Oliver Clarke's Blog: Little Slices of Nasty, page 20

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Eighteen

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

 

2nd September 2013

The doors of the waiting train hissed open in front of them and the assembled passengers started moving forward. Green looked down at his ticket to see which carriage he cabin was in and realised that West had been standing by the correct one all along.

“We’ll go to your compartment to speak in private,” she said. “I expect you have some questions.”

“You’re damn right I do,” muttered Green, before falling into silence. As much as this woman fascinated him, she also irked him. Every move she made seemed designed to reinforce her superiority. He wasn’t a man who liked feeling inferior to anyone, let alone a woman.

They waited until the throng had cleared, and then Green picked up his suitcase and followed her onto the train. He watched her arse as she ascended the two steps to the carriage and decided maybe she wasn’t so devoid of curves after all.

A few minutes later, they sat opposite each other in Green’s compartment, each of them perched on the edge of one of the two low, hard beds that . He found he wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of sleeping on there that night, but, as tired as he was, he doubted he’d have too much trouble.

He couldn’t help feeling that a discussion like this should be held over a glass of wine in the dining car, wasn’t that how James Bond would have done it?

With the door shut, the small room cabin quickly became stuffy and Green felt himself start to sweat again. He sucked in a breath of warm, stale air and imagined he could taste himself on it.

West started speaking, taking immediate control of the conversation. “First, let me explain my little subterfuge with the case. I have big plans for you, Mr Green, big plans. There are many, many things you might help me with. In the past I have been let down by some people in your line of work who buckled under the pressure when the going got tough. I was pleased to see that you didn’t.”

“So it was all just a trial?”

“No, not all; the tracking down and retrieval of the film was a necessity. If you hadn’t done it for me I would have needed to find someone else to.”

“And the killing?”

“An unfortunate necessity.” She left it at that.

“Will you explain how you did it?” he asked. “To satisfy my professional curiosity.”

“You were tailed from the moment you arrived in Rome. The men following you had instructions to take the film from you before you left the city.”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

“You wouldn’t have. These are men who are used to living in the shadows. They are members of the organisation I represent.”

Green frowned. “They didn’t take the case. You did.”

She smiled at him. Her lips contorting in a crooked line across her face. He realised that her mouth was unusually wide, the corners of it extending further back into her cheeks than was normal. It added to her striking appearance. “As I said, these are shadow dwellers. They prefer not to expose themselves. Besides, I am not a woman who is afraid to get her hands dirty.” The comment sounded almost lascivious and it made him shudder. He was alarmed by the sudden changes in his attitude to her, one minute he was attracted to her, the next, repulsed. It was like there was a switch in his brain she kept flipping on and off.

Maybe she sensed his disquiet, because she filled the silence. “Enough of the past, though, we should be looking forward. The important thing is that you handled the situation efficiently and sensibly and without recourse to violence.”

“Thank you,” Green replied. “There will be a claim for an unanticipated two hundred euros in my sundry expenses, I’m afraid.”

“Money well spent, Mr Green. Now, as I was saying, we must look forward. There is another matter I would like your assistance with. It relates to the film you so expertly acquired for me.”

“You have something else you want me to find?”

She shook her head. That long blonde hair swung left and right like a snake standing on its tail. The temperature in the enclosed space was rising and Green wondered if the heat and exhaustion and stress were making him hallucinate. He almost felt as if he was slipping in and out of his dreams.

“Not an item, no. I need you to locate some test subjects for me.”

“Then why me?” he asked.

West smiled, “Mr Green, I have studied your files and witnessed you in action. You are a borderline psychopath, a murderer, and a pervert. You have an extremely high IQ but are lacking in what might once have been called moral fibre. You are also unusually talented in your area, namely the location and retrieval of unusual, often forbidden items. The skills you have developed in that field are entirely transferable and I believe you have a lot more to offer me.”

Despite himself, and in spite of her categorisation of him as a psychopathic, Green found himself smiling.

She leaned into him, her head close enough to his that he could smell the soft scent of her perfume and see the soft fuzz of fine blonde hairs between her nose and the plump redness of her upper lip: “So, will you take the job?”

“Yes,” he said, although every instinct told him the opposite response was the correct one. She has bewitched me somehow, he thought. Gotten under my skin. The idea made him shiver, despite the closeness in the cabin.

“Good,” she said, and left.

Five minutes later, West sat in her own cabin, glad to be away from Green and the stench of his moist body and his desire. He was an extremely talented and useful operative, but that didn’t mean she had to enjoy his company. God, the way he looked at her…she could almost feel his sweaty brain chewing over seduction strategies.

Still, it worked to her advantage, he had agreed to her request after all.

She pulled her phone out, selected a contact from her address book, and dialled.

She paused and listened to the low voice at the other end. It spoke in a whisper and she had to concentrate to hear it over the sound of the train.

“Yes it worked just as I thought it would,” she said at last. “That little Italian runt didn’t know Green had anything to do with us, his defences were down and Green took excellent advantage of that.” She paused again, listening. “Yes, he’s dead, and Green doesn’t suspect a thing. As far as he’s concerned the killing was just a by product of the theft rather than a critical part of the mission.”

Want to read on? The next chapter will be available on Saturday 26th April

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Seventeen

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

 

15th November 2013

Henry had expected a male voice at the end of the phone, but when it rang and he lifted his finger from the hook he heard a woman. It took him aback for a moment; weren’t kidnappers supposed to be gruff, thickset men with dark stubble on their cheeks? This woman couldn’t have sounded more different from the image his mind had conjured up.

“Hello, Mr Smith,” she said, “I’m so glad you answered.” Her words were perfectly pronounced and yet somehow clipped. She didn’t sound like she was speaking quickly, and yet he was aware that her words were delivered with a swift efficiency.

“Of course I answered,” Henry replied. “You have my wife.”

