ART: A Novel of Extreme Horror and Gore Read online

  “I get it,” I told her. We were even in regards to favours now. She was doing me a favour looking after the house whilst I made plans around her. She was also doing me the favour of being the second piece of artwork for my collection. In turn, I was giving her shelter - somewhere safe to stay and then, when the time was right, I was going to ensure her father could never hurt her again by taking her from the world he foolishly brought her into. I smiled at her, as sympathetically as I could muster. It must have worked because she returned it. I wanted to tell her not to worry and that - before she knew it - everything would be over with but I didn’t want to frighten the girl. Not yet. “I best be getting back to my flat,” I said as I suddenly stood up.

  “You haven’t finished your sandwich!” she pointed out. She was right. I hadn’t finished it but I wasn’t hungry. I had done what I needed to do. There was no point in staying. “Can’t you stay a while longer?” she asked. I shook my head. Don’t want to get emotionally attached to her. Not that there was much danger of that.

  “Sorry - I have things to do.” Like, people to kill. It’s a busy life.

  “But you’ll come back?” she asked. She sounded desperate, as though she yearned for my company. I wonder if she’d be as enthusiastic for me to stay if she knew who I really was and what I was capable of. I doubt it somehow.

  “You’ll see me soon enough,” I told her. She smiled. Something tells me she won’t be as happy to see me the next time I come on by.

  CHAPTER 10.

  THURSDAY

  “Is it safe to come in here?” Gary asked from the locker room doorway. Our daily meet-and-greet before the start of our shift. I caught sight of his reflection in the small mirror, attached to the inside of the locker door. He had his hand over his mouth as though worried there was a chance he could catch some germs from me.

  “Pretty sure you’re safe,” I told him. Unless of course I wanted to use him as a display piece in which case he most definitely wouldn’t be safe. I flushed the unexpected dark thought from my mind as I pinned my name badge on. The metaphorical mask I wore for the world at large slipped back into place. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” I said. Even I was surprised at how sincere I sounded. Perhaps I really was sorry. Could it be that I was actually feeling guilty about having pulled a sickie? I tried not to laugh. Of all the things to feel guilty about - it’s something as mundane as pulling a sickie. Don’t laugh. Especially not now, after having just apologised for not coming to work yesterday.

  “These things happen,” said Gary. He walked into the room and removed his hand from his mouth. “Something you ate, huh?”

  As per usual I placed my wallet and keys on the small shelf in the little cupboard. “Must have been.”

  “Nasty. See - I’m lucky. Years of eating my wife’s cooking and my stomach is like cast iron. So used to the crap that nothing catches it by surprise anymore.” He suddenly stopped and turned to me. Was that a joke? Was I supposed to laugh or tell him how funny he was? I said nothing. “You might as well hear it from me,” he said, “the powers that be had a talk with me on Monday. I was going to talk to you yesterday but, obviously that proved impossible when you didn’t come in. Unfortunately they’re making cut backs and, well, I’m one of those cut backs. They’ve given me until the end of the month. Probably because of my age, I guess, not that they’ll ever admit it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” I said. What do you know? I actually am sorry to hear that. Could it be that, since getting a piece of my art out of my system I’m becoming more human with each passing day? First of all I help out a homeless girl - admittedly I thought I was doing it for other reasons - and then I feel guilty about calling in sick and now I’m here actually feeling sorry that Gary is leaving. He’s a good bloke.

  “Yeah. I’ll miss this place,” he said. From the expression on his face, the fact he looked as though he was going to weep, I could tell he was being genuine. I guess I’d feel the same if the shoe was on the other foot and it was me getting my marching orders. The thought of not coming here - not being able to see the art on a daily basis and mingle with the folk who enjoy looking at it... “Listen, before I go, you’re going to have to come over to mine for a meal with the wife,” he said. His voice was suddenly upbeat. He almost sounded positive. Was he wearing a mask too? “How does that sound?” he asked when I didn’t answer.

