ART: A Novel of Extreme Horror and Gore Page 4

  Fuck.

  Everything would have been so much easier had I been doing this in the eighties. The only artist in this country - that I can remember at least - was Peter Sutcliffe and Sutcliffe was a pussy. Okay, fine, if the world really has changed, if people really have switched off from such violent imagery, then I’ll simply have to up my game. I should take this as a blessing. See Saturday night as a practice run. Come out, in the press, with something even more spectacular. Art that people will not be able to ignore and, more to the point, a vision which will haunt them for the rest of their lives.

  I felt a sudden burst of energy surge through me. I started this lunch break feeling deflated but now I’m excited again. I’ll use the rest of my afternoon - walking around wearing my mask - taking in the paintings. See if I can pick anything up from them. Some more styles or something to incorporate into my own work and then - tonight - I’ll sit down and start planning. I stood up, picked up my trash, and dropped it in the small bin in the corner of the room. Yes. I’m feeling good, definitely more positive. I’d had a good practice run at the weekend, I’d got away with it and now I have time to plan something truly amazing.

  I have a feeling that, soon, the world will regret ignoring my original piece.

  * * *

  My work colleagues must have thought I was Jekyll and Hyde today. I’d been miserable right up until lunch time - my thoughts looping on the feeling of being ignored and my work failing to make so much as a ripple in this messed up world. And then, after lunch, I’d even found myself whistling as I walked from room to room, taking in the paintings and the few people who had chosen to visit the museum on this bitter day. I couldn’t help but stand there, in the corner of the room, watching their expressions as they tried to make sense of what the artist had created. I wondered whether they’d have the same look as they viewed my own work; a look of both curiosity and appreciation for what I’d done.

  I walked into the locker room and opened mine up. I pulled the name badge from my shirt, dropping it onto a small shelf inside before taking my keys and wallet out. I slipped them into my pocket and reached into the back for my coat.

  “Off home then?” Gary made me jump as he came into the room. I was surprised he was still there. Normally he’d have gone home by now.

  “I am indeed.” I told him. I didn’t try and engage him in conversation this time. I was ready to go and my mind was pre-occupied as to how I could take my hobby to the next level; the level that would get me noticed.

  “Me too. Been a long day talking with management,” he said. He sounded glum but, again, I didn’t really dwell on it. “Probably have a large whiskey tonight,” he said. “What are your plans?” I tried not to smile as I contemplated as to how I should answer him. “Doing anything nice?”

  “Probably just a bit of painting or sketching,” I told him. He didn’t need to know what I’d really be doing. A clever answer, I thought, because it made me sound more like a person who’d enjoy working in a gallery. Someone with a real passion for the work and someone who wants to be an artist themselves.

  “Ah,” said Gary, “you fancy yourself a bit of a painter?” he laughed. “Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll be watching over your work whilst people come in to look at it.”

  I smiled again. “I do hope so,” I said. “I do hope so, indeed.” Before he could engage with me further, I exited the room. The door slammed shut behind me. “I really do hope so.”

  CHAPTER 5.

  TUESDAY

  The morning of Tuesday was spent pretty much the same way as Monday had ended. We went over evidence, looked at photographs for the hundredth time, hoping to see something different; hoping for a break. I knew pretty much from the off that we wouldn’t find anything. As ghastly as it was, the scene was set up too perfectly for the killer to make some amateur mistake like checking in using his own name or paying by card. This guy, whoever he was, was a different beast altogether. Or maybe he was just lucky – it was still too early to tell.

  Patterson had been rattling on for almost an hour now about chasing down every lead, as if we didn’t know how to do our jobs. Truth be told, I had half zoned him out, and had been watching the clock since eleven. I craved a lunchtime slug of alcohol, just something to take the edge off what was beginning to look like a bastard of a workload for the next few weeks.

  “Right,” he said, perhaps noting our jaded stares. “Let’s leave it there and grab some food. This afternoon I want Richards and Wyatt reviewing the rest of the security footage from the building opposite the hotel. Our guy must be on there somewhere.”

