ART: A Novel of Extreme Horror and Gore

by Matt Shaw

  And there it goes; the address of my gallery to a handful of journalists.

  I wasn’t going to phone Detective Andrews just yet. No need. I’ll let the message get to the journalists first and then, after they’d arrived and had the chance for a look round... then I’ll get in touch with him.

  Allow the journalists maximum exposure to really let my work sink into their minds. And, better yet, give them the necessary time to ensure they get all the photographs they want before the police kick them out.

  My phone pinged back a delivery report. All messages had been received. Another heart flutter. I smiled for no more than a second as a feeling of panic suddenly caught me by surprise. They’d received the text messages. That would means they’re on their way. I need to make sure everything is perfect! I jumped to my feet, slid the mobile phone into my pocket and rushed up the stairs to where the sculptures were kept.

  Oh God! I hope they’re still okay!

  * * *

  By the time I’d finished checking the displays, for what felt like the hundredth time, vehicles were pulling up on the drive outside. My heart was beating hard and fast now; nerves, anticipation and excitement surging through me. I couldn’t show I was nervous though. I couldn’t even show I was excited. I needed to remain professional, I needed to look confident. A man in charge. I am a man in charge.

  I positioned myself in the hallway next to the plump woman who I’d covered up with a white sheet. A little bit of gore had leaked through but it that didn’t matter. People would be able to guess what was under there anyway and they’d get to see it themselves but only after Detective Andrews gets to see it. He was to be the first to lay his eyes on it and see the joke. I laughed at the thought of his facial expression and quickly pushed the image from my mind. Must stay professional.

  I picked the tray of drinks up from the carpet next to the plump girl’s feet and balanced it on my arm as though I was a professional waiter and then waited. And waited. I know they’re here, I heard the cars outside. Why aren’t they coming to the door? Why aren’t they knocking so I can shout for them to enter? Is there a problem?

  I waited a couple more minutes and eventually put the tray of drinks back on the floor. Counted down from ten - just to be sure - but still no one knocked, or rang the doorbell. Slowly I walked over and pulled on the handle, opening the door slowly. There were five, maybe six, cars. The drive was full. People were sitting inside, all of them looking just as nervous as I felt.

  It was be expected I guess. None of them knew what to really expect. Hell some of them, when I’d talked to them, thought it was going to be nothing more than a prank. I assured them it wouldn’t be and that they’d have to take my word for it or simply miss out on the story of their career. I knew they wouldn’t be able to ignore that. At least I hoped that they wouldn’t have been able to ignore it. Of course, I wouldn’t have had the problem had I sent the paper invitations as originally planned. Another shake of my head to rid myself of another unwanted and unnecessary thought. They’re here. It doesn’t matter. They came.

  I waved my arm, a gesture letting them know they’d found the right place. A gesture letting them know they were more than welcome to come in.

  I saw them looking at each other as though they were reassuring one another that everything was okay and that they’d be perfectly safe. Stupid. Over-active imaginations. Of course they’d be okay. They were my chosen guests. I shouldn’t have been surprised by their reaction though. After all, being journalists, they’re probably used to seeing a whole manner of horrors on a day to day basis; wars, rapes, murders, thefts and, of course, political scandals. These people have seen it all. At least, they think they have. After today... after today they would have seen it all.

  I flashed them a smile and waved them in again.

  CHAPTER 28.

  THURSDAY

  I’d spent the night at my desk. One by one people had gone home, until I was left in an empty office, staring at the same evidence which still hadn’t given me anything new. I had gone beyond being tired, and had transcended to a place where I was running on willpower alone. Alex never called back. I tried him a few times, but after the first few calls rang unanswered, the phone stopped ringing at all. I presume the lure of whatever bait that Benton had dangled and the story that would follow was too much to resist. In a way, I couldn’t blame him. If his colleagues were all going to be there, it seemed only fitting that he should be too. Still, I wasn’t in the mood to fuck around, and if Benton got away, then I wouldn’t hesitate to run Alex in for obstruction of justice or anything else I could get him on. This was bigger than careers and bigger than getting the next big scoop, this was about life and death. I had other contacts in the media of course but I’m sure word had already gone around to make sure the police were kept out of the loop until the press could get their pound of flesh.

  As mid-morning approached, I was starting to think it might be an idea to go to the paper’s offices and drag them all in for questioning, when my phone rang. The display said number withheld, and I knew, before I even answered it, who would be on the line.

  With my stomach rolling, I pressed the answer key.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning. That’s a nicer greeting. Good morning. Because you’re actually wishing the person on the end of the phone a good morning. So... did you want to try again? Did you want to wish me a good morning? Not that it really matters because, for what it’s worth, I’m having an amazing morning. So many photographers here. So many camera flashes, both aimed towards my work and my own handsome face.”

  “What do you want?” I said, recognising that voice. The voice of the man I’d become obsessed with. He went on as if I hadn’t even spoken.

