Mezzanine and Other Curiously Dark Tales

by Watson, Allan

  At least the melee shamed the council into providing new allotments to prevent such carnage ever happening again. Just to be of further nuisance value, however, I’ve decided to be buried in my allotment.

  Family Snapshot

  A trip into the past. That’s what the article in the local paper said. It sounded like a fun day out to Bernie. The tiny seaside village of Abercorn, only half an hour drive away, was celebrating some sort of an obscure civic anniversary (Bernie hadn’t bothered to read the full story) and was holding a Victorian-themed gala day. As it was a sunny Saturday and nothing else had been planned, Bernie bundled his wife, Connie, and their two teenage children, Sandy and Jake, into the aging family saloon and set off for the seaside.

  Naturally the kids hadn’t been enthusiastic. Fourteen year old Jake had wanted to stay in the dark, fart-smelling sanctuary of his bedroom and shoot zombies on his Xbox, but Bernie was of a mind that the sunshine might do his son’s adolescent acne a bit of good as well as giving him a rare bit of exercise other than pressing buttons on the control pad of his Xbox and masturbating to videos streamed from adult websites. Jake pulled a face and said he’d rather stay home but when Bernie threatened to confiscate his games console unless he made the effort, Jake quickly backed down. An easy victory.

  Sandy, the older sibling by two years, was quite content to spend this glorious summer day chatting to friends on Facebook, painting her toe-nails with black nail varnish, and watching ‘The Vampire Diaries’. Bernie’s weapon of choice with his daughter was to threaten to change the wi-fi password and cut her adrift from her online umbilical cord for the next month. He even suggested she might pick up some fashion tips on how to dress properly from the Victorian costumes that would be on display instead of her standard uniform of black leggings, Nirvana T-shirt and clunky shoes. The sarcasm was met with a belligerent glower but the scare of possibly losing the wi-fi connection quickly brought her to heel.

  To Bernie and Connie’s delight, both children seemed to genuinely enjoy their rare family outing at Abercorn. The gala day committee had pulled out all the stops and the little seaside village was full of old style vendors and yester-year attractions. There were local girls dressed in period costumes selling cockles and mussels, a carousel with brightly-painted wooden horses, and fairground stalls where they took turns at knocking coconuts down with wooden balls and throwing hoops at cheap trinkets. They ate ice cream, munched on greasy salted chips, and laughed hysterically at the Punch and Judy show. They even got to ride in a horse-drawn open-topped carriage along the seafront and then watched some braver souls take a trip in a hot air balloon. Mingling throughout the crowd of visitors were Victorian gentlemen sporting handlebar moustaches and mutton-chop whiskers who tipped their top hats politely to Connie and Sandy while handing out printed flyers promoting such antiquated things like enrolling in the Temperance League, the sale of gout remedies, and where to purchase the best brands of snuff and laudanum. There was even an organ grinder with a dancing monkey that Jake wanted to take home.

  Taking one last stroll along the short promenade, Bernie found himself grinning in the late afternoon sunshine as he took Connie’s hand and gave it a loving squeeze. This was what being a family was all about. What did matter that Jake was a fledgling couch potato who was never going to set the academic world alight? And so what if Sandy dressed weirdly, was addicted to facial piercings and fantasised more about being a vampire than attaining a place at university? They were his children and he found his heart so full of fierce love that he had to fight off the strong urge to shed a few tears. That was when they passed the photographer set up near the path to the car park. In keeping with the Victorian theme, the photographer was seated behind one of those old tripod-mounted cameras where he had to duck beneath a length of black cloth to take a photo.

  The photographer was a sallow-faced young man with black hair heavily slicked back with macassar oil. There was something distinctly unhealthy looking about him, his eyes circled with black smudges and his cheeks hollowed out as if he’d recently contracted a bad case of tuberculosis which Bernie thought might be taking the Victorian theme a little bit too far. He was dressed in a shabby black suit, his frayed collar buttoned high, and on his feet he wore scuffed wing-tipped brogues.

