The Future of Horror

by Jonathan Oliver

  “Yes, Mum.” Tommy subsided, though he didn’t think his words were true, not really. “He wanted to be.”

  And she went on eating, and she didn’t look at him, though she had two livid blotches on her cheeks, just as if she’d been slapped, or as if she’d been crying.

  TOMMY’S DAD NEVER came home after that. The years passed and he grew up, started to get into video games and seeing movies with his friends, and after that, girls. He once came across the flyer for the circus when he was sorting through his things, and he let out a ‘tch’ sound as if he’d been bitten, and he screwed it into a ball. He didn’t pause to read it; saw only a string of exclamation marks flying through the air as he threw it into the bin.

  THAT YEAR, HE was sixteen. He had met a girl – a nice one this time – and he caught the bus at the end of the road to take him into town. He was going to meet her there, and she would smile and wave and call him Tom, because everyone called him that now, he didn’t want to be Tommy any longer. And he went to the back seat of the bus and sat down and propped up his knees on the seat in front. He turned and smeared the condensation on the window with his sleeve.

  The familiar streets passed by until they grew wider and busier and the buildings grew taller, and Tommy looked out at them all, looking up at the formless grey sky, wondering if it would rain. It might be nice if it did; he could shelter his girlfriend under his coat, the way they did in films, and it would be funny, and give them something to talk about. Later, they might even kiss.

  The bus swung around the last long curve of road before it reached his stop, passing the wide square in front of the town hall, and he sat up straighter and his feet dropped to the floor and his mouth fell open. He wiped the window, once, twice, and pressed his face up against it.

  There was an escapologist in the square, standing above everyone else at the top of a flight of steps. There was a big crowd spread below him, and Tommy could hear them even over the throaty engine of the bus, laughing and clapping. The escapologist was all wrapped in chains, a silver coil that went around and around his body, holding his arms fast to his sides. He was smiling. He looked happy. He made a small convulsive movement and a coil came loose and a cheer went up.

  Then the man grew still. He was looking towards the bus. Tommy recognised his dad at once; his piercing stare, his balding head, though what hair he had was longer now, growing wild around his ears.

  His eyes, for an instant, met Tommy’s. Tommy saw his dad squint; he looked as if he was trying to remember who Tommy was. In the next moment, he was gone.

  The bus turned the corner and Tommy pressed himself against the window, trying to keep the man in view. He was too late. All Tommy could see, as the bus carried him onward, was a pile of chain; it was all that remained of his father, lying lank and shining and useless on the ground.

  THE BABY

  CHRISTOPHER FOWLER

  Rock and roll and the Dark Arts have always had something of a relationship. It’s called the Devil’s Music for a reason. However, rather than taking the rather predictable Satanic path with his shocking story, Christopher opts for something far far darker. This is a genuinely horrific tale and shows us the consequences of the corruption of magic

  THE DINGY EDWARDIAN pub was called The Grand Duke, but there was nothing grand about the place now. Its windows were covered in peeling gig posters, but half of the bands advertised had since split up, so that only their flyers survived.

  Inside, the pockmarked walls and jaundiced ceiling had absorbed a century of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. Bands occupied a rickety stage at the rear of the old saloon bar.

  The Duke no longer attracted the music stars of the future. Instead it hosted the bands of the past, those singers who had been granted a brief moment of fame, only to blow their main chance.

  Onstage, a shaven-headed DJ in a ragged death metal shirt was selling raffle tickets from a blue plastic bucket. Sasha Field made her way through knots of students to the bar, where her new best friend Tamara was buying drinks. At sixteen Tamara was a full year older than Sasha, and could often get away with buying alcohol in this kind of pub. Tonight her luck was in, so she loaded up on another round of Red Bull vodka shots and lager chasers. Both girls went to the same school, and both had parents who would have been horrified to see where they were now. But that was the point; neither Sasha or Tamara wanted to do anything their parents wanted them to do.

