Whispers - Volume 1: A Collection

by Keane, Stuart

  Tom didn’t take his eyes off his mother. "Yes."

  "Good, just you then. I thought someone else was in here. Remember, do as you please." He merged back into the shadows.

  "Tom, what's going on? Am I hallucinating? Is this a nightmare?"

  "You wish it was a nightmare." Tom took a step back, his eyes burning a hole through his useless mother. She took a cautious step forward. Tom chuckled. "Your substance abuse isn't going to save you now."

  "Mind your language, young…"

  Pamela's legs flipped backwards, out from under her, she fell forward, and her chin struck the hard floor with a solid, jarring thunk. The breath shot out of her, and she coughed. Blood and teeth splattered the floor, turning the stark whiteness a bright scarlet.

  "You're a shit mother."

  Pamela's head rose and smacked the white floor once again, this time a wet splat filled the air. More blood pattered across the white tiles. It glowed, nearly florescent in the brightness. Pamela groaned as Tom stepped forwards.

  "You know how many times I wished for you to come into my room and kiss me goodnight? Just once? I wished a hundred times, a thousand fucking times. However, in my entire life, you never did. Even when Dad was around, you never popped in to say goodnight."

  Pamela stared up at her son, blood and enamel dropping from her lips. A pink bubble of spit inflated from her nostril and popped across her cheek. "I'm sorry…I'm…you know I'm no good at the…

  "Being a mother, sure, I know. I'm living proof of it, Mother. You're fucking useless. I get more love from Jeeves over there, and he only met me five minutes ago. No, love for me, your son, went out of the window when you killed Dad."

  "I didn’t kill your father…"

  "You did. I saw you do it."

  Silence filled the room.

  "He wouldn’t satiate your drug habit so you injected an air bubble into his veins and passed it off as an accident or natural causes. I saw you do it. I heard you plan it with your cunt boyfriend. You bitch."

  Pamela groaned. "Shit, I need some…"

  "Well, you ain't getting anything. Capiche?"

  Pamela looked up and started to cry.

  A darkness filled Tom's eyes.

  "Goodbye, Mother."

  A sickening creak filled the air. Pamela howled and her hands shot to her skull, clasping over her forehead. After a second, blood poured from her nostrils, then her eyes, and finally her ears. She rolled over, screaming. Her left eyeball dislodged from its socket and hung out on the optic nerve, bouncing against her bloody cheek. The creaking grew louder and a brutal snap crushed her brain within her skull as her head imploded, spraying blood and membrane all over the white floor. A spurt hit Tom in the face.

  He didn’t move. Didn’t react.

  Pamela toppled to the floor in a bloody mess, viscera and sinew spilling to the floor below. A wet squelch sounded as her body landed in the pool of bright blood.

  Tom turned to Jeeves.

  Jeeves grinned. "Well done."

  Tom said nothing.

  "I have good news, Tom. Frankly, we’re impressed. We expected you to pull in Bull or the pimp, but not your own mother. Impressive. And the way you dispatched her, well…" Jeeves clapped.

  Tom nodded. "She hasn't been my mother for a long time. Besides, I would rather do it than let the smack take her. I couldn’t allow her to get off lightly. She killed my father and she needed to pay."

  Jeeves nodded. "Yes, which is why we're giving you one more shot. You upped the stakes. Now, you can choose a second person to bring in here and do as you please. One more. Deal or no deal?" Jeeves swiped the air and the blood disappeared from the white tiles. Pamela's corpse slid into the shadows off to the left.

  Tom smirked. "Deal."

  Almost instantly, Bull, dressed in only his briefs, fell a few feet into the room and slapped the floor. The boy groaned. Tom turned around and danced a few steps forward.

  Bull's head snapped back, a resounding thunk filled the air. Spit and blood misted in the air, floating to the ground slowly. Bull saw Tom approach.

  Tom crouched down and glanced at his foe. He looked a lot less threatening on the floor, with pink spit dribbling down his chin. "Hi, Bull. Remember me?"

  Bull said nothing, simply whimpering.

  "Look." Tom held out an empty hand. "No lunch money. Suppose you have to punish me, huh?"

