Dark Video

by Peter Church

“He has a right to feel betrayed.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “No. We crossed the line. I didn’t want to. But if we didn’t get rid of Johnny, we’d have had Dark Video at our throats.”

  “You don’t have to moralize with me, Devon. Johnny was a rapist. He got what he deserved. Our profit is poetic justice. But Alistair…”

  Devon held up his hands. “Relax, Richard. He’s refusing his cut anyway. It’s not the point, but that’s what he says.”

  “What? What’s that fool’s problem?”

  “Who cares? But I figured he might make this call. So I gave him a little something anyway. Insurance policy in case he develops a spine to accompany his newfound morals.”

  Richard smiled, calmer, enjoying Devon’s barb. He fiddled with the brightness on his screen, flicked between several open windows.

  “It’s not the money, Dev,” he said softly. “It’s about getting what we deserve. The effort, the time. I’ve worked so hard on this, for months now, since we first…started out. Alistair’s a coaster; he’s just ridden on our hard work. We deserve more than that spoiled brat. I deserve more.”

  Devon put his arm around Richard, pulled him close. “Of course you do. Of course you do.” He ran his fingers through Richard’s hair. “You just need someone to recognize your talents. And that person’s me.”

  Devon’s soothing tones disguised no lie in that moment: he was truly grateful to have access to Richard’s skills. Best computer brain in the land, he’d said and meant before. Richard had even located Carlos’s residence recently, pinpointing it in Yarrow Point, zooming in with Google Earth and marveling at his sprawling mansion.

  It had been a painstaking process, more than a year’s work, analyzing every communication with Carlos, technical dead ends, the hops traced back to some site in Puerto Rico. The breakthrough had come by analyzing conversations with Carlos, combining logic with Richard’s tech knowledge, narrowing it down to the States, reviewing the time of Skype calls, subtle questions, asking about the weather, comparing reports, working out the time zone, then tracing through every internet service provider in the area. Everything pointed to Washington. After that a simple matter of elimination using the power of Google. Carlos regularly discussed his obsession with security, had mentioned the laser activated security alarm, the electric fence, the problems being on the lake….Turned out his house was the only property in Yarrow Point with electric fencing and access to the water. He wondered what Carlos would say if he knew.

  Devon flicked back to reality. “What are you doing?”

  “Some more investigation.”

  Richard was tapping away at the keyboard again. “I’ve been thinking about Mangle. How they contacted Johnny. I still find it hard to believe Johnny knocked off two clients. I mean, Johnny’s a freaking asshole, but a murderer? What’s the motive?”

  “Blackmail? Anything for cash—he was desperate, remember? Carlos thinks Johnny was doing a deal with Mangle, might have been trying to force their arm into accepting his clips.”

  Devon rubbed his hand along Richard’s upper arm.

  “I don’t know. The timing’s funny. Did Johnny even know about Mangle when that first murder happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Devon looked confused. “Maybe he was cleverer than we realized. Could have broken into our communications maybe?”

  “Not into my computer, he couldn’t.”

  “Why the interest in Mangle?”

  Richard pursed his lips. “Knowledge is power. Who helped Johnny get a copy of the video to send to Mangle?”

  “It was obviously Sasha.”

  “Obviously?”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Alistair?”

  Richard”s lip curled as Devon laughed at the idea of Alistair the computer geek.

  “Ritchie,” Devon said soothingly, stroking the side of his face, still a boy’s face, fluffy stubble, dotted with red irritations. “Get off Alistair’s case. I assure you my interest in him is purely platonic.”

  “I’m not jealous of him! I’m the one who’s upfront and honest about our relationship. I don’t go rushing off to soothe his anxieties. He texted me, too, you know.” Richard held up his phone.

  “It’s my job to keep tabs on everyone, Ritchie. Just doing my job.” Devon grinned and stroked Richard’s arm again—to little effect.

  Richard looked down and resumed his laptop tapping. “I’m going to find Mangle,” he declared. “I don’t believe Johnny killed their clients. I think Dark Video was involved.”

