Come Into Darkness Read online

  And if they can make her vanish so easily…what can they do to me?

  He wiped his hands.

  “Ah!” said Worth. “That’s right. Your…masculinity… That gives me an idea… I think you need to prove yourself after that no-show of bravado. Didn’t even try and save the girl…” He shook his head.

  “It was her choice,” said Mario. “She could have done as she was told.”

  Worth smiled. “Wise words. Perhaps one will do well to remember them.” He pointed at the box on the wall. “Now is the time to prove yourself, Mr. Fulcinni. In that box lies the way out of here, and the way out of the living nightmare: everyday of your fetid life. Put your ghosts to rest. Clear your conscience. Do the right thing.”

  “My conscience is clear,” said Mario, yet the image of the eyeless, bleeding Laurie popped into his mind. He shoved it away. Nightmares can’t force guilt.

  Worth twiddled his moustache.

  Just play along, wait him out. A chance will show itself.

  Mario wiped the sweat from his brow. The muscles in his neck ached from tilting his head back to see the balcony. He rubbed the tense cords beneath his skin.

  “A clear conscience? I think your father might have a different opinion.”

  “Shut your mouth, Worth,” said Mario, anger flaring like a red flash bulb. “He has no say in this. No say in anything after what he did!”

  Worth nodded. “So very true after all that transpired. He’s been gagged. One might call the metal mask symbolic!”

  Mario closed his eyes, trying to shut out Worth’s voice. The booming words seemed to vibrate in Mario’s bones.

  “Let’s see what your father has to say, shall we? We’ve finally given him a voice.” Worth wiped the lapels of his old jacket, removing dust or dandruff or something worse. “When you’re ready,” he said, glancing up. “I’m sure you have your son’s undivided attention, sir.”

  Stay up there, old man, because when you get close enough, I’ll grab that haggard neck of yours and-

  “Run,” his father hissed. “If you can’t help me, then run!”

  Mario ignored him.

  “More symbolism, which you might appreciate,” continued Worth, “is that of the fingers. It would appear your father is again in trouble over his hands. We did that for you, sir. There’s no way your father will be touching you today.”

  “You’re damn right,” said Mario.

  “And you can make sure he never touches you, or any other young boys, ever again. All you have to do is prove yourself. Your release lies in the box.”

  His father’s head swept back and forth. He eyed Mario and Worth in turn.

  “You…you can’t be listening to him,” said his father, aghast. “Look what they did to me!”

  Mario stared at the hoops, the desk, the wires. He guessed what the box, and the lever within, would do. Studying the mechanism, he wondered how far the wires could pull before his father’s fingers gave way. He imagined the geysers of blood shooting from each digit.

  And what if those wires have been threaded through the very joints? That would be something to see. The bones would crack as they were ripped apart, followed by a wet pop…

  “Son?” said his father.

  “I see that look in your eyes, sir,” said Worth. “The look from the pond. The look that says you want to do the right thing, to put things right.”

  Yes.

  Yes, I do.

  “And what better chance then right now?” said a gleeful Worth. The old man bounced in eagerness with each word. “You haven’t set eyes on him for years. Who knows when such a chance will present itself?”

  Mario walked behind his father and towards the box.

  “No!” His father thrashed in his bindings, eyes squeezed shut. The wires held him in agony. The puddle of blood on the desk spread wider, supplied by the droplets falling from the thin metal cables. “Mario, don’t listen!”

  “Be quiet,” said Mario. His hands shot up to his face, and he massaged his temples. “Let me think…”

  “What is there to think about?” said Worth. “Think of what has happened, the shadow it casts over your life.”

  “The c-courts,” said his father. “The lawyers, the case, everything. We forget it all! Help me, please!”

  “Just shut up. Both of you!” Mario clamped his hands over his ears. His feet still carried him closer to the mounted box.

  “Yes,” said Worth, settling. “Decisions have to be made. You’ve put them off for too long, sir. Show us you’re a man.”

