ART: A Novel of Extreme Horror and Gore

by Matt Shaw

  © Matt Shaw and Michael Bray

  The right of Matt Shaw and Michael Bray to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without written consent from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

  The characters, and story, in this book are purely fictitious. Any likeness to person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover artwork created by Jethro Lentle

  The authors would like to thank the following people:

  Jethro Lentle for his outstanding work on creating the cover artwork.

  Graeme Reynolds for his support during the writing of this story and hard work, and time, he has put in over the past five months.

  Simon Marshall Jones for his edits.

  The many BETA readers who have given their opinions on the story throughout the writing process.

  And - of course - our readers who continually support our work. Without you, we are nothing but hermits typing away at a keyboard.

  ART

  The following book has scenes which some readers may find distressing...

  M A T T S H A W

  and

  M I C H A E L B R A Y

  Definition of art (n)

  art

  [ aart ]

  1. creation of beautiful things: the creation of beautiful or thought-provoking works, e.g. in painting, music, or writing

  2. beautiful objects: beautiful or thought-provoking works produced through creative activity

  3. branch of art: a branch or category of art, especially one of the visual arts

  P R O L O G U E

  A new hotel. At least ‘new’ in the sense I'd not been there before. The hotel had existed on the outskirts of the town for a few years now. Not unpleasant but hardly like the pictures in the brochure. Old age and hundreds of guests hadn’t been kind to it. Patches of stains on the walls; the dressing table by the long wall-mounted mirror chipped here and there; pages torn from the Bible I found in the top drawer of the bedside cabinet, for what purpose I’ll never know; lime scale on the sink’s taps in the bathroom; a discoloured rubber mat next to the bath - also complete with taps coated in lime scale. Clearly the cleaners haven’t heard of the concept of elbow grease. Back in the main room and the bed sheets have seen better days. Had it not been for what was planned, I’d have asked for management to come by and change them. By tomorrow though - check out day - I’m sure they’ll dispose of everything from this bedroom. I smiled to myself as thoughts of my upcoming evening meandered through my excited mind. It won’t be long now.

  * * *

  A knock at the door. Opened. A vision of beauty. A smile on her face broadened only when I hand her ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, seventy, ninety... Fish in my pocket for another note... One hundred pounds. Notes slid into her handbag. Handbag placed on the table next to the flat-screen television currently advertising an option for express check-out. She turns to me. Business conducted, she thinks, so time for the fun to start. A different idea in my head. One she won’t be expecting. No need to rush. Fast forward the small talk. No need to dwell upon words spoken. Only lies. Fake name from me. Most likely Naomi is a fake name too. Lies on both of our parts. She doesn’t think I’m cute looking, she doesn’t ‘dig’ the clothes that I’m wearing. In turn, I don’t really work in sales and I’m not really here on a business seminar. Clothes on the floor, in a heaped mess. Don’t usually permit this but she’s prettier than some of the others I’ve been sent.

  Lying on my front, her hands on my back, rubbing. The advert specified a professional massage. A little bit of baby-oil and a quick rub up and down with little to no pressure - hardly a professional massage. As much of a lie as most of the words from her mouth. Hands on my legs, starting behind the knees and running upwards towards my buttocks. Not a horrible sensation but not one that I’ll remember when my evening comes to an end and I walk away with a feeling of satisfaction and euphoria at a job well done. Slight whispers in my ear, with me still on my front. Not so much words, more like soft moans. A cheap trick to try and tease and titillate. Stirrings down below. Cheap tricks work. An order to roll onto my back. Order accepted. On my back. The pretty girl with the fake name, straddling me. A gentle rocking motion, grinding down onto my erect penis with only the smallest of g-strings keeping contact to a minimum. A question. Do I want to fuck her? A smile on my face. I want to fuck her; I want to fuck her up. Condom pulled from between breast and bra. Wrapper torn with teeth, rubber sheath pulled from within. A hand on my throbbing shaft keeps it steady. Condom over the head of my cut penis. A quick motion; a rolling downwards. G-string pulled to one side. Smile on her face. Heavy breaths as she grinds her cunt against my covered shaft. A sigh from both of us as she slides me inside as far as I can go. A gentle rocking. Another question. How do I want to fuck her? Easily answered with my hands around her throat.

  Eyes bulging. A gasping for air. Desperate clawing. Still inside her as she struggles. A pleasurable feeling. A quick roll. Her on her back. Me on top. Still inside. She’s still clawing. The smell of fear. The air of desperation and panic. Her eyes rolling in the back of her head. The smile on my face. The bulging veins on the side of her head. The hands dropping to her side. The final squeeze accompanied with frantic thrusting. A twitch from her finger. The dilation of the pupils. The familiar spasm in my leg. The orgasm. The shudder. The rush. The breathlessness. Collapse. No need to withdraw. No need to move. Enjoy the moment. Share her peace. Checkout isn’t until 11am tomorrow morning. We have all night and we’re going to need it for I really do believe that, with this canvas, I will truly be able to come up with a masterpiece.

  CHAPTER 1.