“Yes, yes, we do, and I apologise for that. It was necessary though. If your assistance wasn’t so important to us then I wouldn’t have taken such drastic action.”

“My assistance?” replied Henry. “You mean with that bloody film?”

“Yes, you are in a unique position, you see. You alone have the ability to perform certain critical tasks tonight.”

“And what if I don’t?” Even Henry couldn’t hear the defiance he wanted to fill those words. He hoped to sound like Charles Bronson or the hero in a John Ford western; instead his voice revealed exactly what he was, a frightened, confused old man.

“If you don’t, Mr Smith, then I will kill your wife. I won’t do it gladly, I won’t take any pleasure in it, but I will do it.”

Smith was silent. We wanted to speak, but a mixture of fear and grief had frozen his lungs and he couldn’t breathe, let alone speak.

“I can see you need convincing,” said the woman.

Smith started to protest then, his pent up breath coming out of him suddenly in a terrible, rasping rush.

“Quiet,” the woman said. “Panic won’t help anyone, least of all your wife.”

She paused.

“Please don’t hurt her,” Henry said quietly.

“Reach into the coin return please, Mr Smith. I should be right in front of you.”

Henry reached forward, not wanting to, but knowing he had no choice. His fingertips pushed against the cold metal flap and it swung slowly inwards. He rummaged inside it, not knowing what he would find. Immediately his fingers settled on two small, hard objects.

He scrabbled at them, pulling them into his palm with his long fingers. They nestled there, digging into his flesh and he squeezed them tight, hoping they would just vanish because he thought he knew what they were.

At last, because there seemed nothing else he could do, he turned his hand over and opened it. Revealed sitting in his palm were the two items. One of them was utterly familiar to him; the other wasn’t, although perhaps it should have been. The first was a ring, Mary’s ring, Mary’s wedding ring. The second was a tooth, yellowed with age and stained red with blood at the roots from where it had been pulled from a reluctant gum. He could only assume that was Mary’s too.

“Oh, Jesus,” he moaned.

“Calm yourself,” said the woman, sternly. “The loss of a single tooth isn’t going to kill her. It is, I hope, proof that I am serious. You can prevent any further harm from coming to her, Mr Smith. You have that power.”

Henry took a deep breath, all he could think of was Mary struggling in a chair as someone inserted a pair of pliers into her mouth. Tears and blood and saliva running down her face. He tried to wipe the image from his mind, he needed to focus. He was her only hope.

“Are you ready to help me now?” said the woman.

“Yes,” he replied, and she told him what he had to do.

Want to read on? The next chapter will be available on Wednesday 23rd April

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Sixteen

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

 

2nd September 2013

Green immediately recognised the voice that responded to his tired “Hello” and he wasn’t surprised to hear it. The female voice that filled his ear was coldly efficient, each syllable pronounced in a way that might have been used as an example of proper diction to trainee 1950s BBC newsreaders.

“Mr Green,” the woman said. “Enough running around. Meet me immediately on platform ten.”

“Of course,” Green replied. He was about to ask her what the hell she was doing in Rome, but the woman had hung up.

Her name was West and he had first met her in London two weeks previously. He had no idea what her first name was; she referred to herself only as Miss West and he had never heard anyone call her anything else. She had telephoned him on a Monday afternoon and invited him to come to her office. She told him she had a job that fitted his particular skill set.

His phone number was something that he guarded quite closely, and he asked her how she had come to have it. “There are few things that are secret from me,” was her reply.

West’s office was in an Edwardian block near Marble Arch, an imposing building that, judging by the list of occupants in the reception area, housed mostly lawyers and doctors of one sort or another. West was clearly neither.

Green didn’t trust the ancient looking elevator, so took the stairs to her office on the third floor. He paused at the top of the last flight for a few minutes until he had regained his breath and stopped perspiring. A young man opened the door to his knock, his face so handsome and his attire so perfect that his photograph would not have looked out of place in the window of one of the clothing stores Green had just walked past on Oxford Street.

The young man ushered him in and Green along a long hallway lined with artwork. His eyes ran over the pictures as he walked and he noted that they were uniformly religious in nature. Darkly religious, splashed with blood, pain and tears.

A woman appeared at the end of the passage and looked him up and down. She was tall and slim with long blonde hair, cut severely across her forehead. Green supposed she might have been attractive, if her expression hadn’t been so cold and her features so angular. She looked like holding her would be an uncomfortable experience and taking her to bed might be deadly.

“Thank you for coming, Mr Green,” she said. Her voice was as sharp as her body, the clipped tone giving every word an edge.

That was where it has started, the search for the film that had taken him to Rome.

West had explained the provenance of the movie to him, and had told him that of the eight reels that made up the entire running time, she and her associates had seven. There was one left, the first, but they had been unable to find it. Green flashed back to her words on the phone and decided that as much as she might sound in control, she wasn’t quite as all seeing as she might like to think. If few things were secret from her, why did she need him. She did need him though, he could tell that, there was an urgency to the way she spoke that went beyond efficiency.

She didn’t make it clear why, but there was a deadline. The final reel was required within a month.

Green named his price and she accepted it. He had started work the following day, feeling a determination to succeed that went beyond even his own normal level. He wasn’t one for self-analysis, but he did mull that over for a moment. I want to prove myself to her, he realised, to this sharp-edged ice maiden. I want her to think well of me.

Now he was walking towards her, and besides the irritation, confusion and relief that he felt, there bubbled up an excited nervousness at the prospect of meeting her again. An announcement crackled out of the public address system as he walked, advising passengers that the train to London would depart from platform ten. There was a sudden rush of people moving in the same direction as Green, like a murmuration of starlings flying as one. He let himself be carried along with the flow, realising the futility of trying anything else. The fact that West had known the platform before it was announced was a simple parlour trick, but one that added to the overall sense of being in control that surrounded the woman.

