Dark Video

by Peter Church

  “I’m in, ain’t I?” Warnabrother flashed a mouthful of teeth.

  Alistair closed the door behind him slowly. “What’s your name, actually?” he said.

  “You don’t know who I am?”

  “I know who you are. I just don’t know your real name.”

  “You know Carlos?”

  Alistair shook his head.

  “You know of him?”

  Alistair nodded. He edged along the wall, stopped with his back to the cupboard.

  “Well, that’s enough then. Nice watch you got there.”

  Alistair glanced down at his TAG, then quickly back to the hit man sitting in his window.

  “You a bit edgy there, golden boy?”

  “Should I be?”

  “No need, no need. You should be very happy, right?”

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  Alistair was trying to play it cool, struggling. The notion that this could be the person who ends his life flashed to the front of his mind. Shouldn’t he be whistling a tune?

  “That video you done,” said Warnabrother, snapping his two hands together from the wrists, like the mouth of a shark. “Carlos is very happy. Maybe he organize a cruise and get you some dollies.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  Warnabrother swallowed a mouthful of wine. He offered the bottle to Alistair.

  “No, er, thank you.”

  “On the contrary, thank you.” Warnabrother lifted the bottle slowly to his mouth, his eyes not leaving Alistair’s. He brought it down and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “This is a woman’s drink, Alistair. Do you mind if I call you Alistair? Or would you prefer golden boy?”

  Alistair shrugged his shoulders, shook his head.

  “Got anything stronger?”

  “No. That’s all.”

  “Guess you can’t pick up chicks with whiskey, huh?”

  Alistair smiled thinly, without mirth. This was preposterous, he thought. Here he was, a top third year law student, talking in his bedroom to a professional killer, the business end of a long chain of sick and twisted perverts.

  “OK, OK, no problem,” Warnabrother continued. “We stick with the wine. So whatcha studying?”

  “Law.”

  “Law.” Warnabrother confirmed, face breaking into a wide grin. “Heh, heh. Now that’s what I think they call irony.”

  The smile vanished. He emptied the bottle with another gulp, banged it down on the counter.

  “Course I knew that already, golden boy. There’s lots I know about you. Few things I don’t, though. So here I am making my acquaintance.”

  Alistair wondered if a man could sense his own impending doom; a primal instinct, perhaps. He didn’t feel too nervous, but why was his leg jumping? A couple of pills would do the trick right now, he thought. He felt the phial in his pocket, wished he could get it out right there, tried to push the thought out of his mind.

  Warnabrother dropped his head and rubbed his hands together, as if preparing for a presentation.

  “Now it sounds to me that you’re not so sure about where you stand with this whole thing…so I wanna tell you a little story. It’s a fable. No, it’s a parable. Or something. Anyway. Once upon a time there was this fairy princess. She was beautiful. Let’s call her Goldie. And then, naturally, there was this prince. We’ll call him Prince. Some would say he was very good-looking, but it’s not for me to tell. You know, I like dollies so I can’t discern. Discern? Is that the word?”

  Alistair didn’t know what to say, stared in silence, waiting for Warnabrother to go on.

  “Now you know where this is going. Prince has everything. He got cash, he got gash, he got style. Everything just A-OK. The only thing he not allowed is Goldie. They say to him—wait, lemme see—Big King says to him he must leave Goldie alone. ’Cos Goldie belongs to the king, you see. And the king is the boss. But it’s a cruel world, you see, ’cos Prince may have all these things, but what he really wants is Goldie. Don’t ask me why. Maybe when you got everything, but you can’t have this one small thing”—he imitated a pair of tweezers with his fingers—“then you want it. You may not even like it, but you want it.”

  Warnabrother brought the tweezers up to his eye, looked through them at Alistair.

  “Does that make sense? I’m not sure. But anyways, Prince wants the girl. Bad! But Big King say uh-uh, you go for Goldie and you die. No, wait a minute, I got it wrong—she dies. It’s tragic. Now anyone who knows about these fairy tales knows that the prince is gonna try and go for the girl. ’Cos it’s a fairy tale, right? You know what’s coming. But if he does…”

  Warnabrother stood up. His strange shape seemed to disguise his height. He tapered downwards from his shoulders to a narrow waist tucked into a tight pair of stovepipe Levi’s.

