Dark Video

by Peter Church

  “No way,” said Devon. He pointed in a southwesterly direction. “We were miles away.”

  “Could be a lurky,” another voice piped up.

  The reporters ears pricked up, pens flicking at pads.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Burger. No need to start a press feeding frenzy and scare everyone off the beaches. He leaned against the back of Johnny’s Cressida. The door was open, wet suits and spear gun in view.

  “Did he have a suit on?”

  Devon nodded.

  “I guess you have questions.” Devon stood in the Gorillas living room, stone-faced, hands on his hips.

  Alistair, slumped against the armrest of the two-seater couch, rubbed his bleary eyes. He had driven Johnny’s Cressida back to the house while Devon had doubled back and fetched the Merc, Richard with him.

  The Audi stood in the driveway now, where Alistair had left it early that morning, before sunrise. He wanted to jump into the car and drive away forever, never to see this house again. His mind kept replaying events: that great mouth emerging from the sea, the rows of serrated teeth grasping Johnny, the life vanishing from his eyes, blood boiling to the surface…

  Silence. No music in the lounge of Gorillas. No thumping bass.

  Devon cleared his throat. “It’s a tragedy. But it was his choice. We never made him take the bet.”

  Alistair stared straight ahead; Richard, on a separate chair, cradled his head in his hands. Mugs of tea in front of them remained untouched.

  “Is no one going to speak to me?”

  Alistair opened his mouth as if to say something. Nothing came out.

  “Look, Johnny owed one of the Nigerians a significant amount of cash, through his dealer mate, Jeff. Drugs. Gambling debts, too. He was desperate. After I destroyed his rape video, he looked for other outlets. He was crazy. You guys didn’t see it.” He paused.

  “Richard, maybe you did,” he continued. “He begged me. Phoned Carlos himself, started making life very complicated for everyone. The last straw was when he contacted Mangle. We’ll settle his debt with his share.”

  Alistair listened in a dull stupor. He felt neither hungry nor thirsty, nor able to support or dispute Devon’s revelations. Johnny owed a drug dealer; no surprises there.

  It’s a dream, Alistair thought; a nightmare. Any minute he’d wake up and the Gorillas crowd wouldn’t exist. No Devon, no Richard, no Johnny.

  Except there was no Johnny any more.

  Devon’s voice droned on in the background of Alistair’s awareness. “Funny to think Johnny owed so much money because it was Sasha who caused most of the problems. She’s a total junkie. Could never work out why he was such a fool to fund her habit.”

  Sorry, Johnny, for thinking you were an addict when it was all Sasha’s fault. Alistair felt the sarcasm stick in his throat. Didn’t even know you liked her. Don’t worry, we’ll sort out your debts.

  “Anyway, they’ve notified his parents. The NSRI will look for the body again tomorrow. Perhaps they’ll find it.”

  “What?” Alistair blurted out. He shook his head slowly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Alistair. Snap out of it. He drowned. We need to keep thinking like that.”

  Alistair wanted to scream; wanted to race from this room. He remained seated.

  “It’ll be in the newspapers. Speculation about a shark. Thanks to you.”

  “Johnny was a very strong swimmer,” said Alistair in monotone.

  Devon and Richard looked at him.

  “Yes,” Devon said slowly. “Sure. But people drown. Happens all the time. Johnny gambled and lost.”

  Devon’s expression changed, head cocked, color back in his cheeks. He sat down on the living room floor, alongside the unpacked duffel bags.

  “Can you believe it?” he said to no one, genuine amazement in his voice, running his hand along one of the Canons. “Two sharks. What are the odds?”

  Alistair looked at him. Given that we were a couple of hundred meters from Seal Island, he thought, the odds were pretty fucking good.

  “It’s a freak accident,” Devon continued, his tone excited. “It wasn’t our fault. How could it have been?” He looked to the others. “We did nothing wrong!”

  Except that we filmed a man dying, Alistair thought. And you fired at him with a gun.