  SUNDAY

  I collected the assorted letters piled on the doormat and stepped into my cold flat after wishing my neighbour a good morning. As usual they were inquisitive as to where I’d been recently but I fobbed them off with a story about having to visit some relatives up north; a completely different direction to where I really stayed last night. A quick back and forth about how we’ve both been, some fake smiles - at least on my part - and a suggestion of a catch up soon as it had been a while since we had last ventured out for a drink together.

  “Didn’t even know you had relatives up north,” the neighbour had said to me, eyebrows raised, when I bumped into him in the hallway, as though he believed he knew everything about my life. He didn’t. He knew nothing about my world. Just the little easy lies that I occasionally drip fed him to keep him from suspecting I was anything but a normal neighbour. What is normal anyway?

  “Haven’t seen them for a long time,” I told him, my tone as cool as ice. “Family emergency,” I stopped myself from giving too much information away. You make the lies too complicated and they have a nasty way of catching up with you and - before you know it - you’ve talked yourself into a plot filled with messy holes begging to be discovered and questioned. Questions like that can be the end for people such as me. First rule of being good at what I do: Learn to lie. Keep it simple.

  “Bit busy at the moment - things to take care of - we'll catch up soon for a drink though?” I told him before he had the chance to ask me further questions or engage in fruitless conversation meant only to waste my time and peak a little into my private life. I’d always make excuses when I encountered him, or any of the other neighbours, as I passed by them outside. A quick excuse to get out of long conversations. Ea
ch time I’d only give them enough time to say something along the lines of 'that would be nice' before I was gone. A little smile as I’d slide the key into my door and twist the lock open before stepping in.

  Safely in my flat with the door to the outside world closed I threw my overnight bag - filled with spare clothes and a few choice mementos from last night - to the side of the hallway, where it landed with a heavy thud, and went into the lounge. I’d worry about unpacking later, not that it would take me long. With the post in hand I collapsed onto the settee. It had been a long night and although I felt good I was absolutely shattered to the point of almost falling asleep at the wheel of my car - certainly not the best thing to do when you had an overnight bag filled with... That reminded me... I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my wallet. A flick of the wrist and the creased leather swung open revealing my credit cards. I say my credit cards but they weren’t my credit cards. None of them had my real name on them. My real name? Been so long since I’ve used it I’m not entirely sure I can remember what it was. I pulled the top card out. Can’t use that one again. Need to control my urges better. The first card I managed to obtain and it hadn’t even been used to a quarter of the available limit. All I’d used it for was the fish hooks, wire and - of course - the cash withdrawal for the hotel room. I just made sure I found a shop, in the middle of nowhere, a place where I was sure there were no cameras present to capture my image. I’m not ready for my image to be out there yet. Not until I’ve finished anyway and then I want the world to know who I am. I enjoyed last night but that’s still wasteful. I could have had much more fun utilising this piece of plastic if it weren’t for my lack of patience and self-control. An impromptu reaction to an otherwise stressful day. No sense worrying about it now. Besides which there’s still a number of unused cards ready and waiting. They were the first thing I got when I realised where my life was headed. Start with the cards and then the tools I’d need and then... Well... too late now. That plan is out of the window due to my career taking a sudden ‘quick-start’ yesterday.

  I threw the card onto the coffee table. I’ll cut it up later but if I didn’t take it out of my wallet now then there was a good chance I’d forget. I leant back on the sofa and closed my eyes. It had been a long night. A sigh escaped from my mouth. So tired. A little nap won’t hurt and then I’ll check the news. No sense turning it on now. It’s too soon. Later though. Sure something will be mentioned later and I honestly can’t wait. Nap now. Celebrate later.

  * * *

  People lined the streets to see me. A few of them had signs calling for me to be hanged but many of them had smiles on their faces and autograph books in their hands, so it’s easy to ignore the ones who protested for my undeserved death. The happy ones though, if they weren’t holding autograph books then they clutched at copies of one of the many magazines where I’d hit the front cover. I stood on a red carpet which stretched from the car I’d only just pulled up in - right across to the front of the building I was headed for. A true smile on my face. A pen in my hand as I frantically scribbled my name onto one of the many items I’d been asked to sign.

  A wave of people surged forward, albeit slowly, to try and get closer. Some of them called my name. Some of them told me how I was an inspiration, words which brought a smile to my pale face. To the ones who couldn’t quite reach me I tried to catch their eyes before giving them a friendly wave. I showed them I appreciated them for coming out to see me although I couldn’t get over to speak to them personally. One of my entourage, a large man in a black suit, who was there for my protection as much as the protection of the crowd, urged me to move forward as there were more people waiting to see me inside the building. They could wait though. They weren’t going anywhere. Anyway the people out here had been good enough to wait to see me for most of the day. They deserved my attention just as much as the ones inside. I wouldn’t ignore anyone. I would never ignore anyone. It wasn’t (and isn’t) in my nature. I’d worked so hard to be where I was today - I didn’t want anyone thinking I wasn’t grateful to them for being there. I wanted to see them just as much as they wanted to see me. I lived for this.

