hard. “Repossession?”
The glassy eyes became misty. “Don’t know how my wife will cope when I am gone.”
“What’s the status, Alesandro?” Devon asked. “Don’t forget we’re counting on you.”