He saw her suddenly above the heads of the throng that surrounded him. She stood alone on the long concrete looking impossibly cool in the heat. In a moment she would be surrounded by the multitude of eager travellers, but for that instant he found himself enjoying the sight of her more than he had expected to. She was wearing a tight, grey skirt and a crisp, white blouse, and he saw that his suitcase was sitting on the platform next to her bare legs. He found himself wondering how old she was, younger than himself to be sure, but she had that ageless quality that childless women have. She could have been any age between twenty five and forty.

Then he was at the barrier, struggling to find his ticket with the push of people building behind him. He felt like the cork in a champagne bottle for a moment, and then he had the ticket in his hand and waved it at the bored looking station attendant who let him through.

West was already almost lost amid the other passengers, but Green managed to fight his way through to her. He was painfully aware of his dishevelled appearance and the stench of his stale sweat, but there was nothing he could do about either for the moment. He stood beside her, not knowing what to say, feeling that teenage nervousness growing.

“Well done,” she said at last. “You passed the test.”

Green’s nervousness was replaced by a sudden flash of anger.

“Test?” he spat. “I’ve killed one man this morning and came close with two more and you call it a test?”

She turned and stared at him with her cold, blue eyes. “We’ll talk on the train,” she said. And that was that.

Want to read on? The next chapter will be available on Saturday 19th April

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Fifteen

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

 

15th November 2013

Henry sidestepped to avoid the dark-haired man stumbling out of the off license with a bag clutched protectively to his chest. It contained more alcohol, no doubt. Here was someone with no cares, just out having fun on a Friday night. A drunken buffoon.

Henry wondered if he’d ever have fun again, if he’d ever be free of the worry and fear that filled him as he walked along the street. It had been so much a part of him in the last 36 hours that he could barely remember what it felt like not to live under its shadow.

He looked at his watch, still plenty of time, thank God.

The phone box wasn’t far away, the one he’d been told to go to. It had all been spelled out in the letter that had been waiting on his bedside table when he woke up on Thursday morning.

Playing it all through in his mind again, he still didn’t know how it was possible. How anyone could have done what had clearly been done without waking him, but there was no doubt that they had, somehow. He had slept later than usual that day, and had woken feeling unusually groggy, so he suspected they had drugged him somehow. How he did not know.

The envelope had been a plain white one, business-sized and windowless. His name had been printed on the front in neat black script.

Henry had opened it in a panic and unfolded the sheet of A4 paper it contained. It was as white as the envelope and printed with the same black font.

The instructions in the letter were simple. He was to take receipt of a film which would be delivered to the Embassy cinema the following day and which was to be shown that night. Henry was to be at the public phone box on Chapel Street at 8pm on Friday evening to receive a call. At that point he should confirm that the film had been safely delivered. He would then be given further instructions which he must follow to the letter.

If he did that, the small, black characters said, everything would be alright.

What would he do, he thought, if someone was in there already? A youngster out of credit on their mobile phone chattering away, or some old lady without a phone of her own talking to her grandchildren. Would he pull them forcefully out? Beg them to leave? He’d have to do something, because he couldn’t risk not getting that call.

He hurried on. The phone box was visible up ahead now and he breathed a sigj of relief when he saw it was empty. An old fashioned pillar-box red one of the kind that had been so common when he was a child. They were a dying breed now, ripped out completely or replaced with modern monstrosities. The sight of it would normally have filled Henry with a tingle of nostalgia, but now all he felt was dread at what he would hear when the phone rang and he lifted it to his ear.

He reached the phone box and placed a hand against the cold red metal, as if checking it was really there and not a mirage. He could hear his own breathing, wheezing and ragged from the exertion of walking so quickly and from the panic bubbling up inside him.

He regained his breath and pulled the door of the phone box open, stepping inside and letting it close behind him.

He was troubled by what he’d seen on the film he’d projected for Ray earlier. He’d seen thousands of movies in his career, of all different types and from many different countries, but this one felt different somehow. He knew he wasn’t thinkijg straight in his panic over the letter, but even taking that into account there was something wrong with the footage he had seen, a sense of corruption that infected every frame.

He lifted the receiver and heard the dial tone, then placed his finger on the switch that had popped out. The phone went dead in his ear. He’d seen it done a hundred times in films, by desperate men waiting for life or death phone calls. Now he was living it.

He remembered waking up again, feeling the cold, empty space next to him. The space that should have been occupied by the soft, warm, gently snoring body of his wife. At first he had thought she had gone downstairs to make the morning tea, and then he had seen the envelope.

He didn’t know who or how, but someone had taken his wife, his Mary, while he slept. They had crept into the bedroom the couple had shared for decades and stolen her away from him.

Henry knew he would do anything to get her back. Anything.

Want to read on? The next chapter will be available on Wednesday 16th April

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Fourteen

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

 

15th November 2013

Back in the pub, James sipped at his third pint, more comfortable to be drinking now he wasn’t alone.

“Going to be good to go to the old place again,” he said. “Anyone been there since it re-opened?”

They all shook their heads. Kiran with his decidedly 80s flat-top, Dan his swishing pony tail and Will his floppy 90s indie-kid mop. None of them had really grown up, James realised. They might have wives and families and jobs but they were all desperately hanging on to something from the past. None of them really looked so different than they had twenty years ago. If you could ignore the wrinkles and flecks of grey, it was all just a matter of slightly less hair and slightly larger waistlines. Except Kiran, he was still as skinny as a rake, his forearms sticking out from his t-shirt like an insect’s legs. He had a Casio digital watch on his wrist, James was pretty sure he’d had the same one when he sat his A-levels.

“You know Ray, is running it now,” said Will. “Ray Harris, you remember him?”

