ART: A Novel of Extreme Horror and Gore Page 5

  The girl in the hotel room, ignored by the press, doesn’t just have to be the practice piece. I won’t let her be nothing more than an experiment to encourage me to go further. She’s going to be more. She’s going to be the invitation that I’ll be sending to the police, the media, the public. Pictures of her displayed in the hotel room are going to be the main part of the printed invitation inviting people to my gallery. A place where they can come, in their hundreds, and view the whole collection of my work in one go. Another surge of excitement rushed through me as I pictured the scene. I can see them now, coming with their cameras and notepads which would soon be filled with words praising, or damning, my work. I don’t care which. Just so long as they’re talking about what I’ve created. Just so long as they’re talking about me. I’ll be there too - handing out flutes of champagne from a silver tray before finally being taken away by the police for my first series of interviews. They won’t catch me before then - I won’t allow them to.

  Having left my work place with a cheery goodbye wave to the miserable manager of the building which - I have to confess - was done more to annoy him than anything else, I jumped into my car and out of the torrential rain. The weather still mirrored yesterday’s black mood. I wonder - now that I’m feeling more positive - will the sun come out? It would be nice but not ideal. The rain is good for keeping crowds of people off the streets. Instead it’s just the desperate girls and boys you find walking around when it’s like this. The type I want for my collection. Those no one will miss. It’s easier to make them disappear without anyone else noticing in bad weather. I chuckled at the thought of what I had planned and fired up the worn-out engine before wheel-spinning from the space where I’d abandoned it that morning. No queuing for me and I’m soon on the open road heading to the one place I hate to go yet can’t seem to leave behind: my old family home. The Hell-hole where I grew up with my mother and father. The perfect place to keep what needs to be stored. No one will look there, just as they didn’t look for me when I needed them. They just left me there to rot and turn into what I am today. It would be the ideal hiding place and, maybe, the perfect place to put my artwork on display. After all - once out in the open - I no longer need to hide in the little flat across town pretending to be someone else. I can stand there in the middle of my work, next to my main piece, proud of what I’ve created and ready to answer questions posed by fans and critics. I am here. This is who I am. Love my work. Love me.

  I wasn’t going to drive directly to the family home, despite wanting to get there as quickly as possible to ensure everything was just right. I wanted to swing by the hotel first. I needed to satisfy my curiosity to see if anything was happening there. I needed to see if the police had at least been called to investigate what I’d left for them. It wasn’t too much of a detour anyway so it would probably only add an extra ten minutes or so onto my journey as long as the traffic wasn’t bad. That’s the problem when it rains - seems to make everyone turn into idiots on the road.

  Imagine my relief as I saw many a police car lining the streets as I slowly drove past the hotel. It took so much effort not to stop and run in shouting to everyone that it was me who had created the masterpiece, before asking what they thought of it. I can’t get carried away though. I have so much more to offer the people and, as good as it was, I didn’t want to be remembered for just one piece of work - I needed a collection behind me.

  I did stop though. A quick check in the rear-view mirror to see if anyone was behind me. I got out, and looked towards the hotel. I was desperate to know what was going on inside, and to find out how people were reacting to my art. Maybe I should go in and try and get a room? See if I can hear anything? I dismissed the idea just as quickly as I’d thought it. I’m still not sure as to whether they’d caught my image on a camera somewhere.

  A horn suddenly beeped. I spun around. A car had pulled up behind me. I hadn’t realised. Too wrapped up in what was happening in the hotel. I waved them an apology and jumped back into my own car.

  I suddenly noticed a police officer watching me from the side of the road. No doubt curious as to why I slowed down to have a better look at the commotion outside of the hotel. I stamped down on the accelerator before temptation got the better of me and I found myself running up to him screaming that I was indeed the one they were looking for. A quick check of the rear-view and I saw he was still watching. Not a problem. He won’t see me again. I won’t be back. I saw what I needed to see. I’d confirmed that my work hadn’t gone unnoticed, that it hadn’t simply been brushed under the carpet. Next stop was the old family home to check if it really is as suitable for my plans as my imagination and memory kept telling me last night.

  CHAPTER 7.

  TUESDAY

  I pulled off the bumpy road and onto the gravel driveway of my parent’s old home. The place where I was raised - the place where I’d spent most of my formative years wishing I was dead. My parents had died more than a few years ago through no fault of mine - not that I was sad to hear of their demise. If anything, the thought of them rotting deep in the ground brought a smile to my face; a smile broader than any other smile that I could remember. Even broader than the one I’d had on my face when finally taking a step back from my display in the hotel room to look upon it properly for the first time.

  They’d left the house to me, not that I wanted it. It wasn’t a move done out of love for me on their part. They’d never loved me. I’d heard that enough as I grew up; the fact that they never actually wanted me. How they’d wished I’d died within my mother’s womb. A little corpse she’d gladly have expelled before displaying it within the home as a reminder to each of them to be more careful in the future. No - they didn’t leave me the house as a way of showing their love or treating me well after they’d gone. They’d done it to remind me that, despite everything I do or no matter how far I run, they would always be a part of my life. They’d always be watching me from the fiery pits of Hell, hoping I fail in all that I try while laughing as my memory throws back random events from the childhood I hadn’t been able to escape.

