ART: A Novel of Extreme Horror and Gore

by Matt Shaw

  “How will I get there, she lives so far away…?”

  Her lip began to tremble, and I was stammering for an answer when Wyatt jumped in and saved me.

  “I’ll drive you there. Martin said its somewhere up north. I was heading that way this afternoon anyway, if that’s okay with you?”

  She looked at me, and I could see the questions in her eyes. Can this man be trusted? Is it safe? I gave her the merest of nods, and felt another glut of guilt for my impression of Wyatt as being a one dimensional lout.

  “Thank you”, she said to Wyatt, but watching me.

  “It’s only short term, but I’ll feel better knowing you’re away from this until it blows over.”

  “Martin, I want you to answer me this, and please, don’t lie. Can you do that?”

  I nodded, not sure what was coming, but dreading whatever it was.

  “Are you in danger?”

  There it was. The question I’d been asking myself all morning. On the one hand, I had seen this guy. He looked harmless, the kind of person you wouldn’t notice in a crowded room, but on the flip-side, I’d witnessed the brutality he was capable of, and even though he may not be a physical threat as a person, I had to acknowledge that my life could well be at risk. I was half considering another one of those white lies that I’d grown accustomed to, when my usually stubborn tongue went into business for itself without warning.

  “Yes, I think I could be.”

  I saw something in her break then, and as she started to sob, I was surprised to find that for once I didn’t hate myself. Instead, all my fury was directed towards Benton.

  “I’ll uh, go wash these cups up and give you two a few minutes,” Wyatt said, making a hasty retreat.

  I held Lucy close to me, feeling absolutely powerless to do anything else but be there for her.

  “I knew this would happen, you can’t be putting yourself at risk like this,”

  She was right of course, but what else could I do? This was the only job I’d ever known. The only job I was good at. I’m too bitter and cynical now to consider changing careers. Besides, Lucy had known what I did for a living when we first met, and although there were a few dangerous moments, this was the first time anything as serious as this had happened. I was about to relay all this to her when she sat up and looked at me, eyes red, lip trembling.

  “I love you, and I just want you to be safe,” she said, watching and waiting for me to say it back, to give her the reassurance she desperately needed. My mouth opened, closed. Opened again. I swallowed, my throat feeling as if it was lined with sandpaper.

  “I know,” I said, screaming at myself inside. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to make you safe. Right now though, you need to go pack a bag. Take whatever you think you might need.”

  Feeling like a cold, heartless bastard, I stood up and left her sitting there on the sofa, still needing that reassurance from me which I was starting to think I was simply incapable of giving.

  “Come on, let’s get that stuff together.”

  I could see the defeat in her face, and maybe, just maybe a touch of doubt in the strength of our relationship.

  “Okay, let me get a few things. I’ll give you a ring when I arrive.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “No contact until this is resolved. And don’t answer any number you don’t recognise.”

  “Will that other officer be staying close by?” She asked, nodding towards Wyatt.

  “No, it’s just a drop off, then he has to be on his way. He’s officially on leave as of today.”

  She nodded, and I knew her well enough to guess what she was thinking.

  “Besides, it’s better this way. The more anonymous you are the better. Remember, this is just a precaution, but the deeper under the radar you are, the better.”

  She nodded again, but I don’t think she was convinced. Either way, it was the best I could do. We gathered some things together in an overnight bag then drove back towards the station. Wyatt was driving and I was up front. I didn’t speak, but I could feel Lucy’s uncertainty. Wyatt must have felt it, because he was the quietest I’ve ever heard him. He pulled up at the station, and I turned in my seat to face my wife.

  “This will all be okay. You know that, don’t you?” I said, hardly believing the words as they left my lying mouth.

  She nodded, but couldn’t look me in the eye. I made a promise to myself then. Promised that as soon as this was all over and resolved, I would make sure I put things right. No matter what it would take to do it, I would get this marriage back on track. Those three words crawled into my throat again, but as per usual, got no further. Instead I turned to Wyatt.

