Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (23 page)

He
had shoved Billy towards Victor, enjoying the stench of fear.
Enjoying his own feeling of power and self-importance.

“
Tell
meee,” Victor had said to Billy. “Why do you fuck with
me? Why don’t you pay back what you owe?”

Billy
had begged, pleading for more time.

“
You
make a fool out of Victor Mallone, and then have the balls to ask for
more time? You must be made an example of.”

Victor
nodded, and that was all it took. Alex had tied Billy’s hand
and feet. Not with rope, but with heavy-duty cable ties. It was
quick, efficient. Hands bound in front of him, feet together. Secure.
Inescapable. Victor had watched this appreciatively, enjoying Alex’s
work almost as much as he had.

“
Now
Biiiilly, you understand that you give me no choice here? How can I
run a business if people think they can fuck around with me, eh?”

Another
nod to Alex, who shuffle-stepped Billy to the edge of the dock, the
black water below frothing and crashing against the wooden pilings of
the pier. Alex knew the procedure. He reached into Billy’s
pocket, taking out his wallet and handing the cash and credit cards
to Victor. And yes—that was where he remembered the photograph
from. A much smaller, wallet sized version he had thumbed past to
take out the MasterCard.

“
Take
this as a lesson, Billy. Nobody screws with Victor Malone,”
Victor had said around his cigar, which he lit with an expensive
looking gold lighter

With
a barely perceptible nod from Victor, Alex shoved Billy hard in the
back, watching him plummet into the cold, icy waters. He waited and
watched until the air bubbles subsided, ever the professional, making
sure that the job was done.

He
blinked and was back in the present, the shrine looming ahead of him,
a symbol of his guilt. He shuffled forward on his knees and prayed to
God for forgiveness. Sure enough, Billy wasn’t innocent—he
had debts he should have paid, but not at the cost of his life. Until
that moment, he had never really understood the pain he’d
caused over the years. He had moved on and changed his lifestyle,
thinking it would be enough to bury the man he used to be. But what
about them? The people he had hurt? The Billy Somers and Tony
Valentines of the world? He felt sick and ashamed, and was about to
call out to Mrs. Bendtner, when the doorframe exploded in a shower of
splinters behind him. Even as he shielded his face from the deafening
roar of the gunshot, he saw her standing in the doorway. She was
still crying, the Russian-issue pistol clutched in her right hand.

“
This
is William’s room, puppet,” she cackled at him as she
stepped closer. There was nowhere left to run, nowhere to go. It was
over.

“
What
a cost for this life, eh?”

It
was babble, and he was fairly sure she didn’t know what she was
saying anymore, but this seemed a good question. What a cost for this
life? What would he have to pay? How could he atone for his sins? She
came towards him then, licking her horrible blood-red lips.

“
Does
the puppet remember now my William?”

“
I
remember, and I’m sorry… I truly am.”

He
lowered his head and wept as she inched closer.

“
Cry
now, eh? I know how that feels, puppet. Many lonely nights I have
wept!”

He
knew now what he had to do. He lunged, tackling her to the ground.
The gun came out of her hand and slid across the floor. He was on
her, hands around her wiry throat, crushing down with what remained
of his strength. She didn’t fight, she only watched him and
glared at him defiantly.

“
I’m
so sorry,” he said as he watched her, and pleaded for her to
die quickly. He thought at the end she understood, the insane glimmer
in her eyes seemed to clear, if only for a second. Then she faded.

It
was over. She was gone.

It
took him until evening to finish cleaning himself up. His tendon
wound would require medical attention, but he managed to remain
mobile by using the old walking stick he retrieved from the sitting
room. He patched up his other injuries using a first aid kit he found
in the bathroom. The dog had been dispatched with a single shot from
the old woman’s service revolver. He had tried to let it out
into the backyard, but it had turned violent, and he was left with no
other choice. He cleaned up the house as best he could, but knew his
fingerprints and blood were in too many places to really do a
thorough job. He laid Mrs. Bendtner in her late son’s bed along
with the wedding photograph. It seemed fitting to him that they all
be together in the end.

He
knew he could no longer hide behind the fragile belief that he was
free of his sins just because he believed in God. He had much to
atone for, and passing out leaflets and spreading the good word was
never going to be enough. He limped his way around the house,
checking through the old woman’s records. She had quite the
file on Victor, some of the information even surprising him. He found
a half can of gasoline in the garage, and paying particular attention
to the bloodied areas and the shrine room, had poured it through the
house, leaving a trail to the front door. Pausing by the open door,
he hesitated, listening to the house. He thought he could still hear
that
swish swoosh
sound of
slippers on carpet, but knew it was just his exhausted mind playing
tricks on him. He took out the matches he found in the kitchen drawer
and lit one, touching it to the rest of the pack and dropping it on
the carpet, igniting the petrol with a satisfying
whump
.
He quietly closed the door and made his way back down the ornate
path, past the neatly trimmed lawn and out onto Sycamore Street. He
was careful to close the gate behind him. Yes, this was a lovely
street—although he no longer thought it could be a place for
him. This was a place for the sin-free. For the happy people looking
to retire after a good life of hard work. His work, his real work,
had yet to truly begin.

He
got into his car and watched the dull orange glow coming from the
windows of the Bendtner house. It had dawned on him as he read
through the wealth of files that in order to truly earn his chance at
forgiveness, he would have to cut off the head of the snake. The
snake that made him. The snake that was Victor Mallone. He had no
illusions. He knew that it would be difficult—some might say
impossible. But he would find a way. He would use his skills, the
ones he had buried away over the years, and turn them against their
creator. He would find his forgiveness, and avenge the Mrs. Bendtners
of the world. He slipped the car into gear and rolled down the
street. He glanced only once into the rearview mirror as the flames
took full hold of No. 5 Sycamore Street.

