Beast In The Basement

by Jason Arnopp

  "Fifteen to 20 minutes? You can do better than that. Uh-hurkkk. Yes, I have him tied up, but I need you here now, all right?"

  She briefly listens to the reply, then deactivates the phone handset with a 'beep'. I would say she returns her attention to me, but in truth those eyes have been glued to mine throughout her conversation.

  "It's a funny thing," she tells me. "Uh-hurkkk. When you're lying in darkness on your own cellar floor, being fed like a dog and forced to wet yourself and worse... so many questions race through your head."

  I regard her with a neutral expression. Trying my hardest to ignore the pain which results from struggling against those wrist-binds (and only now do I realise she used my own rope.)

  Sparks begins to pace, limping slowly and deliberately to my left, like some Nazi commandant. My heart sinks as I realise she's set on describing a circle around me. And sure enough, the moment she steps behind my chair, she sees that I've somewhat loosened those ties. I grunt as she bends down behind me, her fetid breath all too close, and tightens those knots harder than ever before. Feels like the blood supply to my hands has been severed. Escaping from captivity is nothing like the movies.

  "Don't worry," she says. "It'll act like a tourniquet. Uh-hurkkk. Stop your hand from bleeding. Although why I should care about that, I really don't know."

  "Let's deal with your questions," I tell her. "Get them out of the way. I have a few of my own."

  "Which rather leads me into one of mine," says Sparks, her anger palpable as she reappears from behind me and to my right, walking back around to complete her full circle. "Why didn't you talk to me? All that time in the darkness, when I asked you, even begged you, to tell me what was going on. I just wanted to understand why the hell you were doing this to me." She's working herself up into quite the rage, commencing another lap. "But no. I got nothing from you. Just silent contempt while I ate and drank, before you taped my mouth shut again. You looked at me like I was... like I was some kind of animal. Is that really what I am to you?"

  I take a deep breath, wondering if she's finished. She seems to be, for now. So I nod.

  "You were The Beast. I suppose that made it all the easier."

  "Made what all the easier? I want to know, right now, before the police get here: what has this all been about? If you wanted to rob the place, why are still you here?"

  Do I tell her? I can't think of a reason not to. The mission is over. I've failed. (How did I manage that? It all seemed so very simple. Maybe I took too long to rewrite the book, but Maddy is ultimately to blame. That temptress threw me way off course.)

  Sparks reaches around from behind me, grabs the underside of my chin and yanks my head backwards, forcing me to look up at her.

  "Well? Come on, tell me. Would you like a knife through the other hand?"

  By way of an answer, I simply nod over towards the PC screen. Sparks' face slowly registers curiosity. She limps over, sees the Word file. She reads some, then grabs the mouse and scrolls back through the novel. Reads some more. Soaking it all in.

  When she turns back to face me, her expression is both incredulous and mocking.

  "You've been rewriting it?"

  "Yes," I say proudly, keeping my voice strong and even. There's nothing for her to mock here.

  Laughter thunders out of the woman. She's shaking with the force of it, leaning on the desk, her pitch hysterical.

  What the hell? What's so funny?

  "You're practically fucking dyslexic! This reads like a children's novel written by a child. You seriously had the gall to think you could rewrite me?"

  I bristle all over, as Sparks fans the flames of my resentment. She's wrong. I can write. Sylvie and so many friends all loved my short stories. They all said I should write a novel one day. And they meant it, I know they did.

  Why would they lie?

  "That's the only version now," I tell her. "I've destroyed all trace of the original."

  Sparks swings around from her desk to glower at me. Evidently unable to find the words for what I've done.

  I'm surprised to find my voice wavering. "The thing is... Jade Nexus can't die."

  Sparks folds her arms. She resembles a school teacher, holding me in detention.

  "I think you'll find Jade Nexus will do whatever the hell I want her to do."

  Suddenly I'm blurting. Emotions well up, my glacial front melting fast. "You don't realise the power you have. The consequences of what you do. You can destroy lives, tear people apart!"

