by Ryan Casey
His time in the spotlight.
And now he was being mocked.
He was being made a fool of.
He didn’t like being made a fool of.
He throws his glass of ice cold water onto the floor. Sends shards of glass smashing all over the tiles. Dammit. He’s going to have to clean those up. He’s going to have to clean up all of this mess.
Deep breaths. Keep your cool. You’ve got this.
He can’t help but feel a knot in his chest as the sound of Blake Dent’s voice continues to play, as the barrage of tweets publicises his viral video.
One of his favourite authors, Bill Swigg, tweets in favour of Blake.
Mark Romanek—shit, one of his all-time favourite directors.
All laughing at him.
All mocking him.
All exposing his real identity: James Scotts.
But then he sees the glass on the floor. Through the reddening in his eyes, his hazing vision, he sees the glass and he knows what he has to do.
He stands up. Kicks back the plastic chair.
So Blake Dent wants to play? He wants to fucking play?
James Scotts lifts up a sharp shard of glass from the floor. Squeezes it so tightly that it digs into his palm, slices his hand, sends blood dripping to the floor.
He smiles. Smiles as the fizzing pain works its way through his body.
He smiles because he has a new plan.
“Thank you, Blake Dent. That’s—that’s it. That’s it!”
He can’t help but laugh as he squeezes the glass tighter, as warm blood trickles down his arm. Blake Dent is a genius. He’s raised the bar. Showed James Scotts how things should be done.
So now it is time to raise the bar even higher.
He stops squeezing the glass.
Sucks on the metallic tasting wound on his hand.
And then he opens the door back to where Subject C is.
Stares at her bruised neck, her shivering naked body, her glassy eyes.
Time to return the strong return of service.
Time to become a star.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Martha pulled up outside José’s Waxwork Route for the second time today.
Only this time, I was even more of an internet sensation than ever.
“Jesus, Blake—James-bloody-Clarks is even tweeting about Danielle. You know how big this is, right?”
I stared at the dusty, worn-down entrance to José’s. Listened to the sound of my watch ticking away, the sickly taste of anticipation building in my mouth. “Now might not be a good time to tell him I didn’t enjoy the latest series of First Gear.”
“Gotta hand it to you, hun,” Martha said, as she tapped around on the screen of her new smartphone. She looked like an elephant playing piano. “I thought this might work, but… but this. It’s crazy. Shit—look.” She pointed the phone so close to my face that I had to back away to refocus.
I looked at the red dots spread all over Britain, most of them around Preston. “What’s this?”
“Heat map sort of thing. With James Scotts’ known locations. And… shit—look at this.” She prodded the phone in my face again. Banged the screen against my nose.
A blurry, dark zoomed-in photograph. “What’s…”
And then it clicked. She didn’t need to tell me.
The two men outside the police station. One of them with a bald head and wide eyes, the other with dark, floppy hair.
“James Scotts and Damon Watts.”
“So we know they were in contact. Hell, why don’t the police put out public enquiries more often? Viral hashtags could resolve crime forever.”
I opened up the side door to the Audi TT. “Because people on social media only care about good causes for about nine hours. Which is fortunate, because that’s about all I’ve got to save Danielle. See you in a bit.”
“You be okay?” Martha asked, as I stepped out of the car and into the rain. The air smelled earthy, fresh.
“Yeah.” I lifted a pound coin and showed it to Martha. “In case Granny Sugartits wants a bribe.”
Martha shook her head, and I closed the door.
I stepped back inside José’s Waxwork Route. I knew what I had to do. I had to get inside James Scotts’ studio. Preferably before the police even clocked on that he had a studio.
And that meant getting past the old mare on reception.
I walked across the dusty black and white tiles of reception area. Approached the old wooden desk. The air was strong with damp, and my footsteps echoed on the solid ground.
Sugartits was sitting at the desk. Through her thick-rimmed glasses, she peered at me, like she recognised my face but couldn’t place it.