  I pushed myself down in my seat, hoping that he wouldn’t single me out for something as shitty and mundane as poor Richards and Wyatt.

  “Martin, I want you to take Perkins and go back to the hotel. Question the staff again.”

  “We already questioned them boss,” I said, hoping to get out of an afternoon with the ever irritating Perkins.

  “They might have remembered something since then. Just do it to make sure we’ve covered every angle. I want this prick caught.”

  I nodded. For once I agreed. I glanced over to Perkins to find him staring at me with that dopey grin on his face. I had a feeling it was going to be a long afternoon. First things first though. That lunchtime pint was calling me, and if I had an afternoon of irritation ahead, I at least wanted to get some drink down my neck first.

  * * *

  The Red Lion was just down the road from the station. It was convenient, and most afternoons you would find more than a few of my fellow officers there. I walked in to the inviting clack of the pool tables, and the not too loud hum of the jukebox as it played whatever shit passed for music these days. I strode up to the bar, Perkins in tow despite my best efforts to put him off. A couple of the other lads had come along too, and I wondered if the mess that we‘d seen had maybe hit us harder than we’d thought. I ordered my poison, a lovely pint of ice cold Tetley’s smooth flow. Perkins was hovering, and being either the mug or good Samaritan that I am, I offered to buy him a drink. I wondered what he would order. Tap water? Babycham? Soft drink? To my surprise, he went for Carlsberg, and we made for the corner table where Richards and Wyatt were already waiting.

  “Martin. Perkins,” Wyatt said as we took our seats. I nodded, marvelling at just how orange the Scottish prick’s hair looked in the direct sunlight with the window at his back.

  Richards had already necked half his pint, and didn’t seem to be at all happy that he would be spending the rest of his day watching TV.

  “What a fucking joke,” he said, looking at me for sympathy with eyes that were a little bit more yellow than they ought to be.

  This wanker likes a drink I said to myself, wondering if we might have to carry him back to the station.

  I gave him the merest of nods, and he turned his gaze to his ginger companion.

  “Fuck all we can do but get on with the cunt, ey?” Wyatt replied as he pulled his tobacco pouch out of his jacket and started to hand roll a cigarette.

  With such philosophical and well-spoken colleagues, it dawned on me that it really shouldn’t be a surprise that there were sick bastards running around chopping people up. I have this theory that everybody, even the rich and famous and well respected, are at any time only one trigger point away from losing their shit and going on some kind of killing frenzy. Hell, I know I’ve felt close to that edge before, close to the point of just giving the middle finger to the world and going postal. It was easy to see how somebody could go as far as doing those things to that poor girl in the hotel room. Fearing the dark path my thoughts were taking me, I forced myself to forget it and instead took a sip of my drink. God it felt good. Bitter and smooth - exactly as advertised. That advert for those crisps popped into my head - once you pop, you can’t stop – and I seriously considered the option of sacking the rest of the day off and getting smashed.

  “Do you think we’ll get him?”

  We all looked at Perkins. All of u
s had at least six years on him service-wise, and you could tell. He looked uncertain and afraid, and the truth was I couldn’t blame him, not after the brutality of what we‘d all spent the last day and a half staring at. He waited, a half-smile on his lips. I wondered if I’d ever been so enthusiastic. I was sure I hadn’t, but then again, the miserable bastard I’ve become probably wouldn’t remember anyway. I opened my mouth to answer, but my yellow-eyed table mate, Richards, beat me to it.

  “I hope so. Nobody needs someone like that out on the streets.”

  “Aye, cunt like that needs to be locked up wi’ all the other fuckin’ nutters,” Wyatt added, philosophical as ever.

  “I don’t understand why we haven’t gone public, maybe someone might have seen something?” Perkins replied.

  “Trust me,” I said between sips of ale. “The best thing to do now is to keep a lid on this. Letting the public in on it can do more harm than good.”

