by Brett McBean
“You should’ve just hung up as soon as you knew it was your mum.”
“I can’t just hang up on my moth…” The phone rang. Ray grabbed it. “Hello?”
“Hello again.” It was the voice of the kidnapper.
Ray swallowed. “You’re right on time.”
“I said I would be. Now, have you made a decision?”
“Yes,” Ray said.
“Good. Now you didn’t call any unwanted people, did you?”
“No. I swear. I kept my word.” Ray could feel hot breath on the side of his face. He turned to find Jerry leaning in close, trying to hear the conversation. “Get away,” Ray whispered, and Jerry backed up.
“Who was that?” the kidnapper said. “Is there somebody with you?”
“No. Nobody but me.”
“I thought I heard you talking to somebody.”
“Uh-uh,” Ray said, his heart practically bursting from his chest.
“I hope you’re not lying to me.”
“I promise. I’m all alone.”
Silence. Then, “Okay. I believe you. Now, the decision. Your wife and daughter are dying to know.” The kidnapper laughed.
“How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?” Ray said. “How will I know you’ll let the other one go?”
“You have my word, Ray.”
“And you promise just one shot? To the back of the head? No suffering?”
“Yes. Unless you try to trick me in any way. Then both of your little darlings will know the meaning of real pain. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now…who’s the lucky winner?”
Ray used all his energy to speak. “Rebecca,” he said quietly.
“A surprise choice,” the kidnapper said. “Your daughter. Okay, it shall be done. Bye.”
“No, wait. When will I see my wife?”
“Soon enough.”
The phone went dead.
Ray held onto the receiver for a long time before Jerry took it off him and placed it down.
“You did what you had to do,” Jerry said. “I’m sorry, Ray.”
It was easily the most sentimental thing Ray had heard Jerry utter.
“I can’t believe it,” Ray said. “My daughter is dead. I’m never going to see her again.”
Jerry grabbed Ray around the shoulders. Ray couldn’t help it. He just let it out. He cried for what seemed like an eternity.
* * *
They were sitting in the lounge, drinking cold beers that Jerry had gotten from the store over an hour ago when there came a quick rapping at the front door.
Ray jumped up, spilling his beer over the floor and rushed to the front door. He flung it open and saw Kim.
Kim looking old and tired and dirty. She fell into his arms, crying.
“It’s okay. You’re safe now. You’re all right.” Ray picked her up and carried her into the lounge. He laid her down on the couch. “Get some water,” he told Jerry.
Jerry, looking positively dazed, nodded and bounded into the kitchen. He came back and handed the glass to Ray
Ray gave the glass to Kim. She finished the water in one mouthful.
“I can’t believe it,” Jerry said. “That mother-fucker told the truth. He let her go.”
Ray nodded. He brushed hair away from Kim’s face. She was pale, but had stopped crying.
“He made me shoot her,” Kim said, her voice raspy. “That bastard made me shoot my own daughter. Told me I had to or else…” Her words broke up and she began sobbing.
Ray held her close. “It’s over now, darling. Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault.”
“Farm,” she said between sobs.
“Farm? What about a farm?” Ray said.
“That’s where he took us. That’s where Rebecca is.”
Ray glanced at Jerry. Jerry’s wild look told him he was thinking the same thing. “Which farm? Whereabouts?” Ray asked.
“Off Taylor Road.”
“I know it,” Jerry said. “You want me to call the cops?”
“Fuck them. You can get out there quicker than they can.”
Jerry gave a quick smile, then he took off for the front door. “If I find him, I’ll bring him back. We can take care of the fucker ourselves.”
“You do that,” Ray called, and then Jerry was gone. Ray heard the sound of Jerry’s van roar to life and then the tyres screeched their way from his driveway, off into the night.
“He’ll be gone for at least half an hour,” Ray said.
Kim wiped her eyes, sat up and smiled. “Dumb fuck. He’ll probably spend all night trying to find the kidnapper.”