I forced my biggest smile. “Hello there. I was here—”
“You ran off earlier, didn’t you?”
Sugartits’ snappy response caught my tongue. “Yeah. I… I had to go back to work to do some—”
“You can’t see James Scotts’ studio. Not now he’s a wanted man. Nope. Got to wait for the police.”
I noticed a tablet computer beside Sugartits. She had the news open. My bloody face was on the viral video. I felt like an unrecognised celebrity, felt like asking her, “Do you know who I am?”
“The video,” I said, pointing at Sugartits’ tablet computer. “That’s… that’s my video. I’m Blake Dent.”
“Blake Dent or no Blake Dent, we’re waiting for the police.”
She clicked away on her ancient computer keyboard. Didn’t even look at me.
I tensed my jaw. “If you’ve seen the video, you’ll know that’s not possible. I have to avoid the police.”
“Look, Mister.” Sugartits turned from her computer, glared at me again. “You’re not looking around James Scotts’ studio until the police have been here. You could tamper with evidence. Incriminate the entire waxwork studio.”
My smile faltered. Was this nutjob for real? “I… I respect what you’re saying. But—”
“If you respect what I’m saying, you’ll turn around and leave.”
My mouth hung open. I stared at Sugartits and tried to formulate a response, but I just couldn’t.
“Fine,” I said, clueless as to my next step. I started to turn away. “Fine. Just…”
Before I turned away, I noticed something.
On the desk in front of Sugartits, there was a key. A very large key with a white tag on the back of it.
And written on the white tag: Scotts, spare.
I looked up at Sugartits. Hoped she hadn’t noticed me looking at the key.
I started to walk back to her again. “You know, I’m sorry for inconveniencing you,” I said. I looked to my right—looked at the row of wooden studio doors, like a hotel of weirdness.
“We all have our stressful days,” Sugartits said. She was still looking at me with scepticism, though. Like she didn’t fully trust me.
I smiled at her. Lowered my eyes to her ancient, wrinkly breasts. My cheeks got hot. “I, er… good if we had a way to de-stress, eh?”
Sugartits looked down at her breasts. She, too, blushed, then looked back up at me. She grabbed her breasts with her wrinkly old hands. “Well I’m sure there are ways we can—Hey!”
I grabbed the keys from the desk and sprinted down towards the studios.
I heard Sugartits shouting at me but it didn’t matter. I was already running full pelt towards the doors. I looked at the key. Looked at the white tag dangling from it. Studio 8. Studio 6 was just on the right. Then Studio 7. Then…
8.
I stopped. Took a quick look back where I’d come from. Sugartits was still at her desk, but she was calling someone. She was on the phone.
The police. Shit.
I stuck the key into the Studio 8 door. Struggled and struggled to turn it. Thought for a minute maybe I’d got the wrong door, or made some sort of mistake.
And then the lock clicked and the door creaked open.
I was met with the horrible stench of damp
, old dried paint and rotting. It was dark in the studio, so I couldn’t see what was causing the smell. I fumbled around the hard wall of the cool room, tried to find a switch.
And then I found one.
I held my breath. Held my breath, looked back at Sugartits, who was lurking at the edge of her desk looking very het up.
And I hit the switch.
The room lit up very brightly. So brightly that I couldn’t make a thing out at first.
But when I did, I knew I was on the right track with this place.
The windowless room was filled with wax models. Wax models of men with knives sticking out of their necks. Of women with their legs spread open, weird metal contraptions pinning their mouths open.
Blood red paint covered the walls.
“Don’t think the police won’t arrest you for this, Mister,” Sugartits said, her voice getting closer. “Because I’m telling you now, you’re in big… Oh.”
She stopped at the door. Her eyes widened. Her mouth dropped.
“This… Mr. Scotts didn’t… He never usually made things like—like this.”
I walked around the room. Walked past the painfully detailed faces, all in agony. Walked past the man with the sharper end of a hammer wedged in his wax skull.
