ART: A Novel of Extreme Horror and Gore

by Matt Shaw

  I didn’t roll off her. I just stayed there, staring into the sockets with my penis deep inside her, still twitching from the powerful orgasm. She’s still so pretty. Even like this. The perks of being young, I guess. Such beautiful skin. I had a perfect idea as to how she’d be displayed. I smiled, and withdrew my cock, letting my sperm drip onto the bedding beneath.

  Today is shaping up to be a good day. I wonder how Detective Andrews is getting on.

  CHAPTER 13.

  FRIDAY

  They’d insisted I go home early, not that I would have stayed after what had happened.

  Patterson drove me home, and both Perkins and Wyatt were there with Lucy when I arrived. It was obvious she’d been crying, but appeared a lot calmer now.

  “We’ll shoot off, Martin,” Wyatt said, flicking his eyes towards Patterson.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I heard myself say from some distant place.

  “Come on Perkins,” the burly Scott said, heading for the door. “Let’s leave these two in peace.”

  I was impressed. It was the longest I've heard him speak without an F- or C-bomb spewing out of his mouth.

  “Are you sure you don’t want us to leave an officer outside?” Patterson said then, looking at me with what appeared to be genuine concern.

  “No, it’s okay, don’t worry.” I replied, still in that distant place in my head.

  Patterson leaned close enough so that I could smell the mint on his breath and the cheap aftershave on his skin.

  “Lock the door after we leave. I’ll personally make sure we find out who did this.”

  He gave my arm a squeeze, and then looked beyond me to Lucy, who was cradling her coffee like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world.

  “Look after her, Martin. This has been a big shock.”

  “I will.”

  “And for god’s sake, take a few days off will you? Let us handle this.”

  I nodded, knowing well enough that it would be easier said than done. I let Patterson out, locked the door behind him. What happened next was completely unexpected. Pigs flew. Hell froze over. And Martin Andrews began to cry. As I slid down the door onto my haunches, that stupid Pringles advert jumped into my mind again. I had popped, and didn’t know if I would be able to stop.

  A half hour later, eyes red and sore, I had relocated to the more comfortable sitting room, and was cradling a coffee. Lucy sat beside me, just watching me and waiting until I was ready to talk. I love that about her, how she always knew when to speak and when to just be quiet. Too many couples feel the need to fill every waking moment with chatter. For me, the true strength in a relationship is when two people can just sit together in the same room and not feel the need to talk. I took a sip of my coffee, desperate to organise my thoughts into some kind of rational order.

  What had happened was every police officer’s worst nightmare. As a rule, we tend to upset a lot of people. A lot of them threaten us, of course, but most are empty words, thrown by idiotic pricks who think they are some kind of big time gangster. We are taught early to let the words slide, to not be drawn into conflict with these arseholes. However, it seemed that every now and again, things would go a little bit too far, and situations became personal. I took another sip of coffee: it was a touch too sweet, but still felt good as it warmed me. My brain screamed for nicotine, but despite indulging it earlier, I was determined to get back on track. And besides, all of that was just a distraction from the conversation I’d been dreading since I’d found out about the pregnancy.

  I put my cup on the floor, and half-turned towards her.

  God, I felt bad. I’d been acting like a complete dick for months now, and yet she was still there, waiting for whatever I needed from her. It shouldn’t be so hard to open up to this woman, someone who was my entire world. I didn’t know how much about the case Wyatt or Perkins had told her, but I suspected not that much. She was obviously concerned about me, I could see it in the way she was frowning and rubbing her thumb and forefinger together the way she did when she was nervous. It was awful to see, but nowhere near as bad as I knew she would be if she knew what had actually happened. First things first though, I had some serious explaining to do.

  “What’s going on Martin?” she asked, perhaps sensing my willingness to talk.

  Hesitation.

  That stubborn tongue of mine had gone into business for itself again, and was refusing to play ball. Just when I was about to go into panic mode and try to think of something else to say, it sprang to life, forming the words that I’d wanted – no, needed - to say for the last five months.

  “I’m scared that we’re making a mistake by bringing a baby into this world.”

  I blurted it out before I talked myself out of it, and knew that her reaction would be key to how the rest of our chat would go.

  She smiled and took my hands, and turned those gorgeous blue eyes onto mine.

  “It’ll be okay, everything will be fine. I worry too. The world is full of bad people, but you have to remember there are good people out there too.”

  “Not as many as you think,” I croaked, struggling to hold back the emotion that suddenly seemed ready to explode out of me. “I just want you to be safe.”

  “We will be, but you can’t do it all. Not by yourself.”

  I saw a vision of those skewered eyes that had been sent to me and almost screamed, or cackled. I wasn’t sure which it would be, so I swallowed it down.

  “I have to try. I keep thinking that if I work hard enough, and I get enough of them off the streets…” I trailed off, knowing that my voice was wavering.

  “You always do this Martin,” she said, squeezing my hands. “You get so involved, so deeply into things once you set your mind to them. Sometimes you have to come up for air before you drown.”

