Masks

by Dean M. Drinkel

  Dean M Drinkel is an author, editor, poet, award-winning script-writer, and theatre & film director. More about Dean can be found at deanmdrinkelauthor.blogspot.co.uk, ellupofilms.com and in Issue 331 of Fangoria.

  Masks

  edited by Dean M Drinkel

  Great British Horror Books

  www.GreatBritishHorror.com

  First published in the UK by Black Shuck Books,

  an imprint of Great British Horror Books, 2015

  Collection and editorial material © Dean M Drinkel, 2015

  PORCELAIN © 2015 James Everington

  BLOOD & GINGERBREAD © 2015 D T Griffith

  THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND FACES © 2015 Chris Stokes

  VARIETY NIGHT © 2015 Russell Proctor

  AFTER THE END, THE BEGINNING © 2015 Christine Morgan and Lucas Williams

  THE MAN WHO FED THE FOXES © 2015 Phil Sloman

  MANY HAPPY RETURNS © 2015 Kyle Rader

  TRIXIE © 2015 Christopher Beck

  THE FACE COLLECTOR © 2015 Stephanie Ellis

  AN ABSENT HOST © F A Nosić

  THE SILENCING MACHINE © 2015 Clockhouse London Writers

  HIS LAST PORTRAIT © 2015 Adrian Cole

  THE JAR BY THE DOOR © 2015 Icy Sedgwick

  Cover art © 2015 James Powell

  Cover & interior layout © 2015 Great British Horror

  The right of Dean M Drinkel to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known of hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  For Romain

  And In Memory of James Powell

  “There are misfortunes in life that no-one will accept; people would rather believe in the supernatural and the impossible.”

  Alexandre Dumas, The Man In The Iron Mask

  “A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession.”

  Albert Camus

  “I am accustomed to sleep and in my dreams to imagine the same things that lunatics imagine when awake”

  René Descartes

  Contents

  FOREWORD

  PORCELAIN

  BLOOD & GINGERBREAD

  THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND FACES

  VARIETY NIGHT

  AFTER THE END, THE BEGINNING

  THE MAN WHO FED THE FOXES

  MANY HAPPY RETURNS

  TRIXIE

  THE FACE COLLECTOR

  AN ABSENT HOST

  THE SILENCING MACHINE

  HIS LAST PORTRAIT

  THE JAR BY THE DOOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE ARTIST

  FOREWORD

  Typical: when it came to writing these words I started to over intellectualise what I wanted to say, so about five hundred words in I ripped up the piece of paper and started again – you see Gentle Reader, it was you I was thinking about and you didn’t want to be reading all that nonsense, no, you want to start reading the amazing stories that follow as quickly as possible...and that’s fair enough, who am I to argue?

  While I have you for this brief moment, I’ll tell you this...it was around the end of 2014 that I was speaking to Theresa Derwin about working with her and KnightWatch Press on a future project and when we discussed MASKS, I was very intrigued. After a shake of hands we did an open submission call and boy, we were overwhelmed by the number of stories we received but also the high quality. There really are some talented writers out there.

  The thirteen tales that follow are of an excellent standard – so cheers to all those that did submit (I honestly enjoyed every one I read) – and let’s raise a glass of the good stuff to those that eventually made the cut.

  As I said in the opening paragraph, I was going to write a treatise about ‘masks’, what types of masks exist, why we wear masks, the purpose of a mask etc etc but you know what? Forget that! Instead, why not read actor Doug Bradley’s amazing book on that very subject because it is far superior to anything I could have written (Behind The Mask Of A Horror Actor - Titan Books, 2004) – Doug I raise a glass to you too.

  While I’m thanking people, I would like to give a massive hug to the following because in their own way (some small, some large) their DNA is flowing throughout the anthology:

  Vincent; Tom; Nathalie & Lionel; Chris; The Station Tavern; Gary; Martin B; Thomas; Stephan; Christophe; Olly; Dave J; James H; Tom & Dustin; Barbie; Brandon Flowers; Nick Jonas; Madonna; Justin B; FFS; Fleetwood Mac; Of Monsters and Men; Isabella Rossellini; Gaspar Noé; Mario Götze; Tom Carroll; Harry Winks; Jack Grealish; Brinn Bevan; Karis Thomas; Sheena McHugh; Joe Woolford; Sam Strike; Danny Purvis; Scott Neal; Martin Delaney; Chris Hall; Jim McLeod; Ray Macallan; Martyn Conterio; Martin Richmond; Niven, Janine, Emily and Sarah; Mother; Simon, Harriet, Charley; Nigel, Zac & Alex; Sinead;

  And to Clive Barker, who set me on this path in the first place.

  Finally, I must mention cover artist James Powell who, with his girlfriend and mother, was killed in a car accident whilst I was compiling and editing this book. James and I had worked on a number of projects since he produced the cover for my first ever anthology (Phobophobia – Dark Continents 2011) and I was extremely lucky to work with him many times since – he just got what we wanted him to do with the minimum of fuss or stress – and when it came to choosing an artist for MASKS, for me, it was a no-brainer. I spoke to Theresa who immediately agreed and one email to James later; the answer was a great big: “Yes brother, anything for you.”

