ART: A Novel of Extreme Horror and Gore Read online

  “Jesus,” Patterson whispered. “We need to get a lid on this right now. No press. If this leaks, there’ll be a frenzy.”

  I could only nod. Partly because of the morbid fascination at what confronted us, and partly because this was the exact reason why I didn’t want to bring a kid into the world.

  I glanced at Patterson, then the two of us entered the room.

  CHAPTER 3.

  MONDAY

  Monday morning and I awoke with the winter’s rain hammering down hard against the double-glazed window. I felt emotionally drained - a feeling which surprised me after the fun I’d had on Saturday evening whilst creating my masterpiece. Monday morning. The weekend already feels so long ago. The excitement of Saturday night followed by the harsh disappointment of a wet and miserable Sunday; a day which I’d filled by watching various news programs whilst still beating myself up over my loss of control. Yes, the scene was good. The Art I had left was beautiful. I can’t help but think, though, that it could have been even better.

  Some of the news programmes had been local and some were national. Each time I stumbled across one of the broadcasts I felt my excitement rise as I expected to hear about my art but each time there was nothing. It was almost as though I’d been completely ignored. The worst feeling for any person of a creative mindset. We’re there, shouting for the world to notice us and yet they continue to walk on by as though we’re completely invisible. To everyone else we simply didn’t exist.

  I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror half-dressed for work in my brown uniform of shirt and trousers. Name badge for Damon Benton on the left hand pocket. My third fake name if memory serves me right. I already looked tired and my week hadn’t properly started yet. There were large black bags under my eyes from a night filled with continually disturbed sleep and I had a five o’clock shadow, darker than usual, from where I hadn’t bothered shaving. Had it not been for the fact I enjoyed my job, I‘d have been tempted to call in sick. Had I done so then it would have been the first sick day I’d ever taken from this company. I sighed as I buttoned my shirt and stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind me. It’s a good job I enjoyed my work - nearly as much as the darkness within me enjoyed it when I let it loose.

  The drive to work was spent flicking through radio stations. After the media silence of Sunday, I didn’t expect to stumble upon anything but - even so - a small part of me remained hopeful. Every time the news came on I’d wait until the broadcast had finished before continuing my search for the next news announcement. Of the six stations programmed into my car, I managed to catch the news on three separate occasions. None of them mentioned the artwork I‘d produced in the hotel. It was hard to pretend I wasn’t annoyed. Words couldn’t actually describe exactly how ticked off I was. I’d felt so sure that Saturday would have been the start of my other career (despite being ahead of schedule). I wasn’t stupid. I knew Saturday evening was a spur of the moment kind of thing but the act itself had been well practised and thought through. I’d pictured how the following morning was going play out so many times in my mind. The maid would have gone into the room and seen the display. Ignorant of the fact she was looking at a piece of art she’d scream at the sight of the body. It would alert people in rooms nearby who would come and investigate for themselves. They too would scream. Maybe some of them would even pass out? Naturally it wouldn’t have been long before the police were called. They’d be shocked initially but eventually come to realise there was actually meaning behind what they were seeing. Someone, somewhere, would get a picture on their phone - the world we live in today dictates as much. The picture would get leaked to the press. The world would see my art. My alter-ego would be famous overnight.

  Now that’s how it should have worked out so what the hell went wrong? Just because the hotel was slightly shabby, it was still getting customers frequenting it and the reviews online were also near on perfect, so that ruled out the possibility that the art had remained undiscovered because the maids had yet to clean out the room or because the room hadn’t been booked since. I mean, if I’d chosen a bottom of the range hotel in the middle of nowhere - the kind that rarely gets any visitors... well then I would have understood it going undiscovered for a couple of days. But in this hotel? Not a chance. Someone had stumbled upon it. Not just one person. A number of people would have seen it by now. The maid, the hotel management, a handful of lucky guests, a number of police officers, the forensics team and surely some members of the press - they would have all seen it by now.

