Dark Video

by Peter Church

  “Is it really on?” she asked, gyrating her hips.

  “Mmm.” He nibbled the rim of her ear, ran his tongue across the fine, velvety hair on the nape of her neck, down her spine. His thumbs tucked into the waist of her dress.

  Now, where to from here?

  “You on the pill?” he asked. She nodded. In a fluid movement, he slid down her body, rolling her G-string to the floor; back up, hands on her legs, the dress riding up, a crumpled band around her waist. He looked down: her firm ass was a startling white contrast to the brown of her back.

  “Come on, baby,” he whispered in her ear, edging her around and toward the bed, as his right hand slid down her stomach. Another groan as he discovered her preference for shaving. Beautiful. This film was getting better and better.

  A moment later, he had her positioned next to the bed, left knee on the edge, right foot on the floor. Hands grasping her ass, thumbs up, he stood behind her, opening his stance for a clearer view. He looked to his right and smiled for the camera.

  “This is mine,” said the nurse, slipping the disc into her handbag.

  Alistair nodded. What had he been thinking? Quality poor, a scrum of heaving white bums, belly ring flashing. She’d managed a few slinky wiggles for the camera, but she wouldn’t be table dancing at Gorky Park any time soon.

  Recklessness had turned to regret. Why no protection? Why film it when you just want a fuck? Why let her walk away with it as a keepsake?

  What would Devon think?

  But at least his little drought was a thing of the past.

  He walked her down the stairs to the reception area.

  She threw heavy arms around his neck, pulled her body tautly against him, rubbed herself provocatively at his middle, all the time looking into his eyes.

  “You blame this on the moon,” he said weakly.

  She held up the silver disc. “This’ll keep me going through the dark hours of night duty.” She winked at him and spun around. Visions of a nurse’s uniform and a helium machine danced like candy sticks in his mind. He slapped his face, trudged slowly back to the reception. The office was closed; Maggie long since lumbered home.

  He checked the messages on the board.

  None for him.

  He glanced at his cell.

  None there either.

  THE TRUTH ABOUT JOHNNY

  Morning. A knock on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  Alistair, towel around his waist, stowed his shaving apparatus in a fitted cabinet on the wall, wiped an errant line of shaving gel off his ear. Paco Rabbane splashed into his hand and patted onto his face. One more left-right check in the cabinet mirror.

  Another knock. He opened the door, a first year passed him a fresh copy of the Cape Times.

  “Thanks, pal.”

  He tossed the newspaper on the bed, dropped the towel; inspected his body, this time in the full-length wardrobe mirror. Damage: scratch marks on his chest and back, bite mark on bum, a three to five day recovery. The smell of the nurse clung to the room.

  He slipped on a pair of striped boxers, checked the headlines. A short article on the front page caught his eye.

  MAN SHOT EXECUTION STYLE IN CAMPS BAY

  Police are investigating the murder of a 45-year-old Camps Bay man found dead in his home yesterday morning. The man, identified as Dean Campher, had been shot at close range in the back of the head.

  Police spokesman Trevor Mabunda said the victim’s body was discovered by his domestic worker at approximately 10am, slumped in front of his computer in his Geneva Drive apartment. His hands were bound behind his back.

  The motive for the murder is unknown. Mabunda told reporters that there were no signs of forced entry and that robbery did not appear to be the motive. Campher’s wallet, laptop and cellphone were found near his body.

  Mabunda would neither confirm nor deny allegations that Campher was a convicted sex offender, after it was alleged that graphic pornographic material was discovered on his laptop.

  Campher, a systems administrator for ABSA Bank, was unmarried and lived alone. A neighbor described him as withdrawn and courteous. Police are investigating.

  “Two bottles?” Silverman, in a scanty pair of once white now grey underpants, pushed the door open and surveyed his neighbor’s domain. He sauntered over to the silver popup dirt bin and peered inside.

  “Hmm.”

  Alistair ignored him.

  Silverman examined the wine bottles, raising his hand to his mouth in an exaggerated take on Hercules Poirot. “Buitenverwachting—the good stuff! Oh my! Either you’re a sadder case than I realized or you’ve recently had a visitor. Sexual relations quite possibly occurred.”