  His father burst into tears. The beads of sweat sparkled like jewels on his shaven head. A thin thread of snot dangled from his nostrils. A slight breeze caused it to sway, and it stuck to his chin.

  “Don’t go near, please,” he said, body bobbing slightly in the chair from his sobs. “I forget it all happened. We start new.”

  Mario stopped at the box. The blue light bathed his face. He closed his eyes.

  “The memories. The nightmares. The regret,” said Worth. His voice had quietened. No longer thundering across the room, it sounded like the guide whispered in Mario’s ear. “It all comes down to this…very…moment…”

  Mario looked across to his father. The mouth and moustache called to memories, which squirmed out like worms in the rain. He shivered, gazing at his father’s portly body, remembering the bed wobble as his father slid into bed beside him all those years ago.

  He reached up inside the box.

  Kerry had been right. It looked like a circuit breaker. Relieved she hadn’t pulled it and denied him his decision, he squeezed his fingers tight around the cold, short lever.

  “No,” screamed his father.

  Salty tears coursed down Mario’s face. He tasted them on his lips.

  “The decision,” said Worth, “is made.”

  Mario pulled the lever down.

  Nothing happened at first. Mario glanced around the room. His father wept, and Worth sat rigid in his chair. A clunk sounded from above: something heavy had shifted position. Mario failed to find the source. Another sound, the screech of protesting metal. Mario gritted his teeth. The grating cut like a knife through his middle.

  “What’s happening?” he said.

  “Justice?” said Worth. “Or deceit?”

  Another sound joined the industrial cacophony. Amid the now steady clunk and whine of tortured metal, approached a distant noise, like a swarm of angry wasps.

  No. It sounds like…an engine?

  He realised the sound came from around his father.

  What is that noise?

  “Go and see,” said Worth, stroking his moustache. “You have simply outdone yourself this time, sir. Such a fertile imagination!”

  Ignoring Worth’s approval, Mario approached the desk and chair. His father, unblinking, looked around, watching the shadows. His gaze shot to Mario.

  “What have you done?” he wailed. “Help me!”

  Mario neared and realised the source of the noise. The desk. It trembled.

  His father stared down, and Mario followed his gaze.

  Metal glinted with velocity inside the slots of the wood.

  “No!” cried his father, spreading his fingers as far away from the slots as possible. He looked at his hands in stark terror. “Please!”

  The noise intensified, rising in tone.

  “Don’t stand too close,” advised Worth. “You don’t want to get…sprayed.”

  Mario stepped back, transfixed on the circular saw blades that emerged from the desk. Their speed hid the vicious, serrated edges. A draft blew into Mario’s face, as if the blades had cut through the very air and thrown it up at him.

  His father screamed.

  Clunk

  Clunk

  Clunk

  Oh shit.

  Mario ducked down to glance under the desk. It confirmed his fears. The cylinder slowly turned, pulling the wires. Mario straightened, watching his father’s hands being pulled across the surface of the des
k, towards the waiting saws.

  “Help me,” his father wailed. “Pleeease!”

  Fingers had reached the blades, but lay safe in-between. The wires continued to pull, inch by inch.

  “It’s too late for help,” said Worth, sounding bored. “Nothing left to do but enjoy the show.”

  For years, Mario had fantasised about cutting off his father’s hands so the pervert could never touch him. He still remembered the fat, nicotine-stained fingers sliding across his skin.

  “I was just a boy,” he murmured.

  “I did nothing wrong,” screamed his father. “Help me!”

  Maybe it was nothing in your eyes, you sick bastard.

  A smile broke across Mario’s face. Adrenaline flowed through his body, filling it with excitement.

  “Worth?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

  His father wailed. “No! Please!”

  The wires had tugged his hands almost to the saws. The furious, blurred edges lay millimetres from the slightly webbed skin between each finger. The wires pulled slower, teasing.

  “This is what you get,” said Mario. “And now, I can forget about you.” He glanced up to meet his father’s terrified stare. “Bye, Dad.”