  “You got any more of this wine?” he asked.

  Alistair shook his head.

  The hit man sat back down, disappointed, shrugged.

  “Where was I? Yeah. Prince kisses Goldie, he loses everything. I mean everything. But he’s got Goldie, right. It’s worth it, right? Wrong. Goldie is possessed by an evil witch. He got nothing.”

  Alistair feigned disinterest. He felt detached, as though he was watching a movie, not part of the body that inhabited this room.

  “I thought you said she dies?”

  “I’m not good at this storytelling, man. Bottom line, the prince is fucked.”

  Warnabrother waited for a response.

  “You’ve been sent here to threaten me, right?”

  “Me? No, no. We just worried ’bout you. All us friends: you, me, Devon, Carlos. We just wanna make sure you OK. That no wicked witch casts her spell on you. Oh wait, I nearly forgot. The moral. You wanna hear the moral?”

  Alistair shrugged.

  “I gotta tell you. This is a fairy tale, or fable, whatever. You know what the prince is gonna do before he does. He can’t help himself. It’s a motherfucking fairy tale. These things happen. Yes?”

  Alistair gave no acknowledgement, stared blankly at Warnabrother. Imagined himself dashing across the room and tipping him out onto the concrete below.

  “But this…” Warnabrother pointed to Alistair, then back to himself, then to the bed, the desk, the wine bottle. “This is real life. We got choices.”

  “Choices.”

  “Choices, golden boy. Now you a clever fellow. Do I gotta go spelling this out to you?”

  “No, I’m OK,” said Alistair quietly.

  “You said what?”

  “I said I’m OK. I’m a clever fellow.” Alistair’s focus had snapped back.

  Warnabrother nodded. “You OK, then I’m OK,” he said, as he hopped off the ledge. “This is a dangerous motherfucking place. You know where they put me? Woodstock! I’m thinking of hiring a bodyguard while I’m here. Whatcha think?”

  Alistair snorted and ran a hand through his hair. The focus drifted again: he thought of Terri, the way her eyes shone, the little lines when she smiled, the way she felt against him, as if he’d known her all his life. He found himself staring intently at the wine bottle on the table.

  “You sure you OK?” repeated Warnabrother.

  “How did you open that bottle?” Alistair asked blankly, a distant memory of Silverman disappearing with his corkscrew.

  “It was open.”

  Alistair opened his mouth to continue, stopped.

  “Now you’re getting it,” grinned Warnabrother. He stood up and walked to the door.

  “Oh. By the way. You wouldn’t know where I can find Johnny’s skinny girlfriend, do you now?”

  “You’re avoiding me.” Terri caught him jumping into the A3, about to head up to campus to pick up some tutorials. He was two weeks behind classes, wondered if he could make it up.

  Three phone calls from her had gone unanswered.

  “I…uh, I’m late for an appointment.”

  “Alistair,” she put her hands on her hips. “What’s going on?”

 
She looked confused, her face was filled with questions—sadness lurking. She looked through the window into his blue eyes; they were cloudy, rimmed, dark. He lowered his Police sunglasses from his hair, covering himself up.

  “Look, I can’t talk to you right now, Terri.”

  Alistair revved the engine, pulled away. He drove fast, one hand on the wheel, cellphone in the other. He called the nurse.

  “I need a favor.”

  “I’m fresh out.”

  “No, you’ll like this one.”

  “Try me.”

  “There a sweet little first year who’s keen on me.”

  “Do I give a shit?”

  “I want her to know what I’m really like.”

  “Right…”

  “Don’t suppose you made a copy of our video by any chance?”

  “Sure I did. For the lonely times.”

  “Why don’t you send it on over to her?”

  “Ha! It’ll be my pleasure. Should I attach a note?”

  “A note—good idea. ‘I made a mistake. I thought I had feelings for you, but I was wrong. There’s someone else now.’ Something like that. Name’s Terri Phillips. She’s in Tugwell.”

