Enter The Dark

by Chris Thomas

  He closed down the accounts program on his computer and logged into his shiny new CoinFX account. This was it, his ticket to a brave new world. He stared at the Buy bitcoins page. He had used websites to look up currency exchange rates before, but this was unlike anything he had seen before. A conversion table flashing up the exchange rate of bitcoins into Dollars, Euros, Pounds, and other currencies flickered red and blue. The values changed every second, up and down, red and blues switching place like some kind of dysfunctional Christmas tree. It mesmerised him. Eventually, he clicked on Buy Now. He pondered the quantity. Dealing in a currency where one solitary coin cost over six hundred pounds just added to the intensity. Two was the least he would spend, but he had a feeling he would need, or rather want, more. He entered ‘6’ and it calculated the cost.

  £4057.52– do you wish to proceed?

  He hovered over the Proceed button. Hesitating slightly, he glanced around the office and out into the warehouse.

  Fuck it, I can afford it, he thought to himself, and he clicked the mouse button.

  Transaction confirmed – 6 bitcoins have been transferred to your wallet.

  He clicked to log out and sat back in his chair, taking a deep breath and a sip from his glass of water. Pulling out his phone, he opened up an instant message chat with Billy.

  Billy. We’re on. Proud owner of 6 spangly new bitcoins.

  6? Ha ha!! You dickhead. C U @ 8.

  16

  The two black vans parked side by side in front of the warehouse shutter doors. Standing outside, drinking water and puffing on cigarettes, stood four large men in red tracksuits. A loud clattering came from inside one of the trucks as it rocked from side to side. One of the goons banged on the side of the van with his fist.

  ‘Give it a rest! We’ll let you out in a minute. Jeez,’ he said. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of this one.’

  ‘She’s not much better, but at least she’s quiet,’ replied another.

  Jarvis appeared from inside the warehouse.

  ‘Five minutes, gentlemen. Let’s get into position.’

  The goons took a last drink, stubbed their cigarettes out on the floor, and all pulled balaclavas down over their faces. Two went to one van and two to the other.

  ‘Take her in first,’ said Jarvis, as he walked back inside.

  The goons opened the van and dragged her out by the arms. ‘Time to go, Karen.’

  ‘But I’m not Karen.’

  ‘You really are a – how do you English say – fat waste of space aren’t you?’ replied the goon as they dragged her inside.

  ‘Your turn, Mark. Get out!’ shouted another. As they muscled him out of the back of the van, he kicked and struggled, but he was no match for the goons.

  ‘Fighting to the end?’ one whispered in his ear. ‘It’s cute but I really wouldn’t bother.’

  ‘Screw you,’ came the muffled reply, drawing cheers of laughter from the goons.

  ‘Screw us indeed!’

  ‘I HOPE you know what you’re doing,’ said Billy, pulling a comfortable chair up to the computer desk.

  ‘Nope, no idea,’ replied Joe, as he copied the web address from his phone screen into the address bar.

  The site appeared. A large sign with blinking lights saying The Red Room sat in the middle of the screen and beside it a picture of the Host, giving a thumbs-up. Underneath were written the words Appearing tonight: Mark Rankin and Karen Parker.

  ‘Bugger me,’ said Billy. ‘Aren’t those the people who killed that kid?’

  ‘I think so,’ replied Joe, unable to pull his gaze from the screen. Underneath were the words Click on the Red Room to enter.

  ‘I’m not sure about this, Joe,’ said Billy, somewhat perturbed.

  But Joe had already clicked on the big red sign which led him to another payment page, requesting another two bitcoins.

  ‘It’s thirteen hundred pounds, mate.’

  ‘I know. Look, I just want to see what it is. I’ll be sensible.’

  He entered the details into the payment page and clicked ‘enter’. Another black screen appeared with the Red Room logo and the statement, Welcome to the Red Room. Transmission will begin in 5:00 minutes.

  ‘Just enough time for a piss. Do you want a beer whilst I’m up?’

  ‘Please. I think I’m going to need one.’

