Mezzanine and Other Curiously Dark Tales Page 7

  They found Christian Haran holding court with a large group of journalists. Pushing a photographer aside, Stent said loudly. ‘I’ve a question for you, Haran. I’d like to know where you procure the bodies for your disgusting freak-shows.’

  Haran smiled as if he’d expected this intrusion. ‘I buy them, Chief Inspector. You’ve no idea how many poor people in Eastern Europe are only too happy to spare themselves the expense of burying an unloved family member. And it’s all perfectly legal once the proper embalming and preservation treatments have been carried out.’

  ‘What about that one over there?’ Stent gestured towards the Memphis Belle set-piece.

  The other guests had sensed there was a new event unfolding in the hall and began to congregate around Haran and the policemen. The artist looked like he was enjoying this. ‘Ah, Memphis Belle. She was a very special acquisition. Such a good-looking young girl. I had to pay well over the odds to convince her family to release her into my care.’

  ‘A higher price than you can possibly realise.’ Stent flashed a glance at his colleague. ‘Bloomsbury, place this man under arrest.’

  Haran smiled even wider. ‘You’re arresting me? On what charge, exactly?’

  ‘The murder of your former assistant, Lily Weisler.’

  It seemed everyone in the room was now crowded around the three men, hemming them in while flashbulbs strobed through the gloom as the press gorged themselves into a feeding frenzy.

  Haran still seemed unfazed by the accusation. ‘And what proof would you have of that, may I ask?’

  ‘We can go into all that later. Let’s just say a certain distinguishing mark gives me just cause to make the arrest.’

  ‘Then I’m sure you won’t mind pointing out this distinguishing mark to the gathered company.’

  Stent sensed the mood of the mob growing ugly as someone shouted out, ‘Fucking police stitch-up!’ Knowing that not to accede to the man’s request might set off a minor riot, Stent reluctantly steered Haran to the Memphis Belle tableau. Once there, he pointed to the half-obscured rosebud tattoo on the cadaver’s left ankle. ‘There’s your proof. Do you still deny it?’

  The artist’s only response was to beckon over a drinks hostess. Haran lifted a small glass of clear spirit from her tray and dipped his pocket handkerchief into the liquid before reaching up to stroke at the corpse’s ankle. Instead of removing the flesh-tone make-up, the alcohol on the linen handkerchief also obliterated the rosebud tattoo itself so that the ankle now displayed only bare, discoloured flesh.

  ‘Voila!’ cried Haran. ‘Looks like I’m once more an innocent man.’

  Stern’s face was white with shock and Bloomsbury noted with alarm that his superior was hyperventilating. Staring into the laughing mob surrounding them, one face in particular leapt out at Bloomsbury. He realised too late what their mistake had been. They hadn’t thought to verify the credentials of the woman claiming to be Lily Weisler’s sister. Taking hold of Stern’s arm he led the broken man through the jeering throng towards the exit.

  Hours later when the hall was cleared, Haran walked his personal assistant to the door and kissed her on the lips. ‘I have to hand it to you, Zelda. You’re one hell of an actress. I could get you into the movie business, you know.’

  The girl stared at the grisly models across the room. ‘No thanks, Christian. If you don’t mind I’ll pass on that offer for the time being.’

  Haran grinned. ‘I’ll make sure your bonus is in the bank first thing tomorrow. The exposure from tonight’s publicity stunt is incalculable.’

  Once he was alone, Haran slowly made his way across to where Forrest Gump sat on his park bench. Taking a seat beside the corpse, Haran leaned down and gently lifted the left trouser leg to reveal a small rosebud tattoo.

  ‘Thank you for this, Lily,’ he whispered to the cadaver. And then just as gently he let the trouser leg fall to conceal the ankle once more.

  Talking Book

  Let me start by paraphrasing that insufferable sausage-loving idiot, Nietzsche – ‘When you stare into a printed page long enough, the page stares back at you.’ Don’t believe me? Then keep staring, pal. You’ll see the truth of things soon enough. Now, let me ask you a few questions.

  Question 1. Why are you reading this? Were you expecting a horror story?

  Question 2. What attracts you to reading tales explicitly designed to make your blood crawl?