  I’d moved out of the house at the very first opportunity. Admittedly I’d left the shit-hole on many an occasion, but someone was always there to take me home to a mum and dad who pretended to care and acted as if they’d been concerned as to my whereabouts. As soon as the stranger had gone the beatings would continue. They couldn’t keep me there forever though and, like I said, I moved out as soon as I could and very rarely returned.

  I remember coming back, some years later, to pop in on them, to see how they were doing. A foolish, lonely part of me thought that perhaps they’d missed me. Perhaps my memories, distorted by time, had painted a grimmer picture than it had actually been. I knew within three minutes of stepping over the threshold that my memories had been accurate and coming home was a mistake. After that, I didn’t go back until after they were dead and even then I struggled to make it much further than the hallway.

  There was a part of me that wanted to sell the property as I knew I could never live there. Each room contained a different memory I’d sooner forget. Another part of me knew I couldn’t get rid of it. Perhaps my subconscious had known what was coming. Perhaps the deep dark had known that I’d need a place to store my collections and props. Regardless, I was thankful the building still stood. And who knows, with what I had planned perhaps I could change negative memories into positive ones, so I could kiss goodbye the ghosts of my past once and for all. In the meantime I’m sure the negativity within these haunted walls will be more than helpful to get me in the right frame of mind to create some truly inspiring works.

  I’d not been here for a couple of months, not since I’d been practising with hooks in the large shed at the back of the property. From the driveway, the house appeared to be in a good state of repair. One smashed window, God only knows why, but other than that nothing which will be too much of a challenge to fix. Good. Less time fixing things and more time to think creatively.
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  I fished the keys to the house out of my pocket. No sense trying to hook them outside - not in this rain. They jingled as I retrieved them. I was sure I heard my mother shouting at me to keep the noise down. Impossible, of course – she’s dead. They’re both dead. And I’m glad. The voices I hear aren’t them. It’s me, my sick mind playing tricks for reasons I’ve never understood. Always happens when I come back here. I just need to ignore them. I just need to keep telling myself that they’re not real. And the shadow which just ran across the front window - where the lounge is - that’s not real either. Just another figment of my damaged imagination. They can’t hurt me now. They’re gone. Keep telling myself. I shook the fears away.

  I took a quick look out of the car windscreen, to see dark rain-clouds above. No sign of the downpour letting up any time soon. I’ll just have to make a run for it. I braced myself for the sudden rush of winter bitterness that would hit me as soon as I opened the door. And hit me it did. Fuck, it was cold. And wet. I hurriedly got out, slammed the door and made a dash for the front entrance with the keys ready to slide straight into the lock.

  It swung open and banged against the wall without too much force on my part. Wind must have caught it. The report echoed through the empty, cold house. I wished I could have kept the sound of the echo running through the deserted rooms. Normally I don’t mind silence, in fact I quite enjoy it. Not in this household though. The silence here haunts me.

  “Mum? Dad? You in?” I called out. I knew they weren’t. I’d seen them in their boxes before they’d been dropped into the ground. I had leaned down to their still faces and had told them that I was glad they were gone. I was glad the accident had happened, and was glad the brakes had failed. But I still called their names whenever I walked into their home. Habit, I suppose. And every time I did so my heart stopped beating for a split second, long enough to realise they weren’t going to answer. My heart started beating again, but skipped once more when I heard a scuttling noise going from the lounge through to the dining room. Too big to be an animal. I slammed the front door shut and hurried through to the living room. There, standing in the room adjoining the lounge, was a girl with terror etched on her face. She looked as though she hadn’t washed for months. She was dressed in a tatty looking school uniform; white blouse, unbuttoned at the top and missing a tie, a gray skirt down to her knees, white socks which had slipped down her ankles. It was fair to assume she’d been a runaway for a while going by the state she was in. The dirt and general look of exhaustion on her face made it hard to determine her age. Sixteen perhaps. Maybe a year older? Homeless. The fear I’d initially felt - the fear of thinking my parents were actually still alive and that their deaths had been a figment of my imagination... but the fear disappeared as a smile crept across my lips.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” the girl said. Was the expression on my face that transparent?

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “I thought the house was empty. I watched it for a while before...”

  “Ah - the window,” I said, “you’re what happened to the window.” I took a step closer. She couldn’t have moved further back. She was already standing at the furthest wall of the dining room. I’m not sure how long she had been there but it seemed pretty stupid for her to have run into a room with no exit. For her to get out now, she’d have to run straight past me and, well, that wasn’t likely to happen. Under the grime caused by nights of sleeping rough and squatting where she wasn’t welcome I could see that she had lovely bone structure. Her being here – I took that as a sign that my new plan was a good one, a sign that what I’m going to be doing is the right course of action.

  She repeated herself again, “I thought the house was empty.”