Ray had been a little bit older than them, someone none of them had known directly but who they had all met at one time or another. Ray worked in a video store and ran a sideline in pirate tapes, producing copies of the latest releases for a fiver a time. He also had a vast collection of obscure or banned movies, along with uncut versions of films that had been trimmed by the UK censors. James had bought a few tapes off him back in the day.

“Sure, he took enough money off me.”

“Good enough guy, though,” said Dan, and there was a rumble of agreement before they all took a drink.

“It’s amazing the Embassy survived all this time,” said James. “Big place like that, I’m surprised it didn’t get turned into flats or something, especially being closed all that time.”

Kiran nodded, his head bobbing up and down on his thin neck. “Someone must have really wanted to keep it as a cinema, just waiting for the right time to open it up again.”

“Ray?” asked Dan.

Will shook his head. “Nah, I heard he’s just managing it. Not sure who owns the actual building. Maybe it’s some wealthy old movie buff.”

“Maybe,” said James. It seemed unlikely, but whoever it was must really want to run it as a cinema to have turned down the millions they could have made developing the building.

He put the thought aside, “Hey, you won’t believe what happened to me on the way here…”

He told them about the man on the train, about the warning he’d given him and the woman who had chased after him. With three pints in him he felt a bit more relaxed about the whole experience. Just a random loony on day release, he told himself, maybe the woman who’d chased him had been a nurse from the asylum.

Dan laughed. “The weirdo at the start of the film who warns the characters not to go any further? Classic. That’s absolutely fucking brilliant.”

“Good job we’re not heading to a summer camp,” said Will.

“True,” said James. “Although if we were at least there’s a good chance we’d get laid and stoned.”

Kiran grinned. “Well the first I can’t do anything about the first, but I can help with the second.” He pulled a tobacco tin from his pocket and opened it to reveal a packet of Golden Virginia, some Rizlas and a brown lump of cannabis resin wrapped in cling film.

James laughed. “Christ, remember when you used to be able to smoke in the Embassy, you’d get off your tits just walking through the door.”

Kiran grin grew even broader. “Happy days, mate. Don’t get the chance to smoke much nowadays, what with the kids and that. Mind you if I ever catch them smoking I’ll fucking kill them.”

James laughed.

“You had any luck in that area yet, mate?” said Dan. “Joined the lack of sleep club?”

James shook his head. “Kids? No, not yet. We’re trying.” He left it at that.

They left the pub a little later and walked along the street towards the cinema. James stopped in an off license on the way and picked up a four pack of beer. He knew they’d sell it in the cinema, but it never hurt to be prepared. As he walked out of the shop a tall, thin man with a long heavy overcoat wrapped tightly around him hurried past. James caught a glimpse of his angular face, pale and tired looking, The man’s piercing blue eyes were bloodshot watering, James couldn’t tell if it was from the chill wind that was blowing or for some other reason.

Want to read on? The next instalment will be available Saturday 12th April 2014

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Thirteen

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

 

2nd September 2013

Green followed the diminutive cleaner down the corridor, wondering if he should just kill him and get it over with. As tempting as it was, he knew he wouldn’t, the risk of more blood on his hands outweighed the danger that the cleaner represented alive. His charade seemed to be working for now, all he had to do was let it play out and act suitably disappointed when his imaginary woman didn’t appear on the CCTV footage.

The cleaner reached the door at the end of the corridor and pushed it open; over his shoulder, Green saw a fat, young man leaning back in a chair, staring at a bank of TV screens. The youngster turned and greeted the cleaner.

“Who’s he?” he said, gesturing at Green.

“A friend,” said the cleaner. “A wealthy friend, who needs a favour.”

The guard span his chair round and smiled. “How badly do you need this favour, friend?”

Green protested, because it seemed like the right thing to do, but inside he was smiling. Thank God for poorly paid public servants. “I’ve already paid him,” he said, pointing at the cleaner.

“And he brought you to me, which he shouldn’t have, you know. You must be a good friend of his.” He winked.

Green grumbled and reached for his wallet, pulling out another hundred euro note. The guard snatched it from him, smiling.

“Now you’re my friend, too. What is it you want?”

Green told his story again and then waved at the screens. “I want to see if she came. I need to know.”

“She must be quite a woman to be worth two hundred euros and all this trouble,” the guard said.

“She is,” muttered Green. “She is.”

The guard span his chair around and faced the monitors again, his hands went to the control panel in front of them. “Where were you meeting her.”

“At the coffee stand. The one near the lockers.”

The guard’s hands moved skillfully over the controls and the image on one of the screens changed. “That one?” he said.

Green leaned in towards the screens, his hands resting on the edge of the desk. He could smell the guard’s stale sweat, even over his own.

“Yes, that one.” On the screen he could see a small cart selling coffee and beyond it the bank of lockers. He pictured himself standing in front of them, hiding his suitcase, and located it on the locker he’d used on the screen.

“When were you supposed to meet her?”

Green thought carefully. Whoever had taken the case must have seen him leave it there, that was the only way they could know which locker it was in. If it had been him, he would have trailed at a distance, witnessed the drop, waited five minutes to be sure the coast was clear, and then grabbed the case as quickly as possible. They had had no way of knowing how long he would be gone for, so speed would have been uppermost in their minds.

Logically, he would get the guard to play back the footage from the point he had dropped the suitcase off until he saw someone take it. He didn’t want the men to see him at the locker, though, that might raise too many questions. Even if their eyes were fixed on the coffee cart they couldn’t help but notice his heavy frame in the background; even the hint of something that contradicted his story might raise a suspicion with one of the men. A suspicion that when spoken aloud might escalate into demands for more money or an outright refusal to help him.