  Cameras flashed from every direction. Blinding. Despite the distraction they offered I didn’t mind them. After all - I’m a bigger picture kind of guy and it just meant there would be more exposure for me tomorrow. Whether it was to be on some fans’ Facebook pages or yet more articles in more magazines and newspapers, I was happy with all of the attention. I didn’t even mind the negative press. The fact people were out there who deemed it necessary to write such poison about me - well it just showed that, in some way, they cared. More to the point, they were thinking of me. All the time I am in the mind of others - I’m an Immortal. A God among men, women and children. My smile broadened as someone asked me to sign a magazine cover but to make it out to their mum instead of their own name. They loved my work but their mother loved it more apparently. I could get used to this. She would have been there herself but the face in the crowd explained she was in hospital having had emergency surgery to remove a burst appendix. I nodded as though I cared and told the face that I hoped her mother would make a speedy recovery. Truth be told, though, I couldn’t care less. I didn’t want to hear their life stories. I just wanted to hear how much they loved me. Couldn’t say that though. Didn’t want to turn the faces away from me. I needed to keep up the caring routine and, despite the hand on my back, which gently pushed me forward I asked the face whether they had a mobile phone. They nodded. Call your mum, I suggested. They did. I took the phone and had a charming conversation with what sounded to be an elderly lady. She was, supposedly, my biggest fan. I heard that a lot. I always wondered which of them is truly my biggest fan? She liked the fact that my work served two purposes; both of which were equally important. On the one hand it helped rid the world of the parasites who darkened our days and, on the other hand, the art was beautiful. She explained how she felt it had taken Damien Hirst’s idea (with the cutting in half of the cow) and taken it to the next (necessary) level. I thanked her for her kind words. Little did she know, Damien Hirst was my inspiration. Him and my father (but it was more to do with just wanting to prove to the latter that I could achieve what he had failed to do - get recognition for my art where his went mostly unseen). I told her that without people like her, who urged me to continue, I’d be nothing. She told me that could never be the case. I was destined for greatness and I was already mostly there. Her words, not mine. I felt myself blush but didn’t disagree with her. Why would I? I didn’t catch her name so I asked. Jackie. I wished her the best of health and handed her back to her child who was patiently waiting. She immediately started to scream down the phone. I moved further down the line but could still hear the excitement from the pair of them - neither could believe I’d taken the time to have a phone conversation during the busy evening. More cameras flashed than before. It wasn’t just the mother and her child who were suitably impressed. My actions seemed to please the others too who were now frantically waving their own phones in my face. There’d definitely be more stories of me tomorrow and I looked forward to them.

  * * *

  I woke up with a smile on my face. A pleasant dream. It made a nice change. Usually I have night terrors of the worst kind. I guess it had something to do with my evening. I hope the quietness and the good dreams last forever because I have a feeling the darkness will be back, once again, as memories of last night fade away. Rested, I stood up and walked into the hallway. I picked up the bag and carried it through to the kitchen. I put it on the side and turned the kettle on after filling it. Nice to see a tap that’s not coated in lime scale. I opened the bag and reached in. A quick fish around before I pulled out some Polaroid photographs. Souvenirs of the previous night; multiple pictures of the scene I’d left for the maid to find and - more importantly - the press. I smiled as I cast my eyes over the pictures and relived those moments.

  * * *

  After death, I inserted hooks
into the girl’s wrists and ankles. My technique had been honed on pieces of meat from the butcher local to my old family home, out in the country. Sharp hooks which I’d bought with the fake credit card from a sports shop miles from where I lived. No chance of being recognised. The hooks I buy are the ones meant for catching large fish in rough seas. Once they pierced the girl’s still-warm skin I’d taken the strongest fishing wire you could get and attached it to the corner of the room. Wire from her left wrist and ankle attached to the left corners of the room (thanks to multiple vine eye hooks in the corners of the room and a ‘do not disturb sign’ on the door), wire from the other wrist and ankle to the right. It was tricky but entirely possible to suspend the girl from the floor. I preferred to have them facing downwards. It looked more dramatic than having them looking up. Another reason why I didn’t like them pointing that way was because it also made it impossible for police officers to see the face until they’d cut her down and I preferred them to see it as soon as they walked in. I believe it added more drama to the scene. Once the girl had been hung I’d taken a large knife from my overnight bag, carefully wrapped up in a shirt. With the tip of its blade I’d cut from her throat down to her navel; a messy procedure but one which allowed for her intestines to drop to the floor in a puddle of delightful gore. One which excited me. From there I’d patiently taken the time to rearrange them into a pattern which suited my mood. In this instance it was a snail-shell, the guts going round and round in a neat little series of circles spiralling inwards to the middle. Only when that was done did I take the time to step back and admire my work. A feeling of euphoria washed over me, followed by a smile spreading across my face. I reached for my camera and took pictures. The Polaroid’s weren’t a necessity of course: such a work of art would be hard to forget but - even so - I wanted to collect them. I wanted to have something to look back upon, in my darker days, in an effort to cheer myself up from one of my moods.