Ray chuckled. He stroked Kim’s blonde hair. “He means well. And he is our only witness, after all. He’s important to us.”
“True,” Kim said. “You got a beer? I could really use one. Putting on that voice really fucked with my vocal chords.”
Ray hopped up, went into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He wandered back, handed the can to his wife. “And you did a pretty good job of it, too. There were times I actually thought I was talking to a man.”
Kim popped open the top and took a swig. “Ah. That’s better. You know, I felt like an idiot. All that pretending. I almost laughed a few times.”
“Well good thing you didn’t,” Ray said. “You know I would’ve laughed too. And that would’ve blown our whole plan.”
Kim nodded. “I know.”
“It worked, though. You should’ve seen me,” he said, kissing Kim on the lips. “I was great. I cried, I got angry. I cried some more. They should give me a fucking Academy Award for my performance. And it’s a good thing I made you talk like a real kidnapper. Our good friend Jerry was breathing down my neck. He probably heard most of our conversation.”
“I thought I could hear a voice. So you were lying to me,” she said.
They both laughed.
“So it all went okay?” Ray asked.
“Like clockwork. That daughter of ours is as dead as the horse shit that covered the damn paddock.”
Ray nodded. “Good. No more worries.”
“No more worries,” Kim said. “Hey, that’s what I wanted to ask you. Who were you on the phone with?”
“You tried calling earlier?”
“Yeah. It was ten o’clock by my watch.”
“My mum. She called just as we were expecting your call.”
Kim laughed. “Good old Mum. I bet you were shitting ya self.”
“Hardly. But I think I did manage to get on her bad side.”
“That’s strange for her to ring so late, though. I mean, she normally goes to bed at around eight-thirty, nine, doesn’t she?”
Ray nodded. Then he grinned. “Maybe she found little Rebecca?”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Kim said, finishing off her beer.
“Wouldn’t matter, anyway. She’d be nothing but bones now. She’s had sixteen years of rotting away.”
“True. Still, can you imagine if your mum did ever find the remains? God, what were we thinking when we buried her in your parent’s backyard?”
“We were young. And scared. We’d just had a baby and didn’t think we could look after it. And besides, it’s not every day you kill your own daughter.”
“No, it’s every sixteen years,” Kim said, with a chuckle.
Ray smiled. “So did she realise what was happening?”
“Sure. I mean, she had to have been wondering why I was driving her out to the middle of nowhere. And then when I tied her up. She sort of figured it out then.”
“About who we were?”
“No. That I was going to kill her. I had to tell her about what we did all those years ago, and who she was.”
“How’d she take it?”
“As expected. Badly. Anyway, at least she found out why we didn’t have her birth certificate and photos of her in hospital.”
“I guess we shouldn’t have burned those things after we killed our daughter,” Ra
y said. “But sixteen years,” he mused. “Wow, it doesn’t seem that long ago. You know what? It sounds silly, but I’m going to miss her. She was a good Rebecca. Fooled everybody, including my mum. Pity she had to start asking questions. At least we got to her before she rang the hospital.”
“Yeah, well, that’s life.” Kim noticed the sheet of paper sitting on the table. She reached over and picked it up. “What’s this?”
“Oh, that’s my list. I made it when I was deciding who to kill. It was kinda fun, actually. Made Jerry’s head spin, though. Couldn’t believe I was deciding the fate of my family on a list.”
Kim smiled. “Well it’s good to see I won. You really do love me.”
Ray grabbed her around the shoulders and pulled her tight. “You bet I do.”
NOTES:
This was my contribution to the ill-fated Family Plots anthology. For people who aren’t aware, the basic story: Wild Roses was a small press that started up in Australia, back around 2002. They started off well, first releasing Rage by Steve Gerlach, then my debut novel, The Last Motel. They were set to release other titles, including The Wicked by James Newman, and Family Plots (which was to be a huge anthology, consisting of just about every horror writer going around at the time), but these were never released by Wild Roses. Even though the demise of Wild Roses left a bad taste in the mouths of many authors and readers, I am glad this story is finally seeing the light of day.