  Alistair showed him the newspaper. “Check it out. A pervert got shot execution style.”

  “I’ve never tried that style myself,” said Silverman. He pumped his pelvis, made slavering noises with his tongue.

  Silverman was a fellow law student. Somehow he’d made it into third year. They hung out at campus; Silverman, source of mirth, a court jester—every group needs one.

  Now he sniffed the air, expert eye looking for a show. “She’s a first year with a learning problem, on the pill, obviously. Who was she?”

  Alistair ignored him, flicked the paper over to check the sport.

  Silverman scoured the bin a second time.

  “You are aware of the hazards of AIDS and various other nefarious venereal diseases that you expose yourself to when you don’t stick a helmet on your astronaut?”

  “Whatever.”

  Silverman”s gaze settled on the Handycam on Alistair’s desk. It was open. Silverman’s eyes lit up. “You filmed her,” he gasped conspiratorially.

  “Keep on fantacizing, you weirdo.”

  Silverman ran around and positioned himself dead in front of Alistair. “Look me in the eye. You filmed her, right?”

  Alistair pushed him away and laughed. “Whatever. You’re delusional.”

  Silverman hurried to the desk, pushed books and papers aside, and scanned through the drawers. “Where’s it?” he demanded.

  Alistair pulled a red sweater over his head, a small white Nike swoosh over his heart. Then into a pair of khaki G-Star shorts.

  “Well? Where?”

  “She took it.”

  Silverman put his hand in front of his mouth in mock shock. “I love it! Who is she?”

  There was a soft knock at the door. Silverman opened it with a flourish.

  “I’m sorry. I must have…”

  Alistair pulled Silverman back and peered around the door.

  “Terri!”

  She looked pale and small, her face blotchy, nose and eyes red, cheeks colorless. Alistair adjusted his pants and fastened the button.

  Silverman slotted in behind, hand on Alistair’s shoulder, his straight donkey brown hair brushed forward, fringe hanging over his eyes, hot breath on Alistair’s neck. Alistair turned and looked at him. Silverman’s mouth formed a perfect zero.

  “I’m sorry. Is this not a good time?”

  Alistair turned back to Terri. “He was just leaving.”

  Silverman wormed his way past and out the door. Behind Terri’s back, he unleashed a frenzy of silent questions, waving arms and pogo jumping. Alistair ignored him and shut the door.

  “Sit?” he offered, pointing to his small couch, regretting the two empty bottles of wine next to the bin, hoping the excess cologne he’d just applied would mask any traces of last night’s romp.

  She looked back at the closed door. “No. I can’t stay.” She folded her arms and remained standing with her back to the door.

  Alistair picked his towel off the floor and sat down on the bed. He rubbed his wet hair. The open video camera was on his desk.

  “I want to say thank you again for helping me,” said Terri. “I know you phoned and I didn’t reply. I wanted to deal with this on my own.”

  Alistair nodded, watching her, taking her in: hair clipped up, a blue denim skirt
, tackies without socks, shapeless UCT sweater, a size too large, two silver bangles, no earrings, no makeup.

  “Sometimes it helps to have someone to talk to,” he said.

  “I have someone to talk to.”

  He wondered who, decided not to ask. Why couldn’t he think of something suitable to say? Distraction, distraction.

  “You haven’t told anyone?” she said. The intensity of the expression on her face jolted him.

  “No, of course not.”

  She relaxed a little. “It’s just…” She took a deep breath. “I keep thinking, Henri, that’s my boyfriend…rather, was my boyfriend…had something to do with it.”

  Alistair’s mind worked furiously.

  “Not Henri, I mean…his old girlfriend. When they look at me…” She stumbled over her words.

  “I want to help you. Please.” He took a step closer.

  “No. It’s fine. Really.”