  “Got it. You coming around?”

  “You send the video first and I’ll see.”

  “I’ll deliver it personally. We need to make another video, don’t you think?”

  “You, Terri Phillips?”

  “Yes,” said Terri. She’d walked into the foyer at Tugwell, checked her pigeonhole for messages, found an envelope and a DVD.

  The thin girl in front of her reached into her bag, delved around, came up with a white sports bra scrunched in her hand.

  “This is yours.”

  Terri recoiled, horrified.

  “It’s got your name on.” The girl turned the bra inside out and showed her the thin, printed label. “Terri Phillips. Tugwell 515.”

  “My boyfriend gave it to me. I don’t think he saw the label. Here.”

  Terri took the bra, stared at it. She didn’t know what to say. Eventually: “How did he get it?”

  She shrugged. “He gave it to me as a birthday present, can you credit that? Were you fucking him?”

  Terri reddened, other girls nearby turned.

  “No! Who is he?”

  “Johnny.”

  “I don’t know anyone called Johnny.”

  “Sure you don’t. Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter. He’s dead.”

  “He’s dead!”

  “You probably read about it. He drowned.”

  He found her standing near the flower sellers on the corner of Main and Belmont. “Sasha!”

  The thin girl swiveled, narrowed her eyes to identify him.

  “You? You’re Alistair, aren’t you?” Fear washed across her face. “Get the fuck away from me!”

  “Sasha. We need to talk. You’re in danger.”

  She laughed at him. “If you think I’m getting into your car…”

  Alistair parked on the double line and hopped out. The street looked grimy, in need of a wash. Two hobos washed clothing in the Liesbeek canal over the road.

  She was walking away.

  “Sasha. I must talk to you.”

  She swung around, sudden fury in her face. “Did you have fun? Did you enjoy sticking it up my ass, Alistair? Is that what nice boys like you do?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Johnny showed me the video, you fucking creep.”

  “The video? You mean….That wasn’t me, Sasha. I had nothing to do with it, I swear. It was Johnny, he drugged you. And Jeff. I swear I wasn’t involved.’

  “You’re a liar! Johnny showed it to me. He made it for me. He loved me. Then you slipped in for your fun. Fuck you!”

  “Sasha, I had nothing to do with it! It was Jeff, I swear to god.”

  “You’re a fucking liar. A liar and a rapist!” She said it loudly, for people to hear. A man packing groceries into his car hurriedly shut the boot and jumped in behind the wheel.

  “Johnny’s the liar. He was trying to make money off it….But that’s not why I’m here, OK. I came to warn you.”

  “Warn me? About what, you creep?”

  “You’re in danger.”

  Two teenagers walked by, one brushed his shoulder against Alistair, looked back to check his reaction.

  Sasha snorted. “Yeah right. I’m always in fucking danger. Behind every corner is a piece of rubbish like you.”

  “Sasha. I’m serious. That video has caused big trouble. There are some nasty people after you.”

  “What?” She shook her head, a sarcastic grin of disbelief, discolored teeth, an incisor missing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyhow, everybody’s after me.” She reached behind, under the rim of her short denim skirt, grabbed the cheeks of her ass. “They all want a piece of this. You included. Tell you what, I’ll take a swing by Gorillas if you want and we can watch the video again. I hope you smiled when you stuck it in, Alistair.”

  Alistair gripped her by the arm.

  “Sasha. Please do one thing for me. Take down my phone number.”

  “You want me to call you when I’m feeling horny, hey?” she spat, wrenching back her arm. But she didn’t run; stood defiantly, looking him up and down, gritting her teeth.

  “Please, Sasha. I only want to help you. You’re in danger. You need to go to Gorillas to see Devon. He can help you. But take down my number and phone me if you can’t find him.”

  She dug out her cell from her bag and punched in the number as he dictated it. “I’ve loaded it under Creep.” A car hooted and she spun around.

  “Sasha!”

  A passing car slowed and she jumped into the back seat. Alistair recognized Jeff at the wheel.

