The dealers bring relief. A break from the day-to-day monotony. They are the new messiahs. Worshipped, adored.
This particular example, however, is going away for a while...
Despite taking every conceivable precaution, Mr. C was found guilty of possessing with intent to supply class A drugs for the second time, and is going to do a stretch at Her Majesty's leisure.
But he is far from stupid.
Whilst inside, he will continue to ply his trade, making new acquaintances and working on his business model. In three to five years, sooner if he is lucky, he will be released. A little older, a little wiser, and a lot richer.
Before his incarceration he passed control of his booming empire to a trusted lieutenant, showed him the ropes, wished him luck and waved goodbye. They are partners in crime, everything split right down the middle. The trustee will oversea Mr. C's business affairs while he is behind bars, building up a nice little trust fund. Something to look forward to on his release. And when he gets out, Mr. C will pick up right where he left off.
Fame / Infamy: A Deconstruction
Brian often let his mind wander while he was driving. It helped him relax, and concentrate on the matter at hand. He drove a lot, it was his job, so he found he had a lot of time to let his mind wander.
Sometimes he thought about the past; sifting through old memories like dusty books in a library. Other times, he thought about the future; making up various possible scenarios, playing them out and imagining how he would react in each one.
A kind of daydreaming.
Other times, he just plucked a subject out of thin air and devoted however much time was needed to de-constructing it and breaking it down into easily-digestible chunks. Topical issues, usually. Sometimes, when reassembled, the subject had a slightly different meaning to Brian.
Today, he was driving down the motorway thinking about fame.
A funny thing, fame. It was all relative, of course. But even a modest degree of fame would be life-changing for those lucky enough to experience it. The concept was crucial to our existence. People needed other people to be famous. It gave them someone to look up to, something to aspire to. And everyone loved a rags to riches story, didn't they?
It was strange how a sequence of random events could coincide to alter the course of history and make an individual famous overnight.
Right place, right time.
A patent on a great invention, perhaps. Something as simple as a cocktail umbrella. Or a spot in a band that suddenly captured the mood of a nation, and with it a huge recording contract and instant riches.
The Sex Pistols, for example.
No one could accuse those accidental revolutionaries of seventies disaffection of having much musical talent, or business sense, but thanks to the efforts of their wily manager Malcolm McLaren, they changed the face of popular culture virtually overnight. Even now, thirty-odd years later, they are still remembered and named among the influences of today's great rock bands. That is success.
That is fame.
But how do you measure it? By the amount of riches or adulation you accumulate? Or by the amount of people that know your name or what you did?
Now there was a question.
There was a thin line between fame and infamy, but did it really matter?
Were the Pistols famous or infamous?
Were they famous just for being infamous?
That just depended on who you asked.
John F Kennedy was probably one of the most famous men in history, one of the sharpest political minds the world had ever known. And the man who (allegedly) shot him, Lee Harvey Oswald, had, through the consequence of his actions, become just as famous. Or infamous.
John Lennon and Mark Chapman was another example.
Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger.
The book Chapman was clinging to when he blew the ex-Beatle away.
Who do people remember most?
Who has spawned the most column inches?
In reality, they are neck-and-neck. You can’t have a conversation about one without bringing in the other. Two men who never even met in the flesh had together become forever entwined together in the annals of history. JFK had never even known the man who cut short his life. How was that for irony?
And what about the new Cult of Celebrity, fuelled by endless reality TV programs and gossip columns?
These were the worst of all.
Most of these people didn’t have a molecule of talent and were famous just for being famous. The media, manipulated by those who could afford to buy chunks of it, created the illusion that the general public actually gave a shit, and devoted endless time to their relationship problems, family backgrounds, choice of holidays, diet, toiletry habits, and anything else they could get their grubby, greedy little hands on. Pretty soon these false celebrities started believing their own hype, and convinced themselves that they actually deserved all the adulation they were receiving.
What was it that Andy Warhol once said?
Everyone is famous for fifteen minutes.
Maybe.
Fame. Infamy. What was the difference?
The end result was the same. Notoriety.
It was a thin line of separation, if there even was a line. As long as people remembered your name, and remembered who you were after you were dead, who cared why they remembered it? That was an interesting concept...
With a final shrug of the shoulders, Brian spun the steering wheel through his meaty hands, sending his vehicle careering across two motorway lanes, over the central reservation, and into the path of the oncoming traffic.
The twenty-seven passengers on the bus screamed and cried out in unison…
Fame.
Infamy.
Everyone was famous for fifteen minutes.
This was his time.
Another False Dawn
Kenneth always tried to be nice. He had been brought up to believe that politeness and respect generally invoked a far better response from people than malice and obnoxiousness, so he went out of his way to be kind and courteous at all times. Besides, it sort of came with the job. He worked in a government-funded ‘resource centre.’ In other words, he was a librarian.