  They were here to see a band called Drexelle & The Iconics. Sasha had been raving about them, particularly the singer, but she hadn’t stopped complaining since they arrived. The poster had used the wrong typeface for the band’s name, they had put the lead guitarist above the singer when everyone knew it was Riley who was the real driving force; it was too hot, too crowded to see the stage properly. Tamara was beginning to wish she hadn’t come along. And the place was seriously skanky. How good could a band be if it was willing to perform in a venue like this?

  “Let’s get closer,” said Sasha, accepting her drinks and pushing forward. “We can get to the front.”

  “It’s fine back here, we’ll only get shoved around if we go further.” Too late. Sasha was already on the move and all she could do was follow.

  “Where did you get the money for those?” Tamara asked, looking at the yards of pink raffle tickets hanging from Sasha’s fist.

  “Karen’s purse,” Sasha replied, stuffing the tickets into her jacket. “She gives me anything I want. It’s so easy to handle her. All I have to do is say stuff like how much I miss my real mother and she’s like, buy yourself something pretty. A total pushover.”

  “I wish my parents were divorced. Instead they stay out of each other’s way. Just as well, really. The thought of them touching each other makes me physically ill.”

  “Karen will get fed up with him eventually. She’ll see what a sad old man he’s become.”

  “Don’t you ever hear from your real mum?” Tamara knew her friend was touchy about the subject, but had been wanting to ask for ages.

  “She texts me all the time. She’s just been really, really busy lately. I’m going to stay with her in the summer. She has a big house in Devon.”

  Tamara sensed it was probably best to leave it there. “What’s the big deal with this band?”

  “I keep trying to tell you but you don’t listen. You’ll see when the singer comes out. It’s all about him. He formed the band, he writes all the songs. Drexelle’s just a crappy one-octave three-chord player who does what she’s told.” Sasha downed the vodka shot and chugged some of the lager. Her face looked flushed and feverish in the lights of the stage. Tamara made a mental note to give her some cosmetic tips. In an effort to appear older, Sasha had plastered her face until it had a strange doll-like quality. Not so hot for fifteen, she decided. Why has she slathered her makeup on like that?

  The band members filed onstage to unenthusiastic applause, took their positions and launched into their set without stopping to acknowledge the audience. Riley looked so skinny and craggy that he barely matched Sasha’s memory of him. Drexelle had the wasted facial features of a seasoned heroin user. Sasha had been shown pictures of drug abuse at school. She had always known that Drexelle would ruin her lead singer’s chances of success. The bitch was jealous of his talent. As soon as Riley started singing, Sasha lost herself in his molten silver voice and knew that she still loved him. When he sang, she was ten again.

  The band played four songs in quick succession, and when they finished Tamara noticed that tears streaked her friend’s face. Sasha was the only one there who knew all the lyrics. At the end of the set the applause stopped before the band managed to file offstage. The DJ pushed back on and made the announcements for next Saturday’s show before drawing the raffle. He could have been reading out his shopping list.

  “What do you win?” Tamara asked, trying to see if there were prizes on the stage.

  “Tickets for concerts, but I don’t want them,” said Sasha, the spots from the threadbar
e lighting rig shining in her eyes. “One of the prizes is that you get to go backstage. It always is. That means you get to meet Riley. Hardly anyone else bought tickets and I bought loads.”

  “Wow.” Tamara couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. How cheap was that? Riley had looked as if he didn’t know where he was. Drugs and rock – it was all just so predictable. “So you don’t win, like, a bottle of vodka or anything?” She couldn’t see the point of wanting to spend any more time in the presence of the band than was strictly necessary.

  “What are you talking about?” Sasha shouted back. “It’s the best prize you could ever want. He’ll go it alone after this and become one of the biggest stars in the world, he has to, and this is a chance to meet him now, before it finally happens for him.”

  “I think I’d prefer the vodka,” said Tamara.