  ‘Family snapshot, sir,’ he called out in a thin, reedy voice. ‘Perfect souvenir of your day at the sea-side.’

  Bernie pointed at the camera, smiling. ‘Bet you’ve got a new digital model hidden under there.’

  The photographer shook his head. ‘This is a genuine Newman & Guardia. None of your instant digital rubbish here, sir. This beauty exposes directly on to a gelatin dry plate, the image then lovingly developed onto quality photographic paper and fixed with mercury vapour and sodium chloride.’

  ‘So how are you going to deliver this photo? Send it round by hansom cab?’

  Connie gave her husband a dig in the ribs with her elbow. ‘No need for sarcasm, dear. This poor boy’s just trying to do his job.’

  The photographer gave Connie a beaming smile which showed half his teeth were missing and the remaining ones mostly rotten; the front two overlapping each other giving him a sly, feral look. ‘Leave me your address and the picture will be delivered courtesy of the Royal Mail. If it doesn’t meet with your requirements then simply return the photograph in the pre-paid envelope supplied. If you do wish to purchase then send me a cheque for ten pounds.’

  Bernie turned to his wife and children. ‘What you think, gang?’

  Connie kissed him on the cheek. ‘I think it’s a lovely idea.’ Even Sandy and Jake looked pleased despite trying to appear nonchalant about the whole thing. Once they were posed with the sun-speckled sea in the background, the photographer disappeared under his black shroud, telling them to smile and not to move an inch until he lowered his hand. It seemed to take an age and Bernie couldn’t help noticing the man’s fingernails were dirty and over-long while they held the pose. When they were done, he left his name and address with the photographer who was already eyeing up a new family group and they set off for home, happy and contented.

  A week later a stiff-carded envelope arrived in the post when Bernie was home alone. Tearing it open he removed an 8” x 10” photograph, smiling as he thought back on their happy day out at the seaside. He hoped it would be a good shot which he could frame and hang in the living room. The contents of the photograph, however, were disturbing to say the least. At first glance, Bernie thought he had been sent the wrong photograph entirely. The family in this picture wasn’t his. This was another family, albeit with the same demographic of father, mother, daughter, and son. Then Bernie took a closer look and realised the man in the picture was himself after all, but strangely altered. This was a Bernie who looked fitter and younger. A Bernie who had taken more care of himself over the years, gone to the gym twice a week and eaten more fruit and veg instead of constantly snacking on Pot Noodles and Mars Bars.

  Looking at this alternative version of himself gave Bernie such a turn he had to go make himself a cup of tea and eat a couple of chocolate biscuits before he picked up the photograph again. This time he paid more attention to the others in the picture. Holding his hand in the photo was a striking, dark-haired woman wearing a bikini top and high-cut shorts, clothes that accentuated bronzed firm breasts and long perfectly-shaped legs. No matter how much he dearly loved Connie, there was no way he could honestly compare his wife favourably in the looks department with this stunner. Likewise, the two teenagers in the shot bore no resemblance to Jake and Sandy. The girl was a younger version of her mother, flashing a sunny, confident smile at the camera. Here was a girl who wouldn’t be seen dead wearing black Kohl eyeliner or having a nose piercing – this girl would much prefer horse-riding and attending high-spirited pyjama parties. The boy was definitely not Jake. This fourteen year old lad was taller, more athletic, and looked as if he was destined for a place in Cambridge or Oxford instead of the best Jake could strive for which was the local
Polytechnic college. This was a boy who would captain the school rowing team and causally win the hearts of the best-looking girls at school instead of making do with fantasising over internet porn-models in the privacy of his own bedroom.

  Unable to make neither head nor tail of the conundrum, Bernie fished a typed letter from the envelope instructing him to either send a cheque for the sum of ten pounds or simply cut up the picture up and return it forthwith. Bernie almost went for the scissors before taking another look at the alternative version of himself and he knew he couldn’t part with it despite the presence of the three strangers posing alongside him. Quickly writing out a cheque for the requested amount, he stuck it in the pre-paid envelope and folded it in his jacket for posting later. The photograph itself he hid in his underwear drawer.

