Dark Video

by Peter Church

  “This is more your style, I think.”

  In the palm of his hand he revealed four plastic straws, melted and sealed at each end. Crystal methamphetamine. Street name: tik.

  Sasha stared at the straws, lower jaw instinctively dropping, paralyzed by what she saw. Devon grabbed her roughly by the sleeve and marched her back to Johnny’s room. He placed the straws on the desk.

  “They’re yours. And a copy of the video.”

  He ejected the disc with the remote. Sasha moved toward the desk, her gaze trained on the plastic phials in front of her. Redemption, escape.

  “Wait.” Devon held an open palm toward her, shook his head. “Not so fast. You’re going to have to give me something.”

  “What do you want?” she said, unbuttoning her pants. Underneath she was naked, a thin shaved strip of black hair jutted out toward him.

  “Do it up, you stupid whore! Is that all you know?”

  He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and flung her onto the bed.

  “I need some information. Johnny had an item of clothing. A white sports bra. He used to keep it in his room, but it seems to have disappeared. Do you know where it is?”

  She looked at him, shook her head.

  “What a pity. It has suddenly become quite valuable to a client. I could help you out if you knew where it was.” He indicated the straws with a nod of his head. “They’re absolutely pure. Not the cut shit you normally mess about with. A hundred and fifty a pop, ten times what you normally pay. But for you”—he blew through his fist—“free. That is if you’re able to recall…”

  Her nose twitched, she bit down on her lip, shook her head.

  “Are you sure, Sasha? You don’t know what I’m talking about? You druggies always seem to have a tell. A little giveaway.” Devon twitched his nose, bit his lip. “It would be a shame to waste such high-quality narcotics…”

  Violence would be Devon’s next resort if need be. It was not a problem for him; he’d grown up with it. He put a hand in his pocket and fingered a photograph he’d taken earlier that day: Jeff with a metal cord around his neck. He smiled grimly and imagined smashing a fist into the skinny girl’s face. But he knew it wouldn’t be necessary.

  He picked up a straw and broke it open with a snap, then slowly started pouring its content of finely ground crystals onto the floor, grinding them into the floorboards with his foot.

  “Stop!” She stared at his foot, eyes flaring. “Please. Stop.”

  “Do you have it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did you have it?”

  Her nose twitched.

  “Where is it now?”

  “How do I know they’re…OK?”

  Devon smiled. “OK? You mean not poisoned? Like Ritchie’s?”

  Sasha stared, not comprehending.

  “Didn’t Jeff tell you? Ritchie’s booty bump went awry. But then Jeff’s not talking much these days either.” He flicked her the picture of the dead dealer with the cord around his neck.

  She pulled her hand away from the photograph as if it were a hot plate, clutched her knees under her chin, rocked back and forth. Devon leaned forward and patted her on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be your dealer now. Before he died Jeff cut these to my recipe. Pure amphetamines.”

  Devon picked up the straws and dropped them in front of Sasha; they fell randomly on the duvet. Sasha inhaled sharply, reached out her hand, then checked herself.

  “Eeny, meeny, miny, mo.” Devon twirled an index finger over the drugs, settling on a straw. He picked it up, cut the end with a pair of scissors off the desk and poured a small amount of the contents onto his tongue. Sasha darted forward, kissed him, her tongue snaking into his mouth. He pushed her away, repulsed.

  “Do you have silver paper?” she asked desperately, rubbing her finger against her gums, eyeing the cut straw in his hand.

  Devon swallowed and pointed to the light bulb hanging from the ceiling. “Use that,” he said. “But you need to give me an answer first.”

  “She’s got it,” Sasha whispered quickly. “She’s got it.”

  “What! Who? Terri?” Devon exploded. “Fuck sake! How’s that possible?”

  Sasha cowered, eyes on the crystals. “I gave it to her.”

  Devon balled his fists with rage. He felt like smashing her head against the wall. “Fuck!”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “You’ve just signed her death warrant, that’s the problem!” He walked to the window and slammed it shut, panes rattling violently.

