ART: A Novel of Extreme Horror and Gore

by Matt Shaw

  I heard the distant sound of the bottle falling onto the floor, then, blessed unconsciousness found me.

  CHAPTER 23.

  TUESDAY

  “Jesus, you look like shit, Martin,” Perkins said with what I thought was great glee as I’d clambered into the passenger seat and pulled on my seatbelt.

  “Piss off and drive, Perkins,” I grumbled.

  I suppose I couldn’t complain. The hornet-like buzzing of my headache seemed to be my body’s way of chastising me for the abuse I’d given it the night before. To say I felt rough was a huge understatement. Still, the constant throbbing in my skull didn’t look like it was about to cease and so, partly out of need and partly to try and get one over on my pissed off body, I pulled out my last few fags and lit one up. Fuck you, lungs.

  “Rough night?” Perkins asked, negotiating the early morning gridlock.

  “Could say that,” I replied while rubbing my temples.

  “I thought you’d quit the ciggies?”

  “I decided to start again, just for a while.”

  “Don’t let that Mrs of yours find out, she’ll kick your arse.”

  “She won’t find out, I’ll stop as soon as she gets back.”

  “You heard anything from her?”

  “Yeah,” I said with a sigh, hoping Perkins would get the hint and just stop talking to me. “Had a voicemail from her yesterday morning. Must have missed her call.”

  “I thought you’d told her not to ring until this was all sorted out?”

  I rolled my eyes and even managed a smile. “You can tell you’re single, Perkins. I haven’t met a woman yet who does anything other than what they want.”

  There was silence for a while, apart from the steady pulsing in my head. Maybe, just maybe I was getting too old for this. As if voicing its agreement, my body turned up the headache intensity to 11.

  Great.

  “Do you expect to find anything here?”

  “Probably not,” I sighed, wincing at the clock and seeing that it wasn’t even 9AM yet. “But the prick worked here for a while. Surely someone must have some kind of information on him. Anything that might give us a sniff of a lead. As careful as he’s been so far, it’ll only take one little slip up and I’ll have him.”

  We pulled up at traffic lights next to a bus, the growling engine not helping my headache.

  “Why do you think he chose you?”

  I glanced over at Perkins, and saw him watching me. It took a while to figure out the expression on his face, and when it did finally hit me, I wished it hadn’t.

  He was looking at me like I was a dead man walking.

  “Because, Perkins, you will learn as you do this job that every once in a while, a sick, twisted fuck like this will crawl out of the woodwork and want to make a name for himself. He sees all of these films, the big Hollywood blockbusters, right, with the overpaid actors with their perfect smiles playing detective as the killer stalks them. Our loner, he wants some of that. He wants the Hollywood sizzle, he wants the fame, the fortune and the glory. What he….”

  A cyclist darted between us and the bus, clipping the wing mirror and making my heart almost leap into my throat. Christ, I was getting jumpy.

  “Fucking idiot! Watch where you’re going you stupid bastard!” I glared at him as he went, a blur of yellow hi-visibility jacket as he weaved through the gridlock. Twat. I got my thoughts back on track and turned back to Perkins. “As I was saying, this dickhead wants the fame and the fortune. He wants the spotlight. What he doesn’t seem to grasp is that real life isn’t nearly half as interesting as Hollywood, and I’m no George Clooney or that other prick, the one who was in Batman.”

  “Michael Keaton?”

  “No, the new one.”

  “Christian Bale?”

  I nodded, “Yeah, that’s him. I don’t know if our killer sees me as his great nemesis, and I don’t know, if he does, why he thinks that. But either way, it is what it is and until he’s caught, I just have to live with it. Take this advice Perkins. Never let shit like this break you from your daily routine. If you do that, they win. I hope you never have to go up against anything like this, but it would be good advice to keep in mind if it should crop up in the future.”

  Although it wasn’t my intention, but also not entirely unwelcome, the conversation was effectively killed at that point, and the rest of the slow drive to the art gallery was mostly undertaken in blessed silence.

  We arrived just as the gallery was opening, meaning it was serene and quiet. The building manager was a sour faced, unsmiling bulldog of a man who didn’t even recognise Benton when I showed him his photograph. He suggested we speak instead to his direct superior, a nice old guy called Gary. You could tell he was one of those people who didn’t get into trouble. He was giving us that wide-eyed, fearful stare as we sat him down in the staffroom to question him.

  “How long have you known Mr Benton?” I asked, watching for those tell-tale signs of a lie in his reactions.

  “Pretty much since he started. He’s a nice chap. A bit quiet, but polite.”

  “When did you last speak to him?”

  “Last Thursday I think. That's right. He was off sick during the week and I asked him if he wanted to come over for dinner one night. Takeaway, of course. Wouldn't want to inflict my wife's cooking on anyone.”

  “Did he seem different to you at all?” I asked, rapidly losing faith that we would find anything here to lead us to this bastard.

  “No, not in the least…. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  I flashed a quick look to Perkins. “We just want his help with our enquiries. We need to speak to him urgently.”