Walked past the woman with a thick, green hose around her neck.
There was a worrying sense of decay in the room. An authenticity about the place. That, matched with the realistic wax models… it felt like I’d walked into a torture chamber, not a waxworks.
Sugartits sniffed up. Sniffed, and covered her mouth, like she couldn’t believe anyone would abuse her wonderful wax in these ways. “He just… He seemed such a lovely man. Such a—a normal man.”
I nodded. Looked around. Heard engines pulling up outside. I knew they were the police. I knew I had to get out of here. I couldn’t give James Scotts an excuse to punish Danielle, not now the stakes had changed. I wondered how he’d reacted to my video. If he’d even seen it.
Deep down, a part of me felt like he had, and that he hated it.
“Tell the police I was here,” I said. “But please. Tell them to contact officer Lenny Kole. He’ll… he’ll explain everything to them.” I walked away. Walked past the man with a knife in his throat, towards the woman with the green hose around her neck. “Is there a back door in here?”
Sugartits stared glassy-eyed at the woman who was splayed out on the floor. These wax models were so realistic, they suggested a knowledge from James Scotts. A knowledge and understanding of what the tortured, the dead, really looked like.
I got a sour taste in my mouth.
I couldn’t let Danielle become another sick fantasy of James Scotts.
“Hey,” I said, raising my voice. “A back door?”
Sugartits sniffed up and nodded, still focused on the wax models. “Just… out the door to your right. Oh my. This… this horrible man. Why would he do these things?”
“If we had the answer to that, there’d be no such bloody thing as serial killers.”
I made for the door as car doors slammed shut outside.
But just before I left, something caught my eye.
It was on the hose. On the green hose snaked around the dark-haired woman’s neck. Little silver lettering.
My chest rose and my arms tingled and shook.
Written on the wax hose, as accurate as anything, was: PROPERTY OF HARVERS.
Harvers. Harvers Garages.
Another clue. Another breadcrumb.
I rushed out of James Scotts’ studio just as the police entered reception. I noticed them, and then I walked to the metal fire escape, not once looking back. I held my breath as I opened the fire escape. Prayed to God an alarm didn’t go off and alert the whole bloody street to my whereabouts.
It didn’t.
I jogged out into the fresh air. Stopped by the side wall to check no police were around Martha’s Audi TT, which they weren’t. I kept my head down as cars sped past on the busy road. Jogged towards the car.
Harvers Garages. I needed to look into Harvers Garages in Preston. That could be something. A clue.
I opened the passenger door and threw myself into the seat.
“Jesus, Martha. Sugartits didn’t demand a tit-suck, but she was intense. Got past her in the end though. James Scotts’ studio is filled with weird wax murder recreations. But get this—on the hose, there’s a name. Harvers. Like, Harvers Garages, you know?”
I looked at Martha for the first time since getting back into the car. She’d been silent up to now.
She was staring, wide-eyed, at her phone screen. Her cheeks were pale. She was still.
“Martha?”
She blinked a few times. Blinked, the moisture returning to her eyes. She looked at me. Licked her dry lips. Tilted the phone in my direction.
“You’re… you’re going to want to see this, hun,” she said.
I felt confusion inside. “What is it? Something to do with my video? Something… another bloody big celebrity got in on the tweeting?”
She placed the phone into my hand. Tapped the top of my hand with her palm as she did, like you’d pat a dog you’d considered adopting but decided they were just not cute enough.
“What is it?” I asked.
She tapped on the screen. A video started playing.
“It’s Hose’s response,” Martha said. “James Scotts’ response to your video.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I had a bad feeling about this video just from the look on Martha’s face.
When I hit play, I had an even worse feeling.
I stared at the screen of Martha’s smartphone as we sat in her Audi TT outside of José’s Waxwork Route. She’d said something about James Scotts filming a response video. A response to my call to action against him.
And here it was.
