Dark Video

by Peter Church

  Devon picked up a video camera and absentmindedly inspected the equipment. Cables, lighting stands, silver screens were scattered around the room.

  The silence embarrassed Alistair. As with so much of his recent life, he wanted to get up and just walk away. He stayed.

  “Was Richard addicted?”

  Richard, the computer geek: shrill voice, clear eyes—how little he knew of him, thought Alistair. What had his sister Shelley said? “You know nothing about me. You know nothing about my life.”

  Devon wiped his eyes, tried to regain some composure. “No. Maybe? To computer games, yes. But I always thought he had the drugs under control.”

  “And now he’s dead.” Alistair could hardly comprehend it. He tried to picture Richard’s dead body, foam dribbling from a grotesque mouth. The image in his mind morphed into the open jaws of a great white shark….He shook his head rapidly to clear the thought, blinked several times.

  Devon was talking.

  “I got the address of the place off Jeff. I have to go over there now. I can’t just leave him there for someone to find. But I can’t do it alone. I need you to come with me, Alistair. Will you come with me? Please.”

  “I saw Jeff,” said Alistair, confused, his mind making disparate connections. “He picked up Sasha yesterday.”

  “Fuck. Sasha.” Devon’s thoughts were equally incoherent. “Warnabrother. He was here. I need to find her. Before they do…”

  “I spoke to her, tried to warn her. Devon, do you think…?”

  “What?”

  “Dark Video?”

  “What about them?” Devon’s eyes were awash with unpredictable emotion.

  “Could they have had something to do with Richard?”

  Devon rubbed his hand across his forehead. “I don’t know, I don’t know…This is out of control. I can’t handle it.”

  “But why would…?”

  “Richard pinpointed Carlos’s location. He was also close to finding out about Mangle. Who knows what they found out about him? But…”

  “You need to speak to Carlos.”

  Alistair stared at Devon, his hair untidy, tear stained face. Everything was falling to pieces, he thought, sin spilling down the corridor, down the steps, sticking to everything.

  The room reeked of booze and vomit. Richard lay crumpled on his stomach, a skinny white carcass on a disheveled bed, grubby sheet bunched at his feet.

  Alistair had never seen a dead person before, let alone one he knew, and he stared now, struggling to comprehend the sight before him. The body looked like a wax figurine; it hardly seemed real. Nothing seemed real any more.

  Drugs? Reckless sex? Someone stuck a cock in that ass last night, thought Alistair. An image of Richard and Devon flashed in his mind, touching, holding hands, laughing.

  He looked around the room. Spartan. Just the bed and sheet, a bedside table and a pile of Richard’s clothes on the floor. No rubbish bin, no curtains, no carpet, no lamp. Who’d come to a place like this? Surely not Richard, the fussy little geek?

  Alistair noticed Richard’s glasses abandoned on the floor, near his clothes. He picked them up, placed them on the table. He looked at Richard again. In that head was a hard drive of information: RAM, but with no power. In death, he was just a fragile, bony child.

  Devon sat on his haunches next to the bed, hands in prayer before him, heaving, choking.

  Alistair put a hand on his shoulder. “Come, let’s go wait in the kitchen.”

  A police van arrived; two expressionless cops. Then an ambulance. Alistair remained in the kitchen while the police questioned Devon. Words filtered down the passage: a close friend…drug addiction… personal effects.

  “Fucking Jeff!” Devon ranted, in the Audi, on the return trip to Gorillas.

  Alistair had never seen this side of Devon; never seen him lose control. He tried to restore focus.

  “What about the press? They may be interested in two varsity boys dying, one in a shark attack, one an overdose.”

  “You see the guy who took my statement? Did he even ask you anything? I doubt he’d recognize a clue if it were hanging out his nose. He wrote down overdose as cause of death. Not suicide.”

  “Suicide?” said Alistair.

  Devon stared blankly ahead.

  They headed past Tugwell and Leo Marquad, paused at the traffic lights, into Rondebosch. Alistair noticed the neon sign for Bella Vista wine bar. Less than a week ago he had been in Arniston with Terri. He’d thought the nightmare over. Hasta la vista. Now it was back in his face, spilling everywhere.