THE NEW RELIGION
In the cavernous chapel, thick with the smell of blood and burning oil, Reverend Fred Barnett, in a black felt hat and long black jacket, had already begun his sermon. The light from the gas lamps adorning the brick walls flickered over the congregation. As Nathan moved over the cobblestones that had only been laid last week – this church, like many around the country, was still being remodelled – some of the converts stirred at the sound of his footsteps.
He knelt beside his best friend Joe in the back pew and they exchanged a nervous greeting.
“Late again,” mouthed Joe.
This was the fifth time in a row Nathan had been late. He was lucky the door hadn’t been locked, as was the norm after mass started. And he didn’t want to miss tonight’s mass – it was sacrifice night, to commemorate the death of Annie Chapman.
Nathan shrugged, bowed his head and listened to the reverend’s oration.
“…hundred years since our Lord graced this earth, two hundred years since the beginning of the new-world and in this bicentennial we pay tribute to the first and greatest of them all – His mystery, His fame, His legend – and pay homage to all who have followed in His footsteps. We honour the five apostles: Peter, Ted, Peter, Kenneth & Angelo and praise holy Not-Virgin Mary, for she sacrificed the most to the Lord. In the year two-hundred AR, at the dawn of the third century, we are fortunate enough to be closer to the truth than ever before; soon our true messiah will be named. Let us pray…”
Nathan took the bible from the back of the pew in front of him, ran a hand over the ominous visage of their cloaked god on the cover and watched Joe hesitate, a sheen of fear flash across his face before he picked up the small tome. Joe’s parents still believed in the old religion, a world that was rapidly dying, and Nathan understood the guilt Joe felt every time he stepped inside the White Chapel.
Clasping the holy knife he wore around his neck, Nathan glanced up at the walls; flanked by movie posters (everything from The Lodger to From Hell part 3) and artists renditions of the Lord and his five divine feats were the smiling effigies of Peter Kürten, Ted Bundy (Nathan’s favourite apostle), Peter Sutcliffe, Kenneth Bianchi & Angelo Buono; emblems of the new religion, a new passion that was sweeping the world They were much cooler, in Nathan’s thirteen-year-old opinion, than the chipped and desecrated statue of the old-world god strung up on a cross, now locked away in the storage room waiting to be taken to the wreckers. As one newspaper proclaimed of their new Lord: he is now bigger than Jesus.
“Turn to chapter nine, verse twenty-five, line seven,” the reverend ordered.
And Nathan, along with the congregation, intoned: “I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping…”
NOTES:
I’m a ‘Ripperologist’ – one of those sick puppies who have an unnatural fascination with the crimes of Jack the Ripper. So when Cat from The Red Light District website had, as her inaugural flash fiction contest, a Jack the Ripper theme, I had to jump in and write something. This story won third place.
And for the record, of all the suspects that have been named, I lean towards the mad butcher Joseph Levy (though ultimately I believe it was a local nobody of the ‘disorganised’ variety of serial killers).
For anyone with an interest in the Ripper case, please check out my Jack the Ripper site, Saucy Jacky: http://saucyjacky.wordpress.com/
THE GENIUS OF A SICK MIND
Simon slipped the key in the front door. It was his fourth attempt. “There! Finally got it.”
Sherry chuckled behind him. “About time, darling.”
Simon pushed the door open and stepped inside. The house was in total darkness, so he slammed his hand to the left of the doorway and ran it clumsily along the wall until he found the light switch. He flicked it and the hallway lit up.
Sherry slipped past him, and Simon watched her arse as she walked down the hallway. The slim, tight blue dress hugged her round behind perfectly.
Feeling himself begin to go hard, Simon broke his gaze and slammed the door shut. He wandered down the hall and stumbled into the bedroom, where Sherry was sitting on the bed, taking off her shoes.