  “I won’t lie, to start off with, I was a little uncomfortable about having my picture taken but, after a while, I got used to it. Now I just enjoy it. Never been good at pictures beforehand, you see. I feel as though I always looked a little rough but I’ve learnt that the trick to taking a good picture is remaining oblivious to the camera. Ignore it. Pretend it’s not there. Act natural. No fake smile. No awkward, gimpish expression. Sure, some pictures not might be perfect but... Still better than if you try and pose for them.”

  I said nothing. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. All I could do was grip the phone and grit my teeth to stop myself from losing it.

  “Sorry, listen to me, I’m rattling on... that wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to invite you down to my good morning. Feels strange celebrating this and yet not having you here. So... if you’re interested, I’ll pass on the address and you can come and meet us all. What do you say? Got a pen and paper? Good memory perhaps? The address is The Manor, Cutthroat Lane... quite apt don’t you think? Well, would love to stay and chat but I really must dash. People are trying to talk to me and I fear I’m being rude to my fans. See you soon though, I hope?”

  The line went dead, but I had scrawled the address on my pad and was already bringing up the internet. Bless Google and their invasive street view software. I punched in the address and waited for the slow as shit police internet to load my results. The image appeared on screen. I manipulated the mouse, and there it was. That same house from the photograph in his locker. Our own people were still working on tracing it, but it seemed that Benton had saved me the trouble. Whatever he was planning, he obviously wanted me to see, and if what he said was true, then it was already going on without me. I knew I should wait for Patterson and backup, but I was never the most patient. Instead I called him and explained, told him to get everyone out there as quickly as possible. For good measure I told dispatch to get all available units to the scene. I was done waiting. I was done with all the stupid little cat and mouse games. If Benton wanted me there, then I was going to oblige. I shrugged into my jacket, fished out my car keys and raced out of the building.

  CHAPTER 29.

  THURSDAY

  The police had taken even less time than I’d imagined to
get to the property but that wasn’t the end of the world. I had still given the guests enough time to get the photographs they’d wanted to take (reluctantly by the sounds of some of the mutterings I’d heard from upstairs) and by the time I heard the sirens coming most appeared to have even been done with the whole gallery. A look of horror on their faces which suggested to me that they wouldn’t forget what they’d seen or the person who’d created the masterpieces. Some of them even had sick on their chins after they must have been ill. Hope they managed to keep it off of the sculptures.

  I couldn’t do anything but stand there and smile despite the questions being thrown at me by those who weren’t in a corner vomiting.

  Why did you do it?

  Are they real?

  What kind of monster would do such a thing?

  Of course I ignored all of the questions. It wasn’t their business. Not yet. Not before Detective Andrews got here and asked me himself. He’s the officer in charge. He’s the one who would get to ask the questions. No one else would do. Speaking of which...

  ... the sirens are right outside.

  This is it.

  Doors are slamming shut.

  I could hear voices. They sounded urgent. Perhaps orders being issued? Not quite shouting but at the same time not quite whispers either. Not sure why - surely if they’d wanted this to be a surprise attack they would have killed the sirens long before showing up on the driveway? Sure they have their reasons.

  Footsteps approaching the door.

  The door suddenly flew open, helped by the foot of an overly keen uniformed officer. I didn’t jump. I expected as much from them. I was just standing there with the tray of remaining drinks in my hand.

  Officers spilled into the house.

  Guns pointing at me.

  Talk about bringing in the heavy hitters.

  How exciting.

  “Damon Benton?” one voice shouted.

  “My name is Arthur,” I said to the line of gun barrels, “Arthur J. Hopkins. We’re all friends here though. You can call me Art.”

  * * *

  I’d got stuck in traffic. Without the benefit of blue lights and sirens, I’d been forced to crawl out of the city. Once I reached the motorway, I’d put my foot down. Arriving at the house I found half a dozen police cars outside, blue lights flashing, doors agape. With the adrenaline surging like never before, I slammed on the brakes and was almost out of the car before it had fully come to a halt. I saw that the place was full of people. Officers, journalists. I locked eyes with Alex, and had the compulsion to smash him in the teeth for betraying me. It was then, as I pushed my way in, that I saw him.

  Benton.

  He was handcuffed already, but seemed unconcerned. A tray of spilled champagne was at his feet, but that didn’t matter, it might as well have been just him and me in the room. He shifted his eyes to the sheet-draped mass beside him. Just by the smell I knew what was under there, even without whatever had spilled out of it. He was watching me stare at it, and I nodded to one of the officers to remove the sheet. He did as he was told, and the room collectively gasped as one. All but me and Benton, that is. I locked eyes with him, and he with me. I could see well enough what he had displayed in my peripheral vision, but I was determined not to show him that he had repulsed me. The cold dead woman with ‘press here’ etched into her stomach. I could hear people in the background. Some vomiting, others were taking pictures. I only stared at Benton, and for the first time wondered which of us was the bigger monster. I don’t know where it came from or why I did it, but I looked him in the eye… and smiled.

  “This is it? This is the big plan to shock?” I said to him. “You failed. You got caught. I’m going to see you rot in prison. Six months from now, nobody will even remember your name.”