  JARVIS and his assistants sat around the computer console, checking and rechecking all their connections, modems, and the broadband signal. As Alistair and Gilbert paced up and down the set in the warehouse, spotlights flashed, chains clattered, and the sound system came alive with shouts of ‘Testing, testing’. In front of the double doors sat two wooden chairs complete with restraints, facing each other. Covering the entire floor was a thin layer of blue adhesive plastic film.

  Standing next to one of the chairs, Gilbert shook it to check its stability and pulled at the fabric restraints. Alistair walked up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Alistair.

  ‘Absolutely,’ replied Gilbert, taking a deep breath. ‘The more time I’ve spent with this woman, the more I can’t stand her. I’m going to enjoy this.’

  Jarvis watched from his seat as the two men shook hands, then walked over to the computer set up.

  ‘Everything ready, Jarvis?’ asked Alistair.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, with an air of overwhelming confidence in his own ability. ‘The secure fibre optic line is running out to the local junction box, the scrambler is all set and ready to go. I reckon we’ll have a good clear forty minutes before we need to even think about calling it a day.’

  ‘Good. And how have our subscribers responded to the front page news of tonight’s volunteers?’

  ‘It’s gone ballistic. Last count was at least four hundred and fifty spectators, so that’s the best part of half a mil.’

  ‘Then we should make sure this is a show to remember.’

  Alistair and Jarvis embraced in a hug.

  ‘Everyone set?’ shouted Alistair, to a chorus of cheers. ‘Then let’s do this, people. It’s show-time!’

  17

  Finally, the screen on the computer faded to black, and thumping techno music started to fill the room. Joe and Billy grabbed their bottles of ale and sat up straight, as if a teacher had just walked into a classroom to begin a lesson. A blurry red image filled the picture and, as the camera began to zoom out, the words became clearer: The Red Room. The two of them looked at each other and shrugged in blissful ignorance. As the angle switched to show a pair of double doors, dry ice filled the venue. The music built to a crescendo before, eventually, the doors opened. Through the white light that broke through the smoke, they could see the silhouette of a person. He had his back turned and his arms held out wide.

  As the smoke started to die down, the man turned around and walked towards the camera, the doors slamming shut behind him.

  ‘Is that a clown in a tuxedo?’ asked Billy.

  Joe sat with his chin propped up on his hand, staring intently at the screen.

  ‘I think it is. But it’s OK, look, he’s carrying a clipboard. Not just any old clipboard, a gold one.’

  ‘OK, well so far so fucked up.’

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the man speaking into the microphone. ‘Glad you could all join us down here in the deep web for another episode of The Red Room with me, the Host. We know that you rely on the Brotherhood of the Righteous …’

  ‘The what?’ interrupted Billy.

  ‘Ssh!’ snapped Joe.

  ‘… for all your summary justice needs. And can I say that tonight we have not only gone bigger and badder but, as the eagle-eyed amongst you will have probably spotted, we have two, yes, count them, two shiny volunteers for your enjoyment. So without further ado, let’s bring out our first volunteer.’

  The music stopped and the doors opened again. Silhouetted against the white back light were two burly goons and one saggy, obese-looking figure in a pink
tracksuit with a hessian sack over their head. As the pair marched the overweight human whale down to one of the wooden chairs in the centre of the room, the Host faced the camera.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, here she is. At one point she was quite possibly the most hated woman in the country. She was jailed for a mere five years for, and I quote, ‘causing or allowing the death of a child’. It was only once the sentence was passed that the world learned of her crime and the unimaginable suffering of her son, Charlie. After her release, she was very kindly provided with a new identity, a new house, and a new life. But we found her. I give you …’

  Once the goons had finished strapping her into the restraints of the chair, the Host grabbed the top of the sack, then paused for a moment before snatching it from her head.

  ‘… Karen Parker.’

  The spotlight shone down on her face and she blinked as her eyes slowly grew accustomed to the surroundings.

  ‘Where am I?’ she sniffed. ‘I want to go home now.’