  “But this chap Henri…”

  “Uh. It’s probably all my imagination. I’ve got lectures now. I don’t need any help. But thank you. I just wanted to be sure…”

  “Can I give you a lift?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  She turned, opened the door and was gone. The door burst back open immediately: Silverman, still in his underpants, eyes darting at the video camera, hands pulling at his hair.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck! That’s Henri Brink’s girl! Do you know how much trouble…”

  “Silverman, you’re an asshole. It wasn’t her.”

  “Wasn’t her? Now who’s the asshole? I saw her with my very eyes. That was Terri Phillips.”

  “I meant, it wasn’t her in the video.”

  Silverman shook his head and grinned. “So there is a video!”

  Alistair groaned.

  “Don’t worry, bud. Your secret’s safe with me.” He put his finger on his lip. “But I want to see the video.”

  “There’s no video, you big dick. Now get out of my room!”

  “Let me show you something.”

  Breakfast finished, back in 212, Silverman assumed control of Alistair’s laptop, connected to the net and fired up Facebook.

  “Terri’s one of my friends,” he continued, a page appearing: Candy Smith.

  “You’re Candy Smith, large-breasted Tugwell resident?” Alistair laughed with disbelief. The picture showed a raven-haired beauty in a see-through top. “Interested in women!”

  “I was in Tugwell,” corrected Silverman. “But I’ve moved into digs. It was getting hot in the group. I think I’m the only lesbian.”

  He twirled the trackpoint device on Alistair’s Thinkpad. Terri Phillips’s page filled the screen, her profile picture taken at a formal dance, probably Matric Ball, face younger; she’d matured into a young woman.

  Alistair scanned the screen.

  One hundred ninety friends. An even spread of girls and guys. None of the girls he’d poked before, he hoped. Maybe a couple.

  Nineteen. Great age. In a relationship with Henri Brink. Later for that…

  Alistair scanned her profile. Looking For: Happiness. Interests: Find out for yourself. Favorite Music: Cassie. Favorite Book: Heat magazine.

  Heat magazine!

  “Pictures, pictures…” Thumbnails of a happy young girl. Playing tennis, running a half marathon, modest bikini on Clifton Fourth beach, or maybe it was Llandudno.

  “No nudes, I checked,” said Silverman.

  “What do you mean you’ve checked?” Alistair slapped Silverman on the shoulder.

  “I told you. She’s got a big fan club,” said Silverman. “Look at her friends! Cindy Jones…” He flicked to Cindy’s page, another stunner, looked like a young Cindy Crawford. It was Cindy Crawford, a younger pic from her early modeling days.

  “That’s Macintosh,” said Silverman.

  “Macintosh! I can’t believe it,” said Alistair, shaking his head. “A network of deceit.”

  “It’s fun,” said Silverman. “Everyone’s doing it.”

  The text from Devon arrived midmorning:

  Come pick up your $$$.

  Gorillas was a five minute drive from Belsen: down the hill into Rondebosch, through the student back yard, up into Grotto Road, left at the T-junction. Third house up on the left.

  Alistair turned into the driveway and parked behind a rusty blue Cressida, Johnny’s ride. Devon’s silver C-Series Mercedes stood under a shade cloth covered bay.

  Alistair hopped out and strolled across the unmowed lawn, the grass dry and patchy. A lopsided, scraggly hedge separated the road from the house. Up some stairs to the front door, standing open.

  “Hello!” called Alistair. He could hear muffled voices behind a door but received no answer. He didn’t feel like conversation, anyway. Devon would ask him if he’d seen Terri.

  Why was Terri taking it so badly? Breaking up with her boyfriend was not regrettable, but the way she looked? Sorrowful and empty, sadness without seeking pity. What was her problem? A few pine needles on her ass…

  Clearly she wasn’t very interested in his offer of companionship either. But she’d come all the way to see him in his room “just to be sure”…

  He lifted a fat envelope marked “Alistair” off the telephone table. Underneath it, a book caught his eye: Luke Rhinehart’s The Dice Man. He opened the front cover, “Devon Deacon” pencilled in as the owner.

  He pocketed the envelope, tucked the book under his arm, then performed a quick U-turn and skipped back down the stairs and into the street.