The
box was outside her door. As she looked at it, she wondered why the
delivery driver hadn’t knocked or left a note to say they had
tried to call. She was just about to head out and meet Jane, when she
had almost fallen over it. It looked innocent enough. It was wrapped
in brown paper and had her name,
Terri
Browning
,
hand-written on top. There was no return address, no postmark. She
wasn’t expecting a delivery. It had been months since she’d
given in to the urge to browse the web for more books or clothes. She
wondered if it might be from Mark, another desperate attempt to make
up for the affair that had shattered her life. She had no intention
of taking him back, and as much as the loneliness of living alone got
to her, she had been hurt too badly to let anyone get close to her
again. The box was maybe fifteen inches across and the same high, and
as innocent as it looked, she still hadn’t picked it up.
Shifting her weight and still holding her front door open with one
hand, she glanced down the hallway of the apartment building, hoping
to catch a glimpse of who might have delivered it, but the hallway
was empty. Perhaps one of her neighbours might have heard something.
She was sure that Mrs. Molde from down the hall would know who left
it. She was a one-woman neighbourhood watch, and knew everybody’s
business just as well as her own, if not better. Terri briefly
considered knocking on her door, but couldn’t stomach the idea
of having to listen to the nosy old trout ramble on about the gout in
her leg, or the noisy students who lived upstairs in number
thirty-two. With a final look down the hallway, she picked up the
box, went back inside and closed the door.

The apartment looked empty now that it was devoid of
Mark’s belongings. All that remained of them was a box of
books, some old T-Shirts and a bottle of cheap aftershave he always
insisted on wearing. She had told him he should come and pick them
up, but through either stubbornness or unwillingness to accept that
it was over between them, Mark had been putting it off for weeks now.
They had argued frequently, the affair festering like an open wound.
She wanted him out of her life so she could attempt to rebuild, and
he was full of excuses; reasons why they needed to stay together and
not let something ‘silly’ like cheating keep them from
being together. Though she knew she would never allow him back into
her life, she still loved him, and she feared that his persistence
would one day break through her fragile defences.

She set the box on the dining table and went to the
kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. As she waited for the kettle
to come to the boil, she sent a text message to Jane explaining that
she was running late but would meet her at the coffee house at ten
thirty instead of ten. Setting her blackberry aside, she eyed the
quiet apartment. It was open plan, and now that it was devoid of male
clutter, it had a definite feminine (if minimal) look. Early morning
sunlight streamed through the large balcony windows that ran across
the far wall. She sometimes sat out there late at night, crying
silently and hating herself for the rut her life was in. She cast a
guilty glance towards her computer, silent and unused. Its black
screen seemed to glare at her.

Hey, Terri, remember when we used to spend time
together? When you used to write? Write all day, write all night.
What happened? You haven’t written a word since Mark left. Come
on, show me some love.

It was true. Her latest novel was supposed to have been
handed over to the publisher two months ago, and not only was she
nowhere near finished, she still hadn’t decided on an ending.
It seemed that every time she sat down to try and work, her mind
would go blank and she would simply stare at the screen, fingers
poised over the keys. The couple of times she had managed to string a
few paragraphs together, the results had been disastrous, the copy
poor. Now with her deadline long past, her editor was giving her hell
and had taken to calling her daily for progress reports, which had
resulted in a frostiness between them. The kettle clicked off and as
she poured her coffee, she realised that her life was a complete
mess. At twenty-nine she really should have a handle on her
situation, but the fact was she was struggling to cope. Her eyes
drifted to the mystery box on the table. The more she thought about
it, the more sure she was that it was from Mark, and perhaps that was
why she was so reluctant to open it. She didn’t want his gifts
to soften her and allow him to worm his way back into her life. She
suspected the box might contain a new snow globe. He knew she had
been collecting them since she was a child, and had over three
hundred in her collection, some of which were extremely rare. It was
a hobby she was slightly embarrassed of, and kept it secret from her
small circle of friends. Mark knew well enough though, and it would
be just his style to try and win her over with a glass dome filled
with water and fake snow.

She took a sip of her coffee, set her ‘Little Miss
Perfect’ cup down on the counter and approached the table. The
box looked innocent enough sitting beside the fruit bowl and her
half-finished John Grisham novel (unread since Marks departure). It
was packaged differently than she would have expected. It was tied
with string and wrapped in brown paper. It was how she imagined
packages were sent in the fifties, before the days of UPS and DHL.
She looked again at her name written in block capitals and had a
strange, inexplicable feeling of dread. Deciding she was being
ridiculous, that if she couldn’t manage opening a box then
getting her life in order would be impossible, she pulled the knot on
the string and peeled away the wrapping.

Beneath the brown paper was another box. This one was
red and had the horrible velvet outer material that was designed to
say ‘luxury,’ but to her said ‘cheap.’ It
looked like some incredibly tacky, late Christmas present. Now that
she had opened it, she wasn’t so sure Mark had sent it. He
hated tacky stuff like this, and more to the point, knew that she
hated it too. He was a dirty-cheating-lowlife-bastard, but he wasn’t
stupid. He wouldn’t send something like this to try and win her
back. She was contemplating this when the phone rang. Her heart
leaped into her throat and she cursed herself for letting something
so stupid get her so jittery. She made it to the handset before the
answering machine kicked in.

“
Hello?”

“
Terri?
It’s Bob.”

Shit
.
Bob was Bob Greenwood, her editor. She wished she had let the machine
pick up the call.