The Debt

by Mark Lumby

  There was another silence. “Irrelevant. I know enough about you, Jack Monday. I need to in order to acquire a better perspective of whom I am associating with.” If this was the Brown brothers, he would have to be clever with his questions and an absolute expert on the answers. It did cross his mind that it could be someone selling him insurance, but, as though this man was reading his thoughts, the man riposted, “Do I sound like an insurance salesman?”

  He couldn’t possibly know what he was thinking—could he? Had he heard him, heard the voice in his head? He did wonder—even unknown to himself—whether he had muttered something, overheard by this person from the other side of the black screen. “I suppose not,” Jack replied. The man was well pronounced, his accent British and dominant. The Brown brothers were from Brooklyn and Jack didn’t believe they were capable of such an impersonation.

  “I don’t have time,” he said in an impatient, although collective manner. “Jack Monday, how about I clear your debt? How about I clear that and give you a little extra? My offer is gracious, and you are redundant of a reasonable solution not to accept.”

  Jack frowned and sat back in his seat. Was this some joke? “Who are you? I mean—this just doesn’t happen.”

  “And I’d agree with you. The proposal is unusual. But be assured, the offer is genuine. You have something I want and I have something you need—why don’t we meet?”

  Jack pushed out his chair, stood and paced around the room. From where he stood, he couldn’t even see the man’s outline. He was a ghost. “Where are you?” he called over.

  “Does that matter?” the silhouette replied.

  “Well if—”

  The man interrupted, a little forceful this time, “There is a car waiting outside, Jack Monday, if you finally decide to accept my offer. You know you have to. It’s your only way out.”

  Jack peered through the curtains. A black polished Mercedes with black tinted windows was parked, just like the man had said.

  “Your transport shall be there for ten minutes,” the voice concluded. “If you do not wish to take up my more than generous offer, then that is your prerogative. But think carefully about my proposal. I am offering you a future, Jack Monday.”

  Jack strolled back to the monitor. “And what exactly is it you do? I can’t remember what you said.”

  “Because I didn’t tell you,” he said the words slowly, finishing with a sigh. Then, the man said nothing for a while, but Jack had a feeling he was being smiled at from the other side of the screen.

  Smirking.

  What couldn’t he see on the other side? “I have money,” he added like he was reluctant to tell him. “My name is Francis Dupont.”

  The screen went blank and reverted back to the inbox of Google Mail.

  Jack pulled apart the curtains again. Ten minutes and the vehicle would be gone. He walked around the room, clouded thoughts swishing through his brain like a tide.

  He had done far worse to acquire money. Money that never came. But he thought about the Brown brothers and in his mind, he saw a mother and her daughter with their faces melted, gaping holes from their necks and a blooded mess from their stomachs where the acid had burnt another exit.

  The car was still there. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.

  4

  The interior of the Mercedes shined with black leather, with the pungent aroma of cigar smoke and pine air freshener. He couldn’t see the driver because of the screen that divided them.

  The journey took an hour. It took him into the country, far from anywhere. He half expected to be blindfolded, just like in the movies, so that he couldn’t see his destination. But this was real.

  The driveway to the mansion was mapped out through dense woodland. Once through the automated iron gates, it must have taken them at least ten minutes, driving deeper, a winding road splitting through the trees, a surface hardly driven on and laden with leaves and broken branches, which the driver carelessly sped over.

  It was nearly one in the morning. The journey was made in silence. Jack was alone with his thoughts. Different scenarios of what might happen once he reached Mr Dupont’s place. As he got closer to his destination, he started feeling anxious and felt inclined to test to door handles and roll out from the car door. But at the speed they were going, he would probably be killed. The drive to the house had been erratic, the roads twisting suddenly forcing Jack’s shoulder to nudge the door more than a few times even though the main journey there was smooth; perhaps a little too smooth. The combination made him feel nauseous.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  He sighted lights in the distance, a blurriness that fought hard to find its way through the trees. Once around the final corner, lights from windows glowed warmly, and a house which screamed of its wealth. Jack still questioned the reason for him being here and without thinking what he was doing, he found the courage to flip the door handle. But, the door wouldn’t open. He immediately regretted it and glanced at the screen separating himself from the driver. For a moment he expected the car to screech to a halt and to be forced from his seat. But the car continued, although he was certain that the driver must have heard the flipping of the handle. He wondered if it had opened, and given him the opportunity, whether he would have jumped.