  “Oh, well I’m afraid nobody can reach him. He hasn’t been in for a few days now. We tried calling him, but he doesn’t answer the phone. It doesn’t even ring anymore, so it must be switched off or something. I really don’t have anything else to tell you.”

  I sat back in my chair, unsure of what I should do next. It seemed Benton was as anonymous at work as he was in the rest of his life, and tracking him down was going to be harder than I thought.

  “Does he have a locker?” Perkins asked.

  I looked at Perkins, and could have kissed his head. I don’t know how I’d missed it. The far wall was lined with staff lockers for their personal belongings.

  “Yes,” the old man said, rummaging in his pocket. “I have the master key here.”

  This could be it, our breakthrough. The old man crossed the room and unlocked the one in the corner, standing back afterwards. I opened it, half wondering if he might have guessed this course of action and left me another one of his gruesome packages, but there was nothing there that was out of the ordinary. A spare shirt crumpled in the corner. A few CDs and a half-eaten pack of mints. It was then that I saw it, the chink in his armour, the one thing that he might well have forgotten.

  A photograph, taped to the inside of his locker door showing was a large, private house, set in its own lands. Although the image was faded and yellowed, I couldn’t help thinking that, as a location, it would be the perfect place for him to commit his atrocities.

  I snatched the photograph from the locker and showed it to Gary.

  “Any idea where this is?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I’ve never seen it before.”

  I nodded and gave the picture to Perkins, “Get that to the nerds back at the station. I want to know where it is, and I want to know now. Also, take his mug-shot from the employee records and get copies of it made. Lots of them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re going to go public and put this prick on the front of every newspaper in the country. If he’s out there, someone will know about it.”

  “Isn’t that what he wants?”

  “We won’t mention the crimes. Just say he’s wanted for questioning. Blame terrorism if you have to, anything but the real reason. Get on it right now. I’ll clear it with Patterson.”

  As Perkins scurried away, for
the first time I felt like I could be at least be on level terms with this dickhead instead of two steps behind. He claims to want the fame. Let’s see if that really is the case.

  CHAPTER 24.

  WEDNESDAY

  My face is in the news now. Thank God. I’d been irritated yesterday when I hadn’t been able to find myself on any of the news programs. Nor had I found myself in the daily newspapers - not even a hint of my existence - when I’d popped to the village newsagent to grab a fresh pint of milk. Mind you, irritated as I was, I couldn’t help laughing when I saw people banging on the door of the stationery store trying to get someone to open up for them. Wonder how long they’d waited. Other than that, Tuesday had been nothing more than a wasted day of channel-hopping and quiet seething. But now, this morning, it’s all but forgotten thanks to seeing a picture of my handsome self on the morning news show. I knew it wouldn’t be long as I could tell, instantly, that they had got the picture from the gallery where I worked. Must have picked it up yesterday.

  With regards to the news report, they hadn’t said why I was wanted for questioning which was a bit of a disappointment. They just reported that the police were keen to speak to me and that anyone with information of my whereabouts should contact them immediately but in no way attempt to get in my way. In the great scheme of things it didn’t matter though. The fact they were willing to report about me in the first place... Well, that just meant they’d be willing to write my story when I invited them to. And speaking of which, I’m ready - the final touches were put on some of the pieces yesterday and the others were still holding together well enough on their own, despite the speed with which they’re decomposing.

  The rest of my day would be spent phoning up the various companies who broadcast the news. I didn’t need to go crazy. The local news stations and the local papers would be enough. Once they had the story… well, the rest of the world would pick it up from them, along with any images they’d captured on their private walk around.

  The plan was simple. Put together late last night whilst attempting to distract myself from the irritation of not being in the spotlight. I’d waited for recognition - recognition which had come today – and now I would phone the news stations and local presses and inform them of what was in store for them. I’d tell them about the body the police had kept from them and that there were more waiting to be discovered in my beautiful gallery. I’d take a direct number for their chief reporter and leave them with the knowledge that I would be calling first thing Thursday morning and that, when I did, they would have to head to the address I gave them immediately or else miss the chance for the story of the century. And then, Thursday morning, I’d phone Detective Andrews and I’d tell him that I’m ready to give myself up. No doubt he’ll invite me to the station but that’s not how it will work. If he wants me then he has to come here and get me.

  Because of what I’ve done, I know he won't come alone. I know he'll bring people with him but that won't matter. I say the more the merrier. I’m not shy. Hell, if I’d had more time, I’d try and invite even more people to come down here and see my work first hand but, alas, time is limited, what with the speed my sculptures are decomposing (the schoolgirl stinking the worst so far).

  I started to drift off back into my own little world, once more thinking about the dream I’d had after returning from the hotel. The flashing lights, the people here to see me, the crowds calling my name and surging forward to try and get a piece of me. Me just standing there with my arms outstretched as though wanting to pick everyone up in the crowd; bringing them into my inner circle.

  I couldn’t help smiling as I slowly returned to the present day.