  “It could have been suicide. Richard was depressed. About…” He paused.

  “No.” Devon shook his head. “Richard overdosed.”

  Another set of traffic lights, Alistair stopped abruptly. He tapped on the steering wheel, looked over at Devon. “We’re in deep trouble, aren’t we?”

  Devon shrugged his shoulders, said nothing.

  “It won’t just fade away,” Alistair pushed.

  “Why not? We haven’t done anything.”

  Alistair stared ahead. Haven’t done anything?

  The lights turned green, Alistair slotted into gear and sped off. “Will they do an autopsy?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Why not?”

  “For what? He fucking overdosed. What will they do? Arrest Jeff? They don’t need the extra work.”

  “Jeff’s got Sasha,” said Alistair.

  Alistair swung through the gates of Gorillas. He killed the engine. They sat together in silence.

  “Look, Alesandro. Let’s think rationally. We mustn’t go to pieces here.”

  “I can’t think at all. Jesus, Devon. My mind’s all over the place. Everywhere I look I see Dark Video.”

  “Relax. I don’t think they’re a problem. Carlos wired the money to an offshore account yesterday. Five hundred thousand dollars is a lot money. It wouldn’t make sense for him to betray us now.”

  “They’ve paid up?” Alistair said, incredulous. He tried to remember an earlier conversation. His memory was fuzzy. He couldn’t trust himself. Five hundred thousand dollars. A lot of money. And he already had a down payment in his room at Belsen…

  “Did you say something about Sasha?” Devon asked.

  “She’s with Jeff.”

  “He’s a dead man,” Devon stared up with slit eyes. “I swear to god…”

  “Where the hell does Jeff fit in, Dev? Think about it. He makes the Assjacker video with Johnny. He’s fucking Richard when he overdoses. He’s Johnny’s dealer. Now he’s got Sasha.”

  Devon shook his head.

  “He’s a nobody. Richard’s just a paying client to him.” He patted Alistair’s shoulder. “Trust me. I know.”

  An acorn fell from an oak tree above the car, bounced off the bonnet with a bang. Alistair was startled. “Where’s Warnabrother?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s around. You just sit tight now. Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll sort out Sasha and get her away from here, wait for things to cool down.”

  Alistair fiddled with the keys in the ignition. “Speak to Carlos, Devon. Find out what the hell’s going on.”

  Devon nodded in agreement, made to open the door, and stopped. “Look, Alesandro, Richard was due a large payout. Now he’s gone. I think you should reconsider your share.”

  Alistair shook his head, waved his hand. “I don’t want it.”

  “But you’ve already taken a payment, you may as well…”

  Alistair thought about Terri. She would have seen the video of him and the nurse by now, got the note. What was she thinking? She must hate him, wish she’d never gone to Arniston, feel ashamed of how she’d given herself to him. He closed his eyes, opened them quickly. Shut it out. Bite off the arm if necessary.

  “I don’t trust Dark Video, Devon. I don’t want their money. Give it back.” He paused, his jaw set. “Give mine back. Or use it to sort out Sasha.”

  “Calm down, Alesandro. You’re blowing this o
ut of proportion. Yes, Johnny and Richard are gone. It’s massive. But we won’t achieve anything if we lose control. We need to quietly shut things down. No risks.”

  “Devon. I’m flipping freaked out.”

  “I am too. But I need you now. We need each other. Let’s think clearly.” Devon reached across and put his arm on Alistair’s shoulder.

  Alistair looked down, into the foot well. “Just make sure Sasha’s OK.”

  Devon opened the passenger door, climbed out, and walked around to the driver’s window. He leaned in to the window, his face close.

  “What about Terri? Have you sorted her out?”

  Alistair nodded. “You were right. I fucked her and got it out of my system. No big deal.”

  “Shame,” said Devon, pulling back, straightening up.

  “She’ll get over it.”

  Devon breathed out, put his hand on Alistair’s cheek through the window, composed again. “It was the right thing to do.” He smiled at Alistair. “Stay cool, OK? We get Sasha out of town tonight and everything will be fine.” He squeezed his hand. “I promise.”

  YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE

  In Alistair’s mind, the normality of his life had unraveled like a dropped glass: one slip and the shattered pieces were everywhere, irreparable. In one memory his life was perfect; the next, a broken mess.

  But that wasn’t right, he realized, thinking about it as he made his way down the hill from campus. He’d missed the Jammie Shuttle, opted for the walk in the heat, perspiration pooling under his arms and sliding down his flanks. He picked at a loose thread on his shirt, unravelled it, realized there was a hole forming.

  Weeks of lectures skipped, he was struggling to catch up, a mountain of assignments pending, two surprise tests; he hadn’t even attended the classes, let alone studied.

  He pushed open his door, a message on a slip of pink paper lay on the floor: “Alistair. I know who you are. I know how you feel. Phone me. Terri.”

  He scrunched it up angrily, wrenched his cellphone out of his pocket, and thumbed rapidly:

  U dont know me. I feel nthin 4 u. U wre a conquest only. 2 times. Leav me alone Terri

  Send.

  His phone rang; he answered instinctively. The hospice. Derrick Young’s gravelly voice on the line.

  “I’ve been trying to contact you, Alistair.”

  “I know, Derrick. I’m really sorry. I have been so busy.”

  “I read the article in the newspaper. The one about the boy who drowned…”

  “Derrick, I can’t talk now.” His voice was breaking. He cut him off, heart pounding.

  The next call flashed his father’s name. He let it ring, found the phial, two pills, lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, afraid to shut his eyes in case the mouth appeared. Up again, scrabbling through his desk, the envelope of money still there, stationery, a pen.

  He sat down at his desk and wrote quickly. Two letters. He folded both and inserted them into their envelopes. One he marked Terri.

  Terri,

  I’ve been on a journey I never should have taken. I can no longer go back.

  But in meeting you, I know I cannot go forward.

  I tried to explain the night we made love in Arniston but my desire was stronger than my resolve.

  My life is a total sham.

  You were right about me, I can never be your type.

  I cannot make you happy and your happiness is all that matters to me now.

  You’re the first girl I have ever loved.

  I am sorry.

  Alistair

  The other letter he marked “To whom it may concern.”

  He dialed his sister, Shelley: engaged. Then he packed a bag.

  Devon closed the door and walked down the corridor toward his room. Gorillas was silent, no boom of music from Johnny’s room, no clickety click from Richard’s. He traced his hand across Richard’s door as he passed, reached into his pocket, and extracted his keys.

  In his room, he dimmed the lights and removed his shirt, closed his eyes and ran his hand across his stomach; the familiar feeling of the scars, raised and contorted skin, strangely comforting. He’d seen Dr. Adams that morning: “Satisfactory progress, see you in three months’ time.”

  He thought about Alistair; would he want to move in to Gorillas? He tried to envisage a scene of normality: two friends eating breakfast in the sun….But the images never lasted. In the silence, a man’s loud voice intruded—and the smell of burning flesh.

  A scraping sound outside the window interrupted his nightmare. Devon stopped, moved quickly to the light switch and shut it off. Someone was outside. He reached into his drawer and felt for the .38, flicked on the monitor on his desk for the exterior surveillance cameras. The message from Carlos was at the front of his mind—and he knew Warnabrother was in Cape Town.

  Relief as he identified the figure in the murky darkness of the alley outside Gorillas, then a grin. He put the gun back in the drawer, alongside its twin—he kept two revolvers in there. Then he turned on his bedside lamp and booted his laptop.

  The window to Johnny’s bedroom was slightly ajar. Sasha pulled it open and hoisted herself onto the ledge, climbed through the window and landed with a light thud. She froze, immobilized, waiting for a noise, a door closing or opening, but none came. She breathed deeply and slipped onto the bed, rolling over, face in the pillow.

  The familiar smell washed over her, a hint of menthol, Johnny’s shampoo, impossible to forget. Sasha closed her eyes, opened them briefly, closed them again. She felt an overwhelming desire to sleep; the warmth of the bed, the smell, curtains flapping lightly in the breeze.