  Again, Bull said nothing. He wet his pants, piss sluiced from his leg holes, pooling across the white floor. Tom noticed. "My friend over there, see him? The butler?"

  Jeeves waved in the campest fashion, mocking Bull.

  "He takes offense to bodily fluids on the furniture."

  Bull cried.

  "Bull, I would like you meet my friend, Blade. I think he'd like to go to town on you."

  Tom moved his right hand into view. His fingers had turned into an array of blades and weapons. At the thought of it, his little finger twisted into a drill shape.

  "You were right about one thing: My mother was a whore. However, I'm not a cunt. You are. I'm a fucking God. And right now, you need to say a fucking prayer."

  Bull yelped as the drill whirred to life.

  "Tomorrow, Cunt? No, there's no tomorrow where you're going."

  Bull closed his eyes. He screamed.

  "I'm going to enjoy this."

  For the first time that evening, Hell filled with the screams of the suffering.

  Pieces

  A high-pitched whirring sound awakens my senses and brings me back to consciousness. Its intrusion is violent, and it makes my head throb.

  A flashing synapse of pain forces my eyes closed before I try to sit up. I don’t move, can't move, my body disobeying my orders.

  I have to sit up, I think. However, my body defies me.

  A stoic hand brushes my face. I jump, flinch, recoil. The hand doesn’t move. It feels cool and…plastic.

  What is this? I twist my neck since the arm attached to it is reaching over my shoulder.

  The arm finishes at the elbow, sliced cleanly. I can see the bone in the muscle, a small circle of white in a larger circle of red. The arm has been severed cleanly.

  That’s when I realise it's a human arm.

  I try to scream but my vocal cords thrash with the sound of silence.

  The shock makes me shuffle right. I can't sit up, but my arms seem to work. I can pull myself away from the horror. As I do, the larger picture comes into view. I can't feel it but I swear I just pissed myself.

  The arm is one of many, hundreds, maybe thousands, all piled in the corner. I see arms and legs and hands and torsos and heads. The heads are disturbing; they're hollowed out, no eyes or tongues. Skulls dressed in leathery skin, hair still attached. As I glance from one to the other, every piece is different. Some have eyes, some are bald, some have their necks still attached. One thing is familiar; every piece is sliced cleanly. No ragged edges, no tears or uneven lines.

  No blood. No muscle.

  Surely there should be some blood? Bodies make a mess. If they're human, where is the evidence? I shake my head, hoping this is a bizarre dream. The image remains. The arm topples to the floor, dislodging a torso. It rolls to the ground. All of the limbs have been removed, same clean removal, the body resembles a Ken doll, no genitalia. It's human, it's unmistakable. The body is tattooed, ripped and pierced. I feel bile rising in my throat.

  "Like what you see?" The voice breaks my concentration. I turn to look across the room. A man is standing there in a white coat. He's paying attention to something before him. He places a bone saw on the desk. "I like to keep the cuts clean. Makes it easier to assemble them later. Like dolls, only human sized. Better companions too. The tea parties are the best."

  He holds up a leg, severed at the thigh. Everything is clean. The toenails painted red; the silver ankle bracelet dangles on the shiny, smooth skin. He paints it with some white liquid. Wax? Plastic feel. That must be it.

  I recognise the bracelet.

  It's mi
ne.

  I look down.

  See my missing leg, severed at the thigh.

  My silent vocal cords nearly tear as I scream myself into unconsciousness.

  No Laughing Matter

  (AKA Coulrophobic)

  I'd been waiting seventeen minutes.

  That's when he arrived.

  The sight of him brings on a mini panic attack. I control myself, managing to stay still, to remain unnoticed. I take one look at him, hatred burning in my veins.

  Cunt, my mind screams. On the outside, I'm calm, a normal Londoner.

  In reality, I'm from Iowa and my target is on a business trip overseas. Connecticut to London, two week stop over. Probably big business.

  Inside, my guts are twisting, I have a clusterfuck of a headache that makes my temples pound. It’s a lot better than remembering the events that transpired, the events that bring me here. I touch my head with my fingertips and it pulses beneath.