  The car drove into a dimly lit courtyard with high fir trees acting as its walls, and around a stone fountain, dried up and laden with a pool of ivy that tried to escape over the sides like the arms of bodies reaching for freedom. They stopped at the steps of the house. Jack waited for the door to be opened for him like a chauffeur would for his boss or a VIP. He was neither of these, and he eventually tested the handle a second time. He didn’t expect the door to open, but to both his relief and dread, it did. He stepped outside into the courtyard; tall ornate black lamps flickered and protested and buzzed like they were at the end of their lives. These were also engulfed by ivy reaching up from the base and creeping over the lamps like fingers. Although, it was hard to tell whether the plants were climbing the lamps or they were being eaten up by the ground around them. The car door slammed suddenly behind him and he felt something brush past, almost pushing him forward. Jack turned just in time to catch the vehicle speed away, showering him with choking dust. He brushed down his clothes and ran up the steps to break free from the dust cloud, wiping grit from his eyes and spitting the dirt from his mouth. As he stared down the road where the car had disappeared, squinting through the falling dust, he was distracted by the trees all around him. The light appeared to be getting worse, too, like it didn’t want him there and was bothered by his presence.

  The door was deep red; the huge brass knocker of a hideously gruelling face silently screamed back at him. Before he contemplated using the knocker, he wanted to check behind him again. The dust was settling, and he glared through the failing light and into the trees that surrounded him, trying to see beyond them. The darkness was absorbing. Shadows where nothing was really there shifted in swift and random motions, rustling through the deep growth. He felt like he was being watched, and the more he stared into the trees, he was convinced something was there. And as his attention turned once again to the road where the car had disappeared, he became less encouraged that he could safely escape the same route. Whether it was an animal or a person or something else that lurked behind those trees, there was definitely something there. He could smell them, too—sweat and grease and rotten meat. They gave him no sound, but if he listened really carefully, he was sure he could hear them breathe. He became sick to the stomach when he thought of what that something else could be.

  Leaves scattered across the courtyard, kicked up a tornado of greens and browns before it died down in the same place the car had pulled away from. Then it was like feet were tossing the leaves low from the ground, something walking through them. They stopped at the foot of the steps. Something breathed around him—invisible, but pungent of festering flesh, a glutinous growl like it was gargling on its own blood, and it
was enough to want to be in that house, to whatever fate was thrust upon him.

  He reached for the knocker, but the door opened regardless, and there stood an old man. He appeared to be in his late sixties, grey around the ears, black hair side combed and was dressed in a slim black suit. Jack imagined his name was Jeeves or James or something cliché. He held open the door with his bony hands, his flesh so transparent that his raised purple veins looked as if they would weep if touched. They trembled as he stared at Jack, unblinking.

  Jack could hear the leaves ruffle behind him at the foot of the steps, and edged a foot inside the doorway. Just as he was about to speak, the man cleared his throat. “Mr Jack Monday, I presume.” Jack offered his hand, but the man looked down at it like it was covered in shit, and shuffled around, saying, “Follow me. Mr Dupont is expecting you.”

  He nearly fell into the house, and checking outside, he saw the leaves fall dead on the damp ground, and the smell faded.

  “Mr Monday. Is everything okay? You appear a little shaken.” He didn’t sound too concerned.

  “Yeah,” Jack turned sharply. But he was pointing at the entrance as if to say, ‘what was that?’.

  The suited man just smiled at him, lips so tight and thin they looked like they would split. “You’re inside now, Mr Monday. That’s all I can say to that.” And then as though he was reluctant to pursue this line of questioning, “I trust your journey was safe?”