When had he dropped the case off? Christ, he couldn’t even remember that, not exactly. Before he had eaten, but when, what time? He had looked at his watch when he got to the station, checking how long he had before his train. The train was at seven, he had eaten at a leisurely pace, arrived back at the station with plenty of time to spare. It must have been around five. He pictured his watch, the pale face, the arabic numerals, the minute hand pointing straight up, the hour hand at the five. He remembered the sounds and smells of the station concourse and shut his eyes for a second, sending his mind back in time to the moment after he had locked the suitcase away and looked at the time. Suddenly he saw it, as certainly as if he was looking at it for real.

He opened his eyes again. The two men were looking at him. He could see the doubt and suspicion rising in their eyes. “The time, Signor?” said the cleaner.

“Sorry, a headache. It’s this heat.” Green ran a hand over his face. “It was ten past five.” The watch he had seen in his mind’s eye had read five past. If it turned out the case had been taken before 5:10, he’d ask the guard to skip back from that time.

The guard nodded and used a small dial to rewind the footage, sending the people on the screen into a comically sped up reverse. There was a time stamp in the top right of the screen, Green watched is skip backwards until it neared 5:10. Green held his breath, hoping that he’d got the time right, that the guard wouldn’t go too far.

The guard twisted the dial the clockwise and frantic backward motion of the commuters stopped.

“What does she look like?” said the cleaner, leaning forward and peering at the screen.

“Small,” said Green. “Petite, with long dark hair and lots of curves.”

“I can’t wait,” the cleaner leered.

Green ignored him and focussed on the screen, watching the locker intently. It didn’t take long, but he forced himself not to react as he saw a tall, slim, blonde woman approach the locker and pull a key from her bag. He was pleased that he’d so accurately guessed what his opponent had done; partly because he liked being right, but mostly because it meant they were predictable. If he had got it right once, he could do it again.

On the screen, the woman opened the metal door and lifted Green’s suitcase out, resting it on the floor and pulling the extending handle out. Then she turned and faced the camera for the first time, Green felt his heart beat faster and willed it to stop. He watched the blonde wheel his suitcase away, then kept his eyes on the screen for another 5 minutes, muttering occasionally. He was itching to leave, but knew that he needed to stick to his story. He didn’t want them to get suspicious after he had gone.

Eventually he straightened and sighed.

“She is not there,” he told the two other men sadly. “She was never there. I am a fool, gentlemen. And a fool who is two hundred euros poorer as well as broken hearted.”

“Such is life,” said the cleaner, and shrugged.

A minute later, Green was back on the concourse. He still didn’t quite believe what he’d seen, or at least he didn’t understand it. Not only had he seen who had taken the case, he had recognised them. What he didn’t know was why the hell they’d done it.

In his pocket his phone started to vibrate again. He pulled it out and saw who was calling, this time he answered it.

Want to read on? The next instalment will be available Wednesday 9th April 2014

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Twelve

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

 

15th November 2013

Jackson turned her face from the screen and looked at Ray.

“This is fucked up, right?”

Ray paused for a moment before he spoke. “Yeah, it’s not what I expected…these old Italian movies can be a bit surreal though.”

“This is more than that. It’s fucking eerie, Ray. It’s not just me is it?”

“No, not just you.”

On the screen, the boy was speaking, his small mouth moving frantically. The camera was too far away to pick up want he was saying, but Jackson guessed he was calling to his father, telling him about the man with the camera. Jackson watched as the man followed the boy’s gaze, until he too was staring down the lens of the camera. His moustache twitched and he stood, folding his newspaper and dropping it onto the bench. The intention in his eyes was clear as he started striding towards the camera.

The action suddenly cut away, and Jackson was now looking at a small copse of trees. She saw the large lens of a movie camera poking out from around one of them, the dark silhouette of a man behind it.

“Shot reverse shot,” muttered Ray, as the man on the screen turned and ran back into the trees.

“Huh? Speak English, Ray.”

“It’s a cinematic technique, to make it look like two people are looking at each other.”

“But they are looking at each other.”

Ray paused then spoke. “No, I don’t think they are. The guy with the moustache was looking at the camera, but I don’t think that’s actually the cameraman. Look at it, the lighting is different.”

Jackson peered at the screen and realised he was right. The light now was brighter, colder somehow, lacking the warm summer glow of the footage of the man and the boy.

“Also,” Ray continued, “that’s a 16mm camera he’s holding. The footage before was 35mm.”

They watched in silence as the man with the camera ran through the trees. The angle of the shot reversed and Jackson saw another man running. It was obviously supposed to be the man from the park, he was wearing the same clothes and had a similarly thick moustache, but she could tell if wasn’t him. His face, in the glimpses she caught of it, was different, his skin a tone darker.

The man ran hard through the trees and the shot changed again. Now they were watching the action through his eyes, as he charged after the fleeing figure of the cameraman, trees passing on either side of him. He drew closer to his target, the sound of ragged breathing coming from the large speakers mounted on the walls of the cinema. Jackson could see the cameraman more clearly now, he was dressed in black and had a hood pulled over his face. Not a hoody, they didn’t have those back in the seventies, did they? This was more like a monk’s cowl, obscuring the man’s face.

The distance was closing fast, Jackson could hear two sets of breathing. On the screen, a hand reached out and grabbed for the camera man’s clothing. It caught the loose fabric covering the man’s head and the hood fell away. He was completely bald; more than that, the pale skin on the back of his head was criss-crossed with a network of thin cuts, a terrible checkerboard of dried blood. He had stopped running now and he turned slowly to face the camera. Jackson knew it was all just a trick, that the agonising slowness with which he turned was designed to increase the tension and suspense in the viewer. That didn’t stop her reaching out and gripping Ray’s hand though.

As the man turned she saw that his cheeks were marked with the same cuts as his scalp and neck. His eyes, she thought, it’ll be his eyes. And then she saw them, or rather she didn’t. The skin of his eyelids hung loose over his eye sockets and Jackson could tell there was nothing behind them. No plump eyeball for them to rest against.