  When Connie casually mentioned the absence of the promised photograph a week later, Bernie merely shrugged and said it had probably been a scam and they’d been lucky not to have their pockets picked while posing. The first chance he got he sneaked the picture from his underwear drawer and hid it in his potting shed in case Connie chanced upon it. Over the next few weeks he found himself visiting the shed regularly and spending hours obsessively studying the alternative version of himself and his changeling family. He wondered if was looking at a version of himself from another dimension, as if the strange-looking cameraman had pointed an enchanted Camera Obscura at the cracks in reality to capture a reflection from a parallel world where Bernie was a successful businessman with a beautiful home and the perfect family. In his dreams they became his true family and in waking hours his real family more insubstantial.

  Connie began to voice her concerns that he was becoming withdrawn and distant and suggested he see a doctor. Even Jake and Sandy noticed something was wrong when they caught him giving them sad judgemental looks over the dinner table. Bernie took up jogging and stopped eating fried foods and chocolate. He got it into his head that the family in the picture were waiting for him at some point in the future and that he had to be ready to make the transition.

  As he and Connie had slipped into middle age, their sex life settled into a series of Saturday Night Specials, their love-making probably best described as lazily comfortable rather than sensually charged or steamily erotic. Bernie couldn’t help comparing Connie’s wide hips and thick-set thighs with the sleek, well-toned beauty in the photograph. She certainly wouldn’t be satisfied with a quickie at the weekend, but would most likely tantalise him with silk scarves and leather boots while begging him to anoint her secret nooks and crannies with massage oil. When these thoughts became too much, Bernie would pull on his tracksuit and pound along the streets until he was too exhausted to think about sex.

  Eventually one morning, Bernie stood at the front door wearing his trendy new straight leg jeans, Ben Sherman shirt and Converse footwear. He held a small packed suitcase as he tried to explain to a distraught Connie and his children that his future lay elsewhere. His wife wept and begged him to stay, claiming he was suffering from a mid-life crisis. Sandy supported her mother while drawing her father a hateful, pitying look. Jake looked fearful and confused as if the bottom had dropped from his world. Bernie was genuinely sorry it had come to this and his resolve almost wavered, but he thought of the photograph packed in the suitcase, the photograph that was his roadmap to a new, exciting future with a different family. They were waiting for him out there, he merely had to find them.

  Across the street a skulking figure with bad teeth and wearing a black, frayed suit, hid behind the bushes and took a quick snapshot of Bernie getting into the waiting taxi and leaving home for the last time. This photograph would provide closure for his case file. Even demons had to keep a record of their achievements in case there was an audit. Gutscryer, as he was known to some, sniggered cruelly as he slipped the small camera into the pocket of his grubby black suit and thought of how superstitious savages claimed the act of taking a man’s picture was similar to stealing his soul. They had no idea how close they were to the truth.

  Obviously not just anyone could do the trick but Gutscryer had many years of experience in this business. His Lord and Master would be most grateful to take ownership of another cheaply-won recruit. Gutscryer removed a slip of paper from his jacket and stared at Bernie’s signature on the cheque. A devilishly-clever piece of misdirection to be sure, but a signature was a signature and black Biro was as legally binding as dried blood any day of the week. As the taxi disappeared around the corner taking Bernie towards his new life of poverty, destitution and a slow lingering death in the gutter among the dregs of society, Gutscryer walked off down the street whistling. He was looking forward to cashing in his cheque.

  I Love You

  Those three little words. I love you. Hard to believe they cause so much grief. Look at them. Study them closely. Harmless looking aren’t they? Eight simple letters arranged in an unthreatening sequence of one, four and three. They weigh nothing. So insubstantial they have no reflection. They offer no hard edges or concealed splinters. So why are they so difficult to say out loud? Some people think it’s a man thing. Men are too self-conscious, afraid they’ll lose their manly self-image by uttering such romantic rubbish. There could be some in truth in that. A little at least. I think it’s more the case that saying I love you equates to showing someone your throat. Giving them the means and opportunity to bleed you out.