The video opened with a shot of the black metal container that I’d seen on the first videotape—the one of James Scotts’ wife. It was in the middle of a dimly lit room, which I figured was the same dimly lit room as the one James Scotts had called from earlier.
“On second thoughts, I er… maybe it’s best if I just tell you what happens, hun,” Martha said.
“No. I… I’m watching this.”
She sighed, as the video rolled on.
Somebody stepped into the frame. They were dressed all in black, just like Hose had been in all his earlier videos. He stood in front of the metal container, hands behind his back, completely covered up.
“Hello, Twitter,” he said, through his vocal modifier. “And hello, Blake Dent.”
And then he started to take his coat off. He took his black gloves off, detached some electronic device around his neck, and then he reached for the bottom of his black wooly hat that covered his face and he lifted.
When I saw James Scotts hiding underneath the hat, all of my suspicions—everything I knew—was confirmed.
Except he didn’t look scared.
He was smiling.
Smiling, like he’d wanted me to post a bloody viral video all along.
“As you’ll no doubt be aware, I’m James Scotts,” he said, his voice unaffected now he’d removed his vocal modifier. “First of all, I’d like to thank Blake Dent for making this challenge so exciting. The first two subjects, well. The same can’t be said for those. Although I suppose Subject A was my loving wife, so I was hardly going to save her. Nobody was.”
He cracked another smile. His piercing eyes stared right into the camera.
“The truth is, I wanted a challenge. I wanted a chase. And that’s exactly what Blake Dent is giving me. So again, thank you, Blake. Thank you for publicising me. Thank you for making me a viral star. That’s exactly what I wanted.”
He stepped away from the metal compartment. Looked at it, grin on his face.
“Hun, you might not want to—”
“Shh!” My heart pounded, and my throat called out for cough sweets. I was watching this. I needed to watch this.
&
nbsp; “At first, I was a little annoyed. Annoyed at Blake Dent for exposing me. Annoyed at him for revealing my identity. I didn’t think he had it in him, even though he is Preston’s little hero. But now, I’m pleased. Delighted, in fact. Because it gives us an opportunity to see how our hero rises to a challenge. A new challenge.”
He reached for the front of the metal container and opened up a door.
When I saw what was inside, I couldn’t help but gasp, my stomach loosening.
Danielle was inside the metal container. She was completely naked, and her arms and legs were tied to the back of the container. James Scotts smiled and held his arm out, like he was a magician presenting a trick.
“Above Danielle’s head, we have a hose. A hose that will release a small amount of water every single time a tweet goes out in favour of Blake Dent’s little viral video. A hose that will switch on permanently if the police or the government get themselves actively involved. A hose that will drown Danielle if anybody, anywhere, tries anything stupid.”
Fuck. “Bastard. Bastard.”
“With the door shut, this container is watertight,” James Scotts said, tapping on the metal and making Danielle flinch. “So please. Don’t think I’m lying. I have no reason to lie.”
My vision blurred. I wanted to get out of this boiling car. I needed to find James Scotts. Needed to get to Danielle. Shit. Shit.
“If I find any of you tweeting or YouTubing about this silly little ‘Save Danielle’ campaign, I’ll come to your house and I will kill you in your sleep. But only after I’ve put you through a world of pain. Please don’t think I’m lying, again. I have too much fun killing.”
James Scotts’ voice was drifting over my head now, as I stared at Danielle, alone, terrified.
“This task is for Blake Dent, and for Blake Dent alone. So Mr. Dent—I applaud your creativity with your little video. But you don’t set the rules. You never have set the rules. I do. And here’s a reminder.”
“Blake, hun,” Martha said. “Look away now.”
James Scotts stepped up to Danielle and pulled out a knife.
“And as another reminder, I’m giving you four hours to save Danielle, Blake Dent. Four hours, cutting your time in half. Well. Four hours, or whenever she drowns based on that little viral video of yours. Whichever comes first.”