  It was all quite exciting really, certainly enough to cause some butterflies in my stomach. I felt like a young child at Christmas time, once they’d spotted the parcels left under the tree by the big man in the red suit. Another candidate for a police-led investigation into a paedophile on the loose for sure. There are some sick people in the world. Forget about them. It’s not about them it’s about me. It’s all about me. My time has come. My time to shine and I will not let them ruin it for me - even though a brief thought popped into my mind pointing out that someone worse than I was could be just around the corner. After all, as I kept telling myself, society is sick. No, forget about them. Keep reminding yourself that this is your time. Do not fall apart now. Don’t lose confidence in your work. You’ll be remembered.

  You’ll amount to nothing, whispered the voice of my father.

  “I will amount to something. You’re just jealous that no one remembers you or your work. People will remember both my art and the person who created it. My art will make me immortal. Up there with the greats.”

  No one will remember you. No one will care for you. My mother’s loving input.

  I push their words out of my mind. I knew it wasn’t really them, it’s just me taunting myself, doubting myself as I get to the final chapter of my project. All great artists have moments of self-doubt. This just proved to me that I was up there with the best of them. This was my moment of crisis. I would overcome it just as the other greats had.

  I ran from the lounge, where the television was still flickering in the corner of the room, and into the hallway where I picked up the old telephone from the small cabinet by the front door. Mum had liked it there. She would sit on the bottom stair for hours, yakking away to her friends. At least I always believed they’d been her friends but, as the years had gone on, I’d come to realise she’d been on the phone to the doctors talking about my father and his antics. Push the memory away, it wasn’t important.

  Relief flowed through me then as I heard the dial tone singing down my ear. A stroke of luck considering I hadn’t checked it earlier. It was an old phone, so I wouldn’t have been surprised if it hadn’t worked properly. I froze as I suddenly realised I had no idea how to go about getting the numbers I so desperately sought. Slowly I put the handset back on its hook. All the planning I’d done and this is what had stumped me?

  Not my fault. Originally I’d planned to use the Polaroid’s I’d taken of the whore as invitations which I was going to post out. It had been a late night decision that changed my mind; after finishing with the plump girl, I’d decided it wouldn’t the best way of inviting people. They’d have received the invitations at different times, and possibly some of them would get lost in the post. Then some would have come here straight away too. No order. Just chaos. No, invitations definitely weren’t the way to go. Besides which, I was reluctant to give away any photographs I’d taken. Perhaps if I’d made copies?

  Not important, I told myself again. I was merely distracting myself with little things. Why? Was I trying subconsciously to delay proceedings on the off-chance I’d change my mind? Why would I do that? I chuckled as I realised I was doing it again.

  I turned my attention back to the phone. How best was I to accomplish this?

  Of course. There was there was a service available to people searching for the numbers of companies. So obvious. I’m just getting clumsy now, forgetful even. Trying to rush things. I shouldn’t rush, it would lead to mistakes. Or could lead to mistakes I should say. I should take my time, and calm down. Putting the phone back onto its cradle I took several deep breaths. Come on. Stay calm. Stay in control. You’ve got this. Home stretch. Don’t mess it up. You’ve got this. You’ve got all day to phone these people – just take five minutes to gather your thoughts. Calm yourself down so you sound professional on the phone. You’ve come so far. Don’t let your standards slide now. You owe it to yourself.

  You’ll amount to nothing.

  * * *

  The toilet was filled with vomit and the bathroom, in turn, thick with its stench. The mirror, part of the medicine cabinet which hung on the wall, had been smashed to pieces and blood was trickling from my hands and splattering onto the floor. A frenzied loss of control, thankfully temporary, as the doubts continued to plague me, I felt the taunting of my mother and father playin
g in my mind.

  I was calm now. Still shaking but calm. I felt stupid for the state I’d managed to work myself up to. There really hadn’t been any need. I’d done so much. I’d achieved so much. I should be feeling proud. I shouldn’t be feeling this doubt. It’s that Detective Andrews’ fault. That little cunt telling me he’d keep my art away from the press. The way he told me no one would remember me. The threat of keeping it all a secret. What if he did? That piece of shit. No. He can’t. He can’t stop it from coming out. No matter what he says. It will come to light. The way I’ll be revealing my gallery - there’s no way it couldn’t come to light. But society is sick - sicker than this perhaps. What if they didn’t care because they’ve seen worse? Or better, depending on your outlook?

  I felt myself beginning to well up again as the doubt laid its foundations deep within. I shook it away. Couldn’t let myself think like this. I just needed to get downstairs, then phone directory enquiries for the numbers I needed and talk to the press people. I just needed to get that little bit done and then - that’s it, I could relax. It wouldn’t matter if doubt set in then, it would be too late. No turning back.

  I clambered to my feet from where I’d dropped to my knees next to the stained toilet. I caught sight of myself in one of the mirror’s broken fragments. I looked like Hell. So, so stupid.

  I kept enumerating all that I’d achieved and I was starting to perk myself up. At least I guess I was beginning to perk up for, running mentally through my achievements, I felt a stirring in my crotch.