  Twenty five minutes after leaving home I turned into my workplace’s car park. Unlike other people I don’t bother driving up and down in the hope of finding a space close to the building’s doors. That’s just lazy and, besides which, when it comes time to leave it just means they have to queue to get out. I simply pull into the first one I come across even if it’s obvious there are more spaces further up which would require less walking.

  I turned the engine off and sat there for a moment, still quietly stewing over the lack of media coverage. I felt deflated. Ignore it, I thought. Push it to one side. I can’t let people see this side of me. It goes against the character I’ve created for myself here. I need to put the mask of happiness on. I took a deep breath, opened the door and climbed out of the warmth of my car, the cold air hitting me instantly. I hated the winter as much as I hated being ignored. I shook the thoughts from my mind as I spotted a work colleague getting out of their own car.

  “Morning,” I called out - a perfect fake smile on my face.

  The building’s manager had just pulled up in his large, expensive car. We would always arrive at the same time. He never smiled in return, and neither would he reply. I didn’t expect anything but nevertheless his blatant ignorance bothered me immensely. Manners cost nothing and if someone like me can afford to be polite to my neighbours, on a near daily basis, then someone like him should have no excuse to ignore me. Besides, engaging other people in conversation, even if basic and brief, is always good practice for me. It ensures I remember to keep my happy face on. The mask I hide behind. But the day I turn around and tell him to fuck himself, the day I stab him in the neck with my car keys - that’s the day I’ll go home again and phone in sick.

  As per usual the friendly greeting went unanswered and as per usual I acted like I didn’t care. Instead I pretended I’d left something in the car and turned back. I leaned in through the door and counted down from twenty. There was nothing in there that I needed - it was just my way of ensuring I didn’t have to walk in with the boss with an awkward silence between us which I feared would encourage the darkness within my damaged soul to crawl out. In plain sight - I’m not sure I could have controlled it. I’d probably end up smashing his face onto one of the concrete steps by the front door, then joyfully stamping upon the back of his head with a maniacal grin splattered across my face. All I can think is thank God he wasn’t my manager. I worked in a different department. Security. I had my own boss to answer to and thankfully he was nicer than this douche.

  My boss, Gary, greeted me the same way, every Monday. An elderly man, one year past his retirement, who continued to work full-time because he enjoyed it. He’d always ask if I’d had a good weekend. I’d always say yes even if it had been a disappointment. I’d then enquire as to how his had been. The answer was always the same too; a round or two of golf and that he certainly couldn’t complain. He would then go one way on his patrols and I’d go the other. We wouldn’t speak again until the following morning or if we happened to bump into each other in the staff room at lunch time.

  I entered the building via the gallery’s visitors’ door. One of my colleagues waited, unlocking the door to let the staff in then locking it again. I’ve often wondered whether it would be cheaper for the company to just cut us our own keys cut rather than pay a someone to do it, but I guess it’s all down to keeping the building more secure. Fewer key-holders equals fewer opportunities for potential theft.

  T
he smell hit me instantly, reminding me of my old school. It was a strange scent, which you both hate and love simultaneously; cleaning products mixed with the stink of old, over-used text books, and chalk dust tainted with the hint of aftershave and perfume. A small gift shop stood to the left of the doors - selling replicas of the paintings displayed in the gallery, for a fair price, along with other tackier merchandise like mugs and key-chains. I rarely saw people buy from the little shop, though. Part of me wondered how much longer they’d bother to keep it open. Admission booth was to the right of the building’s entrance, next to the cloakrooms with Security directly in front of the doors. You’d think that, given what I did over my weekend, security and such would make me nervous but I liked these people. Six of them in total. Three on each day. They rota’d who worked with whom and they all seemed genuinely pleasant but it wasn’t their mannerisms or personalities that I appreciated. It’s the job they did. They kept the art safe - just as I did with my daily patrols. I mean, yes, they’re here for the safety of the visitors too - as was I - but their main goal was to keep the art secure. I walked past the security with no issues, a slight nod of my head to acknowledge their presence, and continued past the first corridor towards the locker room upstairs.