  I nodded, fighting a losing battle to keep the wet stuff inside my tear ducts.

  “What happened today at the station? Why did those officers come over here in such a hurry?”

  Here it was. The knife edge. Black or white, truth or lie. My next words would set the tone for the rest of the conversation, and although I was sick of lying, I also knew that the truth as it was would be just too much for her to bear. Instead, I chose to tell the truth without filling in all the details. It was a middle ground that I could live with.

  “I’m investigating a case, and I received a threat through the post. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  Her eyes changed, and I was more certain that keeping the details of my macabre delivery from her was the right one.

  “What kind of threat? Are we in danger?”

  “Just verbal stuff. Nothing to worry about. We aren’t in any danger.”

  I hated lying, then reminded myself that it was justified. She couldn’t know about the package I’d been sent. Not until I had come to terms with it and what it meant.

  “Who would threaten you, and why?”

  “That’s what we plan to find out, and we will. I just wanted to make sure you were safe, hence the hoopla earlier. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She pulled her jumper over her thumb and wiped the tears from my eyes.

  “It’s okay, I… I’ve never seen you open up like this before.”

  “I know, and believe me, it’s something I’m working on improving. Just give me a little time, that’s all I ask.”

  “I understand, and appreciate you trying. I knew you were never the forthcoming type right back from when we first met. I knew what I was getting into.”

  She even managed a smile: in spite of everything she was still coping better than I was. I knew then, even if I couldn’t say it, that I loved her more than anything, and would do anything to protect her.

  “I was younger back then,” I shot back with a smile of my own. “More hair and less stomach.”

  “I love your hair just the way it is, gray flecks and all.”

  “Careful, you might give me a complex.”

  It was nice, that natural banter bet
ween us which had been missing for a while. Odd that it took such a bizarre set of circumstances to bring us to this point, but I was grateful nonetheless. Now if only I could solve the riddle of what kind of psycho saw fit to send me my nasty little package, I could almost start believing in life again.

  “Martin?”

  I blinked and looked at her. She had obviously said something to me as I was zoned out.

  “Sorry, I was miles away, say again?”

  “Are we going to be alright?”

  “Of course. We always are.”

  Perhaps my mask of a smile had managed to convince her, as she hugged me, holding me tight. I returned the favour, enjoying our closeness. Glancing down to the bump of her stomach, I started to ask myself if I was really that happy. Of course, Lucy was everything to me, it was just the rest of my life that seemed to be in the toilet. There were a frustrating number of counterarguments for everything I could come up with. My job was high pressure and low pay, but it was secure, and if today had proved anything, it was that I had colleagues who cared about me and my well being. Financially, I could afford to get another job, but that could all change when the baby arrived. I had been reliably informed that they were a shitting, eating, financial black hole, so perhaps staying put – even with the attention of whatever nut sent me that box - was the right call.

  Lucy and I snuggled down, just enjoying the silence and each other’s company. I tried not to think about work, but as always, my wife was right, and something in me seemed hard-wired to make me a hopeless workaholic.

  As much as I really didn’t want to deal with it, the day’s events were weighing heavily, perhaps given room to fester by finally opening up to Lucy and getting some of that clutter out in the open. Something was niggling at me, and that instinct within told me there was something I was overlooking, some vital piece of information I was missing which would open this thing up and point me in the right direction. I just couldn’t put my finger on what.

  Instead of dwelling on it, I grabbed the remote and switched on the TV. Maybe staring at that thing for a few hours would let my mind rest for long enough to pick out what it was that was troubling me. I hoped so. Despite Patterson giving me the okay to take a few days off, I knew that I would be in the office first thing. Don’t judge me, it’s just how I am.

  CHAPTER 14.

  SATURDAY

  The taxi I called from my mobile - an old pay as you go phone I’d found in one of the cupboards at home - picked me up from the end of my drive as requested. I hated this phone. Ugly thing, and tricky to navigate. Definitely a brick. But I couldn’t risk using my own mobile - not yet anyway. Can’t risk the police tracing me until I’m ready for them to do so. For now I need to remain anonymous.

  I slid it into my pocket while climbing into the taxi, wondering whether it would be worth using one of my ‘naughty’ credit cards to buy a better handset. Probably not needed. A bit over the top considering how much time I had left...

  “Where to, mate?” the driver asked. He barely paid me any attention, which was good. I’d counted on that. Didn’t want him recognising my face should he see it again. He’d just given me a quick glance, via the rear-view mirror, as he’d asked the question.

  “Anywhere along the High Street in town is fine.” I replied, sitting back and making myself comfortable for the journey. My face was half-hidden by the hooded top and scarf I was wearing. One of the benefits of foul weather being that it was easier to hide under layers and layers of clothes without raising any eyebrows. Couldn’t get away with that in the summer months - not that I’d planned it this way. Just a happy coincidence.