  “Do you have any paper?” Sasha repeated.

  “If you ask me again, I’ll blow it up your fucking ass.” He made for the door.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  Devon stopped and looked around at her. “I was once like you, Sasha. Never again!” He reached up, unscrewed the light bulb and tossed it onto the bed. Then he spun on his heels and walked out the door.

  When she left, he knew it wouldn’t be on her own two feet. He’d marked the clean straw with a tiny red dot. The others were cut with strychnine and antifreeze. She’d never have noticed.

  GENTLEMAN TO SEE YOU

  “You’re a coward, Alistair,” his sister Shelley said.

  His cellphone was pinned to his ear, the Audi flying down the highway, knuckles white on the wheel, slipping back and forth across the solid line, cat’s eyes thumping on the tires.

  “Instead of facing your demons, you’ve run away. Come clean!”

  “But the consequences?”

  He glanced at his face in the rearview mirror, his face gaunt and grey, dark rings beneath his eyes. The tires grated on the gravel; he jerked at the steering wheel.

  “Just own up. What you’ve actually done is far less than what you’re attempting to cover up. You weren’t responsible for anyone’s death. But no, you can’t admit that you’re less than perfect to the rest of the world! That you’ve failed to meet expectations. What would Daddy think?”

  “Shelley, please, it’s not like that.”

  “That poor girl…”

  “Her life’s in danger. I did it for her.”

  “Bullshit. You did it for you. You’re a windup soldier. Dad has had you going since day one, and now this Devon character. You’re weak, Alistair, you’ve never stood for anything. Stand for something now.”

  “It’s not Devon, Shelley. It’s Dark Video. They’re hunting us both.”

  “Alistair. Can’t you see? This guy has you tripping between uppers and downers. He killed Johnny, it’s his fault Johnny’s dead, not Dark Video’s.”

  “Johnny would’ve killed us.”

  “Where are you driving?”

  “Please, Shelley, can’t you talk to Father?”

  “No. You’re going to have to sort this out yourself.”

  Arniston beach was deserted. Alistair gathered a clump of sand in his right hand and let the grains run through his fist. Fitting to be here now, he thought, a place of so much joy, so many good memories—or was it ironic?

  He stared at the ocean, his clothes and shoes sodden. He had walked into the sea, sunk to his knees in the shallow water, felt the water rush against him and allowed the surf to rock him back and forth. Perhaps it could take him away…

  The setting sun disappeared behind a bank of clouds, a giant pink dragon smothering the impact of its setting. In the failing light, a gang of seagulls worked a square of water a few hundred meters from the beach.

  Alistair took another swig from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he’d found at the house. He removed his cellphone from his jacket pocket, shook it. Tried to call Devon again. Had he got Sasha out of town? The phone was wet; its hazy screen flickered and died. Even without a working phone, though, he couldn’t blot out the imaginary calls that were springing into his head.

  His thoughts spun round and round, always returning to the first one. Like the carriages on a big wheel. He fumbled in his pocket for the phials. Which was which
? He poured two from each into his hand, peered at them through blurry eyes. Up? Down? Which way did he want to go? Something sparked in his muddled head. Stop the cycle—he knew he had to stop the cycle.

  An image of Derrick Young from the hospice in the first carriage.

  “I’ve been calling you, Alistair. Why did you never come back? I want to know how the story ends.”

  Alistair tossed the pills into the sand; flung the phials into the sea as hard as he could. He tried to halt the motion of the wheel, grab the power stick and shove it down: emergency stop.

  He gulped down a mouthful of whiskey. Whoosh. His stomach lurched.

  The wheel continued the rotation, another carriage, this time Henri, Terri’s ex-boyfriend, charging below a high ball, crashing toward him.

  “I’ll race you for the girl, Morgan.”

  He felt Silverman’s hand on his shoulder.

  “My money’s on Morgan. He’s on speed.”

