The Exit

by Helen FitzGerald

  ‘Did he call the police?’

  ‘Not yet. She’d started doing some agency work. He thinks she might have just got caught up in an emergency.’

  Before I drove home I tried Natalie’s number again. Voicemail. Tried Chris’s, switched off. Tried Dear Green. No answer.

  As I drove to Dear Green, I wondered if someone there was grievingme9 and elvishasleft. I supposed sickos gravitated to each other, and what better place than a house full of dying people.

  Harriet was flustered. ‘You can’t just barge in here now!’ But I already had. Rose’s room was empty, and she’d not drawn a new page since I left, or at least I couldn’t find one. If she had, they’d probably thrown it out like all the others.

  Room 7 was locked, as ever. There were well over fifty used paper cups in the bin by the water cooler. Last night was a busy night, by the looks.

  Harriet was following me around. ‘The police are looking for her. Catherine, you really can’t come in here like this.’

  ‘Did someone die last night?’

  ‘No. Catherine, and I know this is a hard time for you, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.’

  I tossed the cup back in the bin with the others. ‘Okay, I’m off.’ As I passed Room 3, Jimmy hollered.

  ‘Hey, lovely!’

  Harriet was at my heels. ‘Is it all right if I say hi to Jim?’

  ‘Five minutes.’ She shrugged, and headed to the kitchen.

  Jimmy was lying in bed in his pyjamas. I closed his door and kept my distance. ‘Did someone die last night?’

  ‘No. I’m still here!’

  ‘Have you seen Rose?’

  ‘No. Hey, don’t s’pose you got any more of that grass? It was nice! A giggly one. What was it, Hawaiian Snow? It was so good to giggle!’

  He wasn’t comfortable with the pause, maybe knew what was coming. ‘I know about you, Jimmy.’

  ‘Ah, you know.’ I expected him to be mortified, embarrassed, remorseful, or at least full of excuses. Instead: ‘I did my time, Catherine.’

  He held my stare. I think I felt more threatened by his than he did by mine. I left.

  When I turned my head to avoid seeing Mum’s room I spotted Gavin reading to Nancy in their room. He looked like a very sweet old man. The nausea was rising. I raced out to the driveway, lowered my head to bring the blood back, and took several long slow breaths. Surrounding my feet were fresh tyre tracks, everywhere, loads of them.

  I peeked into the window of Room 7 from the back of the house. I hadn’t noticed this when I found Mum lying in there, but the glass had been fixed since Rose smashed it, jail-like metal bars had been bolted to the outside, and new curtains had been installed. I couldn’t see inside at all.

  Marcus didn’t answer his door, but it was open, so I let myself in. The place was a mess. Bottles and overflowing ashtrays everywhere. He was fully clothed, asleep on the sofa in the drawing room, mouth half open. He’d had a party last night. I didn’t try to wake him. He revolted me. This place scared me. I had to get away.

  I ran to the tree by the river, but Rose wasn’t there. She had been recently, by the looks. A perfectly formed teepee-style fire had been set, ready for the matches she probably went hunting for afterwards. She must have wandered off from here, and got lost.

  I dialled Mum’s old mobile, hoping Rose had remembered where she hid it, and how to use it. It rang out. I decided I should go home, in case she found out where I lived, and headed there.

  *

  When I got home, I rang Natalie and Chris again. Still no answer from Natalie, and no sign of Rose, Chris said. I was about to phone the police when a message popped up on the forum:

  caulfield: Ah, so you’re one of those. We have quite a few like you.

  tex59: Really! I’d love to see what they’re into. What can you show me?

  caulfield: There are rules.

  tex59: That’s fine.

  caulfield: Delete the pic you just sent and this conversation. I’ll remove it from the server. Click on Explore at the bottom of the site. Username: itscutetobedead. Password: 3hguz9c7dC.

  tex59: Great, thanks.

  caulfield: Now delete, delete, delete.

  tex59: Pinky promise.