  “They were Dark Video clients as well,” Devon reminded him.

  “Whatever. How did Mangle find Johnny?”

  “Perhaps he found them?”

  “And why would Mangle buy Johnny’s disgusting video when Dark Video said it was shit?”

  Devon gripped Richard by the wrist. He continued to type. Devon tightened the grip.

  “Ow!” A little twist and Devon knew he could snap the wrist as easily as twisting off a beer cap.

  “Cool it! Remember who you are and what your role is.”

  Richard stopped typing, clutched his hand to his chest.

  “Johnny was a gambler,” Devon stated, rising from the bed. “He gambled with us and he gambled with his life. He had to go. Mangle is irrelevant.”

  He walked to the door.

  “Don’t think you own me, Devon.”

  “Wind your neck in, Ritchie.”

  Green Block, Alistair’s room.

  Alistair had spent the day at lectures, battling to pick up the pace of the work, needing to catch up, his mind not able to cope. He couldn’t afford to miss any more work.

  He sat at his desk now. Derrick Young had phoned again. Probably wanted to know when he’d be around to complete the reading of the Withnail screenplay. Or could it be about something else? Alistair deleted the message.

  In front of him lay the envelope intended for the Warden of Belsen, care of Johnny’s druggie ex-girlfriend Sasha. He picked it up. It was handwritten.

  To whom it may concern

  If you get this, I will be dead, killed by a group of people, one of which, Alistair Morgan, is a resident at Kopano. I suspect they are plotting to kill me. I suspect they will drug me and throw me overboard in False Bay and then film me being attacked by a shark. They are involved with a company called Dark Video who have infiltrated a website called watchit.com. Dark Video trades in illegal videos, snuff, pornography. Please ensure that my death is investigated thoroughly.

  Yours, Johnny Jackson, 24 April 2008

  Alistair couldn’t contain a burst of unintentional laughter. What a ridiculous letter, he thought, tearing it up, shaking his head. Another piece of evidence erased.

  But the nightmare refused to disappear. He opened his desk drawer and looked at the envelope, fat with debt, still where Devon had placed it.

  Had Johnny really done all the things? Blackmailing Dark Video, working with Mangle, even murder?

  He was in the clear, though. Time to get over it, move on. Extract himself from the hell that had become his life.

  He thought about the money. Perhaps he should take up Devon’s offer and take it all. He had the twenty thousand rand now anyway—what was the moral difference between that and the full payout? Nothing. Unless he gave it back…

  Even by Alistair’s standards, a million rand or more was a lot of money. Take a year off. Cut to Europe. With Terri.

  Terri.

  What should he do?

  She had phoned twice. Each time he’d let the phone ring, waited for the voice mail, immediately listened to it, hanging on to her every word.

  “It’s Terri. Just phoning to see how you are.”

  “Thought you might need some rescuing. My hands are cold. Please call me.”

  I can’t do this, Alistair thought. I can’t. Why would Devon warn him about seeing her? “Just fuck her and get it over with.” As if he accepted that Alistair would do the inevitable, then bail—problem so
lved.

  He locked his door and walked down the hill. At Tugwell the receptionist announced his arrival: “Terri Phillips, gentleman to see you.”

  “Send him up.”

  BRER RABBIT

  “Just the two of you?” Katie gasped.

  “Uh-huh.” Terri swapped the phone to her left ear, a sliver of hair flicking over her face. She blew it away. Sting on the Audi’s sound system underscored the conversation. Every little thing you do is magic.

  “Terri! What did your folks say?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Terri!”

  “Katie, I’m a big girl.”

  “Yeah, right. You haven’t even kissed him. Weekend away with a stranger?”

  Terri giggled. Alistair rubbed his arm; he felt goose bumps. Everything you do just turns me on.

  “He’s right here. Want to talk to him?”

  “Listen here, Alistair Morgan,” Katie said as Terri held the phone to his ear. The car raced along the N2 toward Arniston. “You hurt her, you’re dead.”