  Calm. Subside. In due course.

  I'm sitting in one of those 'cute' cafes on the corner. The ones filled with students spending taxpayer's money, wannabe writers who write in public and – let's face it – get fuck all done. The strong aroma of coffee and pastry is normally welcoming on my nostrils.

  Not today.

  Today I have other things on my mind.

  The only thing I smell is revenge.

  ***

  London, an easy place to vanish if you don’t go out of your way to stand out. By that, I mean you sit down, drink a coffee, read a paper and blend in. You become one with the mystique, darkness and the buzz of the city. It's easily done.

  My target, who just walked by and took a seat facing the Gap store over the road, doesn’t blend in. Blending in is two-fold. You either do it naturally or you try to with the intention of remaining inconspicuous.

  Then there's the third option.

  You stand out. Show off. If you have money, for example; a fucking yuppie, you want to shout and brag.

  And that's what Mr. Porter does.

  He pulls out his mobile phone, the newest iPhone. I remember him having a previous version when we spoke before, seventeen months ago today. I remember hating him for it then and I definitely hate him for it now. For other reasons.

  My head pounds again, the memory trying to force itself back into my consciousness. I fight it off. I may lose this battle. I chug a mouthful of lukewarm latte and swallow hard. It eases the pain slightly.

  Mr. Porter is talking, every movement exaggerated, as if he's doing a seminar to a bunch of clients. His American accent is an octave too high; it attracts the attention of one or two bystanders.

  Including me. Yet, I'm watching him anyway.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  My moment will present itself.

  I turn the page of my newspaper, looking down, blending in.

  He doesn’t know I'm here.

  He doesn’t know because he thinks I'm dead.

  Seventeen Months Ago

  The demons in my head torment me.

  Daily.

  Hourly.

  They are insistent and they don’t stop. As a collective, they'll never stop.

  I know this because I'm not that fucking lucky.

  As I sit here, in the mid-afternoon sun, with my cheap white make-up, my faded, battered red nose and my saggy clown costume, I feel the sweat tricking down my back, my sack and my crack. My red, fluffy hair/wig provides mild shade of relief from the scorching sun.

  My predicament is simple.

  I'm in a rich part of town because some spoilt little shit wanted a clown for his ninth birthday, that and a petting zoo. As I stand here now alone and bored, I see the animals and the children. They couldn’t give a shit. Several have tablet devices in their hands, oblivious to the reality happening around them. I see two, not exchanging a word, typing to one another. From three feet away. Their amused gazes to one another give the game away.

  What happened to society? What happened to a good old chat?

  The buzz from my morning coffee, laced with Buffalo Trace – my favourite bourbon – and half a dozen painkillers is no longer keeping me sane. Or smiling. Ironic for a clown, huh? I need the pills and I feel I'm becoming addicted. My headaches are like small clusters of fuckery in my head, burning, throbbing, pulsating. They make me nauseous.

  The vomit taste is ever-present in my throat.

  I finish my can of Pepsi and open my eyes.

  I grimace at the sight before me.

  It takes tremendous willpower for me not to punch the nine year old in the face.

  Jamie. The birthday boy.

  He's wandered over, bored of the goats. He looks at me, expectant. I hand him a dog shaped balloon animal and he scuttles off to show it to his friends. His friends who, by the looks of this house, are only here for the free drinks, expensive nosh, and the sight of his mum's ass. Maybe that's why the parents, especially the fathers, have come too. For the view.

  It's a fine ass. Curvy, shapely, tight. She's wearing a black knee-length skirt and a white blouse. It's a hot day, so a few buttons are undone.

  Why do you think I set up by the punch table? She–Mrs. Porter–keeps coming over to refill it and bends over each time. The cleavage is sublime, the curve and smoothness of her honey colored tits makes me giddy. Makes me hard.

  I'm a crap clown but I'm not a stupid clown. I have my needs.

  I keep wondering what Mrs. Porter's ass would look like sliding back on my throbbing cock. Grinding. Looking at her husband, tied to a chair with balloons and silly string. Sucking a lollipop in the process.

