Horror showcase, p.13
Horror Showcase, page 13
None of these things. Instead: strawberries and bondage, ecstasy and betrayal.
Ray slowly climbed to his feet. The man in the corner was using Hershey’s bottle to cover his manhood as he crouched for his clothes.
He made to speak, but then his mouth clicked shut as though he’d thought better of it, leaving Ray staring intently at his strawberry smeared beard. A beard that appeared ragged enough for Ray to consider if the guy had used a hedge trimmer to contain it.
In the moment their eyes met, Ray knew all about this man, a stream of consciousness washing through him, becoming part of him. Within seconds it was as though Ray had known him for ever.
It left Ray exhausted. He turned away from the guy.
“Leave. Now,” he said.
The man didn’t question it. He dropped the bottle, grabbed his remaining clothes and hauled his bare ass out of the room, Ray even stepping aside so he could pass unhindered.
The apartment door slammed shut and Ray Faulks turned back to his wife, who was laying still, her head turned away from him, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.
Ray went over to her, sitting beside her on the bed. The moments rolled out, neither of them able to say a word. It was Denise who finally called an end to the silence.
“I guess you want to know why?” She didn’t turn to face him. She wasn’t quite ready for that yet.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes,” she said. “It does. Untie me and we can talk.”
“Talk?”
“Yes. About how it’s come to this.”
“What?” It came out as an incredulous laugh. Oh yes, he’d really would like to know how it had come down to his wife being tied to their bed and doused in Hershey’s strawberry syrup.
But not now. Not when rage bubbled in his gut. Not when his life was about to fall apart.
He stood, bringing a trembling hand to his mouth in an attempt to smother the sob that so badly wanted out. He left the room before it became too difficult to bear, only just making it to the lounge where it came out hot and angry.
He balled his fists and pummeled the walls with such fury a Lowry print fell askew and match stick men continued their stroll across the inclined industrial landscape. Anger and hate came in an emotional Tsunami that threatened to sweep him away into oblivion. Before he could stop it, in that whirling, swirling place a thought rose up like a primordial leviathan beating back the waves. And that thought was: what if that strawberry syrup wasn’t syrup at all, what if it was blood and his beloved, betraying wife was lying in it, bathing in it, her chest and abdomen pulled apart like a dime store carpet bag?
It was the briefest of things, there for a mere moment. But it was soon gone.
Then the screams began.
*
“Then what happened?” Detective Ross asked. The coffee in front of him had died and gone cold a while ago.
“You saw what happened,” Faulks said.
Oh yes, Ross had seen it alright. Twenty minutes after the fact, when an anxious, anonymous caller claiming to be the lover of a woman called Denise Faulks of 1220 Maple Leaf Avenue, Southwest, had stated that he feared for her life.
By the time Ross arrived, the cops responding to the call were outside the apartment puking on the carpet. Once he’d been inside, Ross could understand why. Mrs Faulks had been taken apart like ripe fruit exploding on the side walk. In twenty years of policing the detective had never seen anything like it. But one thing was for sure: it was the work of fury. A crime of passion the French would say, but Ross could only see whole sale slaughter, a husband so consumed with jealousy he’d torn his wife to pieces.
The question was how?
“I saw the results, Mr. Faulks,” Ross said. “And I have your statement that you killed your wife.”
“Then what more do you need, Detective?”
Ross thought about this for a while. “Proof,” he said simply.
“You have the body of my wife,” Faulks said. It was monotone, the voice of someone not quite with the program. “But I understand you need more because there was no blood on me, right? Because I killed her with my mind, and you don’t quite believe it, despite what your gut tells you.”
Ross smiled. If nothing else, Ray Faulks could read him pretty well. Even though her husband was there when they arrived, the police couldn’t pin anything on him. All they found was an inconsolable wreck, repeating “she was so dirty” over and over and over.
“I saw it happen just like I saw all the other bad things happen,” Faulks said through the detective’s thoughts. “And I couldn’t stop it because I was the bad thing. It was my destiny.”
“There’s no evidence. Only your word. How do we keep this holding water if it gets to court?” But Ross had been around enough liars to know the truth when he saw it.
“Maybe its not meant to go to court,” Faulks said. He appeared despondent at the thought. “Maybe fate is my friend at last.”
“As it stands today, Mr. Faulks, she’s smiling in your direction, no doubt about that,” Ross said cautiously. “But in my game fate wears a lady’s face but barks like a bitch. It’s only a matter of time before she turns and people get a piece taken out of ’em.”
“A short time ago you didn’t believe I could kill without touching a soul. Now you lecture on fate as though it is a reality. What does that mean?” Faulks said.
“You’re the psychic,” Ross said.
“I think you know I did it. I think that you believe I’m capable of doing it again if I walk out of this building tonight.”
“Okay, you read me good,” Ross conceded. “That’s why I’ll take that confession of yours and run with it.”
Faulks nodded - a concession. He had willed his wife dead and deserved his punishment. He knew this with certainty. Only the virtue of due process would thwart him.
“I can give you more to run with,” Faulks said leaning forward. “You’re sitting with me. Tell me, the guys behind the one way glass, they got a tape running, right?”
Ross nodded.
“Then listen up,” Faulks said. “Your anonymous caller, and my wife’s lover is Lewis Harper. He lives at 117 Eisenhower Drive, East. Lewis is a sales assistant at Hertz rental.”
Ross found that he simply couldn’t stop his mouth from dropping open. He composed himself after a few seconds.
“Okay,” he said. “But all that tells me is that you may know the guy. It’s not proof that you did what you did, the way that you say you did it.”
“You misunderstand, detective,” Faulks said, his eyes suddenly distant, as though he wasn’t focusing on this moment at all. “The proof will be when you turn up at Mr Harper’s home address. I killed my wife and I must be punished. If it means moving on to retribution to get the deed done then so be it.”
“What do you mean?” Ross whispered.
Ray Faulks looked up to the fluorescents for a few seconds. When his eyes returned to Ross, they were a mix of regret and fury.
“You’ve done something?”
“Indeed I have, Detective,” Faulks smiled, and in that smile Ross saw a man who was slowly and surely slipping into madness. “My wife’s lover had quite possibly the untidiest beard I have ever seen. I have just convinced him to shave it off using his hedge trimmer.”
And with that Detective Ross watched as the grin on Ray Faulks’ lips married with the madness in his eyes.
Ross nodded to his reflection in the one way glass.
“Get the car,” he said. “Now!”
END
Anthology, Horror Showcase