  When she opened her eyes again, there was a figure seated on a chair by the bedside. She sat up, suddenly frightened, unsure of herself.

  “Don’t panic,” Devon reassured her. He wore a jet black polo neck and black jeans, his hair slicked back in dark lines, olive skin shining. “I don’t believe we’ve officially met,” he said, rising, approaching her, extending his hand. “You must be Johnny’s girlfriend.”

  “Sasha,” she replied. Her hand was limp, nervous; he held it without shaking.

  “Oh yes. Sasha.” Devon looked directly at her, held eye contact. He’d had plenty of time to scan her while she slept. Now to gauge her thoughts.

  “How sad about Johnny,” he said. No reply. He released her hand and returned to the chair by the desk, sat, crossed his leg, calf on knee. Sasha fidgeted, twirling the bangles on her arm as if twisting off the lid from a tin.

  “A great friend,” he continued. “You must be very cut up.”

  She didn’t know where to look. Johnny had told her once that Devon was the devil. He seemed so nice.

  “Did Alistair speak to you about the video? The one with you and Johnny…” Devon’s voice was gentle, soothing.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “He lied to me. He said he wasn’t in the video.”

  Devon frowned. “Alistair. In your video?” Then a laugh.

  “Johnny said…”

  “Johnny said!” He cut her off, rising quickly from the chair. Then, calmer: “Johnny said lots of things, Sasha. He used you.”

  Devon sat down on the bed next to her, took both her hands in his and looked into her eyes. Intense.

  “I know how you feel. I can feel the pain, because I…” His grip tightened; she pulled her hands away.

  “Let me go! Johnny would never lie to me. He loved me. He did it for me!”

  Devon put a finger to his lip. He waved a silver disc in front of her.

  “I believe this will clear up any misunderstanding you have.”

  He stood up and inserted the disc into Johnny’s DVD player, gathered the remote and sat next to her on the bed, his thigh touching hers. She shifted up, but the wall prevented her breaking his contact. He flicked the remote.

  The image showed an empty room, dimly lit, the duvet—the room they were in, the duvet they were sitting on. The door opened and in walked Johnny. Wi
th her. Devon froze the frame: her face, ashen, wild, rolling eyes.

  “Johnny called it ‘Assjackers.’ That’s so crude.” He turned to her. “Don’t you think?”

  Sasha said nothing, eyes blinking repetitively.

  “Should I stop it? You don’t want to watch this? Do you?”

  She saw herself as another person, a foreign object, as if someone else had appropriated her body for that night. Johnny’s glistening shaft rose and fell. He lifted her and carried her limp body to the window. The camera changed hands. The grimacing face of the accomplice filled the screen—paused—Jeff.

  Devon felt her shudder as an agonized sob took hold of her body.

  “Such a shock?” Devon advanced the video frame by frame. “Your friend Jeff. Your friend Jeff, who raped you.”

  Tears ran down Sasha’s cheeks; she buried her face in her hands. Her words were almost inaudible: “Johnny said it was Alistair.”

  “Johnny was such a liar! Alistair would never lower himself like that.” The anger in Devon’s voice bubbled to the surface. He grabbed her hand, pulled it roughly from her face. “Now watch it. Watch the rest of it.”

  He pressed play, continued the suffering in real time, forcing the reality of what had happened into the maelstrom of Sasha’s mind. Through the tears, she could sense Devon watching her, not the television, and the fear in her rose, overwhelming the shock.

  The screen went black. She wanted to vomit.

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  He escorted her like an invalid to the toilet in the hallway, one hand on her shoulder, the other at her waist. She closed the door and rushed to the bowl, falling to her knees, the retching dry and unproductive.

  She looked up at the little window above the bath. Could she climb through it? Why had she come here? What was Alistair trying to warn her about? Sasha, I only want to help you.

  She pulled out her cellphone from her pocket—what name had she used to store his number?—put it back, opened the bathroom cabinet above the sink; it contained an array of prescription medicines. She pulled out a plastic container and examined the label, Xantrexil, emptied the contents into her mouth. The door burst open and Devon marched toward her, snatched the container away, laughing, reached into his pocket.