  A clown can dream.

  Keep your mind on the job. You don’t want to get arrested for getting an erection at a kids party. The two aren’t a good combination.

  Bobollocks has a point.

  Yes, I'm Bobollocks. A riff on Bobo, probably the most infamous clown in forever. Apart from Pennywise and Ronald McDonald. Let's face it; they're cliché. Pennywise isn't a clown anyway, he's a demon that lives underground. He just takes the form of people's fears. In modern society, he'd be Ebola or Justin Beiber. And Ronald? Well, he just gives us a bad name. I'm sure I met him as a kid once…

  "You...Mr Bobo. Excuse me." Mr. Porter, my client, has approached me. His sixteen thousand dollar suit is blatant against his Rolex and his Versace shirt. His tan is perfection and his teeth can't be real. His entire outfit probably cost more than my condo.

  "It's Bobollocks."

  "Sorry?"

  "My name. It's Bobollocks. Not Bobo."

  "It's the same thing, isn't it?"

  "No. Clearly, they're two different names."

  "Bobo is better, don't you think? Shorter, snappier." He clicked his fingers before my face. "It'd look better on Twitter." He looks me up and down. "Might help you get some business…healthy business. Put it on a hashtag and voila, business is booming. Give me a call sometime; I'll make you a star." Mr. Porter hands me a shiny, white business card.

  Fancy.

  I pretend to look at it, almost breaking the ruse with a 'too fake' gaze of intent. He straightens his collar, a sign of authority and arrogance. A smirk crosses his lips. I already decide I want to punch this man. What a cunt.

  And what the fuck is a Twitter?

  "What sort of name is Bobollocks?" He asks me, oblivious.

  A Harvard education, but he doesn't understand English slang?

  I'm not English, although I aim to retire there one day. I just thought the name was cool, different and, so sue me, funny in the context of being a children's entertainer. The joke is Americans don’t get the word. Not all of them anyway.

  Might as well have some fun in my day job.

  Mr. Porter is still rambling on.

  If I punch him, will it be worth my time?

  I contemplate this. Yes, yes it would. His smile has something about it…it makes me want to take a cheese grater to his ball sack and mash until I'm covered in gristle and shredded, bloody scrotum. I want
his seed to leak through the holes. And then, I could find his hot wife and do things to her that…

  See what happens when I'm on edge?

  My demons – aka my headaches – have a lot to answer for.

  My sociopathic side emerged just then. I'm sorry you had to witness that.

  I realize Mr. Porter here is staring at me, awaiting an answer to the question I missed as I contemplated rearranging his genitals.

  So I say nothing, not smiling. The reference flies over his three-hundred dollar haircut, as expected. He ignores my statement like one of his maids – I count three thus far – and continues. "Anyway, we need you to do a skit or something. Jamie saw a video on YouTube and he wants you to do it."

  "What is it?" My voice nearly breaks. I seethe within. Disrespectful. I don’t come unprepared, I have a routine, and I certainly don’t do requests. If you want me to, have the common decency to ask, not demand. In advance, instead of putting me on the spot.

  Now I know why I picked this family. Initially it was Mrs. Porter but I had a suspicious feeling about them. Something I couldn’t put my white-gloved finger on. It finally clicked when I got home to my condo after securing the booking. They're what's wrong with society. Rich kids with no common decency, respect for other people or balance of normality. Parents who teach them that they're better than everyone else.

  Including me.

  And I can't let that happen.

  But first: Jamie has his 'request'. I stand up for the first time in an hour and advance to the hellhole that is the birthday party. I contain my rage. I gaze back at the punch bowl and miss its company. It's better than the screaming little shits that slowly surround me. My rage simmers, but I keep it under control.

  In due course.

  I'd say there's about twenty or so kids here, maybe fifteen adults. It's quite an audience for a clown with a headache and a semi. I try not to look at Mrs. Porter, I have work to do which involves kids.

  I'm not a pedophile by the way. Let me clear that up straight away. Clowns get a bad rep for it. Maybe it's the close proximity to the kids, fools logic if you ask me. That means nannies, teachers and nurses are pedophiles by proxy.