  But he had no desire to argue. The episode had been so sudden, so unlike Devon: the lack of planning, the loss of control, the level of risk. It was compulsive, an act of desperation. What if a boat had seen them? What if there had been no second shark? Devon had three more bullets in the gun.

  Richard sobbed softly.

  “Calm down, Ritchie. The sooner we all realize just how much of a risk Johnny posed, the better. A risk to all of us. It was only a matter of time before he went to the cops about the forest attack.”

  Alistair swallowed hard. He stared at the poster of the King Kong.

  “We must move on. We’ve got a five hundred thousand dollar video here,” Devon said, indicating the cameras. “I will get started on it tomorrow. A pre-production screening in the afternoon?”

  Five hundred thousand? Wasn’t it two fifty? Alistair’s mind was muddled. He raised both his hands, shook his head. No response from Richard.

  “OK. I’ll manage it on my own, then. Will get it to Carlos by Monday. We’ll be paid before month end. A clean split, once we’ve sorted out Johnny’s debts. We’re looking at a million and a half or more. Each.”

  One million five hundred thousand rand: a generous slice of the pie. Alistair could hardly comprehend the figure.

  “The deal with Carlos…Dark Video. Was there ever another plan?” Alistair’s voice seemed strange in the room. He wondered what Derrick Young was doing.

  Devon looked him in the eye.

  “No, Alesandro. There was never another plan.”

  BE STILL MY HEART

  “Damn, Carlos! You owe me big on this one.”

  Carlos clicked his phone onto loudspeaker and picked up the nail file.

  “What have you been doing?” he asked, starting on the nails on his left hand.

  “I been looking and I been listening,” replied the big hit man, real name Samuel Chester, also known as Chestwound, also known as Warnabrother. He looked out his window. Woodstock. That was the suburb’s name. “This place doesn’t work for me, man. Shitty job in a shitty town.”

  “What’s the update on the project?”

  “Interesting goings-on yesterday: four set out to sea, three came back. Man, Carlos, you got to see the dive I’m staying in. Polyester sheets. You’d love it.”

  Carlos ignored the small talk, preoccupied with the latest development.

  “Troublemaker sorted out?”

  “Yeah. The rough one. No more problems from him. The movie’s shot; he didn’t make it off set. Official word is he drowned, but talk of a shark attack in the papers this morning. Sounds promising.”

  Carlos held up his left hand to the light, admired his handiwork, each nail perfectly rounded. He turned the file over and began pressing back his cuticles.

  “Excellent. Can’t wait for the review. I have a feeling that Devon will be putting together something quite special for me this time. He didn’t care much for Johnny.”

  “What I seen no one cared much for that motherfucker.”

  “Right, keep an eye on the other three for the time being. Until I’ve got their submission. What about the other problem?”

  “Man, that’s a dead end. If it was Johnny, then the action’s gonna stop. Cos he’s feeding fish.”

  “Devon seems to think so. What’s the intelligence say?”

  “Intelligence? Man, Carlos, you’re kidding me, right? Cops here don’t have a clue. They got no leads. If polo neck’s on the button, it’ll go quiet now. But who knows in this place? Murder capital of the world, right?”

  “Right. Well, let’s hope that’s the end of it. We lose a couple more clients and suddenly our second-quarter result
s aren’t looking too good.”

  Warnabrother cleared his throat. “I hope that don’t…”

  “Don’t worry, my friend. You’ll get your cruise. I’ll throw in another honey just for you—for all the fine work.”

  Carlos picked up a hand mirror off his desk. He admired his reflection, ran his hand down along his smooth chest toward the edge of his white thong. Laser hair removal, he marveled. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

  Layabouts basked in the morning sun outside the Belsen mess. Alistair pulled into his parking spot, noticed several heads turning his way; a buzz of curiosity as he slipped up the back stairway to his room.

  Did they know what had happened? Could they see the guilt in his face? Or was he being paranoid?

  He had fallen asleep on the couch at Gorillas, a frenzied, frantic sleep, dreaming about Johnny, waking up in a panic, dry mouth, wondering about Terri’s bra—and when it would all come out. He’d popped several pills, slept again; this time deep and thoughtless. Woke up with a start, not knowing where he was, checked his watch: ten thirty a.m. Felt like he’d slept for a week. No sign of the others, no duffel bags, no camera equipment. Had he dreamed it?