  “Er - sure.” Of course I wouldn’t go but I wasn’t about to tell him that. Seemed cruel. Suddenly a mental image flashed up in my mind; he was sitting opposite his wife. Both of them were dead. Their faces submerged in bowls of soup. The sound of flies coming from speakers hidden under the table. A little plague that read ‘The Last Supper’ being the centre piece of the scene. I smiled. Guess I’m not becoming more human after all.

  “Tell you what - I’ll even make sure we get a takeaway,” he continued, “we don’t need the wife giving you another round of food poisoning!” he laughed. “Mind you,” his voice changed to a darker tone, “if you’re that ill - I guess I could always cover your shifts... you know - until you’re feeling better! If you get better that is...” The sudden change in his character surprised me. Just another example of a darkness within our surroundings that we’re not used to seeing or hearing. It’s always there though, bubbling away under the surface. He laughed. I laughed too out of politeness. “Sound like a plan?” he asked.

  “You covering my shifts whilst I recover from being poisoned by your wife?”

  “The takeaway. Want to make a date of it?” he looked hopeful for me to say yes. My lacking social skills couldn’t determine whether he was genuinely wanting me to go round for dinner or whether he was just being polite. Best keep it positive but non-committal.

  “It sounds nice. I’d like that. Let me check my diary when I get home tonight and I’ll come back to you with when I’m free. See if we can work something out,” I said. I didn’t keep a diary at home. I only said it because I hoped he’d forget by tomorrow or that neither of us would mention it again.

  “You do that,” said Gary. “I’ll warn my wife.” He smiled at me as he turned his attention back to his locker while I closed mine. “You never know, we might be lucky and she might decide to leave us to it, and go round her sister’s for the night.”

  I laughed, again unsure of whether he was being genuine. Did he really hate his wife that much? When I see people like this, people like my own mother and father and the relationship they had together, sometimes I’m glad I’m different. Sometimes I think the way I am is easier than the way these people need to behave. I wear one mask and that’s for when I’m with anyone other than myself and my victims. When I’m alone, or when I was with that whore in the hotel room, I was just me being me. Gary, though... how many masks does he have? He has a mask for when he's with strangers - he becomes a seemingly polite man there to lend a helping hand - he has a mask for when he is with his wife - the man who loves her dearly - and then, when he is with his friends, he becomes plain old Gary. My way is definitely easier.

  * * *

  I hardly looked at any of the exhibits as I walked around the gallery. My mind couldn’t focus. Instead I was more concerned with the people coming into the building. The ones who’d idly walk into my area, completely unaware of me watching them, in their own little worlds as they gazed upon the masterpieces. With each new person, my mind quickly judged as to whether they should carry on with their meaningless life or whether they deserved to become a part of my own collection. A pointless exercise as I wouldn’t touch any of them. The kind of people who come to places like this tend to be families or school trips. Either group would be missed if they suddenly disappeared. Not like the whore. No one would miss a whore. Or a homeless person. Or a runaway like the girl currently resting in my home. This - what I am doing with the people visiting the gallery - this is just practice. This is just getting my brain used to not worrying about hurting the people that I choose to take in the name of art. Not that I’ve ever really had that
problem before. I just need to be sure that there really is no chance of me becoming more human over the course of time. The last thing I need is to grow a conscience when I have a house full of guests. Not that I think that would really be an issue, certainly not after what I did to the whore. If I was going to start having qualms - if I wasn’t going to be able to complete the task, I would have folded then.

  My mind drifted back to the hotel room. I was pacing the room, backwards and forwards, waiting for that faint knock on the wooden door to signal that my date had arrived. For a short period, as the time grew closer, I contemplated not answering. I thought I could just ignore her and she’d go away. Perhaps she might mouth off through the door, or call me all the names under the sun but she would have lived on to fuck another day and I’d have not become what I am today. I’d have been as normal as my damaged upbringing allowed for. When the knock did finally come, a couple of minutes later than scheduled, all thoughts of ignoring it disappeared and I didn’t hesitate in opening the door, a nervous smile of apprehension on my face.