Simon smiled and threw the keys onto the mattress. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Make sure you’re naked when I return.”
Sherry giggled as she flung the second shoe to the ground. “What makes you think you’re getting any, mister?”
“Two reasons. One, we’re both drunk. And two, I don’t know about you, but I’m horny.”
Sherry laughed. “Where’re you going?” she said.
“To take a leak. Where else?” Simon turned and left the bedroom. He walked slowly down the hall and headed for the bathroom. His bladder was full of bourbon. He had lost count how many he’d downed after the fifth drink.
Great restaurant, though, he thought.
And it had also been a great surprise. Sherry had met him at his work and had taken him to a new restaurant, an Indian place not too far from the city, where they ate divinely, and, of course, had a little too much to drink. He had initially been worried that he’d forgotten their wedding anniversary, or perhaps Sherry’s birthday. But she had smiled and reassured him it was simply because she wanted to. Simon had left it at that.
Simon switched on the bathroom light. The bright glare hurt his eyes. He squinted and soon got used to the harsh glow. Simon staggered over to the toilet and lifted the lid. He urinated forever, flushed the toilet, then turned to his left and headed into the small laundry room. He flipped on the switch and staggered over to the deep stainless steel basin.
“Fuck!” he screamed.
He stumbled back and fell over his legs. Simon crashed to the hard floor, knocking his head on the tiles with a dull thud. A sharp explosion shot through his skull and he saw flashes of bright light dance before his eyes.
Sherry came dashing in, wearing only her bra and panties. “Simon, what happened?”
She hurried over and helped Simon to his feet. Still dazed and clutching the back of his head, Simon gingerly pointed to the washbasin.
“Are you okay? Let’s go on out to the lounge and sit down on the couch.”
But as soon as Sherry let go of Simon’s hand, his legs buckled and he fell on his behind. Sherry gasped and struggled to get him back on his feet. “I’m sorry, darling. I thought you could stand by yourself.”
She finally managed to get Simon to his feet. This time, with her right arm around his waist and her left hand holding onto Simon’s, she walked him into the lounge room and over to the leather couch. She carefull
y sat him down.
“How are you feeling?”
He moaned.
Sherry straightened up. Simon didn’t collapse into a heap on the floor – he stayed sitting up, his hand resting at the back of his head.
“It better have not been a damn spider,” Sherry mumbled, grinning slightly. Leaving Simon, Sherry hurried into the laundry room and over to the basin. She stepped up to the sink and peered down. What she saw was a severed head. It was staring right up at Sherry, its eyes partially open. It had longish hair and its mouth was locked in a grotesque gape, as if about to speak.
Sherry backed out of the laundry, out of the bathroom. It was only when she was out in the hallway that she screamed. She turned and ran into the lounge. Simon was trying to stand up. “Simon! Oh my God, Simon! There’s a fucking head in our sink!”
Simon nodded slightly as he finally managed to stand upright all by himself.
“So I noticed,” he sighed. Simon shook his head and craned his neck. “Damn that hurt.”
“We have to call the police,” Sherry said quickly. She hurried over to the phone and stopped. Stuck on the handle was a small piece of paper. “Simon, there’s a note.”
Simon staggered over to Sherry. “Well, read it.”
She bent down and lifted the note off the phone. It was folded in half. She opened the note and read it out loud.
“Like your present? Ha Ha. Oh, if you don’t know what I’m talking about, look in your laundry sink…Done it?
Now, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to meet you, but I had other things to do. You understand.
I’ll make this short and sweet. Go into the kitchen and open the fridge. There you’ll find another present. One I think you’ll like more than the other one. And don’t think about calling the cops…I’ve cut the phone line and I know where you live, remember!!!
That’s all for now. See you in the kitchen.
Ciao.
P.S. don’t put any clothes on, darling. I like you just the way you are…”