  People ask how I can do this job; standing around for hours on end looking at the same displays whilst pointing people in the right direction if they get lost. Being vigilant to any wrong-doing - such as people touching the paintings or sculptures or just being loud and obnoxious... the usual anti-social behaviour, not that you see a lot of it here. I guess this isn’t the sort of establishment which attracts that sort of crowd. Not that I mind. I like the quieter crowds that come here. People who enjoy looking at ancient artefacts, paintings and such. I don’t really have to get involved with people, other than the odd smile and general assistance. I can stand around in the open and yet completely blend into the environment. People think it’s a boring job with days dragging on forever but I enjoy it. Hours spent looking at pictures I’ve seen a thousand times before. Displays I never tire of. Every time I look at them I see something I’ve not seen before; always spotting something new. It’s like my home from home and I love it. I love the customers too because they have an appreciation for what’s on display, a fascination which I share and understand. My only wish is that we housed Damien Hirst’s work here. I can’t get the cow-piece out of my mind. It’s good but not beautiful. The inside of a cow is just ugly. Fascinating, but ugly. Not like the human body. That is beautiful. That needs to be seen. Because it’s art - God’s art. He made us all beautiful inside (organ-wise at least).

  It was just a shame that most of us weren’t beautiful on the outside too but then, if that were the case, who would I use for my pieces?

  * * *

  “Good morning, young man!” Gary called to me as soon as I stepped into the locker room. “Did you have a good weekend?”

  I smiled. Not at him but rather at his predictability. “I did thank you,”

  “That’s good!” He pulled his name badge from his locker and stuck it to his shirt at chest level.

  “How was your weekend?” I asked.

  “It was a cold one,” he said, “but I managed to fit in a couple of rounds of golf so I can’t complain.”

  Once again I found myself smiling at his predictability. “Is there ever a time where you don’t play golf?”

  Gary closed his locker door, securing it tightly. He smiled at me. “You’re not married are you?” he asked. I shook my head. “Well - when you’re married you’ll understand why I get out to the golf course as much as I possibly can,” he said, “and - what’s more - you’ll realise why I won’t take retirement!” He laughed - as did I, although it was the mask I wore that was laughing. “Anyway,” he continued, “you have a good day!” He walked out of the room.

  “You too,” I answered, as he disappeared into the corridor. The door slammed shut and the smile disappeared from my face.

  I’ve often wondered why people bother to get married. Whenever I overhear couples talking, whilst out and about, they never sound as though they’re entirely happy. It’s always like one of them is being nagged or is in a mood with the other. And here’s Gary - he’d rather continue to work than go home because he knows his wife is waiting for him. Sure he could be joking but going from what I’ve seen of couples - and the way he is in general - I think he’s being serious. I wonder how he’d react if I were to offer him the chance for his wife to be part of my up-and-coming collection.

  The smile slowly crept across my face as I considered what I’d do to his wife. He would occasionally make a comment to the effect that she’d go around with her head up her arse. He would ask her what was wrong and she’d reply she was fine. In my mind, I was wondering whether I could actually force her decapitated head up her rectum. I closed the little door and locked it up before putting the key in my pocket. I’ll make a note of that image on my lunch-break. It might come in handy some time.

  And so begins another day.

  CHAPTER 4.