  *

  I braced myself, fully expecting to be shocked and disgusted by pictures like mine – of raw meat, dead animals, perhaps nakedness, I couldn’t imagine what else, but when I clicked Explore I journeyed far deeper than shock and disgust. Once there, it seemed impossible to return to the surface, where people worked as accountants and bus drivers, fell in and out of love, had missionary sex with their partners two to three times per week, grieved for their loved ones by crying and organising funerals and falling out over money and throwing out dead flowers. ‘There’s something for everyone online,’ Chris had said once.

  At La Petite Mort we believe the following:

  Birth, sex and death are the most intense experiences.

  Intensity is pleasurable.

  In Shakespeare’s time, orgasms were referred to as ‘little deaths’. This is because sexual climax and death are similar. The moment of death arouses sexual feelings.

  Death is helpless transcendence.

  Helplessness is sexy.

  Someone with power over life and death is powerfully attractive.

  If you are involved in, or witness to a death, you feel sexy.

  You are God.

  *

  At La Petite Mort, we share our first experiences:

  friskycorpse: My dad was a butcher. He took me to the slaughter house when I was five. I can remember when I first played dead there, lying on the slab beside a sheep. I took my best friend once and he played dead with me. He wasn’t good at it, wriggled and got bored. It was my favourite game. Still is.

  bestdirector: My aunty was a film buff. She took me to the movies once a week, started sneaking me into the 18s when I was fifteen. The first death scene I remember watching was Wild at Heart. Anyone seen this? Oh wow, when that girl in the car crash dies in front of them! Picks at her brain! After that, I used to buy DVDs with my fave scenes in, replay and replay. I remember the first time I masturbated to one. The Wicker Man. (Ha, I know! I was easily aroused as a teen!) Mum and Dad were at tennis so I locked the door and took my time. So powerful! I never looked back. How good is it to talk to people who don’t think this is abnormal! I love this site. Thanks La Petite Mort. xxxx

  coolzombie: LOL friskycorpse! My fave game was morgue. (Lucky there was one in our basement, eh!! Dad’s a funeral director.) Best game ever. Couldn’t get my mates into it but. You’re so right, this site is amazeballs. Makes me feel okay about myself, you know, like I’m not the only one.

  burkenhare: You’re really not the only one friskycorpse! Why do people find death so ugly? It’s beautiful. Is there anything more beautiful?

  And hello Marcus:

  caulfield: My first time was when I was fifteen. She had translucent Irish skin. I was in love with that skin. I’ve never said this to anyone, but I climaxed when she died without even touching myself. I still remember the outline of her nipples. After that, I began to see it everywhere, probably because of what my parents did, where I lived and still live. I won’t give too much away here, but death was all around. I saw it, and began noting details. I was fascinated in the difference between how people hope to die and how they actually die. I started taking pics. It’s fascinating, isn’t it? I wondered if you could see the hope extinguished as it happens, replaced by disappointment or anger, or doused by pain. Or perhaps hope is the wrong word – not many hope to die. I was also interested in the afterlife at the time – could they see it as they left their bodies? Was another world there, at the end of their beds? I’m not interested in that so much now – an adolescent fear had made me obsess about heaven and hell I think. Now it’s the beauty of it, the power of it, that gets me. Ah, it’s so good to talk. And to write about it! Btw, top tip – pretend you’re writing a crime novel, then you can wri
te whatever turns you on, and research all you like, and you have an excuse if anyone catches you at it! It’s a safety net for me. I remember how good it felt when I posted a pic here for the first time. I didn’t leave my bedroom till a reply came, which it did, two days later, and that’s how I met elvishasleft, hey Elvis!

  elvishasleft: Sure thing roomie!

  grievingme9: Its looked down on like all taboos I guess. Biggest taboo of em all – so how could you not want to go there! Your a voyeur, invading the most private moment. Your god like.

  deathrattle: It’s not like they don’t want it! You have brain surges at the moment of death, men get boners. It’s a fact that many men who have been hanged have ejaculated the moment their necks snap. I know, I’ve seen it happen (not w hanging like!) My grandad had a stonker right before he went. And he was old as fuck, probs hadn’t managed one of them for years. It’s sexy! Not like we’re doing anything wrong.

