by Morton Bain
‘Alright, stand up.’ I say to the woman. She obliges. ‘I want you to climb down through this hatch. When you’re down I’m coming in after you.’
She whimpers softly, but does what I ask of her. When she’s down I follow suit, until we’re standing together, cramped, at the bottom of the shaft. Directly in front of us is a heavy steel door, for which I have the key. Inserting key in lock, I turn clockwise. I meet nothing but resistance initially, but after jiggling the key around manage to turn the lock. Pushing the door inwards, we’re met with a rush of stale air. As far as I’m aware this bunker hasn’t been entered for over twenty years. Pulling a torch from my pocket, I shine its beam into the space in front of me. I can make out two single, wood-framed beds, a table and chair, and shelves occupying all of one wall, each stacked high with tinned food.
‘Alright, in you go,’ I say.
‘You’re just going to leave me here?’
‘No, I’ll be back very shortly. I’m just off to get water and food for you. And a bucket.’
‘Why have you brought me here?’ the woman asks. ‘Why me?’
‘You’ll find out in due course. Now get in.’
A few moments later I’m pushing open the front door of the house. It’s a familiar hallway I’m confronted with – up until a few years ago my family and I used to stay at the house on a regular basis. Even so, it’s got that cold, musty smell of an unloved property. There’s no food in the house – despite what I’ve just told the woman – but I will be able to get my hands on a bucket and fill it with water. I wander about the building for a few minutes, as if looking for something I don’t know I’ve lost, before snapping out of my reverie and heading towards the kitchen. Five minutes later I’m back at the bunker with a bucket full of water. The woman will have to decide between drinking from and pissing in the bucket.
As I drive away from the property a short time later I realise I’ve really only got about a week to find the second victim in this experiment and return.
Chapter Seven
The following day I see Joey and Courtney. Joey’s in an ebullient mood, full of humour and well-concealed menace, as he talks about how pleased he is with the first shipment of girls. ‘This is going to be a great earner,’ he informs us matter-of-factly. ‘The guys in New Jersey will really be liking this when I tell them how well it’s going.’
‘I thought the Mafia wasn’t that into prostitution,’ Courtney says. ‘You’re all Catholics and stuff. Family values.’
‘Like fuck,’ Joey retorts. ‘If it made money they’d sell babies bombs.’
I laugh.
‘In fact,’ Joey goes on, ‘I’m wondering if we can’t really be pioneers in this whole trafficking/prostitution thing. Maybe there are some new things we could look at.’
‘Like what?’ I ask.
‘Well, everyone’s got a different thing they like, right?’
‘Whatdya mean “different thing”?’ Courtney says.
‘You know, some people like fat ladies, some people like young ladies, some people like men that look like ladies . . .’
‘You’re talking about catering to people’s fetishes?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Yeah, exactly. All the other traffickers are doing the same thing, bringing young, attractive women to this country. Let’s be more imaginative. Plus, we probably won’t have to pay as much for some of the freaks that might appeal to people.’
‘Yeah, but we probably wouldn’t get as much for them when we sell them on, either.’ I say.
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Joey says. ‘The point is, no-one else is doing it . . .’
Joey is interrupted by the sound of scraping furniture coming from the other side of the room, a sound that makes Courtney and I jump.
‘What was that?’ Courtney wants to know.
‘Oh, just a friendly poltergeist,’ Joey replies. ‘Been here since I moved in.’
‘You shitting me?’ Courtney asks.
‘No. It’s absolutely real. I call it Ed. Ed’s been pretty quiet recently, but when the mood takes him he can really cause problems. You wouldn’t believe how much I spend on cups and plates every year.’
I study Joey closely, looking for the grin that will reveal he’s joking. It doesn’t come.
‘You’re a priest,’ Courtney says, ‘why don’t you exorcise this critter? I’m not coming here no more if there’s some ghost hangin’ around.’
‘Ohhh, the big gangster, scared of a little poltergeist,’ Joey taunts affectionately. ‘Bullets don’t scare him, but a bit of scraping furniture and he pisses his pants.’
‘I grew up with all that shit,’ Courtney protests. ‘I believe in it, man.’