  “Quiet,” Jack told him, and then added dryly as he pushed the door shut with his foot, “The conversation was riveting—like fuckin’ dynamite.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw, struggling to take his eyes off the door as though he half expected whatever was on the other side to burst through and rip out his throat. And indeed, he held his throat at that thought.

  The reception hall had a high ceiling that reached all the way to the roof, and a circular skylight that was either black from the night or else covered with moss. A mahogany staircase spiralled to the first floor where it looked dark with shadows that seemed to do nothing but spy around corners. Paintings hung high up walls, one on top of the next, generations of families and people of late wearing aristocratic attire. Standing at the foot of the staircase were tall vases designed in such a way they resembled bones weaved tightly within one another. They were large enough to hide the bannisters and housed an overspill of ivy which had started to creep across the wooden floor and climb the stairs like they were reaching for the huge crystal chandeliers above them. There was a choking smell of dust, too, stale and damp, an aroma of something old. And then a distracting fragrance of spice floated from the corridor to the right.

  The suited man guided him passed the staircase and down the corridor where the spice was emitting from. They went by five rooms before reaching a burgundy door at the end.

  The man, as frail as he appeared, turned slowly to Jack, arched his neck as though it had pained him to do so, but didn’t look at him as if for some reason he wasn’t allowed to. “Wait here, Sir. I shall inform Mr Dupont of your presence.” He opened the door marginally, enough to squeeze his narrow petite body through, and enough for Jack to spy through the gap and catch a full dose of spice. He glimpsed a side view of a dark-haired man, his hair shining against the flickering light of a crackling fire. His expression was majestic, and given the limited angle in which he could be seen, his look could have been taken for sublime. He was sat in a burgundy leather armchair, hands gripping the sides, his head arched back like he was sleeping. He had a delicate smile. His torso was naked, too, and as Jack caught sight of another man’s head bobbing suspiciously from between his thighs, the door clicked shut.

  Voices were low and whispered from behind the door, followed by shuffling and scrambling footsteps. The door opened. Jack assumed it was the same man from the armchair that greeted him. He was hastily wrapping himself in a black silk dressing gown, whilst warmly flushed on his cheeks, and panting. He allowed the butler to pass, but they exchanged no conversation. As the butler separated the two of them, he glanced ominously at Jack as if by warning. But as he disappeared around the corner, Francis Dupont placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder, gave it a testing squeeze, and said, “Jack Monday.” He smiled enthusiastically. He looked at Jack in a pleasing way.

  Jack couldn’t help but feel a little disturbed by this, given what he had just witnessed. He looked at him like he could be next. His complexion was pasty, although distinctly blushing, cheekbones defined and chin squarely chiselled. Before the door was closed he saw the other man, and two women, too. They were all naked and, as they were aware of their guest, made no effort to hide, either. Francis Dupont grinned at him as though he had wanted him to see, and guided him away from the door, embracing him with a firm and brisk handshake. And considering what activity Jack had seen, he felt obliged to wipe his hands on his top as soon as Francis wasn’t looking.

  They stopped two doors down outside a room on the right. Francis swung open the door, ushered Jack through. Just as he was entering the room, the remaining occupants were exiting the room at the end of the corridor. They wore white robes like they were complimentary from a hotel. Jack heard the male telling the younger woman, “Let’s finish off in your room.” They passed Jack, holding hands and giggling, but didn’t acknowledge Dupont’s guest. The older woman walked seconds behind them, smiling briefly at Francis, but again, Jack grew increasingly awkward as she ignored him, too. It was like they couldn’t even see him. Or didn’t want to see him.

  “Florence and Michael. They are my children,” he told Jack, paused like he was waiting for him to react, “and Jessica—my wife.”

  Jack cleared his throat. His mouth was dry, dehydrated from alcohol consumption hours earlier. His stomach was empty from food and contributed to the sickness he was now feeling. And although he was disturbed by what Francis was admitting, he wasn’t entirely repulsed.