  Take a look at the cover in your hands, I’m sure you will agree, he has done me, he has done us, proud.

  James, as always, I salute you brother. Respect due. Wherever you are right now, I’m sure you are enjoying yourself, we miss you already.

  Apt then Gentle Reader, for right now I too wear a mask, a mask of grief so let me be...I need to be on my own a while...I’ll leave you to it, to enjoy the stories that follow.

  Thank you for reading, thank you for purchasing and supporting indie-presses!

  We really, really do appreciate it.

  Dean M Drinkel

  The French House, Dean Street, Soho, London

  May 2015

  PORCELAIN

  James Everington

  As they entered the pub, Spencer was relieved to see all the faces that turned to glance at them were white.

  You could never tell in this neighbourhood nowadays.

  “Don't worry, you'll be alright in here,” Phil said, noticing. “Grab a table. I'll get a round in.”

  Spencer sat down with his back to most of the pub's clientele; he was still clutching the National Pride Party leaflet he had been given at the meeting.

  The party was one of the small ones always counted as 'Others' in the polls, and Spencer had gone along to a meeting not because he cared about politics but because he wondered if there could be people like him there.

  He had gone with no illusions; the party officially said it wasn't racist just anti-immigration, but everyone knew.

  And Spencer had seen the mask slip as the meeting had progressed, the initial talk of border controls and
quotas changing to that of 'dirty immigrants' and tabloid fantasy.

  Spencer had felt some affinity with what was being said or with the tone of it at least...but it wasn't the same, didn't quite align with what he felt when he saw an alien face on the street or had to leave a shop without his change lest the hand that offered it was brown.

  “Bloody barman,” Phil said, splashing the pints down. “Bloody student. He won't last more than a few weeks working here.”

  Spencer didn't know what the barman had done to offend. There was insecurity behind Phil's anger, he knew, behind that of all of the National Pride members.

  An insecurity - both economic and cultural - not that they'd ever admit to it.

  Phil was a large man, although from fat or muscle it was hard to say, and he had a round, almost babyish face that didn't seem to match the aggressive, aggrieved tone of his voice.

  Spencer didn't know why he'd come with Phil after the meeting; he supposed it had been in the hope that this man who had latched on would be the same as him underneath.

  Spencer didn't care about immigration; truly didn't care, if he stopped to think about it, what colour people were.

  Intellectually, he knew people of other races and nationalities were just trying to get along and had done nothing to wrong him. It was just...it was just, when he saw their faces in the street something in him reacted before thought, and he would have to look away.

  He would feel sick, his face tingling as with a rash; he'd have to pull at his collar as if short for air. And afterwards he'd feel weak and ashamed at his own weakness, with a revulsion to others too deeply ingrained to analyse.

  Feeling lately that it was getting worse, he had hoped to find others like him.

  After a few drinks, Phil started telling Spencer secrets that Spencer wasn't sure he wanted to be entrusted with.

  How Phil and 'some lads' had kicked a black boy unconscious in an alley in town, or how he had mailed shit and blood to a local mosque.

  No way, Spencer thought, looking at the babyish face across from him. Bullshit. It was as if the other man's lips weren't quite in synch with the words he was saying.

  “Of course, you'd never get your hands dirty with something like that,” Phil said - Spencer's earlier revelation that he worked in an office had been treated as if it was some kind of tolerable weakness. “But you could still help out. Help posting leaflets, knock on a few doors?”

  Spencer realised Phil was lonely too, and was clumsily offering friendship.

  The other man's smile as Spencer reluctantly agreed seemed lopsided and too low on his face.

  ~~~

  It was a hot day, and one that the fat, pasty members of the National Pride Party did not seem well adapted for.

  They were all in a bad mood from trudging around in the heat and being met with looks of incomprehension or hostility when they knocked on a door.

  Spencer didn't knock, he just shoved the leaflets through letterboxes - he hadn't mentioned the misplaced apostrophes to Phil, knowing how much pride his friend took in what he had written.

  Spencer had hoped to get through the day without having to engage with anyone, but as he'd walked up the pathway to one of the final houses on his route, the front door opened as if to greet him.

  Spencer looked up and saw a smug-looking student-type, and as he saw the man's features he felt the familiar and helpless revulsion. They just didn't look right; their faces didn't look at all right.

  “Oh it's you lot,” the man sneered. “National Pride. Funny, for people so apparently proud of your country you seem awfully insecure about it.”

  It was obviously a rehearsed speech, but Spencer barely heard it. He had stopped halfway up the path and his skin was prickling; his head felt fuzzy and like he would collapse with the heat.

  The man stepped off his doorway and towards Spencer.

  “C'mon then,” he was saying, “let's see what lies you're peddling this time...”

  “Get away,” Spencer said under his breath. The man was still coming towards him, arms outstretched.

  “C'mon, give me a one of your leaflets, isn't that why...”

  “Get away from me, you Paki,” Spencer said, looking up. The man stopped, lowered his arms.

  “What did you call me?” he said, his eyes blinking rapidly.

  “Fucking Paki,” Spencer was backing away, suddenly yelling the word. His revulsion felt like something burst inside of him.

  He felt hands grab him from behind and he almost lashed out, when he turned to see a face that he didn't recognise.

  “What the fuck's got into you?” Phil was saying. The bigger man forcibly led him away; one arm around his shoulder like Spencer was a stubborn child. Spencer could smell dank sweat but wasn't sure if it was Phil or himself.

  “Bloody lunatics!” the student called, and slammed closed his door.

  “Sorry, I'm sorry,” Spencer said. “But those kind of people make me feel...you know how it is,” he added desperately, wanting it to be true.

  “Well, yeah, those bloody students,” Phil said. “But you were fucking mental mate, and why were you calling him a Paki?”

  Spencer feigned a laugh, trying to hide the weakness he still felt. “You sound like one of the politically correct lot, why do you care what I called the bastard?”

  His voice sounded like someone else's. He saw Phil's face move through several ill-fitting expressions.

  “Well yeah, but that bloke was white,” he said.