  “Aye. Arseholes like that love the attention. He’s probably at home now, yanking on his fuckin’ dick and waitin’ for the news to come on.” Wyatt said, gulping down a long draught.

  “Jesus Wyatt,” I said. “You should get a swear box or something. The rest of us could probably retire on its takings.”

  “Fuck off, ya cunt! I tell it how it is. Not enough people do that these days. None o’ you fuckers do anyways.”

  Perkins nodded, looking for all the world like a conversation with Wyatt was the last thing he wanted. I was deciding between getting him off the hook by leading the chat elsewhere or drawing Wyatt into a conversation about his beloved Glasgow rangers and heaping yet more misery on Perkins, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I fished out the overpriced (but admittedly still good) Samsung, and squinted at the display.

  LUCY

  1 NEW MESSAGE

  I opened the text, half knowing what was to come.

  ARE U OK?? YOU DIDN’T COME TO BED LAST NIGHT.

  IM WORRIED ABOUT YOU. X

  Half listening to Perkins and Wyatt talk about the merits of involving the public in the investigation, I punched in my reply.

  ALL FINE. BUSY WITH WORK. LOT ON RIGHT NOW. X

  On the Pinocchio scale, it was a whopper, and if I carried on like that, I would never become a real boy. However, sometimes, bullshit helps to keep things sweet, especially with a hormonal wife who was deep in the mood swings phase. I could have told her the truth of course – that a violent psychopath had hacked a girl to pieces not 5 miles from where we lived and put her on display to be found, and that the reason I hadn’t slept was because I was sick with worry about the kind of world we intended to bring a child into, but what good would that do? It wouldn’t help either her or me. And so, I fed her another lie. I wonder if there’s an app for that? My phone pulsed again, and a new message popped up.

  OK. LOVE YOU XXX

  My thumb hovered over the touch screen as I considered my response. Of course, I love my wife, she’s everything to me and the only constant in a world I feel more and more resentment towards. However I am also shit when it comes to expressing my feelings. The words just don’t come, they don’t feel right when they reach my throat, before they sink away again. It’s always been a flaw, and although it serves me well for a cold, often disturbing, job like the one I was doing, it's pretty much catastrophic when it came to personal interactions. As usual, I went for a hazy, middle-ground shitty response, not quite committing to giving the one she was craving.

  ME TOO. ILL BE HOME JUST AFTER 6. X

  Martin, you complete prick. I said to myself as I pressed the send button.

  Slipping the phone back into my pocket, I zoned back in on the conversation, half wishing I was alone instead of having to listen to these three numpties try to talk over each other. As was my way, I sat back and listened.

  Perkins was still adamant that the public could help if we told them.

  Wyatt was trying to explain how (quite rightly) it was a bad idea, and would increase our workload just from false leads alone, not that the lazy bastard ever did any work.

  Richards was nodding agreement every now and again and seemed content just to sit and drink. I wondered how far gone his liver was, and decided that if you can’t beat them, join them. I took a long drink, draining half my glass and becoming aware of that irritating need for nicotine as it reared its head again.

  “Do you think we will catch whoever did this, Martin?”

  I looked at Perkins, who was waiting for my answer, as it seemed were Wyatt and Richards.

  I set my glass down and took a deep breath.

  “Maybe. It depends what it is that motivates this guy. If he was just an oddball, someone who just reacted to an urge to do this on the fly then disappear into the night, then there is a good chance we won’t solve this. But, if he isn’t like that, if this is something he’s planned and fantasised about…. if this is something he’s motivated by the need to do, then I think we will have another chance to nail him.”

  “Why?” Perkins said, his eyes betraying the false bravado in his voice.

  “Because if he went to this much trouble this time, then I would bank on him doing it again.”

  Nobody had any response for that, and the atmosphere at our table had changed.

  “Well,” I said, draining my glass. “We better get back to it, eh?”

