ART: A Novel of Extreme Horror and Gore

by Matt Shaw

  When morning came my heart was beating ten to the dozen. Panic was starting to set in. I hadn’t been ready to do... I looked at the scene... all this. I hadn’t been ready. Had I really made sure as to clean all my DNA from the scene? Had I cleaned enough? Left no trace of myself? Did they have cameras in the hotel? Had they got my image? I shook away the self-doubt and straightened up. I can’t think of this now. I can’t. I need to get out of here before the maid comes a knocking.

  One final look at the scene. I did well. I can’t wait to hear the reactions.

  * * *

  I put the photos to one side. The first of what I hope will be many mementos as I explore my hobby further; I’ll start an album with these later. At least as long as I don’t get caught after this one. I was pretty sure I’d covered all my bases. I was proud of what I had achieved but, even so, the loss of control and impatience... that wasn’t good.

  I checked the time on my old wrist watch with its fraying leather strap. I hadn’t realised I’d dozed for so long. A good solid few hours. One downside was that it would make it harder to sleep through the night later on, when I’m wishing slumber would take a hold. On the plus-side - I’m betting I must be on every news channel now - and not just the local news either. The perks of modern technology for you; news travels fast. Why, I bet word had already spread to continents far across the oceans. People would already know of my stage-name - the one I’d inked on the wall of the hotel room before leaving, using droplets of the whore’s blood as ink.

  I stretched across the sofa and reached for the remote control sitting on its tatty arm. Turning the television on, I started flicking through the channels. I hadn’t even found a news station yet, but my heart raced with anticipation. This is it. This is my moment. This is my introduction to the world. I only hope they’re ready for me but then, if they’re not, I won’t be the first artist to have been misunderstood.

  CHAPTER 2.

  SUNDAY

  The shrill scream of the alarm told me the all-too-brief weekend was over, and it’s the start of another monotonous day. I squinted at the digital display as I silenced the bloody thing, and took a moment just to get my head together. Part of me seriously considered rolling over and going back to sleep, but just as quickly, I dismissed the idea. Under the circumstances, I can’t afford another sick day.

  As I dragged myself out of bed it dawned on me, not for the first time, just how old I’m starting to feel. It’s a sneaky bastard that old age, creeping up on me without warning. On my way to the bathroom, the same old routine took over my tired and fuzzy brain. I stepped over the floorboards that I knew would creak. I peeked out of the window to witness the dawning of another overcast, dreary day. I washed and brushed my teeth, attempting to ignore the signs that Father Time is starting to give me a damn good kicking. It’s funny, because I struggle to see that fresh-faced officer who joined the police force all those years ago. The shine in the eyes has dulled, the cheeks have started to jowl, and the hair that was once thick and black is starting to thin and go gray at the edges.

  Thanks, Father Time. Thanks a lot.

  I didn’t bother to shave, as I couldn’t be arsed. Instead, I headed to the kitchen and made a coffee, enjoying the solitude, for a while at least.

  See, the chance to think reminds me of all the things that the day job helps me to ignore. I hate my job. Hate it. I was naïve enough to think that I would be something special, that as soon as I made detective I could change the world. If only I could meet that younger version of myself now: I would slap him, shake him by the shoulders, and tell him that in the grand scheme of things, Martin Andrews would not make much of an impact on the complex and depressingly active world of serious crime.

  The problem is that it is too deeply ingrained into society. Kids as young as seven or eight are on street corners dealing drugs, some of them armed with guns bought from back-street dealers. The majority of the public don’t see this of course. To them, we keep them safe and secure.

  What a fucking joke.

  The fact is we’re overstretched, and it’s often easier to sweep a lot of crimes - the robberies and muggings, the domestic assaults and vandalisms - under the carpet. At least that was how it used to be.

  My eyes drifted to the small black and white photo on the fridge held in place by magnets. That fuzzy squiggle changed my outlook.

  Kids will do that.

  It didn’t seem real until Lucy started to show, but as her stomach grew, so did my concerns. What kind of world is this to bring a kid into?

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m ecstatic. Over the moon to be a father. I just don’t know if the world as it is right now is somewhere for my kid to be able to live a good and safe life. I suppose it’s something that all police officers feel, especially the ones like me who know how much stuff goes both unsolved and unreported. I know guys who have been falsifying reports and documentation for years, all because they need to meet targets, make sure the funding comes for another year. It’s a tightrope. A fucking tightrope.

  Still, moping around and feeling sorry for myself won’t help. All I can do is promise myself that I’ll stop being lazy, and make sure that I get as many of the scum off the streets before my new son or daughter comes into this world.

  Will it make any difference?

  In the grand scheme of things, probably not. Nevertheless, I have to try, if only for my own peace of mind. Tired of moping and dwelling on what might be, I decided to head in to the office early. Maybe I’d stop at the McDonalds drive-through on the way for an Egg Mcmuffin. My doctor says I have to watch my stress levels and cholesterol, but in this instance, I was willing to ignore his advice. It’s Sunday after all, and I needed something to give me a little pick up before another shitty week begins.