  “Let me know when you get there, will you?”

  “Aye, I’ll check in once I drop her off. Do what you need to do at this end, and do it quick.”

  I had no answer to that either, and so with nothing left to say or do, I climbed out of the car, and watched it drive away. I would like to say I was thinking of Lucy and hoping she would be okay, but the detective in me had already taken over, and so, as I headed back inside the station, my only thoughts were of Damon fucking Benton.

  I walked towards the lift. This time, in no mood to wait, I went straight for the door leading to the stairs. To my surprise, Perkins was heading out as I pushed the door open.

  “I was just coming to get you,” he said as he passed me. He waved a piece of paper in front of me. “Search warrant. Let’s go see if this hunch of yours is right.”

  Elated and angry at the same time, I let the pneumatic door creak closed and followed Perkins to his car. With luck, we could snag this prick before he hurt anyone else.

  * * *

  Back at Benton’s apartment, Perkins and I stood looking at the door. The adrenaline was flowing, and I pounded on the cheap wood with my fist.

  “Police! Open up.” I shouted through the door, before knocking again.

  “He’s not in.”

  Perkins and I looked to the right, and the slob of a woman who stood at the threshold of the apartment next door, a dirty, snotty kid held to her flabby body. She looked at us with a mix of apprehension and contempt that I'd come to expect from people like that. Below a certain income level, people tended not to trust the police.

  “Do you know him, the tenant?” I asked. Keeping calm. Keeping neutral.

  “Only in passing. I ain’t seen him for a few days.” She grinned, flashing her gappy, blackened stumps of teeth at me. The kid was starting to fidget, and she readjusted him in her arms.

  “How do you know he’s not in?” Perkins asked.

  “Saw him leave, might have been yesterday or the day before. I can’t remember. I was pissed off my face.” She grunted, flashing that mouth full of rot at me.

  Good god, I glanced at the kid and felt sorry for it. Before its life had even really begun, it was at a severe disadvantage with a beast like that for a mother.

  “Thank you,” I said, hiding my disgust. “Now please, go inside and lock the door.”

  Maybe it was the way I said it, or maybe she could see how serious the situation was in my expression, but she did as she was told. I heard the chain slide into place, shortly followed by the muffled sounds of her screaming at said poor child for not keeping still. Anyhow, back to business. I glanced at Perkins, and he nodded. We should have brought a ram of some kind, but in our rush we forgot. Still, the door barely looked to be standing, and I didn’t think it would take much.

  It gave on the second kick, the wood splintering as it crashed against the wall. At that second, fear was forgotten, as was self-preservation. The training took over, and like a well-oiled machine, Perkins and I entered the flat.

  CHAPTER 19.

  SUNDAY

  Underwhelming would be the best way to describe it. It looked to be a perfectly normal, if grubby, flat. The air was stuffy, but there were no tell-tale smells of death. No macabre displays or bloodstains on the wall. It could be any flat belonging to any single person in
the world. But I knew this was our guy. I’m not sure how, but there was an aura, some kind of charge to the atmosphere which told me that our killer lived here. Goosebumps rushed up my arms, and when I glanced at Perkins, I saw that he too could sense it. Whoever Damon Benton was, whatever persona he chose to portray, I was confident that this was our first genuine glimpse of the real man behind it all. The evidence of it was everywhere: the single armchair, more worn down than any of the other furniture; dated, badly maintained décor; a tray containing a gravy-stained plate on the floor beside the chair. Alarm bells were ringing in my brain, and just like that, it happened. This was definitely our guy. I just knew it. Perkins and I did a preliminary sweep, making sure the place was empty.

  “What do you think?” he whispered to me, peeking out of the grimy windows to the street below.

  “Look around,” I said, poking my head into the dingy bathroom smelling faintly of stale piss. “It looks like he left in a hurry.”