The job suited him very well. Kenneth liked nothing better than being cocooned within the book-encased walls, far removed from the horrific, cruel world outside. He read about the sins of the world in newspapers and on the Internet, and had grown to despise the fundamentally violent nature of modern life. He dreaded 5.30pm when he would be forced to leave the quiet sanctuary of the resource centre and venture out onto the filthy, crime-ridden streets outside.
The routine was always the same. A nervous dash to the bus stop on the main road, followed by five minutes or so cowering in a shelter trying desperately to avoid all contact with the hoody-wearing brigade. Then it was ten minutes on the bus, trundling through the outer reaches of this hate-filled, graffiti-daubed ghetto of a city, and another five or six minutes scurrying rodent-like through the network of grimy residential streets and deserted alleyways before he arrived at his building. Then it was straight through the main doors and up the dusty, decaying skeleton of a staircase before finally reaching the sweet refuge of home.
Phew.
The whole journey took less than thirty minutes. But by the time he arrived home, Kenneth was invariably exhausted and drained, not to mention terrified. It was so dangerous outside. Sometimes it seemed like the whole world had gone insane. Everywhere he looked there was war and famine, crime and corruption, while on his doorstep brewed a hopeless concoction of poverty, anger, hopelessness and despair.
Call it human nature, call it the way of the world. Call it what you wanted, but the simple truth of the matter was that people just didn’t care any more. Everyone seemed to have a chip on their shoulder, or a point to prove. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that before long, the human race would be reduced to a collection of bloodthirsty savages consumed by hatred and selfishness, strip
ped of all dignity and compassion, and hell bent on self-destruction. A genuine smile, especially from a stranger, was as rare as a blood diamond.
In spite of everything, Kenneth was content with his modest existence. He liked his job, his cosy little flat, and the handful of friends he had made since moving to the neighborhood. He felt accepted, and hoped against hope that it would stay that way and wouldn’t all just suddenly end like it had so often before.
Not another false dawn, please.
He was ready to put down some roots, and this was the place he wanted to do it. It just felt right.
He should have known such feelings of comfort and well-being weren't for the likes of him.
This particular day started much like any other. Kenneth got out of bed, washed, got dressed and had breakfast, then underwent the excruciating ordeal of getting to work and home again, tired but satisfied with the days work, and thankful for another safe return. Nothing out of the ordinary happened.
He got all the way home, and turned the key in the lock of the door before things took a drastic turn for the worse.
So near, yet so far…
He knew instinctively that something was wrong. He sensed it in some deep, primal fashion. He had been in this position before, and could recognize the signs.
Had there been a break in?
Something inside him withered in terror, and he shrank away from the beckoning front door even as it swung open, clutching weakly at his chest in morbid anticipation of what lay beyond.
No, not a break in. Something else.
On closer examination, both the door and its frame appeared to be undamaged. Being on the fourth floor of the block, the front door represented the only entrance to the apartment. And the only exit. It wasn’t impossible for a burglar to gain access via the fire escape, if he was industrious and especially determined, but it was highly unlikely. The words ‘industrious’ and ‘determined’ alone would seem to rule out most petty criminals. If they had just a few ounces of industry and determination they would have their own fucking jobs, instead of leaching off those who did.
Then something registered in his mind, and Kenneth's attention shifted to the apartment next door.
The door had been left slightly ajar, darkness spilled ominously out of the room onto the grubby brown carpet that lined the corridor. If something hadn’t happened in there already, it would soon enough. Leaving your front door open like that was just asking for trouble. Heart in mouth, Kenneth approached.
The flat belonged to a woman. An attractive woman in her late-twenties or early-thirties who, judging by her toned physique and permatan, obviously liked to look after herself. A divorcee Kenneth guessed. What was her name again? Veronica? Valerie?
He almost laughed out loud at his own stupidity.
Here he was, about to risk his life, everything, for someone he had exchanged forced pleasantries with maybe a dozen times. He didn't even know her fucking name. But such was his disposition. He thought of himself as a genuine nice guy, and wouldn’t be able to rest until he had made sure everything was as its place and as it should be.
There was a murmur from within the darkened flat, and the furtive sound of movement.
Momentarily, Kenneth blushed. What if she was with her boyfriend? What if, in the heat of the moment, they had simply forgotten to close the door after them, and were now engaged in some sordid sex act? He knew there was a boyfriend because Veronica or Valerie could sometimes be heard moaning and even screaming. The walls were very thin in this place. Too thin.
But at 6pm?
Call him traditional, but it was a bit early for that kind of thing. Even in this decadent age. If Kenneth was found lurking around outside their flat, the woman and her bloke could quite understandably get the wrong idea and label him a pervert. A peeping Tom. He couldn’t have that. He had a reputation to maintain.
Suddenly a little embarrassed, he turned sharply in the direction of his own apartment and cursed his naivety. He would just go home and relax. None of his business, anyway.