  I still hadn’t finished with the girl, even two days after I’d put her out of her misery and made her immortal. Instead I’d left her in the bed where she continued to stain the bed sheets with her rotting fluids. As I sat back, memories of yesterday morning flashed through my mind, specifically of what I’d done to the girl. As much as I wanted them to, the memories didn’t stop there. Instead I remembered being at work the other day, and what I’d done in the toilets and, on top of that, what I’d done to the girl in the hotel. It wasn’t the fact that I’d committed murder which plagued my thoughts; I didn’t think of it like that. I was creating art. The women’s deaths had been necessary so if anything I’d rendered the pair a favour. The whore wouldn’t have had to lower herself to fuck men for money anymore and the runaway teen wouldn’t have to keep running from her fuck of a rapist father. What troubled me most was that I had completely lost control on both occasions - unable to stop myself from fucking them. Even now, sitting in this warm taxi, I couldn’t understand where those sudden urges to carry out the acts had stemmed from. I've never been a sexual person. Even before I came to realise the kind of monster I was - at least the one dwelling within me - I was never a sexual being; my passions driven more by pieces of art and... darker thoughts.

  Whereas my school colleagues had all lost their virginity around the age of fifteen and sixteen, I hadn’t lost mine until I’d been in my twenties and, even then, it had been by accident. I’d booked a whore. Not for the purpose of bedding her but because I had felt the urge to bash her brains in with a rock I’d found amongst the woodlands close by my flat. I’d called the girl up, having found her advert in the back of a magazine, and then invited her to my apartment. The plan was simple and crude; she’d be invited in and then, when she asked for the money, I’d just hit her. The blow would have knocked her to the floor and I would have just kept hitting her until her head, and face were no longer recognisable as human. I don’t know why I’d felt the urge. I remember feeling it build deep within me for a long time but, to this day, I still didn’t know where it had initially come from or why it had been there. I just remember it getting stronger and stronger until I was unable to take it anymore and felt that, if I didn’t act upon it, I’d go insane. I can’t explain it and I certainly won’t try and excuse myself for it. That was who I was at the time just as now, this is who I am with regards to making my sculptures.

  Needless to say it didn’t happen the way as I’d imagined it. The girl came to the house. She asked for the money. I wanted to hit her, I really did, but I couldn’t. Something held me back, some last straw of sanity perhaps which became broken some time later without me even realising it? Instead of delivering a blow to her head, I found myself delivering cash to her hand. And then one thing led to another. I came - eventually - but I wouldn’t say I enjoyed it. At the same time I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t feel anything. Not at the time. Hours later, though, I remember feeling down that I hadn’t done what I had originally planned to do. Bash her head in with a rock.

  Yesterday though, on more than one occasion I would hasten to add, as well as in the hotel and bathroom - I enjoyed myself. The sexual side of things felt just as important to me as the need to create art and it’s not that which was scaring me now. When I was taking what I needed from the two women, for my art, I was very much in control. I was decisive. I did what I had to do. I got the job done and I’m fine with that but, with regards to the sexual side, I had no control whatsoever. None. And that lack of control concerns me more than anything else. A lack of control is something which could quite easily get me caught.

  “Must cost a fortune!” the taxi driver suddenly said. He still wasn’t looking at me. Instead he was paying attention to the roads. I watched him via his reflection in the rear-view mirror waiting for him to continue but he didn’t say anything else to justify his outburst.

  “What’s that?” I asked, caving with the need to know what he was talking about.

  “Living out here and not having a car. It must cost a fortune with taxis and such like. You’d be better off moving closer to town or learning to drive,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was being particularly stupid and trying to annoy me or whether he really believed I didn’t have a car. Perhaps just bored and fishing for information?

  “Car didn’t start.” I told him. It wasn’t necessar
ily a lie. After all, the car really didn’t start, but only because I hadn’t put the key in the ignition. Still, he didn’t know that. In fact, before calling the taxi company, I’d nearly jumped into my car without thinking to drive back into town to get what I required: luckily I remembered the police knew the registration, make and model and might be looking for me after the stunt I’d pulled with the parcel.

  I wasn’t stupid enough to think they’d immediately connect me with it but at the same time I wasn’t naïve enough to think the thought hadn’t crossed their minds. After all – what were the chances of them questioning me (and potentially only me) and then having that show up the next day? And if they did suspect me of sending the package then it wouldn’t be long before they went to my apartment and found the next little present I’d left them - the photograph of the original piece. Soon after that, every police officer in the area would be on the lookout for my vehicle. In hindsight I probably should have waited a couple of days before sending the little gift to the detective but then I figured it wouldn’t really make much of a difference. I’d wanted a challenge and now I had one. Besides which, I’ll always be one step ahead of them. I’ll always be the one with the clear advantage. Just as long as I kept my recently awakened sexual urges under control.

  “What’s wrong with it?” the taxi driver asked.

  I shrugged, “Not a mechanic.” My short answer was enough to make him go quiet again but not for long.