The camera zoomed in suddenly, alarmingly, focussing on the coarse stitching that had been used to stitch the man’s eyes shut.

The man from the park gasped and then let out a grunt of pain. The camera pulled back slightly to reveal the cameraman’s mouth breaking into a leering smile; then it tilted suddenly downwards and Jackson saw the long blade of a knife plunging again and again into the man’s chest. Blood spurted around the shiny metal, coating it and soaking into the man’s clothes.

The screen went black.

“Can we stop it now?” said Jackson. “Have you seen enough? You’ve seen enough, right?”

“Yes. Enough for now. I’ll see it all later.”

The screen lit up again, showing the hooded cameraman walking up the driveway of a large country house. Ray stood and waved at the projection booth, calling out to Henry. The image on the screen dimmed and then vanished.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Jackson said to him.

“It’s not supposed to, it’s a horror movie. Don’t let it bother you. I know it was a bit weird, but it is just a movie.”

“But that footage of the kid seemed so real. It was like it was real, like they’d just gone out and filmed it and then put it into the film.”

Ray shrugged. “Maybe they did. Those old european directors did some weird shit sometimes and Barberini was one of the weirdest of them. There are some very dodgy rumours about some of his films.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t worry about it. Come on, we need to get ready. Doors open soon.”

They reached the exit and walked through to the foyer. As the entered it, Henry appeared from the door that led up to the booth.

“Enjoy the show?” he asked, then before either of them could answer he carried on talking. “Now that all the films are here I’m going to get something to eat.” He walked to the main doors and let himself out onto the street.

“Why do you put up with him?” said Jackson.

Ray sighed. “Because good projectionists are hard to find and he doesn’t mind doing the all nighters. Besides not many people put up with me.”

“There is that I guess,” said Jackson. She stuck her tongue out at him. “Remind me why it is I put up with you.”

“Because I’m such a good lay.”

Jackson punched him on the arm.

Jackson reached out and took Ray’s hand and squeezed it briefly before letting it go again. She knew he didn’t want anyone else who worked at the cinema to know about their relationship and she didn’t really have a problem with that. It was early days and the age difference still freaked her out a bit. She liked Ray a lot, though, enough that she didn’t want to do anything that might screw things up.

Outside the cinema, Henry pulled his long coat tight around his thin frame against the cold and hurried along the street. He glanced at his watch and saw he had ten minutes to get to his destination. It would take less than five, but he hurried anyway. There was no way he could be late. That was an eventuality that didn’t bear thinking about.

Want to read on? The next instalment will be available Saturday 5th April 2014

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Eleven

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

 

15th November 2013

In a pub near near the Embassy, James took a swig from his pint of bitter and felt a welcome sense of normality flow through his body. The beer tasted good, the pub was warm and bright, and best of all, there were no psychotic strangers telling him he was about to die.

He looked down at the glass in his hand and saw that he’d drained half the contents already. Still, it had been a shit day, a shit week in fact. He deserved it, he told himself, taking another swig.

Emma was always telling him he drank too much, and to be fair she was probably right. Sometimes she blamed the fact that they hadn’t had kids yet on his drinking, that he wasn’t so sure about. The docs had given him the all clear after all. Sent him into a little room to wank into a cup over an old copy of Razzle, then tested the output and told him his little chaps were swimming just as strongly as they could. Emma’s test results hadn’t been nearly so positive.

He finished his beer and nodded at the barman for another. The clock on the wall told him he had half hour before he and the guys were due to meet. He’d left home earlier than he needed to. Truth was it had been a relief to get out of the house and away from the stress. He needed to pace himself though, no good being wankered before they turned up. Another pint wouldn’t hurt though. Maybe two.

“I’ll have a bag of huts too, please, mate,” he said. Best to eat as well.

James watched the barman pull his pint and the evening ahead. He was looking forward to it. The Embassy cinema had been an old haunt of his twenty years ago, when he was in his late teens and early twenties. It wasn’t the kind of place that played the latest blockbusters, specialising instead in obscure art films and classic exploitation movies. It was the latter that had attracted James and his mates. The cheesy, the gory, the ridiculous, the horrifying. American, European, Asian, the Embassy has shown them all. Holding ones off showings of movies that no other cinema would touch as well as the all night films shows that it was famous for. There were four of them, James and Dan and Kiran and Will. Hanging out together, visiting the Embassy at least once a week for some show or other. There had been a few other faces that had drifted in and out, but they were the core.

The Embassy had closed as a cinema when James was about twenty three. Running as a bingo hall for a while and then closing altogether. The waning of the Embassy’s fortunes had coincided with the drifting apart of the four friends. Looking back, James didn’t know how much the absence of the cinema as a convenient meeting point had played in that gradual four way split. Maybe it was just a natural evolution, as they each fell into serious relationships and got proper jobs and homes of their own. They had kept in touch, but the frequency of their meetings had slowly declined, until it reached the point where they got together for occasions rather than for the hell of it. Birthdays of course, but also engagement parties which led to weddings, and then christenings or naming ceremonies (sometimes before the weddings, sometimes after them), then wedding anniversaries and more birthdays as the families grew. James and Emma hadn’t made any children of their own, but they shared in the joy of the other couple’s reproduction. For a while at least. With each passing year it became harder though, and when a second round of babies hit, younger siblings to the first, James started to see the pain in Emma’s eyes when she got ready to go to another occasion. When they started getting invitations to the first birthdays of the second round of kids, Emma broke down and they talked about what wasn’t happening for the first time. That was when it started, the round of appointments and consultations and examinations and tests and softly-spoken, sympathetic-faced doctors that had ground their relationship into the dust without them even realising it.

The Embassy had fared better over the years. It had somehow escaped the developers that had been snapping up property in the area at the time, and hadn’t been knocked down or turned into “spacious, executive, city apartments” like so many other older structures. Then, five years or so ago, it had re-opened. James couldn’t remember which one of the old gang had heard about it first, but an email conversation had kicked off, with them all promising to get together for an allnighter. It had taken five years, but they’d made it. Tonight.