  Question 3. Have you ever considered taking things a little further?

  I suspect deep down you know the answers but simply lack the moral fibre to confront your own twisted, vile appetites. The reason you enjoy reading about people being abducted and tortured in dimly-lit cellars, where the lives of innocent children get snuffed out like guttering candle flames, where blood runs in red, sticky rivers, where rape is a highly addictive drug, and razor-wire is a lover’s caress - is because these obscene acts resonate within you at a molecular level. Like attracts like. You have to see that. I bet you’re still clinging to the party line where you justify your sick reading habits by insisting horror stories are only fiction. Listen, shit-for-brains, there’s no such thing as a victimless horror story. How many thousands of happy, shiny people have been torn apart and rendered down into messy sludge-pools of guts and slippery scarlet-streaked offal to provide the literary foundations of your bookshelves? The world is a sordid cathedral of suffering and fear that overflows constantly with the stinking sewage of human depravity. Why not ease off that back-row pew and approach the sacrificial altar where you can kneel to take communion with the true believers? All it takes is a moment’s courage. That’s it, stand up, take those first faltering steps as the sun slips beyond the vanishing point and the darkness rises. Now we’re making progress.

  Take a tip from one who knows. Always murder, maim, penetrate, flense, mutilate, burn, dissect (delete as applicable) after dark. Ambience is everything. This is high art, not common butchery. Ritual slaughter demands rhythm and cadence. Start off small with insects, animals and birds. Learn your lessons well. Write meticulous notes, take photographs, and keep a scrapbook. Don’t be afraid to experiment. You’ll never know what you’re capable of until you try. There’s only one golden rule. Never get caught. Got all that? Excellent. Off you go and have fun. Spend a happy afternoon in a DIY store. Buy duct tape, nylon cable ties, sharp blades, power tools, plastic sheeting, oh, and don’t forget a bucket and a mop. Sloppiness is a cardinal sin.

  You can stop staring now, I’m no longer staring back. Seriously. Move along. There are other people waiting. Hey, just one more thing. Always wear gloves. Well, two more things. Masks can be cool, too. Don’t forget to write and let me know how you get on. Bye now.

  Okay, who’s next? Let me start by paraphrasing that insufferable sausage-loving idiot, Nietzsche …

  Vinegar Hearts

  The earnest-looking young man dismounted from his bicycle and chained it to a cast-iron lamppost, fussing with the small brass padlock to ensure the locking hasp was secure before pocketing the key then straightening up and running his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. His father had often told him that no business transaction should ever be conducted in a state of rude dishevelment.

  Removing his bicycle clips, he turned to stare at the shuttered shop window where a placard proclaiming ‘VINEGAR HEARTS’ was painted in bold, black brush strokes. He took a deep breath to summon up his failing courage and briskly stepped forward, pushing open the shop door and hearing a small bell chime a single discordant note. The first thing to register upon his senses was the strong tang of raw vinegar. The second being that the shop was in semi-darkness, the gloom only partly dispensed by a pair of gas mantles that hissed softly on the bare, unadorned walls at the far end of the room. The third was to notice a bespectacled old man standing behind a long serving counter wearing a pristine white apron and sporting rolled up shirt sleeves.

  Behind the old man was a wooden framework of pigeonholes like the sort used by the post office and the
posh hotel in the town square where keys and messages were deposited for guests. These pigeonholes contained neither mail, keys nor messages of any sort. Every available space was occupied by a glass jar containing a pickled human heart floating in malt vinegar.

  ‘May I help you, sir?’ asked the old man in a dry voice that sounded like seasoned wood being shorn of its crumbling bark with a sharp knife.

  The young man realised he was still standing by the door and hurried forward to stand directly in front of the serving counter. He once again ran his fingers through his hair before saying rather timidly, ‘I hear you sell... Vinegar Hearts.’

  A cold, calculating smile flickered across the shopkeeper's face causing the roadmap of wrinkles and lines on his seamed face to briefly change their topography. Glancing over his stooped shoulder at the rows of glass jars behind him the old man replied, 'Apparently I do. Now, as I was saying. Can I help you, sir?'