  His father screamed as the blades sliced through the delicate skin. Blood shot into the air in an angry, red mist. Relentless, the wires pulled farther. The saws ate into the thicker flesh between each knuckle, as easily as a shark fin through water. The raucous din dropped in pitch.

  His father’s fingers clawed at the desk, slick with dripping blood. He cried out. It hurt Mario’s ears.

  Extra jets of blood gushed out, the blades proceeding to sever the network of veins and arteries within the meat of both hands. The geyser struck Mario across the stomach. He chuckled, noticing how his father’s fingers looked twice as long now.

  Still, the wires pulled.

  Worth slowly clapped.

  Mario watched on, relishing ever second.

  Clunk

  The wires stopped. The stained saws, up to his father’s elbows, died and slowly came to a halt. His father wailed, his hands and forearms spread out all over the desk. Blood trickled down the sides of the wood and onto the stone ground.

  Mario leaned closer to study the knotty, red mess, glistening bone and string of torn muscle on show.

  “Fascinating. Isn’t it, sir?” said Worth.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Mario found the guide standing within the circle of light, hands in his pockets.

  “The human body. Amazing. Funny how all that tissue makes us tick, wouldn’t one agree?”

  Mario stared back at his father, who convulsed in the leather straps. His eyes had rolled back in his head to show the whites. Spit flowed from the corner of his open mouth.

  Worth stepped to Mario’s side.

  “He’ll be a few minutes dying,” he said. “Such a shame we had to deal with Miss Foster. I imagine it would be nice for you to have a smoke and enjoy his last moments.”

  “Yes,” said Mario. “It would.”

  The blood no longer pumped freely. The spurts had slowed down, weaker with each shot. His father’s movements had subsided to mere twitches.

  Mario reached forwards and with his thumbs, snapped his father’s eyelids closed.

  “I must say, sir, you’re handling this very well.”

  Mario sighed.

  “I guess I’ve learned. This is a dream. You know how many nights I’ve laid in bed imagining something like this?” He ran a finger through the gore on the desk and held up the red digit to Worth. “I didn’t want him to touch me ever again.”

  Worth chuckled. “We know all this. Why do you think we made such fitting arrangements?”

  “You were right,” said Mario. “Someone had to punish him.”

  “Indeed,” said Worth, rocking on his heels. “We’re all for punishment here. Sir?”

  Mario stared at his father’s still form. The blood had stopped flowing, and his arms lay in a dark pool, blades still embedded.

  “Sir?”

  Two footsteps struck the rock behind Mario. He tensed.

  “Take him,” said Worth.

  A jolt ran up Mario’s back. He turned a moment too late as something slammed over his head. He lashed out, fighting against the tightening restraint.

  “That’s it,” said Worth. “Now we can have some real fun with him…”

  Thick arms wrapped around Mario’s chest, squeezing the air from him. He imagined the smiling face of the blonde, suited thug and thrashed. The tank increased his hold, and Mario’s ribs seemed to creak.

  “Not too hard,” ordered Worth. “Don’t break him. We have orders from management.”

  11

  A light blinked on, and Mario squeezed his eyes shut. A burning red replaced the former, blissful night. He clamped an arm over his face, and the darkness returned.

  “Ahh,” he sighed. Sleep descended once more, sinking Mario’s mind into deep, tranquil waters of silence and-

  “Mario! For the last time, wake up!”

  “Jesus,” he moaned and gradually removed his arm. He opened his eyes a sliver. The light seemed to set his retinas alight, and he closed his eyes again. “Oh God. What time is it?”

  “The time?” said Jonno. “Time you got your arse into gear. They’re waiting for you.” He shook Mario. “Get up!”

  “Okay! Okay!”

  Mario groaned and sat up from the sofa. A woollen blanket fell from his body and onto the floor. He slid his hand into his boxer shorts and rearranged the contents. He yawned.

  “Seriously,” he said, his eyes half open. “What time is it?”