‘You’re looking very white,’ Joey says to the Jamaican. ‘Maybe that’s how Michael Jackson should have lightened his skin colour. Should have scared himself pale.’
Courtney walks over to the table that has just moved and inspects it closely. He runs his hand over the top, pushes it slightly, knocks on one of the legs.
‘It’s just a normal table,’ Joey comments. ‘No ropes, no string, no tricks.’
‘Fuck,’ Courtney swears. ‘Can we go to the kitchen? I don’t wanna stay in this room anymore.’
‘That won’t help you,’ Joey says. ‘Poltergeist moves all over this house. Ed goes where he wants.’
‘Well give me a large Scotch then,’ Courtney demands.
‘I’ll have one as well,’ I say, not because I’m scared but because a Scotch cheers you up at any time of day.
‘Scotches all round,’ Joey says, heading over to his drinks cabinet.
‘Pour one for the ghost as well,’ Courtney says. ‘It might keep him quiet.’
‘Alright,’ Joey says. ‘Real voodoo stuff this is.’ After he’s tipped a generous measure out for each of the three humans he fills a fourth glass right to the top and places it on the table that had moved earlier. ‘If I wake up tomorrow and that glass is empty I’ll know I’ve got an alcoholic poltergeist on my hands,’ Joey cracks.
‘A spirit who likes spirits,’ I come back with.
After this the mood lightens, and we get back to discussing business. ‘I’ve got a good dealer network ready to take all that coke we’re going to be gettin’ our hands on soon,’ Courtney informs us. ‘Serious guys who can move a lot of product. And keep their mouths shut.’
‘Good. Very good,’ Joey says, nodding sagely. ‘The mouths shut bit is the most important part.’
‘These guys killed off all the idiots who were trying to sell the white stuff in their areas. Only the big boys left.’
‘When did they get rid of them?’ Joey wants to know. ‘I didn’t read nothing in the papers.’
‘That’s because they did their killings without a fuss. Nobody knows they’re gone, apart from family and friends, and they know better than to talk. Police don’t know about the bodies.’
‘The only bodies I’ve heard about recently are the ones due to that serial killer that’s been in the news,’ Joey says.
‘The guy seems to have a big hate for women,’ Courtney says.
‘All serial killers do,’ Joey responds. ‘Or most of them anyways. You ever heard of a serial killer that killed old men?’
I want to say something, tell this pair of pricks that they’ve got it all wrong about me hating women, or hating them more than men.
‘They kill instead of having sex,’ Courtney says. ‘That’s how they get their rocks off. And ‘cos most serial killers are men, they want to get their rocks off by killing a woman.’
‘What about that Dahmer guy?’ Joey says. ‘He’s one that did only kill men.’
‘He was a fag,’ I say. I didn’t want to join this conversation, but my comment slips out.
‘Was he?’ Joey says.
‘Yeah, a fag and totally wacko. He wanted sex slaves – he wasn’t that into killing people apparently. He killed mainly to stop his victims going to the cops. He tried to make a zombie out of one guy by drugging him up, the
n drilling a hole in his skull and squirting acid into his brain. Didn’t work, so the guy had to die.’
‘You seem to know a lot about this,’ Courtney comments.
‘I’ve got cable. Plenty of crappy crime shows on all the time.’
‘Whatever . . .’ Courtney says.
I decide to change the subject. ‘Hey guys, I stitched this guy up pretty badly about twenty years ago. He went to jail because of a stunt I pulled. He’s out now, and I’m worried he might try something stupid. Either of you able to help me sort him out if I decide that’s what’s needed? Or can you recommend someone who can step in and take care of him?’
‘What happened?’ Joey wants to know.
I explain briefly, drawing a shocked reaction from Courtney: ‘I always told you we had to watch this one, Joey,’ he says. ‘Got crime in his veins.’
‘I’m impressed,’ Joey says. ‘And you’re right to be worried. Only problem for you is that if a hair on this guy’s head is touched, police are going to come straight to you for answers.’
‘That’s why I’m asking for help. I can’t pull the trigger or draw the knife.’
‘He been around hassling you?’ Courtney wants to know.