  devotedhusband: My wife and I had the shared interest. Ah, I miss her. When we were courting – that’s a long time ago! – she asked me what I fantasised about. I hadn’t expected her to share my interest before then, but I wonder if she had always known, from the moment she laid eyes on me. Perhaps there is something in our eyes that beckons kindred spirits. I was too scared to say at the time. We were walking home from the movies. Then she came out with it! Before we’d even kissed! Her fantasy was to be dug from the grave and taken! She’s still here, but has dementia, can’t speak, doesn’t even have facial expressions. Before it got bad I promised her, promised again and again (she made me!) that I would do this for her one day. And I will. I don’t know how I’ll manage it (maybe you could help me friskycorpse? Is your dad still in the funeral business?) It’s all I live for now. I still make love to her all the time. I can’t see the pleasure on her face, but I KNOW it’s there. I know I’m making her proud.

  That’s a lovely story Gavin. How lucky, his catatonic wife.

  friskycorpse: I can do better than that devotedhusband. It’s Dad and Son Funeral Directors! Let me know when you need me. Happy to help a kindred spirit.

  elvishasleft: I was on my third UK tour with the band. One night after a gig, one of the backup singers OD’d on heroin. I don’t think I could have saved her if I tried but I know I couldn’t stop doing what I was doing, standing over her, watching, filming. I was off my head too! Seemed magical, all of it, had to get it on tape. That vid’s still available, if you want a peek (go to Movies then elvishasleft873). I watch it at least once a week. Check how she looks into the camera, right into it, at the very last second. As if the afterlife existed in the lens and was calling her. Got hooked on filming after that. Check out Movies 854-1058. All mine! Huge variety. Can’t say how this site changed my life.

  Well, hey there, Jimmy.

  *

  Deeper, deeper, I went, all the way to the Photo Gallery. I clicked into a world of dead people – babies, toddlers, children, young adults, adults, middle-aged, the elderly. I clicked and saw the naked dead, the mutilated dead, the peaceful dead, the roadkill dead. I clicked and saw the living touching the dead, lying with the dead, having sex with the dead.

  I threw up.

  I rang Chris. He was out looking for Rose, sounded stressed. ‘I’ve stumbled on something here, Chris. I’m going to call the police. Marcus, Jimmy, Gavin, they’re all involved in a website called La Petite Mort.’

  ‘What? How did you find that? Holy shit. Let me park. Stay on . . . Okay, I’m in a lay-by. Are you okay?’

  ‘No! Chris, there’s a video section and I can’t bring myself to look at it.’

  ‘Don’t. Don’t look at it. You could be charged! I’ll call the police straight away. I know the ones who deal with this stuff. I’ll call now. La Petite Mort?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I was crying. ‘It’s . . . it’s beyond awful.’

  ‘I’ll call them now, get them to come straight over. You sure you’re okay?’

  ‘No, but . . . I will be. I’ll wait here for the police. Tell them to come quickly!’

  ‘Yeah, wait there. What’s your address?’

  ‘Dowanhill, 13 Dowanside Road.’

  ‘Don’t look at that shit, eh? Don’t talk to anyone till the police come. Turn off your phones, lock the door.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And don’t let anyone in except the police.’

  ‘Okay.’

  *

  I locked the front and back doors, turned off my mobile phone, and pulled out the landline socket. I was about to shut down the computer when I noticed the link to the Movie page at the top. Clicking the down arrow, I read through the different sub-pages, which included elvishasleft and about twenty other names which were probably linked to the amateur films sent by members of this community. I was repulsed by the idea of viewing any of the films, but when I noticed that one of the pages was labelled Events, I couldn’t help myself.

  EVENTS

  This, written just before my mother died:

  Wednesday Special: 49-year-old female, attractive, has hair – salt and pepper. Movie scheduled for 12.30 a.m., give or take. Twelve Viewing tickets available at £200 per head. Cash. At door. Message to secure place, and for directions and further details. No phones and no cameras please.