  “Hi I’m Naomi!” she’d said. She stood there in a tight fitting dress, and looked amazing considering she was from one of the less-expensive escort agencies. When I’d originally booked her I didn’t think I’d have sex with her, because that isn’t really my thing. I usually found that I struggled to achieve the orgasm that people crave when indulging in sexual activities. Sure, I got there in the end but only because I was thinking about the art I wanted to create. If I’d thought about the person I was with, or even just the sensations I felt, well - it would take me forever to finish and I found that I soon got bored. This girl was different, the one standing in front of me at the hotel room. I’m not sure whether it’s because I thought she was pretty or because I knew what I was going to do to her but I knew I’d fuck her.

  Standing in the corner of my room within the larger gallery, I shifted uneasily as I became aware of my growing erection. The thoughts of judging who could be a part of my work and the thought of fucking that whore whilst throttling the life out of her - knowing what I’d be doing to her still-warm corpse when I finished - clearly excited me. I held my hands in front of my crotch to hide from any further embarrassment as I suppressed my smile. Don’t need to attract more attention to myself than necessary.

  I dig your shirt, I heard Naomi’s voice in my head. I tried to shake it away but I couldn’t. I just stood there, in the corner, grinning like an idiot in spite of my best efforts. I remembered how her hand had stroked my chest. I remembered, at the time, how I had felt my cock grow at her touch and how I feverishly handed her the money. She had asked me what my name was. I can’t remember the one I gave her, I’ve used so many now. She had asked me what I was doing in town. I concocted some story about being on a business seminar. I changed the subject back to her just to stop from having to over complicate things with more lies. She invited me to sit with her on the corner of the bed - an invitation I accepted when she pulled me across the mattress. We sat down together as she told me she thought I was cute before kissing me - her tongue sliding seductively into my mouth. Unexpected but appreciated. Before I knew what was happening my hands were on her sides as her own hands were rubbing my crotch.

  I left my post and hurriedly headed towards the toilet. Need to calm myself down. Need to get this out of my system before someone sees what I’m pitching or that I’m acting strangely.

  The toilet was just down the corridor thankfully, so not far to go. I ran into the far cubicle and locked the door, my memory playing back what had happened in the hotel room.

  You’re cute! She’d told me before instructing me to take my clothes off. An order I’d complied with as she slipped out of her own tight dress to reveal her matching underwear set.

  I couldn’t help but unbutton my trousers and free my pulsing erection. The feeling of it being free was infinitely more comfortable than having it trapped within my tight work trousers, all squashed up and nowhere to go. This isn’t what I usually do. This isn’t what I like. Yet I couldn’t help but wrap my hand around it and start stroking it as my mind continued to tease me with thoughts of the hotel room and dear Naomi. The feeling of being inside of her. Despite the condom, I felt everything. I remembered how tight she’d felt. I remembered how surprised I was at the discovery. I remember thinking that I presumed she’d have been a little on the loose side given the day job and amount of cock she sees. More importantly I remembered how fucking good it had felt.

  I quickened my stroke. She had felt good. And the lustful look on her face, as she’d played the part of the ultimate girlfriend experience, had been a sight to behold. But I’d preferred how she’d looked next - her eyes bulging as I strangled her. The panic-stricken look, skin red-flushed as I pressed on her neck harder. I remember thinking I was sure I’d felt my penis harden that little bit more. A twitch from it. The thought of what I did to that girl was more exciting than the thought of fucking her. Or perhaps it was the combination of the two - being inside her as she died. I came as she went. I stroked harder and faster as I remembered the orgasm - clearly the best orgasm I had ever experienced – while I’d stared directly into her dying eyes and heard the last of her breath escape her body. And just as I had ejaculated then, another hard orgasm hit and I ejaculated over the toilet cubicle. Out of breath but immediately relaxed, I couldn’t help myself when a little laugh escaped my lips. First time for everything I guess. I only hoped that the toilet was empty. Didn’t want to bump into anyone as I left - especially if they’d heard what I’d been doing, which I’m sure they would have done...