  For a moment, I feel like some kind of... fanatic.

  That's not me, is it? She's the villain here, the destroyer. I'm the hero, the crusader.

  That's right, isn't it? Of course it is.

  Something about my new display of feeling is softening her, just a little. Anger stabs through me again as I sense a flash of pity in that saggy face.

  "Who are you?" she asks.

  "Robert Coulter."

  She thinks for a moment, as the name sinks in. She probably won't even remember it from three months ago.

  "All right," she says, nodding. "Now we're getting somewhere." And again, that infuriating pity blooms. "I remember you."

  I glare back. "I'm surprised. Our story was buried very nicely in the few 'papers which ran it. Wonder how much your publicists paid to have it all downplayed."

  "Jamie," says Sparks, matter-of-factly. "Your son's name was Jamie."

  That name, from her mouth, jerks through me like an electric shock. I rail hard against my binds, but they won't budge. Instead, the violence hisses out of me as low venom.

  "Don't you fucking say his name. You're not fit to say his name."

  CHAPTER NINE: BLOOD ON TARMAC

  "Daddy! It's here!"

  Jamie's excited cry rang through the house. I lowered the Daily Mail and idly wondered what "it" was. I'd heard the metal letterbox flap opening, followed by the sound of something heavy landing on the mat. What had we ordered? I tried to remember.

  I had no idea a fatal virus had just squeezed its way into our home.

  "Daddy, come and see."

  I was midway through an article about 20 ordinary household objects which can give you cancer.

  "Hold on, son," I called out, urgently scanning through the rest of the piece. "Be there in a minute."

  By now, my family and I were installed in the leafy suburbs. Six months after Sylvie and I got together, she'd moved into my Finsbury Park flat. Almost two years after that, she fell pregnant.

  She had sat me down and broken the news with a worried look on her face, which quickly dissolved into happiness when I grinned back.

  At some point during all of this, I was injured at the architects' office where I worked. A cleaner had left a floor wet without erecting a warning sign and I fell heavily out by the kitchen, fracturing my wrist. I called a compensation lawyer and successfully took the company for £48,000, before finding a new job.

  Pooling our resources into a mortgage, Sylvie and I hunted around London's northern extremities and settled for this modest two-up, two-down in Stanmore. I had a parking space outside, Sylvie had only a short walk to the Jubilee Line, which soon whizzed her to the Dollis Hill office where she worked as a PA. The new house had a garden and plenty of space for the three of us. It was ideal.

  Most of the time, I was able to work from home and look after Jamie. Sometimes Sylvie did it. Sometimes we had a babysitter. We juggled it all and managed well.

  Almost seven years after we moved into the house, that's when the virus arrived.

  Jamie came charging into the living room, clutching a large padded envelope, and I folded the newspaper up on my lap. Since I didn't go to him, naturally he had come to me. And I didn't mind. All things considered, I'd much rather give my son some time, than read about cancer.

  Of course, nowadays, I'd rather give my son some time than do anything on Earth. I'd give anything to have just ten seconds with him.

  "What is it?" I asked, as Jamie crashed into my legs,
all exuberance, big eyes and snot.

  "It's Jade," he told me. "Jade's here!"

  Ah! Now I remembered. Jamie had recently read the first Jade Nexus novel, Jade Nexus And The Four-Headed Witch. He was incredibly excited by the prospect of reading the second, which had been out for almost a year, so we'd ordered it as a late sixth birthday present. The release date had ended up being a week after his big day, so we'd placed it on pre-order.

  I took the envelope from Jamie, carefully cut a slit along the top with scissors and handed it back to him. He gleefully tore the packaging apart with such vigour that some of the inner padding-gunk fell to the floor. Then he finally yanked the weighty hardback book free.

  I studied his face as he stood there, transfixed by the dark cover of Jade Nexus And The Great Leveller. It depicted Jade Nexus on the back of a flying horse in the midst of a fierce thunderstorm, pursuing a cloaked skeletal figure which rode another flying horse.