  How long had she been in his room this morning? A minute? Two? He wished she’d left some lingering memory.

  Imagine if….A sudden chill of paranoia; Alistair straightened his shoulders. What if she comes back to Belsen, to visit again and Silverman asks her about a video? He played out the scene in his mind.

  “Hey, pretty girl,” says Silverman knowingly.

  “Excuse me?” Terri’s eyes are puffy.

  “Which way did you do it? On the video? Huh, huh?”

  Alistair stopped and looked up at the sky. The sun was reaching its zenith; motion was necessary to avoid incineration. Devon was right. Keep away from her. But he’d have a word with Silverman anyway and straighten him out. Best bet: salvage the disc from the nurse and screen it for him.

  The bang of the front door distracted his daydream. Johnny marched down the garden path toward the blue Cressida, a reluctant girl in tow. He looked like a Free State farmer: tight khaki shorts exposing massive quads, matching shirt with grey panels on the pockets, angry neck jutting out.

  Who actually wears those shirts? thought Alistair.

  The girl resisted, but Johnny marched on, pulling her by the arm, uncompromising, intent to drag her to his car.

  “Get the fuck in!” he shouted. The girl collapsed on the ground, heaving with tears. Alistair stood dead still, observing from across his car. What was her name? Sasha?

  Johnny wrenched open the Cressida’s rear door, returned for the sobbing heap, bent, bundled her into his arms, shoved her onto the back seat like a sack of potatoes. He slammed the door and glared at the car parking him in, then noticed Alistair for the first time.

  “What the fuck you looking at, Morgan? Get out of my driveway!”

  “Jesus, Johnny, what’s got down your crack today?”

  Johnny wrenched the door of his car open, started the engine and revved loudly. Alistair hopped into his car, put the keys in the ignition and waited. The thick neck swung around, engine screaming, blasting on the hooter.

  “Move your fucking car!” he roared.

  Alistair turned the key and slipped out the driveway.

  He drove leisurely to the bottom of the road, the blue Cressida tailgating, and paused at the traffic lights leading onto Main Road. Johnny swerved to the other side of the road, overtook and jumped the red light.

  Alistair was leaving the parking lot behind Pick’n’Pay when his cellphone rang. Devon.

  “Have you stopped in already?”


  “Yip.”

  “Get the cash?”

  “Yip.”

  “You count it?”

  Alistair laughed.

  “And I took a novel I found on the table. The Dice Man. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Thought you might like the look of that. Can you come back?” Devon could elicit a command in the form of a question.

  “Be right there.”

  Five minutes later, Alistair was back in the Gorillas driveway. No sign of the blue Cressida. He parked in the road to avoid being parked in if Johnny returned.

  Devon, immaculately dressed, muscular arms accentuated by a tight-fitting short sleeve shirt, was perched in front of one of the PC work stations in the lounge. He was clean shaven, hair slicked back, smelling of cologne.

  “Sorry I missed you,” said Alistair. “Where were you?”

  “I must have been dressing.”

  Dressing, thought Alistair. Ten o’clock in the morning?

  “I didn’t sleep last night.” Devon seemed to read Alistair’s mind. He gestured for him to take a seat.

  He was a package, thought Alistair, serene and relaxed, oozing composure. Not your average tech whiz.

  Alistair sat down.

  “Alesandro,” Devon said, deliberately spinning around on the computer chair. He wheeled across and placed a hand delicately on Alistair’s arm. It was a name only Devon called him.

  “Alesandro, we might have a problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “Johnny.”

  “Johnny?” Alistair wondered whether to tell Devon about the earlier incident. “Funny you mention him. I saw him this morning with the thin girl, the stick insect. Was roughing her around a bit. What’s her name?”

  “Sasha.” Devon knew everyone’s name. It was his business.

  “He was pulling her…”

  Devon stopped him. “I know. I saw you.”

  Devon took a long breath and exhaled slowly. He pointed toward the television with the DVD controls.

  “Take a look at this.”

  The screen filled with images of a room, dimly lit. A second and then Alistair recognized it: Gorillas, this house. A black and white duvet: Johnny’s room.