The pub was starting to fill up as James finished his second beer. He’d thought that he’d drunk it slowly, but when he looked at the clock there was still fifteen minutes to go. The barman looked at him expectantly but James shook his head and tapped the pack of Silk Cut he’d placed on the bar. “Going for one of these, mate,” he said. “I’ll be back, though.”

He picked up the cigarettes and walked to the door. The cold air hit him again when he opened it, and, not for the first time, he cursed the bloody indoor smoking ban.

A cigarette hit his lips and he sparked his lighter and sucked flame through the tobacco. The smoke filled his lungs with the familiar warmth he’d known for twenty five years. He’d smoked his first cigarette with Will when he was thirteen, one stolen from his Dad’s pack that they’d shared in the garage at the end of the garden. Things had been simpler then, even if they hadn’t seemed it at the time.

He took another drag and turned to look up the street and that was when he saw them walking towards him: Dan, Will and Kiran. The old gang. He grinned. It was going to be a good night.

Want to read on? The next instalment will be available Wednesday 2nd April 2014

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Ten

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

 

2nd September 2013

Green walked towards the cleaner, keeping his eyes on him, sizing him up like boxer watching his opponent before the bell rung to start the round. He knew he could overpower the man easily, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. How much did a cleaner get paid? Surely a paltry enough amount that the scent for a hundred euro note would get that pass that hung from his belt off him for five minutes.

The man’s head was down, his attention solely on his monotonous work. As Green approached he could see a peaceful, serene calm on the wrinkled face; it was the look of a man content in his labours. Green would have preferred the frown of someone who hated their job, but either way he would work with the material at hand.

The man was older than he had appeared from a distance, clearly nearing retirement age, if not past it already. He was humming to himself as swept the floor, some tune Green didn’t recognise. Green reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He extracted a 100 euro note from it and folded it into a small square, holding it in the moist palm of his right hand.

Green cleared his throat, took a final step towards the man, standing next to him now. The cleaner swept on, oblivious to the other man’s presence. Green reached out his left hand and lay it on the cleaner’s shoulder. The broom stopped mid-sweep, the man turned silently to face Green, his face still passive.

Green held out his right hand, as if offering it for a handshake. He made sure the cleaner saw the colour of the note held against his palm by thumb. The man’s expression changed at last to one of surprise.

He shifted the broom to his left hand, reached out his right and shook hands with Green. His small fingers were unexpectedly cold against Green’s hot flesh. They shifted there against his palm and skillfully plucked the note away.

“What can I do for you, my friend,” he said in Italian.

Green told him a story, not because he thought the man would really believe it, but because he knew it helped people being bribed to be able to fool themselves into thinking that they were taking the money for the right reasons.

The lie had come to him as he walked towards the man and watched that serene face. It was the face of a man whose life was complete, and with a job as mundane as this that must mean the world he inhabited beyond the walls of the station must be a very happy one. Green would appeal to the romantic in him, hope that he would take pity on a man less fortunate in love than himself. If he did this right, it should all pass off without any drama.

He replied in the cleaner’s native tongue, his Italian was fluent but he spoke hesitantly, like a tourist would, adopting the role of an unfortunate, lovestruck, innocent abroad.

He explained that he was staying in Rome and had met an Italian girl there the previous day. They had both been buying coffee at one of the stalls dotted around the station and had struck up a conversation. The girl, Green said, had been beautiful, and, amazingly, had agreed to meet him again the next day, so that they could spend more time together. He confessed that he knew he was not an attractive man, but there was something about this girl that told him she was genuinely interested. The way she had pressed her body against his when she leaned him to kiss him goodbye. Maybe she likes the English, he pondered aloud.

The cleaner smiled back at him and shrugged. “Stranger things have happened,” he said.

Green went on, describing his dismay when he had been caught in traffic on his way to the station and had therefore not arrived until fifteen minutes after the agreed rendezvous time to find the woman nowhere to be found. “What I desperately need,” he said, “is to know if she came here, because if she did then there is hope for me.”

The cleaner look confused, “are you asking me if I saw her, signor?” he asked. “I see many, many people. I can’t remember every face.”

Green shook his head and pointed at a camera mounted high on the wall. “You may not remember, but they will.”

The man frowned. “I am just a cleaner, signor. I know nothing of the cameras.”

“You clean everywhere though, do you not? Out here, and behind the walls where the security guards monitor the cameras.” The man’s hand went reflexively to the pass card on his belt and Green knew his assumption was correct. He pushed, letting his voice fill with emotion. “Please, sir, I’m begging you. Help put this poor soul out of its misery. Take me to the guards so that may see if I have a chance to be happy.”

The man sighed. “Okay, I will take you there. Whether the guards will help you is up to them. They may not be so easily persuaded by your story.”

Green smiled to himself, it wasn’t my story that won you over, you old goat. It was the cash you’ve so discreetly pocketed. He followed the man back across the station to the door he had examined earlier. As they walked, he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket again. He ignored it, this was no time for distractions.

They reached the door and the cleaner leaned his broom against the wall, adjusting it until it rested there to his satisfaction. Then, he pulled the pass up from his waist, and swiped it over the reader beside the door. Green saw that the pass remained attached to the man’s waist by a length of black cord, which unravelled from inside the round metal end that was clipped to the man’s belt. Once he had swiped the card he let go of it and the cord instantly retracted, pulling the card back to its resting place. The man quickly punched a four digit code into the keypad and Green heard a solid click as the door unlocked.

“Come,” said the man, and pushed the door open. Green followed him into the dim passageway beyond it, silently praying that the guard would be as easily persuaded as the cleaner had been.