  Francis eventually smiled. “You don’t agree?”

  Jack scrutinised them as they headed towards the stairs, to finish off, Michael’s hand caressing Florence’s bum cheek, squeezing it until she squirmed.

  Francis had left him in the doorway, and as he watched his Dupont’s children go out of sight, he followed him inside. The door closed abruptly behind him like it was pushing him into the room to swallow him up.

  “We have unusual needs to most people,” Francis confirmed. “When we talk, Jack Monday, you will learn to understand. It’s important that you do if we are going to have an agreement.” He closed the door. “Take a seat, please. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll try to be brief—it really is quite simple, though. Like I told you earlier, my offer is substantially difficult to refuse.”

  Jack stared at the sofa. Francis brushed passed him—he could smell sex from him; the salt; the juices. He looked at the closed door and wondered if he tried the handle, whether he would be stopped.

  Was it locked? He thought of the car door.

  He began walking towards the sofa, but didn’t want to place himself into an intimate situation, one where Francis would sit next to him—not after what he had seen—and Francis had more or less confirmed his findings. Instead, he chose an armchair by the fire mantle. The fire was nearly dead, grey wood and white ash glowing dimly. Francis threw a log on the dying flame, prodded it with a poker and contemplated sitting in the armchair opposite. He stared at the fire like he was willing it to crack into life. Eventually, it did.

  Jack nervously squeezed the chair arms as Francis turned his attention to him, the flames from the fire shimmering off his eyeballs giving him a devilish appearance. He contemplated whether anything had happened where he was sitting, shuffling uncomfortably with this thought in mind. He was offended by the incest, although not as much as he should be, and given his sexual nature, he couldn’t help but feel intrigued.

  Francis was still watching him; he wasn’t smiling, although his eyes did glow a mocking happiness. The rest of his expression was serious—formal looking.

  “The journey took longer than
expected,” Jack confessed. Francis was making him feel awkward and he didn’t know what else to say.

  Francis inhaled a deep breath, let it out slowly, scrutinising Jack like he was measuring him, X-ray eyes burning through his clothes and calculating what he had to offer him.

  Was this what all this was about? Was it about the sex?

  Jack was thinking whether Francis had wanted him to become his fuck-buddy. Get paid for sex. Nothing more than a prostitute. He withdrew into his seat and clenched his buttocks at the thought of being fucked up the arse—by a man.

  No! That wasn’t going to happen. Never. Not even for a million dollars. His asshole wasn’t going to be torn apart by some middle-aged pervert!

  Then he found himself contemplating whether he actually would for one million. What if he offered two, would he then? The more he thought about it, he found himself willing to do such a thing for the right price. Of course, it may be nothing to do with sex. Perhaps he was just jumping the gun a bit. Or even hopeful, because one or two million dollars certainly would take away all of his problems.

  A new life.

  A new start.

  Francis said, “It will be worth it, Jack Monday,” but he didn’t look him in the eyes; he was focussed on Jack’s crotch. He smirked like the aristocrat that he was, pouting his lips like it was a sudden twitch, and casually looked at Jack’s stubbled face. He smiled a little more because he was fully aware of what Jack was thinking.

  Jack paused for a while, Francis’s voice muted by the temptation of one million dollars. As Francis called his name again, Jack said, “Call me Jack. Just Jack.” He shifted in his seat. “You sound official, like a banker or a lawyer. Sounds French.” He sat back. Francis standing there in his black silk gown clinging to his body with evidence that his erection hadn’t totally gone limp, had made Jack uneasy from the start. He had tried to avoid eye contact because Dupont’s eyes seemed to seduce. And although he wasn’t attracted to him, his penis did twinge with excitement as he remembered Michael’s hand stroking his sister’s bum cheek. What must they be doing now? He wondered whether their mother had joined them, too, perhaps in the room above them. He looked at the ceiling; he’d expected the chandelier to be swinging. He became increasingly aroused the more he thought of the three of them together.