  SASHA SAT ON a beer keg in the freezing brick corridor outside the dressing room, waiting to be summoned. The winning ticket had been held so long in her hand that it had become pulpy with sweat. She felt the heat of the alcohol she had consumed reddening her face, and tried to see herself in the smeary broken mirror on the wall above her head. The dressing room had originally been the pub’s outside toilet, but the landlord had covered its roof and turned the side alley into a passage.

  After twenty long minutes the door opened and Riley swung out. He had changed into tight black leather jeans and a brown, loosely woven sweater with holes in, and had slicked back his bleached hair. He smelled sharply of sweat, cigarettes and alcohol. “You the girl that won the raffle then?” he asked.

  She nodded, unable to speak. The words she had prepared dried in her mouth.

  “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I. I never forget a face.” He was clearly trying to think, but his eyes looked unfocused and dimmed.

  “I was outside MTV for your first-ever live TV performance. I’m–”

  “Don’t say you’re my biggest fan, like some kind of bunny-boiler.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “An old movie, forget it. Drexelle doesn’t like it when girls hang around the band. She’s not very good at dealing with fans. She thinks they’re rivals.”

  “That’s okay, I came to see you, not her.”

  He tapped long fingers against his bony white throat. “You really did?”

  “Of course. You’re the talent. She just plays what you write.”

  “You like my writing?” He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, studying her afresh.

  “I know every song you’ve ever written.”

  “Even the bad ones?”

  “There aren’t any bad ones.”

  He laughed in surprise. “You’re probably the only person who thinks that. Even Drexelle can’t remember all the lyrics to my songs. Not any more. Is that it?” He seemed to be looking for the key to her.

  “What?”

  “You want to be a singer?”

  “No,” she said quietly, looking down at her shoes. “I’m not good enough for anything like that.”

  “Then what is it you want?” he asked, a smile forming. “What is it you want most of all?” He reached across and picked up her hand. Her fingers looked absurdly small in his calloused palm, as if they belonged to a doll. “Why are you here?”

  “I wanted to meet you,” she said simply.

  She followed him down the corridor to a strange red-flock wallpapered room behind the stage. Once it had been part of the public bar, but now it was used to store canned drinks and cartons of snacks. He found some glasses and poured her a warm vodka and coke, then pulled the dust-cloth off an old sofa. They sank into the damp cushions beside each other and talked. Riley seemed so different offstage, so intense and connected to what she was saying, even though it was obvious that he’d been drinking. He wanted to know all about her.

  “My life sucks,” she told him, dropping her head back onto the split sofa cushions.

  Riley leaned forward and studied her, placing his arm along the back of the sofa. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen,” she lied. “Nearly seventeen. I’ve always been small for my age.”

  “Are you still at school?”

  “Just for a little longer. I’ll be leaving soon. I may not go to uni actually, I may want to start earning so I can move out and get a flat in town.” It wasn’t quite a falsehood; she hadn’t discussed it with her father yet. Talking to Riley seemed to help crystallize her thoughts. “When did you leave school?”

  “Me?” He looked shocked by the question. “Jesus, years ago. When we got our first TV break I really thought we were on our way. Turns out we weren’t. We only got those chances because Tina’s father paid for the demos.”

  “You mean Drexelle?”

  “Tina’s her real name.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Sasha was amazed. She thought she knew everything. It was all becoming clear. That was why Riley had kept her in the band. He had no choice; her father was picking up the bills. He didn’t love her, he just needed her there to keep his career alive. Sasha’s heart lifted. She turned and found him staring into her eyes with an intensity that was almost comical.

  Without any further thought she raised her face and kissed him. And to her amazement, he kissed her back with a hard, probing tongue that parted her lips and slipped deep inside her mouth.

  SASHA TOLD HERSELF she would not cry.

  Tamara had gone home without her, leaving her to claim her prize. Now she wished her friend was here to help, but there was no-one she could turn to. She limped out of the filthy alley at the side of the pub and tried to pull her hooded jacket back together, but the zip was broken.