  The metal cranked as another carriage appeared. He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a swig. The light was fading, wind coming in, no moon yet to ease the darkness.

  “You’re a great disappointment to me.” John Morgan’s eyes bore into him, his hands curled into fists. “A great disappointment.”

  He held the bottle to his mouth, over-poured, whiskey sloshing down his front. Enraged. An extravagant wipe of his shirt front, angry, the clasp on his watch broke, it dropped to the sand.

  Creak, creak, crank.

  Johnny.

  “Fucking asshole!” Johnny hollered.

  “Let’s go for a bite some time,” Alistair yelled back. The great mouth emerged from the dark behind Johnny, consumed him whole.

  Then Richard, his face red and blotchy, yellow-green jelly pouring down his chest.

  “Ritchie! What did they do to you?”

  “Whee!” Richard’s head swung back as the carriage tilted and hoisted upwards.

  Alistair stood up unsteadily.

  “I have to get a grip,” he said to himself. “I must speak to Devon. We can sort this out. We can.”

  “You took all the love,” Shelley had said earlier. “If only you weren’t so greedy. I could have got some as well.”

  Alistair imagined the Morgan children queuing up for affection, Shelley at the back of the bus.

  The tide was rising; a large wave surged up the beach and circled him, water filtering into the softer white sand. The water level in the Waenhuiskranz cave would be at least halfway up, he thought. What if I went to the cave and waited for full tide? Roll a giant boulder against the exit. Only way out to swim into the sea. At high tide it wouldn’t be possible. The strength of the incoming water would push him back into the cave. Drowning must be a terrible way to die, he thought. Would his body surrender and allow the life to slip away, or would he involuntarily fight for life, desperate gasps for sweet oxygen, water rushing into his lungs, frantic adrenaline released to escape the entrapment? Someone told him once that you start to think you’re breathing again when you drown; the water is air, peaceful.

  His head spun, the carriages of guilt kept turning.

  “Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “I kept a steak, egg, and chips for you, Alistair. It’s Friday night. You’re our golden boy.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be making it back.”

  “Ever?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Yeehaa!” Maggie’s hands were above her head, her corpulent body filling the entire carriage.

  “Maggie, baby.”

  “Allie Morgan. 212. A visitor. Gentleman visitor.”

  Alistair rubbed his face; it was coated in sand and vomit.

  Whoosh. The nurse, naked, sailed by in a carriage. Strange what speed did to breasts, he contemplated, even the best ones. They seemed to have their insides sucked out. He’d seen pictures of naked girls falling from aeroplanes. Where did the middle bit go?

  “I gave her the video. Every thrust of my pelvis was a stab to your own heart, Alistair. You were just a conquest to me. But you loved her.”

  His heart jumped.

  An apparition appeared before him, a face directly before his: his own.

  Alistair took a last swig of whiskey, dropped the bottle in the sand. He stumbled forward, face down, struggled to lift his head; someone held him down, pushed his face into the sand, suffocating. He broke free.

  He stood up and staggered in the direction of Waenhuiskranz.

  If you sprinkle thoughts here, they are preserved forever…

  His cellphone beeped in his pocket. Somehow it was working again. He pulled it out and squinted at the screen.

  The text was from Sasha:

  Alistair. Beware. Terri has the bra

  Then a single face appeared in his fuzzy thoughts: the first carriage, John Morgan, tanned, clean-shaven, scent of aftershave, cool, soft hands and deep, piercing eyes.

  “Alistair. What in god’s name have you done?”

  He stopped.

  “We can still sort this out.”

  He turned around.

  “Terri Phillips,” the receptionist called from the base of Tugwell Hall. “Gentleman to see you.”

  NO WAY OUT

  “A masterstroke,” said Devon with a broad grin, reclining on a couch in the Morganhouse living room. His dark hair shone, a single black hue, as if recently polished. He rolled up his sleeves carefully, even folds uniformly below the elbow.