  Perkins nodded, and went into the bedroom. I checked the living room first. Despite everything, the layout painted a picture of a very private, very lonely existence. I could only imagine what it would be like to stay here alone, sitting in the chair, staring at the TV and attempting to ignore the sounds coming through the paper thin walls from the other apartments. It would be easy to feel anonymous, it would be easy to want the world to acknowledge your existence.

  I wondered how many nights he had sat here, in the dark, just listening. Maybe to the fat woman from next door screaming at her kid, or maybe someone upstairs, the floor rocking as they fucked, or argued, or played music. How long would it take for absolute isolation to trigger a man to kill in order to make the world take notice?

  Not liking where that particular train of thought was taking me, I pushed it aside and made my way into the kitchen. It was as bleak as the sitting room, With faded yellow lino and an ancient cooker way past its best. There was a faint smell of old grease and rotten food. I took it all in, remembering my training. Observe. Catalogue. I could see the side of a grubby fridge-freezer tucked away in the corner. I was tempted to rush, but that was how things got missed and wankers like this walked free. Taking a deep breath, I started to look around. I was determined to be methodical and take my time. The cupboards were bare apart from a half-pack of crackers and a box of cheap supermarket brand teabags. No body parts. No severed heads waiting for me to discover. I moved on to the kitchen drawers next, which were filled with all sorts of assorted crap and unpaid bills. There was a pan on the stove with a few crusty beans in it spotted with green and white furry mould. Carrier bags filled with empty microwave meal boxes and takeaway cartons littered every surface, the handles tied into precise knots. I was again struck with a sense of a lonely existence. It was everywhere, and even as experienced as I was, it was a hell of an unsettling experience. I had spotted some loose papers on the side, and almost walked past the fridge when something caught my eye. I ducked into the alcove, unsure of what to expect as I reached out to the grimy, grease covered handle to see what might be inside. I froze when I saw the photo on the door. It was held in place by those colourful magnets shaped like letters of the alphabet, reminding me of my school days. My heart was slamming against my ribcage as I tried to take it all in. He must have known I was coming. He must have left this for me.

  The photograph was a Polaroid taken with one of those old instamatic cameras. It was held in place by five magnets, the taunt clear and definitely meant for me to find.

  SEE at the top of the picture and ME at the bottom, holding it in place. I didn’t want to touch it, not until forensics had been in and swept the scene, and I didn’t have to. The content of the picture was clear enough. We had all seen it just a few days ago. It was taken in the hotel room, and showed the butchered remains of the poor girl that started this whole saga.

  “Perkins!” I yelled, unable to take my eyes away from the image.

  I heard him come, asking what was wrong, but he sounded distant and might as well have been on another planet. All I could do was stare at the photograph. Until that point, all I could think about was finding Damon Benton and bringing him in. It was now, as I looked at his handiwork, I realised just how unstable the man was. It was then that I began to hope that I would be able to find him, before he found me.

  “Christ,” Perkins said as he stood beside me. “I’d better call this in.”

  I nodded. It was the best I could do. He was playing a game; that much was obvious. And as much as I knew I shouldn’t, I was willing to go along with it in order to take him down, one way or the other.

  * * *

  I hung around for a time whilst forensics came in and did their thing. Although there didn’t appear to be any other evidence apart from the picture, that was enough in itself. We also had those unpaid bills which we hoped might lead us to him, although I wasn’t expecting them to come back with anything other than dead ends and false names. Sick of getting in the way, I headed back to the station, deciding it was a good idea to update Patterson on what was going on. I rang him on my way back, and he told me he had just stepped out, but was also on his way back, and I should meet him there. Apparently, they had solid info on a place of work for Benton, and Patterson was pouring all resources into this investigation. I was grateful. I wanted this prick caught, and fast. If only to get my life back.