But then he heard more noise; sorrowful whimpering, now barely audible as if the source had retreated further into the damp bowels of the building.
Something was wrong in there. The sobs just confirmed it. The least he could do was check. Curiosity aroused like never before, he summoned every last drop of courage he had, reached out, and rapped loudly on his neighbour's front door.
After what seemed like an age, a husky female voice replied, “Yes? Who is it? What do you want?”
Kenneth’s mind went blank. What did he want? He had been expecting burglars. When faced with a reasonable question, he didn’t know what to say. Voice trembling, he replied, “Erm, it’s Kenneth. From next door? Is everything okay? I thought I heard… I mean, I saw your front door open and… you know... I wondered…”
His voice trailed off into an uncertain silence that lasted so long Kenneth thought about knocking the door again. Or just going home. He began to turn away, but then that small voice came again…
“Come in…”
Wary, yet anxious to investigate, Kenneth needed no further encouragement. Cautiously, he pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold.
As he did so, he was filled with the overwhelming sensation that from this point forth, there could be no turning back. This was the point of no return.
Once inside, he scanned his new surroundings in search of the owner of the voice.
He didn’t have to look very far.
Sitting on a badly scuffed light grey leather sofa in what was presumably the living room. was a woman. Obviously upset, she held her head in her hands, obscuring her face.
As Kenneth entered the room, the woman looked up.
It was the neighbour, all right. Valerie or Veronica. She was a good few years younger than Kenneth. Petite, with high, well-defined cheekbones, a pert little nose, and deep, sad eyes, reddened with sorrow, which seemed to not just look at him, but into him. Her lush hair cascaded over her hunched shoulders like a shower of molten gold, and a generous helping of fake tan-enhanced enhanced her striking features.
Somehow, Kenneth had failed to notice her beauty before. More fool him. To see her in such a distressed state brought a lump to his throat, and he had to fight an overwhelming urge to run to her, console her, protect her.
The only thing holding him back were those eyes, which bore into him with such intense ferocity that it almost made his head spin. Suddenly, he realized that before this woman, his soul was stripped bare. It would be impossible to ever hide anything from her, so he never wanted to try. Instead, he tried to meet her gaze head-on. Fire on fire.
Momentarily, they connected on a plain far higher than he had previously thought possible, before Kenneth’s nerves got the better of him and he looked away in embarrassment. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally felt capable of speaking again, but was reluctant to do so for fear of breaking the spell and shattering forever the unseen bond that joined them.
“I'm... Kenneth from next door.”
“Vera,” came the wavering reply.
Shit. Valarie, Veronica, he had known it was something like that.
“What happened, Vera?” Kenneth asked in the most comforting, soothing voice he could muster.
“I had an argument with my boyfriend. I’m okay now, really…”
Her voice was delectably husky. It floated on the air like a magical tune, rising and falling subtly in pitch with just a hint of an Irish accent. It was the pure, hypnotic voice of an angel. As if to emphasize her words, Vera flashed him a brief, reassuring smile, revealing an immaculate set of brilliant white teeth. Maybe her vulnerability appealed to Kenneth’s sensitive and caring side, but in his eyes this woman was perfection personified.
However, experience had taught him not to be too forward. Better not announce his undying love just yet. A few well-chosen words of comfort would suffice.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure it’ll all turn out for th
e best. These things generally do. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Vera looked him squarely in the eye. “Actually, yes. You can do something to help. You can stay with me for a while. I could do with a chat, and maybe a shoulder to cry on. If you're not, you know, busy or anything... ”
Something in the look she gave him belied the innocent facade. Something playful danced in her eyes, and the invitation shocked Kenneth. He had only just regained full control of his senses, and now found himself wondering is she harbored feelings for him. Could she?
Would she?
He immediately gave himself a psychological slap across the face.
Grow up!
Of course she wasn’t interested in him. Why on earth would she be? He was reading too much into the situation. The woman was upset and in need of a shoulder to cry on, that was all. Anything else he perceived was just a figment of his over-active imagination.
Now it was Kenneth who was trembling. His mind was in turmoil. Beads of sweat started to form on the leathery skin of his forehead. He felt his heartbeat increase and his breath now came in short, shallow gasps.
“Erm, okay fine,” he replied. “No, I’m not busy at all. Of course, I can stay for a chat. What would you like to talk about?”
He knew it lacked imagination, and probably sounded hopelessly desperate. If he was any kind of Lothario he would take the opportunity to go on a charm offensive, but he wasn’t very practiced in the art of seduction. His discomfort was betrayed by a slight wavering in his voice, but even in hindsight, he was unable to think of anything more appropriate to say.
Her reply was short and to the point, “Talk later, shoulder first.”
The words, unbidden and so simple yet so full of meaning, surprised Kenneth, and a warm glow began to spread through his body.
X: A Collection of Horror Page 5