  Alistair brought him a cup of tea, placed it on the table in front of him. A female figure lay prostrate on the couch, arms bound behind her back, eyes and mouth covered. Terri. Outside, Devon’s gun-metal Mercedes stood parked beside the Audi.

  Alistair sat down with his back to the window. Behind him nighttime; dark clouds swirling beneath the stars.

  “Lovely place you’ve got here,” Devon said. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings. Alistair watched as he idly removed the .38 from his pants pocket, smoothed the revolver with his hand, tucked it into his pants front. “Been in the family for some time?”

  “A while, yes. Three generations.”

  “Ah.” Devon reached for his cup.

  “Is she OK?” Alistair asked, indicating Terri’s limp body with his eyes.

  “She’s out for the moment. She’ll come around soon.”

  “How did…?”

  Devon raised his hand. He sipped his tea and beamed at Alistair. “We’re two of a kind, Alesandro. We think alike. I mean—what a great idea. Carlos will be delighted!”

  “Action stems from necessity,” said Alistair coldly. “I realized I was going to go down if I didn’t sort this out now. And I can’t let that happen. So I don’t see any other way out.”

  “Of course. You had me worried for a while, I have to say. I knew I’d have to act. Once Terri got the bra, she’d blow everything. But this idea of yours—it’s genius.”

  Alistair changed the subject: “Where’s Sasha?”

  “She’s sorted out.”

  Alistair stared out the window. Even in the blackness, he could visualize the shape of the bay, and the concrete deck off the harbor straining with each wave as if reaching for the shore—an eternal struggle. He remembered the times he and Shelley swam out to it on the low tide. His mother had panicked once, watching them from the front lawn.

  “It was unfortunate—but it needed to be done,” Devon continued. He placed his cup and saucer back on the table, looked at the sleeping girl. She wore a grey tracksuit, bare feet.

  “Your call was perfectly timed, Alesandro. I’d just picked her up. Had a different plan for her, I must admit. But this—this is so much more fitting.

  “You got all the equipment?”

  “In the car. Now, let’s take a look at the set.”

  Alistair found a big Maglite torch in a kitchen cupboard, located the key, unlocked the back door. He and Devon walked out onto the crumbling limestone promontory together, surveyed the setting in the ambient night light. A brisk wind whipped at them from the south;
the sea surged on the rocks below.

  “This is perfect,” marveled Devon, rubbing his arms to ward off the cold. “Jagged rocks, crashing waves, a brewing storm. A frightened girl cornered, nowhere to go. So much drama.”

  “Can you make it work?” asked Alistair, as they made their way back toward the warmth of the house.

  Devon patted him on the shoulder. “Of course I can. I’ll need to throw out some serious wattage, but I’ve got both the Quartz light stands. It’ll work.”

  Alistair closed the door behind them; they took stock in the kitchen.

  “We’ll have to watch the weather,” said Alistair.

  “The wilder the better. I’ll set up the cameras and light stands, then we get her out there and do this as soon as she comes around.”

  Alistair nodded, glanced up at the No Entry sign above the back door.

  Devon smoothed out his ruffled hair. A thought occurred to him. “Shall we film her naked?”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  “It’d be interesting. Especially for her private client—imagine the camera following her naked ass out into a blizzard.” Devon laughed at the thought.

  “I suppose that’s an option. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. Rather we strip her down while filming so we don’t give away the excitement too soon. You know, when you see her tits that’s climax time for the viewer. We need to keep up the anticipation.”

  “Yes, yes,” Devon nodded. “No need to get ahead of ourselves. And it will help us keep her under control if she’s dressed. We let her believe we’re doing an action replay of Forest Frolic. She’s got a fan, we have to do this. Same script then she’s free to go.”

  The wind rattled the doors, a draft slipping through the swollen gaps in the windows.

  “It’s going to be difficult working out there,” said Devon. “You’re going to have to keep her calm. Keep reassuring her that we’re not going to harm her. It’s just a modeling job, nude girl on a windy night, same as before with a different setting.”