  And this, from last Thursday, just after my mother died.

  Apologies for last-minute cancellation of the Special last night. It was beyond our control, I’m afraid. In the meantime, have you seen our most recent videos?

  More events coming soon.

  There were dozens of complaints under this post. People had driven for hours. People wanted a refund for petrol money. People were livid. People were losing faith in the service. People wanted to get in free next time.

  And this, from yesterday:

  Unscheduled Special tonight! We have a Sunday offering! Apologies for the short notice, but as you know we can’t always plan these things. This will be worth your while! 45-year-old female, healthy, classy, slim but not emaciated, athletic, has hair, dark. £350 per head. Cash. At door. Message to secure a place, and for directions and further details. No phones and no cameras please.

  The most recent post was entered this morning.

  Record number of hits! Last night’s Unscheduled Special an unprecedented triumph. Over 1,000 hits, growing by the minute. Click here and you’ll see why! It also sparked a bidding war amongst 45 potential viewers. After they saw a pic of the star, they were willing to pay treble our initial price. Again, click here to see why. Congratulations La Petite Mort! 5*!!

  Before I could stop myself, I had clicked here, to see why.

  Before it started, I knew enough already. I knew that by defying my mum’s wishes and turning round at the ferry ramp, I had saved her. I had saved her death. I realised Rose had meant to say this when she made her way to the police that day. She wanted to ‘save deaths’. I knew that Rose had been right about everything all along: that people were not safe in Dear Green, that Wednesday’s children were full of woe, this was not how they wanted things to go. I knew people watched live on the Internet, that some paid to go and watch in the room, that as they watched they ‘died a little death’. I knew Marcus was beyond creepy. I knew Jimmy was a registered sex offender. I knew Gavin raped his vegetative wife. I didn’t need to know any more. Surely there could be no more to know.

  *

  Sunday Special!

  A blank screen: 1,087 views; 57 comments.

  Awesome!

  Cute before, adorable after!

  You’re spoiling us!

  I cannot stop watching this.

  I am never a going to stop watching this!

  A moment later, the black of the screen was replaced by a brightly lit Room 7. Crammed with watchers, at least a dozen. More, I think. The camera showed only their legs and feet. Mostly male shoes, three female, as far as I could tell. All sorts of shoes too: trainers, sandals, polished brogues.

  I don’t know what I expected to see on the bed, but when the camera fi
nally settled there, I screamed. I needed a paper bag to breathe into. I had to stop myself from fainting. Natalie, on the bed. Poor Natalie.

  What had Natalie said on the phone when I was driving north? It had been a bad line – half sentences. I’m going to break . . . the next day or so, if he goes out. So perhaps she broke into Marcus’s flat and was caught in the act.

  Unscheduled Sunday Special! She was awake, but very drowsy. Tears were running down her face. She could only manage a faint ‘My boys! My beautiful boys!’ Her meagre pleas caused noises from the watchers I did not want to hear. Zips unzipping. Ah-ah-ahing. All the while, the hits at the bottom of the screen increasing. I slammed the laptop lid shut. And thank God, the doorbell rang. The police were here.

  *

  I had the chain on, and opened the door an inch to see who it was first. Not the police, but Chris. ‘Chris! Oh come in, quick!’ I unhooked the chain, opened the door. He shut it behind him, looking as sick and worried as I felt.

  ‘You speak to anyone?’

  ‘No. Holy shit, Chris, this is so awful. They killed Natalie.’

  He followed me into the living room. ‘You don’t follow instructions.’

  I’d reached the laptop, was about to show him what I’d found. ‘What?’

  ‘What did I tell you on the phone before?’

  ‘Not to talk to anyone. I didn’t.’

  ‘That’s right, good. But what else did I say?’

  ‘Um . . .’ He was walking towards me, too close. He had one hand behind his back, something in it. ‘Um, you said not to . . .’

  ‘I said don’t look at that shit, and don’t let anyone in. Except the police.’

  Death

  Chapter Twenty

  AGE 82

  The Queen, red lips. The Queen, red lips. The Queen. Red lips.