  Silverman burst into his room, a copy of the Cape Times held up in his hand. Alistair rubbed his face, bit on his nails.

  “Does everyone know?”

  “Some. You OK, man?”

  Alistair nodded.

  Silverman disappeared to his room, returned with a glass of dark liquid and a few pills.

  “Take these. Guaranteed to calm you down and help you sleep.”

  Alistair accepted the pills, sloshed them down with the dark liquid.

  Alistair opened the newspaper. Page three, two columns; at least it wasn’t headline news. And no photos. Now, if only they had printed the picture inscribed in his head, on the camcorder: the black monster breaking the water with Johnny’s body clutched in its mouth.

  He read the story:

  MAN FEARED DROWNED DURING BOATING TRIP

  A 22-year-old University of Cape Town student is presumed drowned after he went missing in False Bay yesterday. The student, John Jackson, had been spear fishing with friends.

  Witnesses reported seeing Jackson and three men departing Kalk Bay Harbor in a white ski boat in the early afternoon. The men were identified as Devon Deacon, 25, Richard Walker, 21, and Alistair Morgan, 22. They are all students.

  It is believed that Jackson became separated from his companions in moderate swells southeast of Simon’s Town. Deacon, who officials confirmed held a registered skipper’s license, said that Jackson was last seen approximately one hundred meters from the boat and more than two kilometers from shore.

  “We entered the water at around 4pm in fairly good conditions. Half an hour later we returned to the boat but there was no sign of Johnny.

  “We waited until 5pm before becoming concerned and we started to look for him.”

  Captain Pieter Burger from the Simon’s Town Police Station told reporters that the ski boat’s onboard radio had evidently failed while at sea, and that there were no working cellphones on board.

  “If they had been able to contact us at the time we could have got an NSRI boat out there and maybe the Skymed helicopter, with probably an hour of light to search. But it was already dark when the call came in.”

  He confirmed that a search for the body would be conducted at first light this morning.

  One of the swimmers reported sensing an “explosion” under the water. Deacon confirmed that they had spotted several seals, but had not seen a shark.

  In June 2005, a man was killed by a great white while spear fishing approximately 150 meters offshore, near to the spot where Jackson went missing.

  Lionel Jansen, spokesperson for the Shark Research Center at the Iziko-SA Museum, said Jackson’s disappearance could not be linked to increased shark activity in False Bay.

  “Sharks can be attracted to a diver’s catch, but in this case they appear not to have seen many fish, let alone caught anything.

  “There is no proof at all that a shark was involved. There are far more drownings in our waters than shark attacks,” he said, citing the fact that there were only four attacks in South African waters in 2007, none of them fatal.

  “Was he a good friend?” asked Silverman.

  “No. Not really.”

  Alistair shook his head to clear his thoughts. He reached for his cellphone. He wanted to call Terri but he felt hazy; the room spun.

  “Can you phone Terri and tell her what happened?”

  Silverman’s eyes twinkled as he grabbed the phone. “Should I ask her to bring the video along for us to watch?” he joked.

  But Alistair was sound asleep.

  “How long have you been sitting there?”

  He looked at her through half-opened eyes, sitting on the end of his bed. An unbuttoned white shirt over a black top, denim jeans. A warm sensation filled his chest.

  She looked at her watch. “Four hours.”

  It was dark outside.

  “You haven’t moved for four hours?”

  “Well, I popped to the toilet. Your neighbor, Luke, uh, Silverman, kept guard for me. I’ve been reading.”

  “Silverman?” Alistair lifted his head. His door was open. Silverman stood like a sentry, wearing an old pair of army browns and roller skates, no top. He had a bucket on his head.

  “The four hours passed very slowly,” she said with a laugh, indicating her reading material: Great Expectations, English setwork.

  “I’m so glad you’re here…” For the first time in a very long time, Alistair’s principle emotion was not fear or uncertainty.