  * * *

  The drive into work was predictably frustrating. Even at this time on a Sunday morning, the roads were gridlocked with church-goers and taxi drivers who seemed to operate from a different highway code to the rest of us. I didn’t even have the pleasure of eating my Egg McMuffin due to the line at the drive in stretching for what looked like a quarter of a mile. Fuck it, I’ll grab something later. I could almost see my doctor’s smug face as I crawled past the turnoff and the inviting golden arches sign.

  Eventually, I arrived at work. To see that ugly gray concrete building set against the equally gray sky made my heart sink just a little. As usual, all of the good parking spaces were taken, so I drove my shitty little Ford Escort to the back of the car park and pulled in. The cold bit hard and whipped my jacket against my body as I made my way to the building. It’s only the start of November, and already freezing most mornings. I have a feeling it’s going to be a bitch of a winter, which seems a little unfair considering that, as usual, we had no summer to speak of. I pushed my way into the building, wrinkling my nose at stale smell of old polish. Fortunately, reception was empty. It seems even the drunks and other assorted dickheads that usually populate it hadn’t yet dragged themselves out of their pits for long enough to cause trouble. It was the first good news of the day as I punched in my key code and walked through the ‘staff only’ door.

  Serious crimes is up on the third floor. It’s easy enough to walk up the steps, but I was feeling particularly lazy today, so I called the lift.

  As I waited, I saw Perkins saunter over. He’s only a year out of the academy, and although he’s a good kid, I really couldn’t be arsed with him this morning.

  “Shit the bed Martin?” he said, grinning at me as he came close.

  He reminded me of myself when I was young. He has that same brightness in his eyes. I half-considered telling him to do something else with his life before it’s too late, but that also sounded like too much effort, so I simply smiled back.

  “Thought I’d come in early, catch up on some paperwork. What are you doing here?”

  “Just been to the gym. I like to get an hour or so in before I start work.”

  I nodded and sucked my gut in at th
e same time.

  “Good idea. Family all okay?” I asked him whilst praying for the lift to hurry itself up.

  “Can’t complain. You? Any sign of that rug rat yet?”

  “Not yet, shouldn’t be long though.” I replied as I stared at the door to the stairs, wondering if I could make a good enough excuse to get away from this conversation.

  “Make the most of it, you won’t get any sleep once it arrives.” He said, flashing his perfect grin.

  A couple of thoughts entered my head at that instant. The first was that Perkins was probably one of those guys who went through a lot of women. The second thought was to maybe tell him that I barely slept now as it was because I was worried about so many things. I opened my mouth to give some kind of non-committal comment when the doors chimed, and my escape route opened.

  “This is me. I’ll speak to you later, Perkins.”

  I strode into the lift and pressed the button for my floor before he could answer. I could see he was a little put out, but frankly, I couldn’t have cared less. I’ve bigger things to worry about than offending Dale Perkins.

  I’d hoped to find the third floor empty, but to my surprise, there were already a lot of people up there who genuinely looked busy. I strode towards my super - a big jowly old buzzard by the name of Patterson.

  “Ah, Andrews, I was just about to ring you at home,” he said, turning towards me. He always looked serious, but this time his frown was a little bit deeper than normal.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Murder.”

  “Another great start to the morning eh?”

  I grinned, but Patterson remained impassive. Something didn’t seem right, and I let the grin fall from my face and gave my full attention to the boss.

  “This is a bad one Martin. Really bad.”

  I nodded, I‘d never seen him so flustered, and that made me wonder if my bad day was about to get worse.

  “What happened?”

  “Some poor girl has been ripped up in a hotel room.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “Crummy little place on the outskirts of the city. We’re heading out there now. Forensics are on their way. You can ride with me if you want.”

  “Its fine, I’ll follow you in my own car.” I said, thinking that company other than my own was probably a bad idea.

  “Suit yourself. Come on then, let’s get gone.”

  The hotel was already taped off when we arrived. It was one of those lower mid-range ones, the kind of place that liked to kid itself that it was luxury, but would no doubt have its share of damp patches and suspect stains on the bedding. I got out of the car, crossing to and ducking under the tape as I headed inside out of the drizzle. I could feel a headache coming on and wanted to deal with this as quickly as I could. The need for nicotine gnawed at my guts, but I’d promised Lucy I would quit when she found out about the baby, and I wasn’t about to give in if I could help it. I pushed my addiction aside and walked with Patterson into the lobby.

  It was unspectacular. Green furnishings, ugly maroon carpet which was a good five years past its best, cheap reproduction paintings on the wall. It wasn’t quite a place that charged by the hour, but at the same time, I couldn’t see it winning any awards for cleanliness. I fell in beside Patterson as he led the way.

  “The maid found the body this morning when she went in to turn the room. Whoever did it really took their time.”

  “Is anyone tracing the check in I.D?”

  “We are, but I don’t expect to find anything. When you see the trouble this prick went to, you’ll see why.”