  ‘You can’t I’m afraid, Karen, those are the rules.’

  ‘But I’m not Karen. I keep telling you, I’m Louise.’

  The Host turned to face the camera. ‘Seriously, folks, she has been saying this ever since we borrowed her from her house. Just so no-one is in any doubt that this is who we say she is, here is the badly removed tattoo from her wrist saying ‘Charlie’. We all saw it in the tabloid photographs of her leaving the courtroom, the ones where she’s giving the bird to all the hacks.’

  The camera panned to her wrist, to show the red scars of the tattoo. The Host stood behind her, massaging the top of her head. He leaned in near her ear to softly explain what was about to happen.

  ‘Well, Karen, you have been specially selected to take part in this TV show, OK? The rules are that you sit there whilst all the viewers at home pay money for the honour of asking you a question. If you answer the question incorrectly you will receive the punishment of their choice. If you answer correctly then you will also receive the punishment of their choice. Alright?’

  ‘What? That’s not fair, I don’t want to do this. I want to go home. I haven’t done nothing,’ she replied, sniffing as her nose began to run and tears started to roll down her face.

  The Host gripped her by neck, constricting the carotid artery, whispering as he did so, ‘You have no choice, Karen. We’ll see whether the people consider that you ‘haven’t done nothing’, shall we?’

  He let go and strolled up to the camera. ‘OK, people, let’s get this going. Start placing your bids while I tighten the restraints around her cankles. Seriously, we should have used some longer straps.’

  The leaderboard lowered from the ceiling, names and bids already flashing up, switching places as the values increased.

  ‘This is royally messed up,’ said Billy. ‘Why are we still watching again?’

  ‘Because it’s cost me nearly two thousand pounds. I want to see what happens. I remember her. If what I think is about to happen is about to happen, I want to see it.’

  Karen turned her head, following the Host as he circled her chair.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he said, as he perched on her knee, staring up at the screen. After a few seconds, the bids stopped increasing and a name was left at the top.

  ‘OK, Karen. The winner of the first bid tonight, with eight-point-seven bitcoins, is Pokerfaced Killer. Good work, Killer, although I thought we might have seen you later on in this process, if I’m honest. And what is your question?’ The Host got up and stood underneath the monitor, reading as the words appeared on the screen.

  ‘‘Karen. I hate you.’ Nice start, straight to the point, I like it. ‘Never have I felt such revulsion as I did when I heard what you did. I want to know, do you still think about Charlie and what you did to him?’ Cracking question to kick off with. Well, Karen, Mister Killer would like to know if you still think about Charlie.’

  ‘Why are you asking me this? I’ve done my prison for what I done. An’ it wasn’t me. It was my boyfriend.’

  ‘But you admitted his death. It is only by some pathetic re-wording in this country’s laws that technically you only admitted ‘causing or allowing his death’. But to us and the people who are watching, you … murdered … him … Karen. Nothing more, nothing less.’

  ‘I didn’t murder him. He was my boy.’

  ‘So why didn’t you protect him? Anyway, that’s not the question. Killer wants to know if you still think about him.’

  She started crying. Pulling her head back by the hair, the Host smacked her hard around the face and she started crying even more.

  ‘Don’t, you’re hurting me! I can’t talk about Charlie, it upsets me too much. When I was in prison, everyone hated me, I had to be kept in a cell on my own.’

  ‘Right,’ said the Host, scratching his head. ‘Are you saying that you don’t like to think about Charlie because it has made your life worse? Or are you looking for sympathy for how badly you’ve been treated as a result of your actions?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that—’

  ‘I think that’s time on this one. Killer, pick a punishment.’

  ‘No, please. I just want to go home.’

  ‘Seriously, Karen, I’m going to start bidding myself if you keep saying that. Now sit quietly and wait for your punishment.’

  ‘I’ve been punished. I done prison for years.’

  The Host swung back around and grabbed her by the neck, forcing her head back against the chair.