  Jamie seemed to find the image scary, but his overriding response was joy. He stared at it for a full 10 minutes, as I delighted in watching his reaction. I couldn't remember the last time I had looked at one solitary thing for that long. Modern life seemed so very splintered. Two thousand TV channels, more books and magazines than ever, an apparently infinite array of websites.

  I envied Jamie that unwavering focus, that clarity, and I prayed he'd never lose it.

  Over the next few days, we didn't see too much of our son. His time was mostly spent in his room, devouring that novel. When he came downstairs to eat at the table with one of us during the day, or both of us in the evenings, all he could talk about were the exciting adventures of Jade Nexus. He even brought the book down with him, complete with Spider-Man bookmark, to show us how much he'd read.

  We were happy for him. Taking to books so soon seemed healthy. Jade Nexus And The Four-Headed Witch had been his first full read – a novel which must have been in excess of 140,000 words. I was proud of him. One day, I hoped he might want to read some of my short stories and enjoy those too. Every now and again I would find time to write one and Sylvie would always be the first to read, giving me feedback with an honesty tempered by caution. Sometimes I didn't react so well to criticism.

  Summer was coming. The days seemed infuriatingly long when I was working and luxuriously so when I relaxed at home. Jamie took to reading his book on a seat at one side of the front garden, while Sylvie pottered around tending to flowers. When he was younger, we decided to install a special front– no, no, no, not that word. Blot that word from your mind, Rob. Forget about it. Move on, it's not important.

  One fine Saturday, both Sylvie and I were at home. She and Jamie were in the garden, as usual. We needed some supplies, so I decided to run the car down to the shops. Leaving the house, I looked over at Jamie and noticed he only had a few pages left to read.

  "Almost there," I called over to him.

  He gave me a sad look. "Don't want it to end!"

  "Maybe you can read the first book again afterwards," I told him with a smile, while heading for the– no, no, no, what did I tell you? Not that word! Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.

  Our local shop was a simple mini-market, a five-minute drive away. I could have walked, but it was a lazy day and the truth is, I couldn't be bothered. There was also the carrying of bags to consider. The nearest supermarket would mean a much longer drive and this mini-market was fine for topping up on the basics.

  Later, I dumped the bags in the back of the car and began the drive home. I thought about how I couldn't wait to get back – and how lucky I was that the pieces of my life had slotted together so beautifully. I was blessed.

  When I returned home after each car journey, I liked the car to end up facing the right way. The best method with which to achieve this was to drive past the house, circle a roundabout, return and park.

  That's what I planned to do as I drove back towards the house.

  As I prepared to pass it, I remember glancing over at the garden, at Jamie's seat.

  I remember the seat being empty.

  I remember Sylvie yelling something high-pitched.

  I looked back to the road and saw Jamie there. Right there, in front of me, holding his little hands up in front of his face as this ton of metal sped towards him.

  I stamped on the brakes. Their grinding screech mixed with Jamie's own, so as to be indistinguishable.

  There was a sickening whump of impact.

  I watched my son fly through the air, away from the front bumper, then land awkwardly on the hot tarmac.

  Blood pooled around him like the outline of a map.

  Scrambling from the car, I saw Sylvie at the side of the road, looking like she was in suspended animation, goggling at Jamie as he lay there, bundled and broken.

  That's when the eternal screaming began.

  "It sounded so awful at the time," says Sparks. "And now you describe it yourself, it sounds even more so."

  The baseball bat hangs by her side now, casually grasped in one hand. She stands with her back to the tall window.

  "I'm sorry for your loss," she says mechanically, a token concession. "But I still don't understand what this has to do with me."

  As I shake my head, stars spin before my eyes. I'm still dizzy. Maybe something really did snap inside my skull when she smashed me.