‘Not yet, but I know him well enough to know he isn’t going to let this one lie.’
‘If he’s been locked up for fifteen years he probably doesn’t want to go back to jail anytime soon,’ Joey says. ‘Keep your eyes peeled. Carry a knife at all times. If he shows up in person, that’ll be the time to act. I wouldn’t recommend doing a pre-emptive strike, though. We’ve got too much going on at the moment to want to draw heat unnecessarily.’
‘I can lend you a piece if you want,’ Courtney offers. ‘You haven’t got one, have you?’
‘No,’ I lie.
‘I’ll drop one round to you tomorrow. I’ve got a nine you can have.’
The next day I wait until I’ve taken delivery of the gun, then head out to finish off my hostage plan. Ever mindful that I’ve been picking on women up to now, I decide to kidnap a man. I drive around for about half an hour looking for a victim, but then realise that this is the wrong tactic. I park the van on a street that has a construction site on one side and an industrial estate on the other. Fewer prying eyes to witness what I’m about to do. I go to the rear of the van and open its doors, then sit inside the vehicle waiting for the right person to walk by. The first pedestrian to pass is a kid of fifteen or so. I decide to give him a break. The second person to appear is a stocky builder in his late twenties. He gets a pass on account of the fact that he’d likely break my neck if I tried anything with him. The builder is followed by a woman pushing a pram. Totally unsuitable. Finally, a thin man in his forties approaches. I jump out of the van, quickly scan my surroundings to ensure there isn’t anyone else about, then prepare for action. When the man draws level with the van I say, ‘Hey there, you wouldn’t mind helping me to get this box out of the van?’
The man stops and looks at me for a few seconds, blinking rapidly, before saying, ‘Yes, alright.’
‘It’s just in here,’ I say. I move behind the man, and when he’s right by the vehicle, I quickly reach into my pocket, pull out the gun Courtney has lent me, and pistol whip him. The open doors of the van shield me from anyone apart from someone bearing up from behind. The man isn’t knocked unconscious with this single blow. He emits a muffled shriek, and tries to turn around. I raise the gun and bring it down for a second time on the man’s skull, this time with much more force. This follow-up blow achieves its purpose; the man slumps against the van. I grab his jacket by the shoulders and force him into the vehicle. As soon as his feet are fully inside, I jump in and grab his mobile from his trouser pocket, then jump back out and slam the doors shut. I quickly get into the cab.
Nearing my destination I catch a whiff of smoke, and wonder if the house is on fire. Rounding a bend in the road I see the property through a stand of trees, and am pleased to note that flames aren’t engulfing it. I park the van right by the shelter hatch, and walk round to the rear. Gun in one hand, I use the other to unlock the doors. I open them and quickly step back, holding the revolver in both hands. My new hostage is lying down, but raises his head as light streams into the vehicle. He’s been totally quiet on the drive down, and I begin to wonder if I’ve caught the most passive man in England. ‘You,’ I shout. ‘Get out of the van.’
The man gets to his knees, then feet, and stooping, walks to the rear of the van. After looking around hesitantly for a few moments, he jumps onto the grass. I see that he has vomited down his front. Fright, or carsickness? I wonder. His face is a shade of green.
Still the man says nothing, and I begin to wonder whether being taking hostage is a weekly occurrence for him. ‘Over to that thing that looks like a man-hole cover,’ I command, waving my gun in the direction I want him to walk. ‘Now lift it up, using the handle.’ The man does as instructed. ‘Okay, I want you to climb down the rungs until you get to the bottom.’ I say. ‘I’ll be following you down, and I won’t be leaving the gun behind.’
When my captive has reached the bottom of the shaft I throw the keys to the door down after him. ‘I want you to unlock that door,’ I instruct him. ‘Open it up and enter the bomb shelter, then stand against the wall opposite the door. Get the woman who’s in there to do the same. Don’t try anything clever, because it won’t work.’
My captive complies wordlessly. Is he mute? I wonder. When he has entered the shelter I begin my descent. I enter the room to see a truly wretched pair of prisoners. The woman is sat with her back against the wall. She looks like she’s lost about half her body weight. The man is standing, looking at his feet as if he’s expecting a stern reprimand. The room smells of piss.