  What about payment method? Are we lucky enough to hope for a credit card?”

  Patterson shook his head. “Paid with cash. He was careful.”

  “What about CCTV?”

  Patterson snorted and raised his eyebrows. “In a place like this? No chance. I’m guessing that’s why he picked it in the first place. Hotels like this one don’t tend to ask too many questions of their clientele.”

  We bypassed the lift and went into a small office tucked out of the way by the bar. The maid who had found the body sat at the table, cradling a cup of coffee. I knew she was the one who’d discovered the body because she had that look in her eyes that all witnesses did. I’d seen it before when death sprang up unexpectedly and slapped someone in the face: Car crashes; The unexpected suicides of loved ones; Robberies where somebody’s mother, brother or father had happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and had found themselves on the end of a bullet.

  Yes. This was an all too familiar sight in this job. The poor woman’s eyes were haunted and devoid of understanding as she tried to make sense of whatever she had seen. She carried that haunted vacancy that came with seeing the reality of death up close. It would never leave her, the image of the things she had seen. I envied her for being so unaccustomed, and wouldn’t wish a discovery like that on anyone. She looked me in the eye, looking for something. Some words that would make it better, some comfort that would make those awful images vacate her mind. The truth was there were none, at least not that I knew of anyway. The best thing for her would be time. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a luxury I could give her.

  It was important to get as much information as possible whilst it was still fresh. The human brain tends to embellish and add more things that never actually happened the longer it is left alone to think about it. It’s not the fault of the witness – or at least in most cases it isn’t – but the fact was I needed to get the info right away before she could forget or change it enough to make it useless. At least things are better than they used to be. Since Cognitive interviewing had become standard practice back in the eighties, there was less chance of getting bad information. Even so, it was still up to me to ask the right questions in the right way to get results. Call me a manipulative bastard, but it was my job.

  I sat opposite her as Patterson hovered and placated the hotel manager, who was growing increasingly worried about the extensive police presence outside the hotel and how it might impact his business. Pushing his high pitch squeaks to the same ‘come back later’ part of my brain where I’d sent the nicotine craving, I turned my attention back to the maid.

  She was eastern European, late thirties by the looks of things. Her skin was pale, but I’m not sure if that was due to the shock of finding a body or natural. She had an ugly wart on her cheek which I forced myself not to stare at. Instead I held her gaze, and tried to not to let the vacant horror I saw there bother me.

  “I’m detective Martin Andrews,” I said, giving her the professional script. “I need to ask you a few questions if you feel up to answering them.”

  The woman stared right through me, mouth partially agape. I wasn’t holding out hope of her being much use yet, but I had procedure to follow, so I asked her what happened.

  “On Okazywał jej,” she whispered, looking at me with pleading eyes seeking a reassurance that I didn’t have the power to give.

  “I don’t understand, please, tell me what happened.”

  “On Okazywał jej!” She repeated, this time spitting out the words in her native tongue.

  I glanced over to Patterson, eyebrows raised.

  “Get her to write it down,”

  I pulled a notepad out of my jacket and pushed it toward her, handing her a tatty biro that I kept meaning to replace. She set aside her coffee and copied it down. It made just as little sense on paper, but I knew what to do. I pulled out my phone and punched up Google. Bless the internet. Amid the pictures of funny dogs and pages and pages of useless shit, there were actually some useful services. I keyed the text into an online translation service and waited until it made a bridge between our languages. The results came back almost instantly, and as I read them, I wondered just what had happened here.

  “What does it say?” Patterson asked.

  I held out my phone to him so he could read it for himself.

  “Christ, I think we better go up to the room and ta
ke a look.”

  “Want me to stay here and continue the interview?” I asked.

  “No, you come up with me. You always have a good eye for stuff like this. I’ll send Richards in to finish the interview.”

  “Got it,” I said, happy to be off the hook as far as having to ask all those mind-numbingly repetitious questions while secretly looking forward to getting back to the station so I could wash some pills down with coffee to try and catch this headache. On my notepad, just below the maid’s scrawled words, I penned in the translation in case I needed it later.

  On Okazywał jej.

  He displayed her.

  I got up and followed Patterson to the lift. It was time we went to see what we were dealing with.

  The ride up to the sixth floor was the exact opposite of my wait for the lift at the station. This time, it wasn’t a case of wishing the ride would go quicker, it was a dull sense of dread and the hope that it might never end. The doors chimed, and I stepped from sticky carpet onto worn hotel corridor. I could see the room at the end of the hall, or more specifically, the officer outside the door. Patterson and I headed towards it. It was interesting that he seemed to be in about as much of a rush as I was. Maybe there was something in this police instinct thing and he sensed it too.

  We reached the door and looked inside, and two things were immediately apparent. First, this was definitely not something we would be able to sweep away, and second, that I was glad I’d missed out on eating that morning. As it was, my stomach rolled as I looked at the scene beyond the door. It seemed the maid was spot on in her assessment.

  Something awful had happened here. And, whoever was responsible, had indeed displayed her.