  MONDAY

  My days are usually filled with people-watching and looking at the exhibits but today was different. Today was - well - today was a let-down. I was supposed to be in my element. This was supposed to be the start of my new life. The way I pictured it - I was meant to be surrounded by items that I love, people that I enjoy watching coupled with thoughts of my weekend and - specifically - what people must be thinking of it all. Some of them sickened by what I’d done and some of them fascinated. Instead I felt as though I wasn’t here. I felt as though my weekend never happened. I felt... I felt out of sorts. It was supposed to shock people and make them take note. It was supposed to reach across the world but it seemed as though my efforts didn’t even reach the front desk of the hotel lobby. Maybe my work just hasn’t been understood yet? Maybe it hasn’t been truly appreciated for what it actually is? I won’t be the first artist in the world not to have my talents truly recognised until years later. Not that I want to wait. Anyway I shouldn’t have to wait. Not in today’s world. My fame or infamy - I’m fine with either - should have been almost instantaneous.

  As I sat here in the near-empty staffroom, watching my colleagues flicking their way through the daily newspapers whilst eating their tuna sandwiches with more noise than entirely necessary, I couldn’t help but wonder whether today’s world is a little too used to violent imagery and sickening scenes. A broken world desensitised to the violence which once haunted its dreams. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I chose the wrong hotel. Maybe it was as simple as that. Perhaps the guests are used to seeing previous occupants being left like that? Should have gone to the Hilton. Paid that little bit extra. Unless - yes, maybe that’s it - perhaps the manager of the hotel didn’t want the scene to have an impact on his business and after the maid had reported what she’d seen he’d simply told her to clean it up before anyone else saw. I somehow doubt it but at least it would explain the silence. Besides, any good manager would surely know it would add revenue to their business. The horror-lovers and the art critics would all be wanting to stay in the room where I had originally displayed Naomi. And there’s an added bonus too. When news leaks of the woman’s profession - the fact she was a whore - other prostitutes would be reluctant to visit the establishment for fear of a copycat-style sculpture being made out of them. Already - without even trying very hard - my art had made the hotel an even classier place. Hell, the manager should be thanking me.

  I felt the rage building within me. I couldn’t believe I was being ignored. I hate being ignored. I deliberately shook the feeling from my mind. I can’t afford to let my mask slip. I smiled at my colleague as he looks up at me from his newspaper and half-eaten tuna sandwich, no doubt to see what I was shaking my head at. He smiled back and promptly returned to his own business.

  “Anything good in the news today?” I asked him. I hoped he’d tell me what I wanted to hear. I hoped he’d tell me about the hotel room.

  “Is th
ere ever anything good in the news?” he replied - splattering the table in front of him with little pieces of chewed up tuna. “I don’t know why I read these - they only depress me.” He closed the paper and folded it in two.

  “May I?” I asked - another flash of my pearly whites to show him that I’m the sort of person you’d want to share your newspaper with.

  “Knock yourself out.” He passed the paper across to me and I thanked him. Instantly I unfolded it, on my own table, and saw that the headlines were nothing to do with me, some bullshit I couldn’t care less about. A politician caught with his pants down. When aren’t they caught like that? I don’t even skim read it. I really couldn’t care less what goes on in their world. I wildly flicked through to the second page as my colleague said goodbye to me and left the room. I ignored him too. He’s about as important in my life as the politicians. I’ve got what I wanted from him. No need to be polite now. Even less of a reason considering we’re not part of the same team.

  Damn.

  Nothing on the second page either. The third page is a pair of breasts - some naked teen with her thoughts about some kind of current affair. I snorted. The look of this girl - blonde and stupid - told me all I needed to know about her thoughts on current affairs; nothing. She has no mind of her own. The words printed next to her pert breasts were nothing more than the editor’s own pointless ramblings. This page served no purpose. The only reason this page had been included was to get sales from horny teens who were too embarrassed to buy a pornographic magazine. Too embarrassed or too young - this was their only chance to see some tits. And those breasts... my disappointed lip curled into a smile. They’d look great stuck to a wall. Just the breasts. Perhaps a wooden frame around them? Now that’s sexy.

  I turned to page four and then five. Nothing. At least nothing important. Nothing about me. The same goes for pages six, seven and eight. In fact, a quick flick through the rest of the paper showed nothing about what I did with my weekend anywhere. I closed the paper and threw it across the room.