  “She says I’m not her type. Got any tips for me?”

  Terri wrenched the phone back, said goodbye, kicked her feet rebelliously onto the dashboard, scrolled through Alistair’s iPod: Cassie, Me & You.

  “I love this song!”

  “I never thought you’d say yes,” Alistair said, glancing at her, an airy cotton shirt, the length of her slim brown legs enhanced by the shortness of her khaki shorts, toes making imprints on the front windscreen.

  “You look like you needed a friend. What did she say to you? Katie?”

  “She said I should give you the treatment.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Alistair laughed. “Only joking.”

  “Well, be careful.” She poked him playfully. “I may just give it to you.”

  “I’m not your type.”

  “You’re right. You’re not my type.”

  Alistair shifted from fifth to fourth; the sun slipped lower. He wanted to get to Morganhouse to show Terri the sunset.

  “What’s the plan for tonight?” she enquired.

  They sat on the couch in the lounge of Morganhouse; Alistair in board shorts and a T-shirt, Terri plopped in his lap. A faded collage of family photos smiled back at them from the walls.

  They had arrived too late for a swim. Alistair had unpacked Terri’s bags into Shelley’s room, his own to the Anchor Room. He was going to do this properly.

  “Date night.”

  “Date night?”

  He ran his hand along her neck, drew her closer and kissed her neck.

  “Is this the date?” she asked, fluttering her eyes innocently.

  “No, silly. Arniston Hotel.”

  “Dress up?”

  “I’m going as I am.”

  She slipped a hand under his T-shirt, rubbed her fingers along his six pack.

  “You’re still not my type.”

  “You’re different to how I imagined,” Terri said, placing her knife and fork together and staring across the table. The candlelight flickered, her face shone, hair curly from the sea air.

  “Could it be, after all you have said, the cruel jibes and hurtful remarks, that I am your type after all?” he teased and wiped his mouth with a serviette.

  “If you were, it may not be good for you.”

  “Oh yes. I remember. Your type is someone you trust yourself with.”

  The waiter brought a second bottle of wine, white. Arniston Bay. Buitenverwachting not on the menu. They’d both ordered the line fish, Cape salmon, and shared a Greek salad. He removed the empty plates.

  “Katie said you were—her exact words—a lady slayer. I asked her why and she said someone else told her.”

  “And someone else told her and someone else told her…”

  “What’s it like to be famous, Jude?”

  “Infamous? Does it matter to you?”

  “The old Terri would’ve been mortified.”

  “The new one?”

  “Thinks you are different in real life.”

  “Real life? What does that mean?”

  “You’re nicer.”

  “You haven’t seen me get going yet,” he said, picking up a knife and waving it around.

  Breakfast served: two-egg omelettes, parsley and cheese.

  “You can cook,” said Terri.

  They sat down to eat.

  He had led her home after dinner the night before, tiptoed barefoot over the stone road and thorny grass, knew she’d drunk too much, lowered her onto her bed, covered her with the duvet, her hands reaching out to him—“No, not yet”—lain on his back in the Anchor Room, the words “Hurt her, you’re dead” repeated over and over again. For a day she’d held him in her spell, a new reality, the nightmare temporarily dispersed; Devon, Richard, Warnabrother, Carlos—and Johnny, the mouth, the teeth, the blood…

  “Wow, very impressive,” Terri declared, omelette judgment passed. They cleared the plates to the sink.

  “What’s that sign on the door?” she asked, propping herself up on the kitchen counter.

  Alistair told her about the crumbling foundations, the house that would one day slip down the cliff and into the sea.

  “Can I have a look?”

  He searched for the key in the kitchen drawers.

  “No luck. My mother’s hidden it again, hates us going out. I’m terrified of heights, ever since my father played a trick on me when I was a kid. There’s a hidden ledge on the edge of the cliff. You don’t see it from the land. I was watching him; he walked backwards and toppled over the edge. I thought he’d fallen over into the sea. Next thing he popped up again.”

  “That’s terrible. Your father? How could he do that?”