  I fought my way through the rabble and scum in the waiting room and headed upstairs. My head was pounding, the stress beginning to wear me down. I just wanted a break, a chance to rest and forget about this shitty situation. I walked into the office, which was blessedly quiet and empty and I…

  There was a box on my desk.

  I stole a quick glance around the room, but there was no sign of anyone. Everyone was out and working. I knew it was from Benton. I just knew it. The style of the packaging was the same. So was the way it was addressed personally to me.

  That little voice inside my head, the one I usually ignored and ended up regretting later, was screaming at me just to leave it, that it could be a bomb or anything, but I didn’t think he would do that. Not since he seemed so keen on involving me in his little games. Ignoring the pleas of my inner voice, I lifted the lid off the box and looked inside.

  I don’t know if it was because I was half-expecting something awful, or because I was becoming desensitised to the constant horrors, but I barely flinched as I looked inside, even if my gag reflex almost made me puke all over what was undoubtedly evidence. I wondered if this was her, the girl he mentioned when he spoke to me on the phone. Or, more specifically, if it was part of her.

  It was a severed head, the flabby fan of flesh where her chins would have been telling me she was a larger woman. Her eyes were missing, as were her ears. I couldn’t see into her mouth, but I knew her tongue was gone too. There was that awful, sweet-sour stench of flesh just as it begins to turn, and as my stomach wavered in protest, I was grateful again that I hadn’t eaten anything yet. I didn’t want to touch the card that was in the box, and I hadn’t had to. I was able to read it well enough from where I was standing.

  See no evil.

  Speak no evil.

  Hear no evil.

  It was another taunt, another test. He was getting more and more confident, and right then I’d known that forensics wouldn’t find anything else at the flat. We’d only found the picture because he’d left it out to find. It was too much to hope that he’d be sloppy enough to leave anything else he didn’t want found.

  I flopped down in my chair, my legs feeling rubbery and unable to take my weight.

  I don’t know when Patterson had arrived. I heard him talking to me and the commotion as he’d seen the box and its contents, but even when the room had started to fill with people, I’d still not really been with it. I must have shut down for a while - maybe my overworked brain had wanted a break from the strain or something, but I hadn’t had the power to stop it even if I’d wanted to. As stubborn and independent as I was, I was only human, and
at that point in time, my ability to cope had been reduced to zero. I could hear Patterson saying something about where Benton worked, but none of it went in. All I did was stare at the box on my desk and wondered what I ever did to get the attention of this nut-job, and more importantly, how to put it right.

  CHAPTER 20.

  MONDAY

  I walked around the house with a feeling of confidence. The gallery was taking shape, it's ambience tainted only by the unusual scent of the dead; a smell I couldn’t decide whether I liked or not. Despite my excitement about what was happening around me, I felt tired this morning. No doubt this was a result of being up all night, alternately working and letting myself go with my new-found sexual urges. I had to say – now that I realised they were a part of who I was - I’m kind of enjoying them. Guess I have Detective Andrews to thank for the sudden ability not to stress about them being wrong or bad form. Still, I had no time to think about the detective, or the urges, now. Time was ticking on and, more importantly, flesh was starting to rot.

  Not that I minded too much. After all rotting flesh could symbolise the decay of society but, at the same time, I kind of wanted some of my pieces looking a little fresher for when I had the grand opening. Shame I wouldn’t be able to get hold of the bits needed to embalm them. Given that the gallery didn’t hold such items and, working there, I’d have no reason to own them, I couldn’t help but feel it might have raised a few questions as to why the fluids were needed. Again, not important. Time was getting on and there was still a fair bit to be done.

  Today’s to-do-list included finishing off the art pieces I’d already started and then popping out for fresh supplies, but not before quickly checking the news channels just to see if I was a wanted man yet. If not now it would be happening soon - especially after I’d heard him say my name whilst on the telephone. If he hasn’t already gone there, he would soon be heading to my apartment where he’d find that photograph I’d left for him.