  ‘Not punished by us you haven’t.’ He paused, staring deep into her eyes, the clown face reflecting back off her dark brown irises. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

  The message appeared letter by letter on the huge monitor. Break her fingers.

  ‘What in the fucking name of …’ shouted Billy. ‘Surely they can’t be about to do that?’

  Joe sat mesmerised. It was as if this was all perfectly normal and made complete and total sense. He whispered, barely audibly,

  ‘She deserves it.’

  Billy covered his face with his hands, peering through a gap in his fingers. On the screen, they watched as Karen shook her head violently from side to side while the Host casually stood over her and, one by one, snapped every finger on her left hand. The screams that came through the speakers cut through Billy like fingernails down a blackboard, and he held his head in his hands. He hadn’t realised, but sweat was dripping down his face, though Joe still just stared.

  Back on the screen, the Host once again faced the camera.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. I told you we had two volunteers for you today and I think it’s time to bring out the second one. Please give a warm Red Room welcome to volunteer number two. But I warn you, he’s a little bit feisty this one.’

  The double doors separated and three goons wrestled with the writhing figure in a hood. Eventually, they muscled him into the chair and fastened the restraints around his wrists and ankles, but still he fought to free himself.

  ‘Don’t worry, Karen,’ the Host said. ‘Those restraints will do their job. So, earlier we told you that we had a hot date lined up for you. And here he is, the man you once called your Stud Muffin, and I can see why because he really is a catch – it’s Mark Rankin.’

  He whipped the sack off to reveal a sweaty, red face covered in strings of saliva; the man looked as though he might explode at any minute.

  ‘What the fuck is going on? Let me out of this chair you sons of bitches or I’ll—’

  ‘What, Mark? You’ll what? Call your case worker?’ asked the Host, calmly, leaning in close to Mark’s face. ‘Or will you wait until you’re out of here and take it out on a small defenceless two-year-old?’

  Mark’s anger rose and he fought, shaking the chair as much as he could manage. As the expletives rained from his mouth, the Host turned to the camera.

  ‘Sorry about this, ladies and gentlemen, won’t be a moment,’ he said, before smashing the clipboard around the side of Mark’s face and then droppi
ng his knee hard into Mark’s abdomen.

  Finally, the prisoner quietened down, except for a couple of choking coughs as he struggled to regain his breath.

  The Host turned to face Karen, who was by now sobbing uncontrollably, the pain in her hand overtaken by the sight of her former lover sat just yards away.

  ‘Well, this is a lovely little reunion, isn’t it, Karen?’ asked the Host. ‘Why, the last time you two probably saw each other was when one, or both of you, were committing the final act of violence against your small son. The one where his fragile body and soul finally said “enough!” and gave up trying to fight. What would he be today? Ten? Eleven? Probably playing football or rugby, riding his bike with his friends. But he’s not, is he? He’s dead. Today, Mark, you are going to pay for it. Start the bidding for Mark’s first question.’

  ‘Screw you. I served my time for what that bitch did. It was her son, not mine,’ shouted Mark, defiantly.

  ‘It?’ asked the Host, swinging around to face him. “It” had a name. Charlie. I think you’ll find that the people watching this show see things slightly differently. If you would like to look up at that monitor there, you’ll see all the people offering to pay huge sums of money for the right to punish you.’

  Mark looked up at the screen, at the names and numbers blinking hypnotically as more and more bids poured in.

  ‘Let’s see who the winner is, shall we, Mark?’ said the Host. ‘And it is … ‘Housewife Superstar’ with ten-point-six bitcoins. That is incredible. Great to have you with us tonight Superstar, what is your question for Mark?’

  The words slowly started to materialise on the screen. I have seen some horrendous people appear on this show but you are without doubt the lowest, most cowardly piece of scum of all. You tell me this; if you could go back to when you met Karen, would you do the same again?

  ‘The classic “if you could go back” question, thank you, Superstar. Well, Mark?’

  ‘Fuck you. I’m not answering that,’ shouted Mark.

  ‘Yes you are, Mark,’ replied the Host.