  The younger man was silent for a moment, his nervousness not permitting him to formulate the words and sentences required to advance this transaction to a satisfactory stage of commercial negotiation. Gathering his nerve he stuck out his hand and said boldly, 'Bartholomew Milding. I have need of your services.'

  Looking surprised at the gesture, the older man shook Milding's hand firmly and responded, 'Wilberforce Alsager. I assume you're interested in my wares? If so, you must state your request directly as there are strict regulations regarding the sale of these items.'

  Milding nodded his head, his confidence now swelling to match his resolve. 'Yes, of course. I'd like to purchase a Vinegar Heart. Today, if that's convenient.'

  The cold smile was back. 'Of course, sir. But there protocols to be observed.' A sheet of vellum appeared in the old man's gnarled fist as by magic. 'Before we proceed any further, I must enquire if the procedure you require will in any way be used to aid and abet the facilitation of premeditated murder, maiming, fraudulent swindling, or any other act of illegal cruelty on another living being including domestic pets?'

  Milding shook his head. 'No, certainly not.'

  'Very good, sir.' Alsager made a mark on the piece of vellum. 'Are you in robust health and do not suffer from palsy, rickets, gout, scurvy or any unnatural disorder of the blood?'

  ‘Indeed not. I only recently had a clean bill of health from my physician.'

  The shopkeeper's pen scratched once again. 'Excellent. By the terms of investiture granted to me by His Majesty's Government we may proceed. Please note that Vinegar Hearts may be returned within a period of one week. If you fail to do so your own heart will be forfeit and deemed non-returnable. Please sign here.'

  Milding took the pen and added his signature to the disclaimer. As he returned both pen and vellum to the shopkeeper, the old man asked, 'Out of curiosity, do you mind if I ask why you require such a thing? It is rather a drastic step which sometimes can be circumvented by other means.'

  Milding sighed deeply. 'You see, Mr Alsager, I'm engaged to be married but I think I've made a mistake. I'm afraid...' Milding hung his head and looked deeply troubled. 'It grieves me to say I don't love my fiancée.'

  'Ah,' there was a note of understanding in the shopkeeper's voice. 'Am I to assume sir, that you lack the moral fibre and steely nerve to break off this engagement?'

  Milding's face was now crimson with shame. 'Please, Mr Alsager, don't think me a coward. It's just that Mavis is such a sweet girl. She cooks, sews, and grows her own herbs in the garden. Her disposition is cheery and she works hard as a secretary in a war veteran's rest home. She even took on extra hours to help pay my way through nautical college but ...' Milding's shoulders slumped and he hid his burning face behind his hands, '... but I simply don't love her.'

  The shopkeeper coughed into his fist. 'And I assume, young sir, that carnal relations have taken place steering you deeper into your fiancée's emotionally binding debt.'

  Milding's expression was painful to behold. His mouth opened and closed like a landed trout as he strove futilely to answer.

  Alsager held up his hand. 'No need to say any more, sir. I've had plenty of young gents like yourself seek out my services. It takes a certain coldness of spirit and distinct lack of empathy to successfully crush the hopes and dreams of a romantically smitten young woman. Now if I may just take your chest measurement. I have to be sure we have the right size of Vinegar Heart.'

  Ducking under the counter Alsager produced a tape measure and asked Milding to remove his jacket before wrapping the cloth taper around his ribs and then scribbling the result into a notebook. Once this was done he returned behind the counter and began scanning the jars.

  'Hope you don't mind me asking,' said Milding, 'but what sort of fellows do you usually get in here?'

  Alsager shrugged. 'Mostly it's lawyers, journalists, landlords, judges, priests, members of parliament, policemen, and pawnbrokers. Goes without saying this procedure is a prerequisite for admittance to the Guild of Bankers.'

  The shopkeeper finally plucked a jar from the shelf and held it up to the light of the gas mantle. 'Here we are, sir. This should be the perfect fit.' Alsager came out from the counter and locked the shop door. 'Now, if you'll follow me.'

  Milding watched as the shopkeeper pushed open a door that had so far remained unseen in the shadows. 'This won't hurt will it? I've never been any good with large amounts of pain.'