  “It is,” I said. Her eyes were red raw from crying. No doubt she’d been fighting her own personal demons whilst being here. Demons she probably thought would get left behind when she’d ran from wherever it was she’d come from. Despite the redness I could see that her eyes were pretty though. Very pretty. They had a sparkle about them in spite the bags and their rawness. I could only imagine what they’d have looked like had she been feeling happy. “Used to belong to my mum and dad,” I told her. She looked across to the door. I could read her mind. She was wondering whether she could make it if she made a sudden run for it. I need her to relax. It will make the whole thing that much easier. I need to get to her level. “Where are your mum and dad?” I asked. She shrugged. Clearly not in a sharing mood. “I take it you have a mum and dad?” I continued. She nodded. “They’ll be worried about you,” I told her.

  “They won’t give a shit about me,” she snapped. “No one will!”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Music to my ears. The poor little girl who nobody wanted.

  Well she’s in luck.

  I want her.

  “You can stay here if you want. For the time-being at least.” I told her. “I own a place on the other side of the town. Not sure what I want to do with this place yet. Bad memories.” It didn’t hurt her knowing the truth. She wouldn’t be around for long. Certainly not long enough to tell anyone anyway - not by the time she realises who I really am. “I just come by here, from time to time, to make sure the place is okay. You staying here for now - well that would just do me a favour. Means you can keep an eye on the place...” At least until I’m more prepared and come back to take out those pretty little eyes. Ideas were already formulating in the back of my mind, hidden from her, as to what I would do to her little teenage body. The eyes would be taken out, and the skin cut from her bones to be sewn back together to make up a fleshy duvet to keep her bony body warm at night. She’ll make a great display; the sulky teenage girl locked away in one of the bedrooms upstairs - hiding under the duvet from the monsters under the bed. Obviously that’s just the first idea that popped in my mind. I have time to work on it. Make it really spectacular. Give her a scenario of which she’d be proud.

  “You’re not going to phone the police?” she asked.

  “Phone the police? Why would I do that?”

  “I broke a window,” she confessed.

  “No you didn’t,” I flashed her my most sincere smile once more, “a branch did that...”

  For the first time since seeing me standing in the house, she smiled back at me.

  “You make yourself at home. I take it you have no money? You have no food?”

  She shook her head, “No.”

  “Well leave that to me. I’ll go to the shops in the local village and get some bits in for you. How’s that sound?” I asked.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “The world’s a shitty place,” I told her, “and sometimes it’s nice to do something for someone else.” She had no idea that she’d be the one doing something for me. In time - she’d be the one doing me the favour. My act of kindness was nothing more than taking an opportunity to buy her life. She has a roof, she’ll have food and so she’ll have no reason to go anywhere. And then - when she wants to leave – it’ll be too late. She will be my second work of art.

  CHAPTER 8.

  WEDNESDAY

  It was shaping up to be another frustrating day when we finally got a lucky break. One of those pretend police, or community officers as they go by these days, had only just decided to tell us that he saw a guy drive past the hotel on Tuesday night, acting oddly. Why the hell they didn’t think it was worth reporting straight away I don’t know, but either way, it’s a lead, which is more than we had this morning. We even managed to get a registration for the car. More good luck. As much as I was glad to get a break, it was almost lunchtime, which meant my half day’s holiday was about to kick in. I stood up and grabbed my coat.

  “Where are you goin, ya cunt?” The ever eloquent Wyatt said as I shut my PC off.

  “Early finish,”

  “Alright for some eh?”

  “I still do more work in half a day than you manage in a week, Wyatt,” I shot back, tipping him a wink.


  “What do you want me to do about this lead with the car?” Perkins said as I crossed the room.

  “Trace the owner, see what you can dig up. Tomorrow you can come with me and we'll go ask him what he was doing at the scene.”

  Perkins nodded. I could have waited around for the trace results and gone that afternoon of course but that would have meant staying in the office, which would have meant I would have probably ended up working late and missing my night out with Lucy, and God knows, a bit of time together is something we both desperately needed. It wasn’t lost on me that I had become a miserable old bastard over the last few weeks, and I was eager to make it up to her. Ignoring the crude jibes of the ginger warrior I left my colleagues at the station behind and headed for home.

  * * *

  Lucy and I had always shared a great, natural understanding. An effortless ability to be comfortable around each other right from the moment we met, which only made the awkward silence and forced conversation both difficult and hard to understand as we made our way through our evening. For something that was supposed to be a good way for us to spend some time together, it was rapidly becoming a torturously slow evening, or as my pal Wyatt might have said, a fuckin’ cuntin’ clusterfuck of a date night.

  I pushed potatoes and overpriced fish around my plate as I tried to think of something to say that wasn’t a lie and which didn’t rely on me being open with my feelings. Actually, thinking about it, it’s no surprise I was struggling to make conversation. I looked at Lucy, and winced inside. She had really made an effort. Her hair was straightened and styled to half cover one eye, and she was wearing an expensive black dress. She smiled, but I only saw pity and concern, and I suddenly hated myself even more.