“You can go,” he said to the elderly man. “I thank you, but there is no need for me to take any more of your time.”

The cleaner laughed and shook his head. “Oh no, signor, I want to see this beauty of yours. Who knows, if she wanted you, she may even fall for an old bastard like me. Some of these young girls value experience. I want to know what she looks like so I can keep my eye out for her once you are back in England!”

He laughed again and walked down the corridor, leaving Green silently cursed him. He’s no better than me, he thought, as he hurried after the chuckling cleaner.

Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Nine

New reader? Find all the chapters here: http://littleslicesofnasty.wordpress.com/gallery/night-of-obscene-horror/

 

15th November 2013

Jackson and Ray walked back down the stairs to the auditorium while Henry loaded the first reel.

“Are we going to watch the whole thing?” she asked.

“We’ll save that for later, no time now. I just want to see the opening. I want to see it before anyone else does.”

“Geek.”

He nodded. “Don’t knock it, that’s what built all this.” He waved at the decaying building around him.

Jackson laughed. “Want a beer while we watch it?”

“No, need to keep a clear head to manage the rabble,”

They sat again in the same seats they’d been in before, dead central, third row back. Ray claimed it was the cinema’s sweet spot.

“So what are we watching?”

“‘Notte di Orrore Osceno’. The English title would be something like ‘Night of Obscene Horror’, although it was never released over here.”

“Sounds lovely.”

Ray laughed, “It might be. No-one really knows anything about it.”

Jackson began to reply and then fell silent as the screen in front of them lit up.

First thing she saw was the studio logo, an Italian one that she didn’t recognise, then against a blurred, colourful back ground, the title swam into view. Ornate white text overlaid on a garish kaleidoscope. She read the words that Ray had spoken a moment earlier, ‘Notte di Orrore Osceno’. It was just a dumb, old movie, but still seeing those four words on the screen gave her the creeps. ‘Obscene horror’, what did that mean anyway? Sexual violence? Ray had told her once that they killed animals for real in some of these old European movies to up the shock value. She didn’t want to see anything like that.

On the screen the title has disappeared and the names of the actors were appearing, all Italian with the exception of one solidly American sounding one. She didn’t recognise any of them, she hadn’t expected to though, she rarely did with these late night horror shows. Occasionally she’d spot some actor she vaguely remembered from some old TV show but rarely, and she never knew the names, that wasn’t how her brain worked.

The names rolled past finishing with the directors and then the text faded and the camera focussed, eliminating the rainbow blur and revealing the scene. It was a park, green grass and brightly painted iron play equipment. The camera panned across it shakily, making two passes, lingering on the children playing on the slide and swings. It was as if the cameraman was searching for someone, for a particular child. Was it a point of view shot? Were she and Ray seeing through the eyes of some deranged killer. She’d seen the technique before in horror movies but this felt almost too naturalistic. Her eyes focussed on the children playing in the background: happy, oblivious. The camera move jerkily forward and despite herself Jackson felt her heart beating faster. She didn’t want to watch this, whatever it was. The cameraman stopped again when he was closer and the lens searched around the playground again. Jackson realised there was something wrong with the scene, something that didn’t feel quite right. She felt for a moment like she was looking at a picture in one of the puzzle magazines she’d liked as a kid, trying to spot the differences between two seemingly identical photos….

She looked at the children again, they looked normal, their hair longer and shaggier than the kids she saw on the streets of London, their clothes more muted, but this was thirty years ago or more. There was a man in the playground too, she realised, sitting on a bench and reading a newspaper while he smoked a cigarette. His hair was long too, hanging over his ears and forehead. Bushy sideburns jutted out from under it and a thick moustache graced his upper lip. She was definitely look back in time, at the late 70s or early 80s, long before she was born but she’d seen enough old movies and TV shows to recognise the era. She looked again, trying to ignore the people and focus on the park itself and then she realised what had been bothering her.

“This is an Italian film?” she said.

Beside her Ray grunted in confirmation. She knew him well enough to know that he didn’t want her to speak and distract him from the film.

“But they’re in England.” As she said it she was even more certain she was right. The playground equipment was utterly familiar, the slide, the roundabout, the seesaw, there was even one of those long rocking horse things with seats for five or six kids. She remembered them all from her childhood, rusted in places and with the once bright paint chipped and dull but still as solid as ever. She could even picture the manufacturer’s logo, Wicksteed.

“Look at it,” she said. “It’s an English park, definitely.”

Ray frowned as Jackson pointed excitedly. “Look at his paper, it’s the bloody Sun.”

He squinted at the red banner on the front of the blurred grey rectangle the man in the bench was holding. “You’re right.”

She laughed, “He’s probably looking at bloody page 3, dirty bugger.”

Ray wasn’t laughing. “This isn’t right,” he said.

“It should be in Italy?”

He nodded. “Like I said not that much is known about it but there’s never been anything to suggest it wasn’t set there. It’s odd.”

“Do you think it isn’t the film? That it’s a fake or something?”

Ray was quiet. “I need to see more of it,” he said at last. “I bloody hope it’s real because we’re screwed otherwise.”

They both stared back at the screen. The camera was moving again, swinging away from the playground with a listing motion that made Jackson feel nauseous. She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them again the camera was mercifully still. It was focussed on a different scene now, a young boy by a boating pond, leaning over the low brick wall that surrounded it. His blonde hair hung over his face as he stretched an arm out towards a small model sailing boat that floated on the dark water. Beside him a man stood watching. The camera zoomed in on the pair just as the boy turned his head to look back at the man, his lips moving with an unheard question. The hair fell from his eyes, long strands floating in the breeze, and he stared straight down the lens of the camera. His piercing blue eyes opened wider.

Jackson felt that chill again. He sees him, she thought, he sees him and he doesn’t expect him to be there. This wasn’t a movie, these weren’t actors, this was all real.