  Wilberforce Alsager winked insolently. 'It's a simple procedure and involves no pain whatsoever, sir. In fact I doubt you'll feel a moment's heart-ache ever again once the Vinegar Heart is installed. Please follow me.'

  The room beyond contained only an elevated surgical bed and a cupboard stocked with medical paraphernalia. After instructing Milding to remove his shirt and lie on the bed, Alasager opened the cupboard and removed a large glass jar of ether and a clean gauze pad. Pouring a little of the liquid onto the pad he pressed the gauze against Milding's face and sent the young man into a deep sleep. The operation itself went without mishap. After slitting open his customer’s chest with a scalpel and using a wrench to pry apart the rib cage, he scooped out the beating heart of Bartholomew Milding and replaced it with the Vinegar Heart.

  Then it was a simple case of stitching the man's chest together with horse hair using a thrice sterilised needle after which he covered the wound with a large sticking plaster. Milding would sleep for another hour or so before awakening with a completely new attitude to the inconvenient emotions of pity and kindness. The heart Alsager had removed should by rights be kept for a minimum of seven days in a solution of glycerine and sugared water just in case Milding should want it returned, but Alsager knew of no such precedent. No-one had ever asked for their Vinegar Heart to be swapped back.

  The shopkeeper dropped Milding's still-beating heart into a jar filled with finest malt vinegar and after attaching a label with the matching chest size, he placed it safely in the cupboard. Newly appropriated hearts generally took around a fortnight to become instilled with the properties of the vinegar after which it would join the others in the pigeonholes behind the front desk. As he always did after each procedure with a new customer, the old man lifted a dusty jar from a deep recess in the back of the cupboard and held it up to the light. This was the only heart he'd ever kept floating in glycerine and sugared water. The label on the jar read in a spidery hand - Wilberforce Alsager: Chest measurement 38 1/2 inches.

  Alsager smiled fondly at his old heart and then placed it back in the cupboard.

  The Allotment

  I blame the local council for the infamous cemetery riot that took place last summer. I’d been on the waiting list for an allotment for ten years and was fast giving up hope of ever getting one before I died of old age when I decided to talk it over with my wife. Not that I expected her to provide a solution as she’s been dead for over three years, but as I stood there at her graveside muttering under my breath, I realised the answer was right in front of my eyes. Or to be more precise, under my feet.

  The following week when I visit
ed the graveside, I took a wheelbarrow filled with gardening tools to clear the turf from the grave and plant seed potatoes (Ayrshire Pinks and Maris Pipers). I got a few queer looks from people paying their respects to their dead relatives, but if they could lay flowers on the grassy green mounds then what harm was I causing by planting a few tatties? The council was furious of course and demanded I restore the grave to its previous pristine condition.

  I took them to court over the ruling and won my case as no-where in the contract did it state that plots couldn’t be used for the growing of vegetables. The press had a field day with the case and I became a something of a local celebrity. Soon our cemetery was filled with allotment-deprived old chaps like myself happily digging up their dearly departed’s graves and planting all manner of things like runner beans, carrots, beetroots, cabbages and a whole plantation of various herbs. It was a bit like belonging to a social club - we called ourselves the Graveside Gardeners - although it was inconvenient having weeping mourners bury their loved ones nearby when you were trying to have a quiet smoke of your pipe while chatting with your mates about the acidic content of the soil and the best way to keep green fly at bay.

  Unfortunately it all got out of hand when some of the more over-enthusiastic began putting up small sheds to store tools and a few even erected greenhouses and cold frames to grow tomatoes and cucumbers. The council cited a serious contravention of local planning permission regulations and sent round some burly lads from the parks department to smash up the offending structures with pick-axe handles. Word of the vandalism spread like wild fire and scores of elderly gardeners, supported by a few dozen sprightly octogenarian brawlers from the British Legion club, arrived armed with spades, hoes and rakes to take the fight to the parks department bully-boys.

  The final body count was sixteen. Most of these were graveside gardeners suffering heart attacks and strokes brought on by too much excitement. A few of the council’s hired thugs bit the dust, too, with one having a pair of secateurs thrust through his heart, while another was despatched after being strangled with a watering hose. Only the intervention of the police in full riot gear stopped what threatened to become a complete blood bath.