  "It has everything to do with you," I say, strangely calmer for having told this monster my story. "I'm not finished. Later, when Sylvie could actually speak, she told me why Jamie had run out into the road."

  "Oh, I remember this from the newspapers. From those articles in which you argued that the Jade Nexus novels should be banned. Jamie had been–"

  "I told you not to say his name."

  The baseball bat suddenly points in my direction, her voice firm. "You're no longer in a position to tell me what to do. But I'll respect your wishes here. So. Your son had been upset, because Mr Grumbles died in my novel."

  She pauses, presumably for emphasis. "And that tenuous link," she continues, unwisely mocking me again, "is why you're sitting here now, is it? Why I've spent several days rolling around in my own cellar, wondering if it's the last thing I'll ever do?"

  Sometimes I genuinely believe other people belong to an alien species. "Of course it is, you insane bitch. If you hadn't irresponsibly decided to kill such a well-loved character, Jamie would still be alive."

  "Please don't think I have no sympathy for your son," says Sparks. "But given what you've brought to my life, I hope you'll forgive me for being blunt."

  "What I've brought to your life?"

  "You really want to talk about responsibility? Let's try the parental kind. Starting with the fact that the Jade Nexus novels are not meant for the very young. Children should start reading them at the ages of 10 or 12."

  I feel hot. A single bead of sweat trickles down the length of my spine. "Well how the hell was I supposed to know that?"

  "By reading the back cover. There's a box, with suggestions of age suitability. Many publishers do this now. Bookshops and websites place the novels in age-appropriate sections." Her eyes bore into me. "I deal frankly with themes which might... unsettle... very young minds. Like death, for instance. I believe in being straight with kids."

  I strain against my binds, an infernal rage bubbling up from deep within.

  "Let me out of here," I tell her. "Let me out, or I swear I'll kill you."

  "Mr Coulter, had you or your wife ever discussed death with your son?"

  I thrash in the chair, making it roll around. "Of course we fucking didn't. He was six. Why did he need to know about–"

  "So," she cuts in, "why would you let him read a novel called Jade Nexus And The Great Leveller, which even had the Grim Reaper on the cover?"

  I look her straight in the eye. "I will kill you. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes," she says, taking slow steps towards me with the bat. "I understand. Now, let's talk about the speed at which you drove your car, shall we?"

 
My God, she's enjoying this, like some lawyer for the prosecution.

  "What about it? My speed was fine."

  "You're positive about that? Surely other children lived along that road. When you drive along it, don't you go slow, in case anyone runs out?"

  "My speed wasn't the issue. Jamie wouldn't have run out in the first place if he hadn't read your book."

  She steps closer. "Yes. My book. The book which you bought him. The book which you allowed him to read."

  I blink several times, to rid my eyes of sweat. Sparks is only a couple of feet away.

  Panic squeezes my insides as she searches for a new question to fire my way. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a precipice, a bottomless chasm beneath my feet.

  "How did Jamie get out of the garden?" she says. "Was there no¬–"

  And that's it. That's me, sailing right over the edge.

  I full-force yell at her, hurling a shrapnel-blizzard of vicious, jagged words. My voice is so loud, it rebounds around the room and earns itself an echo. If I can't smother her voice with my hands, I'll do so with volume. I'll do so with primal aggression.

  I sandblast Sparks. Spittle flies from my mouth. I brand her every name under the sun until my throat's sore. I promise her she's going to die tonight and I tell her how it's going to happen, in detail, with her eyes cut out and her guts on the floor.

  I lose all control of myself. I forfeit my humanity.

  Anything to avoid the g-word.

  "Do you have kids?" I holler, my words falling over each other. "Tell me, just tell me now, do you have any fucking kids or not?"

  The question takes the wind out of her sails. It shunts her face. There's a sadness in those eyes, maybe regret.

  This is good. After trying a few combinations, I've cracked the safe. I've shifted the rails, forcing her train onto a different track.

  "That's irrelevant," she mutters.

  "So you don't have kids, right?"