  Silverman rolled into the room, came to a sloppy attention next to the bed. “Silverman reporting, suh,” he said, tottering on the wheels. He put himself at ease and produced a clipboard and Alistair’s phone. “Your father, suh. Relieved you are OK. You must call him. Sisters. Times three. I asked if they looked like you. They answered negative, so I thought it safe to proposition them. Two of them are married. The unmarried one also said no.”

  “You have three sisters?” said Terri. She ran her hand along his brow. “Boy, did you get hot.”

  “Me too,” said Silverman, from behind Terri’s back, making unsubtle gestures as to the source of his fever. “Then there’s been the warden, the matron, Maggie, about five hundred girls, who I sent away.”

  Terri spun around.

  “Joking.”

  Alistair put his hand on Terri’s. “Thanks, Silverman. Now beat it.”

  “You have to dismiss me.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Silverman executed an elaborate about turn, almost losing his balance, before skating out the door.

  “Quite a character. He’s been teaching me how to…” She raised her hand to her mouth and giggled. “Fart.”

  “Fart?” Alistair could never imagine Terri farting.

  Terri’s giggles intensified, her eyes went watery.

  “Did you learn anything?”

  She couldn’t talk. Alistair started to laugh too.

  I’m not going to think about it, he told himself. I’m going to shut it out. It’s a dream. Laugh. Laugh with Terri.

  Eventually she composed herself, tears running down her cheeks.

  “Apparently, it’s a science on Green second. What did he say again? The three Ps. Product, position, pressure.”

  “He makes you laugh.”

  A fresh bout of giggles muddled her attempted reply. “I don’t know if I want to hear any more from him, though. My manners will be shot.”

  Alistair reached out to a glass of water on the bedside table—and the accumulation of all his fears burst, the bag of fish entrails, a filthy baggage of lies and deceit. He sobbed.

  “What’s wrong, Alistair?”

  He covered his face with his arm.

  “It’s OK. It’ll all be OK.” She put her hand on his arm.

  He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “When I woke, I di
dn’t open my eyes. I knew you were on my bed. I couldn’t see you or hear you, but I sensed you. It felt so…comfortable. I didn’t want to open my eyes.”

  “Why not?”

  “In case you weren’t there. In case it was a dream. My life’s been like a dream lately. A bad dream…”

  She looked away.

  “I’m sorry. I’m emotional.”

  “Don’t be.” She turned back to him, her eyes intense. “Remember me? You saved me; maybe I can repay you.”

  “You can?”

  She smiled, leaned forward, kissed him lightly on the cheek. He could feel her breath.

  “And that?”

  “A little bit of saving.”

  “Save me here?” He pointed to his lips.

  She sighed, smiled again, darted in quickly, the kiss a whispering touch only.

  “That all?”

  “For now. You need to get your energy back up. Here, I bought you some food.”

  Devon arrived ten minutes after Terri’s departure. The thumping heart returned. “Nice pad, Alesandro,” he said, surveying the room. He bent down and stroked the Persian.

  “You said that last time.”

  “I know.” Devon took a seat at Alistair’s desk, turning the chair toward the bed, crossed his legs, calf on knee. Alistair sat up in bed, brushed off the covers.

  “You’re feeling better, I hope? Been eating, at least.”

  Two empty plates lay on the desk. Terri’s delivery, some fruit squirreled away at Tugwell lunch, and a full dinner of roast lamb and vegetables from Mrs. Harrison.

  Devon stared at Alistair without saying anything, smiled. Despite the sustenance—and Terri’s recent visit—Alistair looked unkempt, gaunt, eyes hollow, five-o’clock shadow. And something missing: the cheeky smile.

  Devon rubbed his face and adjusted the neck of his polo shirt. He was freshly showered, clean-shaven, his black hair shiny and slicked back. In his hands he held a grey folder.

  “So, how are you…handling things?”

  “How’d you think?”

  Devon lowered his head. He placed the folder on Alistair’s desk, put his hands in his pockets.

  “Do you hate me, Alesandro? Richard does. I tricked you.”