  FREAK OUT

  Devon’s appearance shocked him, his perfect hair unkempt, face blackened with stubble; slumped in the lounge, camera equipment strewn around the room. It looked like he hadn’t slept in two days.

  “What is it?”

  Devon wouldn’t say on the phone, only that something terrible had happened. Alistair had panicked, tight chest, thought the worst—Terri—raced to Gorillas.

  “Devon, what happened?”

  Devon’s clothes were creased, the cuffs of his long sleeve shirt hung loose. He looked up slowly, his eyes hooded, black balls hidden deep in sunken sockets.

  “Richard didn’t come home last night.”

  The relief was intense; Terri was OK. Alistair could breathe again…

  “Is that strange? Where do you think he went?”

  Devon stared blankly into the space behind Alistair.

  “It’s not unusual. I always said to him…I told him he must come home. But he’d stay out all night—playing computer games—at party houses.”

  Each word seemed labored, drawn out.

  “Grand Theft Auto, Everquest, Manhunt…” He stopped, put his head in his hands.

  “Devon, what the hell is going on? Where is he?”

  “Jeff called. About an hour ago. He says Richard’s at this place…” Devon’s voice trailed off, he mumbled, deep breath as if preparing to dive underwater.

  “And what?”

  “He’s dead.” Devon dropped his face onto his forearm.

  “Dead!” The color drained from Alistair’s face. “Jesus!”

  Alistair felt the sensation again: his body separate from his consciousness, reality cleaving apart from his mind. He was outside, hearing a boy called Alistair listening to his friend Devon telling him that their friend Richard was dead. He wanted to run to Richard’s room, find him typing on his laptop, shake him, feel that he was alive. He couldn’t be dead.

  “What the hell? What happened?”

  Devon raised his head, his eyes red, dark, drooping with despair. “An overdose.”

  “An overdose? Richard? No!”

  “I knew there was something wrong, I could sense it…”

  “No, no, no,” Alistair repeated. He slumped on
the couch.

  Devon related the story slowly, his voice a monotone, as if in a trance. Richard had been clubbing in town, ended up at a notorious Party and Play gig with Jeff.

  Jeff. Sasha’s dealer. Johnny’s accomplice.

  Richard had taken a concoction of recreational drugs. Coke, tik, tranquilizers. Speedballs. Jeff the supplier.

  Alistair grimaced. “You believe his story?”

  Devon ignored the question, continued: “Richard left with Jeff so they could go…” The look of a wild animal passed momentarily over Devon’s face—then composure: “They found a place to fuck each other.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Alistair’s face contorted. Another revelation: Richard popping speedballs and having one-night stands. He was astonished. He scrutinized Devon’s face for a sign. Nothing.

  “When Jeff woke up this morning—a couple of hours ago—Ritchie was comatose. He thought he was asleep. But then he noticed he couldn’t hear breathing, so he rolled him over and his eyes were open, just staring. Shit coming out his mouth. Overdosed.”

  “What the…? I just can’t believe this. Not Richard. I didn’t think he’d ever tried a drug in his life.”

  Devon wiped his brow, looked at Alistair. “He had a little habit.”

  “A habit? You’re kidding me?”

  “How d’you think his skin got so bad? He had a habit. So did Johnny. So did Sasha. Fuck’s sake, Alistair, open your eyes.”

  A thought struck Alistair. Did Richard just fuck up? Or was it intentional? He’d last seen him on the day of Johnny’s death, distraught, inconsolable. In shock. Like Alistair was now, the nightmare refusing to disappear, the panic rising. The police would investigate, link Richard to Johnny’s drowning, maybe the press would start to speculate. When would it end? Derrick Young suddenly popped into his head; he’d left another message that morning.

  “What did the police say?” he asked, fiddling with his keys.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? They can’t be that useless.”

  Devon’s eyes flicked over the array of video equipment. “I don’t think they’ve been yet.”

  “What?”

  “The flat’s rented by the night. It’s in Salt River. Crack whore hang out. Someone knocks someone off there every second weekend. And Jeff sure as hell isn’t going to be inviting the cops over for a visit. I’m lucky that piece of shit even called me. If I ever….I’ll fucking kill him with my bare hands.”