  The constant click of the cameras and the strobe effect of the flash was driving me insane, and I spun around and glared at the poor officer.

  “Get these wankers out of here! Confiscate the cameras. This is a fucking crime scene!”

  The officers stopped gawping and snapped to attention. I would like to think it was because I was the ranking officer, but I think it was more likely because I was still wearing that crazy smile. I turned back to Benton, who was still watching me, a semi amused smirk on his lips. I walked towards him standing less than a foot away before one of the officers stopped me from getting any closer.

  “Was it worth it? Was it worth ruining your life for this?” I asked, my voice taking on a shrill tone. I was angry, elated, confused, and just a little bit afraid.

  He stared at me, and with just one gesture, despite the fact that he was in cuffs and surrounded by officers, he was in charge. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and then turned his gaze back at me with a mixture of arrogance and supreme confidence.

  “Watch him,” I said to one of the officers as I started to back away.

  My heart thundered against my ribcage as I increased my speed, then started to jog towards the steps.

  “Wait, sir, up there isn’t secured,” an officer said as I pushed past him, taking the steps two at a time. I threw open the first door, the stench coming from within only made more real by the steady drone of flies swarming around the mess on the bed. There was a girl, her empty eye sockets like twin pools of darkness in the gloom. She had been decimated, flesh peeled away, leaving only a pulpy mass of sinew and muscle that reminded me of those diagrams in doctors’ offices showing the human anatomy.

  The flesh that Benton had gone to such great pains to remove was still in the room though. It had been used as a blanket of sorts to cover her flayed corpse. As I looked closer at the putrid, blue grey mass covering her, I noticed there was more than should be there. It was hard to make out, difficult to mentally put together where everything should go. It was at that point that I noticed that there were actually two complete human skins draped over her, not sure where the second body is though. Angry flies buzzed past my face, and I swatted them away as I looked at the display he had left me. And that’s exactly what it was. A display. A piece designed to shock. I could almost see the artistic merit of it. There was even a sign, penned in the same hand which had been on the packages he’d sent to me. It was written on white card on one of the display posts I recognised from the Art gallery. The son of a bitch had named his handiwork.

  On a cold winter’s day

  I hated to admit it, but the name fit the piece perfectly. If shock was his intention, then shock was something he had certainly achieved. I knew there was more though. As disturbing as it was, this didn’t feel like the grand finale Benton wanted. I looked at the door to my right, the only other one which was closed. Even before I saw Perkins standing outside it and the ghostly expression on his face, I think on some level I knew what was waiting for me.

  “Martin, no…” was all he got to say before I shoved him aside and flung the door open.

  It was like being hit in the face. Everything left me then, and I distinctly felt something switch off in my brain. I wanted to ask for help, for someone to do something, but by then I was already screaming.

  CHAPTER 30.

  THURSDAY

  I couldn’t help laughing when I heard Detective Andrew’s screaming. He gets it now. He understands where he fits in. The final piece. The human angle in my story; something the other pieces had lacked. To the world they were just more dead bodies to add to the ever growing pile of deceased men and women in this harsh world. Now, though, they have Detective Andrew’s face to go with it. The broken man. The face that will be remembered by society for not only being the one who had failed to catch me but also the one who’d lost his own wife in his struggles. Not just his wife but also his colleague and friend - the man who tried so desperately hard to protect the wife from my advances despite being in no condition to offer a threat. The man who’d failed. I smiled again as I remembered the ‘struggle’ I’d had with Andrew’s partner.

  I knew going after the two of them was going to be a risk but I also k
new it was one which was worth taking. Right there and then it could have been the end of the line when I’d made my first move. It would have been too had I not managed to completely catch them by surprise. The first blow to the back of the man’s head was enough to knock him to the floor but not enough to knock him out. All because I’d mistimed the swing and hadn’t connected as solidly as I’d hoped.

  Of course, at the time I’d thought he was out for the count, so I’d turned my attention to the screaming wife. One of her hands was raised to protect her head from the possibility of having a brick swung at it, the other hand over the bump in her stomach. Ah, the bump. The joy I’d felt when I’d realised she was pregnant. Instantly I’d known the scene I was going to create from the two pieces of the puzzle. It was then I’d advanced towards her with a grin plastered across my face. I stopped short when I heard a groaning from behind. I turned on the spot, and was surprised (and impressed) to see the man standing. He swayed around as though dazed. His fists were clenched, ready for a fight. I’d chuckled and turned to the wife, telling her to wait right there.

  The man hadn’t stood a chance. He took a feeble swing which, of course, missed and I planted the brick firmly in his face. The crunch was satisfying, to say the least, as his nose crumpled to almost nothing. He dropped to the floor. He was unconscious this time round. Good thing too.

  When I’d turned to the wife she was running. Why, I had no idea. She wouldn’t be getting away. She wasn’t going anywhere. Not in her state; the bump slowed her down. The bump. That lovely bump, and the possibilities which it opened up for me.