  “It’s one of those things,” he said, moving toward the counter where she sat. “Good idea at the time. He was very sorry afterwards, though. Especially when I had to sleep in his bed!”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eight.”

  She leaned over and drew his head against her chest. “You poor thing! No wonder you’re scared of heights.”

  He felt the softness of her breasts against his cheek, an instant message throughout his body. He clapped his hands and pulled back.

  “We’re going for a swim.”

  He grabbed a couple of towels from his room, checked his messages quickly: nothing. Maybe he was in the clear.

  A morning of sun and swimming. Alistair had noticed how every man on the beach turned to catch a better view of Terri in her pale green bikini.

  “I’m amazed at you. After what happened…” he said. He lay on his bed in the Anchor Room, Terri sitting alongside, sharing sliced fruit from a bowl that she had prepared.

  “Coming away with me, taking such a chance.”

  “It’s because of what happened,” she replied. “I completely trust you.”

  She scooped from the bowl, offered him a spoonful. Alistair propped himself up and rubbed his hands across his face.

  “So I’m your type now, am I? Trouble is, if you trust yourself with me, nothing exciting happens.”

  “What’s exciting?” She poked his nose with her index finger.

  She noticed the expression on his face change.

  “What is it?”

  He looked down at the bowl, slivers of strawberry, banana, mango, peach. “Nice salad.”

  She peered intensely at him, searching his face for emotions, for truths. “Who were those people on the boat, Alistair? Were they friends?”

  “I suppose. Friends…” he started.

  “Where do you know them from?”

  “Terri, I want to tell you something…”

  She sensed the tension in his arms, the broken voice, his eyes clouded, murky.

  “I have made some mistakes. I want to…”

  “Shhh,” she said. “I don’t need to know. Not now.”

  She lifted the bowl and placed it on a side table, lay down on the pillow alongside him, the bed squeaking with their
weight. He felt her body warm against his, her skin salty—“You’re so flawless…” They slept side by side, until the late afternoon sun filtered in from the curtains.

  Saturday night, faces glowing with the sun’s color, refreshed from the afternoon sleep. A fragrance of thatch from the roof pervaded the house like incense.

  Terri busied herself in her room. “Same again?” Alistair suggested, tapping on the door. Five field lengths from Morganhouse to the Arniston Hotel.

  He would be honest with her tonight, he thought, tell her everything over dinner—then see if she would still have him.

  “No more wine for me, thanks,” she called. “I think it may be a better idea to stay in tonight.”

  Alistair stood with his back to the door, looking out through the glass-fronted living room, a wide panorama stretching from the full moon blazing red to his left, rising opposite the dying sunset in the west.

  “A bad moon,” he declared. “Don’t go round tonight. We can stay at home and I’ll cook a pasta.”

  She laughed. “I have a surprise for you. Come on in.”

  The lights were dimmed when he entered the room, the door to Terri’s en suite bathroom closed. He sat down on the edge of the bed, hands on his thighs.

  “You ready for me?” she said through the door.

  “Sure. What’s going on?”

  Terri emerged wearing a flimsy red dress, framed by the light behind her. She twirled around extravagantly, posed for him.

  He gulped.

  “You like?”

  “God. You are so beautiful.” His hand came to his mouth.

  “I have something to show you.”

  “Terri, I…”

  In a fluid movement she pulled the dress over her head, dropped it to the floor, no bra, black G-string. The sight of her sucked the air from Alistair’s lungs.

  “See anything here you like?”

  “Terri,” Alistair whispered. “You don’t have to do this.”

  His vision swam. Devon’s charcoal eyes stared at him. Get it over with. Katie’s accusing voice. Hurt her, you’re dead.

  He blinked. There she was in front of him, tangible, real, sensational. Face exquisite, eyes flashing at him, her blonde hair settled midway down her neck. His gaze caressed her body: small breasts, round and perfect, petite shoulders into ribs and narrow waist, long, toned legs, barefoot. She put her hands on her hips, shook her hair wildly.