  He sat in the den-now converted into a dressing room-in the house on Albert Street. Light shone through the slight gap in the curtains. The house meant one thing: work. To have Jonno, in a sleeveless white T-shirt and his hair dyed a faded blond, fussing around confirmed it. His assistant continued to rant, walking around the room.

  “About ten,” said Jonno. “You know he likes to shoot in the morning. When you get here?” The young man rummaged in the contents of a holdall dumped on a desk. “I mean, fuck me, Mario! You trying to lose this job?”

  Mario yawned again. “I guess I got in about three?”

  “Fuck me, Mario,” Jonno hissed again. “What were you thinking?”

  “Hell, I have a key and I was in town. You think they give a key to just anyone? Steve said I could crash here whenever I wanted. His home is always open.” He rubbed his eyes.

  “This,” said Jonno, facing him with his hands on his slim hips, “is not a home. It’s a studio, and Steve is your boss. Remember that. Here…” From the bag, he tossed Mario a can of deodorant. “Freshen up. Show your colleague a little courtesy.” The young man sighed and scratched his bare shoulder. His hair seemed to glow under the light. Mario saw right through it.

  Need to stop dying your hair, Jonno. Gonna be bald by twenty-five…

  “And clean your teeth,” said Jonno. “You lick a tramp last night?”

  “I tried.” Mario ran his tongue over his teeth. The molars felt fuzzy, like a moss had grown on the enamel overnight. “Jesus. What did I drink last night?”

  Jonno cocked his head. “Everything, judging by the state of you. Come on! Move.”

  Mario moaned as he stood. His body swayed, and he leaned against the arm of the sofa.

  “The room’s spinning…”

  “You’ll be spinning if Steve catches you in this state,” said Jonno. “How can you perform like this? A sniff of pussy and you’ll be throwing your guts up!”

  “I’m not you,” said Mario and sneered.

  “Enough of the cutting wit, Mr. Wilde.”

  Both men fell silent at the sound of a door opening and chatting voices from the front of the house.

  “That’s him,” said a flustered Jonno. He flapped his arms at Mario, like he shooed away a giant fly. “Come on!”

  “What?�
�� Mario shrugged his shoulders.

  “What?” asked Jonno. He rolled his eyes. “Of course. He’s forgotten. Why do I even bother?”

  He darted between Mario and the bag, then into the ensuite bathroom, then back to the bag, muttering to himself.

  “Jon. Calm down for fuck’s sake. Who’s here?”

  “You have forgotten,” said Jonno, stopping. “The director. The one from America?”

  Mario thought back, but no name or face stepped forwards.

  “Look,” said Jonno and huffed. “It’s simple. The other model is here already. Krystelle? I think you’ve worked with her before. Anyway, it’s just gonna be you and Krystelle in this one. This director, name of Crane, is a good Gonzo maker. It’s a simple shoot. Just you and him as mates, coming round to see Krystelle and…well, just do as you’re told. Now get ready!”

  Mario tensed his muscles and stretched his arms over his head. He yawned again.

  “What would I do without you, Jonno?”

  His assistant snorted. “Join the bloody job club. Now get some spray on. I’ll tell Crane you’ll be along in a minute.” Jonno headed to the door. “And Mario?”

  Mario paused, the deodorant aimed at his armpit. “Yes?”

  “Fuck her good, babe.”

  Mario winked.

  “I always do!”

  *****

  “Mario,” said Jonno, beaming. “This is Roger Crane.”

  The old man held out his hand. “A pleasure.”

  Hesitant, Mario shook the offered hand. He locked stares with the director, trying to force a spark of recollection. The man seemed so familiar. The moustache…the messy hair…

  Crane looked nothing like other directors. Most in the business were under forty, keen to break into the industry and make a name for themselves. Crane appeared more like a librarian, more at home shuffling around piles of dusty tomes among dark shelves. The thought of starring with this guy didn’t sit right.

  “Nice to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Crane. “Shall we press on?”

  Mario’s chest lurched, and he coughed. “Wh-what did you say?”

  Crane shot Jonno a side glance. “I asked if we should press on.”