‘What do you want with me?’ the woman asks. ‘I have a family. They’re going to be worried sick about me.’
‘I have a little game I’d like you both to take part in,’ I explain. ‘Do you like games?’
The woman looks at me blankly.
‘You,’ I say, turning my attention to the man. ‘I haven’t heard a peep out of you since I picked you up. Don’t you have a tongue?’
‘I don’t see how talking is going to help my predicament,’ the man replies, revealing a Yorkshire accent. ‘What will happen will happen.’
‘True. And I admire your philosophical approach. Some things we just don’t have any control over.’
‘Will you let me go now?’ the woman asks. ‘I can give you money if that’s what you want.’
‘I have a game we’re going to play,’ I explain. ‘A game which will lead to freedom for one of you. This is how it works. I’m going to give each of you a revolver, though only one will be loaded. You’re each to take aim at the other and fire. One of you will kill the other, leaving one of you to go free. If you refuse to play, I’ll shoot both of you. Now, how does that strike you?’
The woman breaks down and sobs. ‘Please, please let us both go! Or if you won’t do that, just shoot me.’
‘What about your family?’ I ask. ‘There’s a fifty-fifty chance you could be back with them tonight. Given that not playing the game will result in you both dying, wouldn’t it make sense to have a go? You’re going to condemn an extra person to death if you don’t.’
‘How do we know you will let the survivor go?’ the man asks.
‘You don’t. But that makes participation all the more essential. You have nothing to lose.’
‘I can’t do this!’ the woman wails. ‘Just shoot me, and let him go.’
‘That’s not an option,’ I state calmly, deriving an almost sexual pleasure from the woman’s mental torture.
With a suddenness and energy belying her age, the woman makes a sudden dash for the door behind me. I react pretty swiftly myself, turning and catching her by her top just before her hands reach the door. She struggles violently, and quickly I realise there is only one way to restrain her. I whack the woman with my gun, catching her firmly just above her left ear
. She responds as I hoped she would, crumpling to the floor. I grab one of her ankles and drag her back to where her fellow hostage is standing, the latter’s face a mask of terror.
‘I hope what you’ve just seen has provided you with evidence that you won’t be getting out of here without my consent,’ I say, looking at my one conscious hostage.
The man nods almost imperceptibly. He appears to have given up any hope of surviving the hour, and looks extremely unlikely to try anything adventurous.
I suddenly feel overcome by boredom, and consider just shooting the pair of them so I can get on with my day. The man’s lack of a reaction to his predicament is deeply disappointing. If the fear of death doesn’t motivate him, what does?
Instead of doing this, however, I opt to let them stew for a couple of hours. Maybe they’ll fuck each other, and that will give them the lift they need to play.
‘I think you two need some time to ponder your next move,’ I tell the man, backing towards the door. ‘I’m going to leave you two alone for a while, and I want you to think long and hard about whether you really think two deaths are better than one. Talk about it, discuss fully, and I expect to see a change of attitude when I return.’ With this, I step out of the bunker, slamming its door firmly shut.
After reaching ground level I walk towards the house. The weather has changed since I ventured underground. Strong winds accelerate black clouds across the sky and bend grass and tree branches. A couple of large raindrops fall on me before I reach the front door. The house is situated in an isolated spot about half a mile from the nearest dwelling, accessed by a rough track that runs from a tarmacked road that is far enough away to only just to be visible from the cottage. Stands of trees shield the house on three sides; on the other side slopping grassland leads to a coarse-pebbled beach some two hundred yards away.
After entering the house I feel suddenly weary, and decide to get some sleep. Climbing the stairs I make straight for the room that used to be mine as a child. My uncle didn’t marry, and I was a regular visitor as a kid. As I’m nestling under the covers I see the room’s bookcase still holds several of the books I used to read as a ten year old. It occurs to me that my life has turned out very differently to how I imagined as a kid of nine or ten. I’m married – that much is as anticipated – but instead of being an astronaut or policeman I am a serial killer. Seconds after putting my head on the pillow I fall asleep.