  ~~~

  Spencer stopped attending the National Pride meetings; he called in sick at work, drew his curtains and unplugged his TV, and resolved to go as long as he could without going outside.

  He had enough tinned and frozen food to last a week, if he tried.

  Going outside seemed increasingly intolerable, for he was no longer sure which faces would set off the sick trembling that left him so weak afterwards.

  It was no longer just the obvious foreigners, although Spencer assumed that the student must have had some foreign blood in him, to have caused him such a reaction.

  As he sat in his flat and brooded, Spencer clung to the word 'racism' and the National Pride leaflets as the only explanations he had for how he was.

  On the fifth day of his isolation the knocking at his door came out of the blue, too loud and shaking the door in its frame.

  He wished whoever it was would just leave, but then he heard someone call his name. It was a voice he recognised but although he had no problems picturing Phil's heavy fists against the door, it took him some time to remember the other man's face.

  “C'mon mate open up!” Phil shouted. “You okay?”

  Spencer reluctantly went to open the door; it was only Phil and he knew Phil was alright.

  And Phil had come to see if he was okay; maybe he had been too hasty in stopping attending the meetings...he opened the door before his friend could bang on it again.

  “Hello mate,” Phil said, peering at him.

  Spencer was stunned. Phil no longer looked the same. It was like a mirror; Phil now had Spencer's face. Spencer felt nothing but a distant sense of shock, as if his real reactions were buried and hidden even from him.

  “Can I come in?” Phil said (his voice was still the same). “Got a petition to sign if you want?”

  Wordlessly, Spencer took a step backwards to let the bigger man in; Phil's body and even his head were his own, it was just the face that was different, as if he were wearing a perfectly sculpted mask of Spencer's own features.

  Phil was patting his pockets and Spencer used this as an excuse to go into the kitchen, mumbling that he'd get a pen to sign whatever petition Phil was going on about.

  From the other room he could still hear Phil's voice, already high in complaint about Romanians and Lefties.

  It just sounded like Phil.

  You must have been mistaken, Spencer thought, you've locked yourself away for days and the light was bad and…you were mistaken, that's all.

 
; But when he went back into the hall and saw his own face turn to greet him he realised it was no mistake.

  As Phil turned his head it looked like his face - Spencer's face - didn't seem to move quite in time with it. It jerked; it jarred. Like a mask. There was something intolerable about it.

  “Mate what are you doing?” Phil said quietly, and Spencer looked down to see that what he had brought from the kitchen wasn't a pen at all, but a screwdriver.

  He was surprised, as he tried to prise the mask from Phil's face, that there was blood; he must have nicked him as he struggled.

  But eventually he did get the mask off - Spencer turned it in his hands in wonder; it felt cool and rigid like porcelain, but it was the slenderest, most delicate thing he had ever held.

  It was perfectly smooth, pure white on the front but mother of pearl on the reverse. When it slipped from his hands he half-expected it to fade away, but it fell to the floor and shattered.

  When he looked back at Phil, who lay face upwards, he gasped - for underneath the mask he had removed was another one, another mask of Spencer's own face.

  It was equally intolerable to him and Spencer set to work again.

  It was easier the second time for although Phil's hands flapped against the carpet he no longer struggled.

  Maybe Phil actually wants to be rid of the mask as well, Spencer thought. After all, how would it be to have another being's face?

  Underneath the second mask was a third, and underneath that...after the fifth came off Spencer gave up; the faces seemed never ending, and Phil had long since stopped moving.

  Spencer dropped the screwdriver to the floor and wiped the sweat from his face, unknowingly smearing himself with mother of pearl as he did so.

  All around him were the shards of masks, and a faint white, sparkling dust hung in the air from each one he had dropped and shattered.