  I stood and left the three of them at the table, half hoping that this was just a one off frenzy kill. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

  * * *

  Despite my assurances to Lucy, it was well after eight o’clock by the time I got home. My brain throbbed with information and exhaustion, and it dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten all day. I let myself in and locked the door behind me, kicked off my shoes and hung my jacket on the pegs by the door. Lucy met me in the hallway, and just to see her gave me the lift I badly needed. She possessed that glow only pregnant women seemed to get. Her cheeks were flushed and healthy, round stomach not really taking away from her figure, but enhancing it. She’d tied her hair up into a rough ponytail. Her eyes changed when she saw me, and her greeting smile faltered a little. Maybe she could see the tension I was feeling.

  “Rough day?” she asked, giving me a kiss on the cheek on the way to the kitchen.

  “Yeah, sorry I'm late. Got held up in the office.”

  “I suspected as much. I plated you some food up if you want to microwave it.”

  “I’m fine, I’m not hungry.” I said, even though my growling stomach disagreed.

  “Did you get everything done that you needed to?”

  Not exactly. You, see, we have no leads, no new information. No traceable I.D, no footage of our guy on camera. It seems he just disappeared like a phantom into the night, ready to cut up another unsuspecting prostitute, and left us scratching our arses, wondering what to do next.

  “Yeah, pretty much,” I said as I followed her into the kitchen, both impressed and disgusted at the ease of my lie. “How about you?”

  “Midwife called in just to see how things are,” she said as she waited for the kettle to boil.

  “Everything okay with the baby?”

  “Everything's fine,” she said over her shoulder as she grabbed my ‘Boss’ cup from the draining board and made me a one of those awful fucking flavoured teas that she insisted on buying. Apparently they’re good for relaxation, so I didn’t really complain too much. I just didn’t have the energy. Besides, I didn’t think my preferred form of evening relaxation would go down at all well, and I tore my eyes away from the unopened bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the counter, begging to be opened.

  “Everything is going as expected, so stop worrying,” she said as she handed me the cup. I winced as I turned it so I could grip the handle, and then followed her into the sitting room.

  Eastenders was just finishing (one small perk of being late home was not having to sit through that dross) so I set my cup on the floor and sank onto my usual seat on the sofa. Lucy curled up next to me and just hold
ing her close made me feel infinitely better.

  “We will be okay, won’t we Martin?” she said, looking up at me.

  I didn’t think I’d be able to do it. How could I look into those blue eyes and lie to her?

  “Of course we will,” I said, waiting for my nose to grow another inch or two. “We always are.”

  “I love you, you know. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  I stroked her hair, knowing what I should say, but as per usual, the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I chose to address only the second part of what she had said.

  “I’ll be fine. Nothing will happen to me.”

  She accepted it. Maybe she was used to my inability to express myself, or maybe she just didn’t see it as an issue the way I did. In any case, I was home and with the one person in the world who mattered to me. If I couldn’t say it, I could definitely show her.

  “How about I finish work early tomorrow and we head into town for a bite to eat?”

  She sat up and grinned, and it hit me that I‘d been neglecting her more than any husband had a right to.

  “That would be really nice, where would you like to go?” she said, unable to stop grinning.

  “Wherever you want. Your choice.”

  She smiled and snuggled into me, and I was grateful. Not just because I loved her, but because I knew I wouldn’t be able to say it back if she said it first.

  For the rest of the night, I stared at the TV without really watching. I still couldn’t shake the niggling feeling in my gut that, despite what had happened so far, things were about to get much, much worse.

  CHAPTER 6.

  TUESDAY

  Work dragged on today. Not because I didn’t enjoy it. I consider it a joy and a privilege to be allowed to gaze upon those masterpieces while mingling with people who appreciate them as much as I do. No, the reason was because I was more excited about my own hobby and where I was going with it, after a successful evening session of brainstorming. See - I know what to do now. I know how to make my mark on the world. When people are doing something impressive - or making something nice - they always say it’s about quality as opposed to quantity but I disagree. It’s about both. Give the people the quality they seek in whatever they’re looking at but don’t stop there. Hit them with both. Give them the quality and the quantity. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.