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon went by without incident, once I'd managed to calm myself down. I still couldn’t believe I'd done it, even as I drove home. More to the point, I couldn’t believe how good it had felt. As I’ve said, that’s not me. I don’t do that. It never really does anything for me but that - that was something special. After that I saw why people masturbated. Put me down as a convert!

  I entered my apartment building and took the stairs to the third floor, where my domicile was. I could have used the lift to save on energy after the long day of standing on my feet but it takes forever and, even if it was the fastest lift in the world, it always stank of urine despite the rest of the place being in a fair condition. It always baffled me as to why the lift always smelled so bad. It was as if a homeless person staggered in late at night, drunk on rot-gut alcohol, taken a piss in it and then disappear again. Maintenance had been told of the smell on numerous occasions, not by me but by others who’d even taken it upon themselves to go door to door to talk to the other residents about it. Thankfully I'd seen them as they approached and had realised what they were doing so - when they came knocking for me, I simply didn’t answer.

  A little out of breath when I got to my floor, I turned down the corridor and froze when I spotted two men standing outside my door. They looked official to say the least in their cheap looking suits - no doubt purchased from some budget catalogue which afforded them the luxury of paying in instalments. I took a deep breath, suppressed any feelings of unease at their presence, got back into character, and approached with caution.

  “Can I help you at all?” I asked, as I neared the two of them.

  One of them flashed a badge at me. I didn’t get a good look at it but saw enough to know it was an official piece of police identification. My heart skipped a beat - not that I let it show. Stupid really. Nothing to panic about. Other than the hotel room escapades, I hadn’t done anything. Unless feeding a homeless girl is against the law now and no one had told me. So why are they here? It can’t be because of what I’d done in the hotel room. I’d been careful to cover my tracks, and the card I’d used to purchase the products for my masterpiece - well that particular one had never been linked to this address.

  “Damon Benton?” one of them asked. I nodded. “My name is Detective Inspector Andrews, this is my colleague, Constable Perkins. We are conducting enquiries about a recen
t incident and wondered if we might have a word?

  “Oh? Well, you’d better come in then,” I replied. Keep calm. Don’t show you’re nervous. Don’t give him anything. It’s probably just routine. They have nothing on you. They couldn’t have anything. You were careful, super careful. I slid my front door key into the lock and twisted it. It clicked across and allowed me to push the door open. I stepped in first before holding it open for the two officers. I closed it again after them. “So what can I do for you?” I asked.

  “Are you the owner of a light blue Renault Espace, registration HV06 GUC?”

  I nodded. “That’s my car.” Two police officers sent over because I had been caught speeding perhaps? No. That’s silly. They’d have just posted through a letter inviting me to attend court or simply fined me and told me to send off my documents to receive the necessary penalty points. “Is there a problem?”

  “What were you doing at the Faircrest Hotel on Tuesday evening? Witnesses place you at the location a little after… What time was it Perkins?”

  “6pm, sir.”

  “A little after 6pm. Would you like to tell us why you were there?”

  This is all because I went back to the hotel? I cast my mind back - a look on my face suggesting to the officer that I was trying to remember what I had been doing - and remembered the man in the police uniform watching my car. Watching me get out of it, then get back in and drive away. “Yes,” I told him the truth. “I remember it because of all the police cars parked outside it. I wondered what had gone on to cause a need for so many officers. Whatever it was - must have been bad although, having said that, it couldn’t have been too bad because I didn’t see anything on the news about it. Nor did I read anything in the papers the next day if memory serves correctly. What happened?”