  But it’s not just the saying of the words. It’s the understanding. Anyone can tell a small infant they love them, because talking to babies is the same as talking to an animal. You can tell them anything. They have no conception of the fact you’re revealing a lethal soft spot, somewhere to thrust a dagger and take you down. I think that’s why I couldn’t say those words to my wife. Couldn’t give her the one small thing she truly craved. It shouldn’t have mattered. She knew I loved her. Right to the very end.

  We never argued. I bought her gifts; jewellery, flowers, chocolates, that new Bowie CD she wanted, DVDs of her favourite chick-lit films, a Kindle for reading the books she loved so much. I cooked for her, fixed her car, cleaned her laptop of viruses and malware, took her dancing, kept her safe and protected, arranged candle-lit meals. In the bedroom the sex was fantastic. I indulged her. I knew exactly where to stroke, flick, lick, suck, pluck, and probe. I knew when to go slow and when to fuck with all guns blazing. I showered her with sensuality. Showed her my love in the language of carnal worship. I made her come like a shrieking steam train every time we made love. But I couldn’t say I love you. Couldn’t expose my throat.

  Deny a woman one thing and she’ll become obsessed by it. It sways tantalisingly close in the corner of her eye. Leaves a bitter sweet taste on the tip of her tongue. It sings to her in the dead of night like a ghostly nightingale and pursues her across rooftops in her dreams. It eats like a cancer in her heart and finally consumes her. She damns herself for it.

  My wife decided she’d be better off with someone who could say I love you. It didn’t matter he could be out of work and sponged shamelessly off her. Just as long as he glibly recited the three magic words. It didn’t matter that he might be moody and quick to take offence. Sometimes lifted his hands to her. Didn’t matter he if came too quickly or couldn’t get it up. Didn’t matter if he spent his unemployment money on cigarettes and cheap vodka. Not at first anyway.

  Like anything in this world, novelty quickly washes away. Soon she would come to realise what she’d thrown away. Realisation of what she had cast aside would come crashing down upon her head. She would weep and wonder how she could have been so stupid. She would come crawling back and beg forgiveness for her madness. And the worst thing was, the very worst thing, was that I would take her back.

  That was why, when she said she was leaving, I killed her. To stop things from going that far. Taking a faithless wife back was worse than baring your throat. Taking her back would have been like opening my chest and exposing my beating heart. So I killed her, choked her with my bare hands until she was empty a
nd still. What else could I have done? She struggled of course, tore at my hands with her nails and kicked and stamped with her feet, but I was far too strong. Too resolute. Now we share a bed for the last time. Me with my hands behind my head staring at the ceiling. She splayed like a rag-doll, limbs untidily arranged, and lifeless.

  Outside the sun slips beyond the horizon and darkness falls like a cool caress upon a fevered brow.

  I turn to her and whisper, ‘I love you.’

  The Perfect Wife

  You can find anything on the internet these days. Web pages with lists of household cleaning products that when combined with plant food and a glass jar full of nails, transform into lethal bombs. Experts who’ll happily show you the ten most reliable ways to commit suicide. League tables (with starred rankings) informing the browser which plane crashes yielded the highest number of fatalities. There are sites out there in darkest cyberspace whose only purpose is to educate the public on the best ways to amputate their own toes, groom children, inject heroin, or even grow their own anthrax spores. But what I was looking for was something more specialised. I wanted to create the perfect wife.

  I already had a wife called Clara and she was nice enough, a slim brunette with better than average legs. But there’s always room for improvement, isn’t there? Clara’s voice for instance. There was something definitely shrill and shrewish in her tone when she nagged, ‘Howard, when are you going to get a decent job? Howard, remember to clean the shower. Howard, when was the last time you cut those horrible toe-nails?’ Yes, indeed. Definitely room for improvement.