  Her jeans were buttoned wrongly and the fly was wet with blood. The heel of her left boot had split, and the top of her thigh was so sore she could barely walk. Now that the booze-blast was wearing off, her head was burning. She had dropped her Hello Kitty purse somewhere, but did not want to go back and look for it.

  She tried to understand how it had all gone so wrong, but could not even pinpoint the moment when she had lost the initiative. She had gone from encouraging him to slowing him down, gently resisting, then fighting him off, all in a matter of seconds. It was only when she had looked into his drugged, uncomprehending eyes that she realized the gravity of her situation.

  She hobbled around to the front of the building hoping to find the landlord, but the pub was locked up and the lights were off inside. She realized that he probably knew what was going on, and didn’t care. That was why the back room had not been locked; the band members were allowed unlimited use of it.

  Tamara had asked why the raffle hadn’t offered bottles of vodka as prizes. Why should they give away alcohol when the tickets could just as easily be used to deliver girls to the bands? She felt dirty and ashamed, disgusted with her own stupidity. Anyone looking at her now would be able to see exactly what had happened. It was as if she had been branded.

  She had allowed a burned-out junkie to force sex on her, lying on a filthy couch in the back of a pub. No – not allowed – but she could have fought back harder instead of just begging him to stop. She had lost the most precious thing she owned and had ruined everything.

  She could go back and accuse him. She could go to the police and tell them what he had done. But she was underage and they would want to know where she lived, and then they would insist on talking to her father. Nobody would understand what it had been like.

  Even Tamara would not speak to her after this. No matter what she told people, it would be her word against his. She had beaten the raffle by buying most of the tickets and had chosen to go backstage – even Tamara would be forced to admit that. She had been seen hanging around outside his dressing room door.

  She knew it would be obvious to others that she had been drinking. To accuse him publicly would be to expose herself to an entirely different adult world, one that she would not be able to control.

  Although she had dropped her purse, she still had her Oyster card in
her jacket pocket and could catch the Tube home, but it was brightly lit down there and she felt sure that the other passengers would stare at her in disgust.

  She didn’t think of the obvious word for what had just happened. It didn’t seem entirely applicable. It wasn’t as if he had jumped out on her in the park with a knife in his hand. In her mind, the line that had been crossed was scuffed and blurred. She was afraid that something had been irrevocably altered inside her. It wasn’t just her fantasy that had been destroyed.

  It was still raining hard outside, but for once she was glad. The obscuring downpour could cloak her guilt and hide her from others. She limped through the backstreets in tears, and even though she knew that it was too far to walk, nothing on earth could make her face the accusing looks in the underground.

  Eventually she was forced to catch a night bus. She walked quickly past the other passengers with her eyes fixed on the floor, then slouched down on the furthest back seat. Her MP3 player – another gift from Karen – had been in her purse. She wished she had it now, so she could listen to music and shut her eyes and pretend she was somewhere else.

  She returned to find the house in darkness. A note in the kitchen explained that her father had taken Karen out for dinner.

  Sasha sat in her room and studied herself in her pink bedroom mirror, trying to gauge the extent of the damage. Her private parts felt raw and bruised, but apart from a thin scratch on the inside of her right thigh and a number of faint blue-grey bruises where his fingers had dug in hard, there were no other outward signs of coercion.

  She threw away her torn jeans and pants, knotting them in a binbag, then ran a bath. Keeping the water as hot as she dared, she scrubbed at her body until her skin was red and tender. After drying herself, she put on the quilted pink dressing gown her mother had bought her and dug her old teddy bears out from the back of the cupboard. They smelled faintly of chocolate and childhood, so she arranged them along her pillows. Then she climbed into bed and swallowed a Temazepam stolen from Karen’s bathroom cabinet. She fell asleep with Beauty And The Beast still playing on her computer. She resolved not to cry anymore; crying was for the blameless.