UNZIP AND OTHER COMPACT STORIES
BY TOMMY DAKAR
Table of Contents
Fear of the Dark
Kludge
Arven’s List
Home and Away
Unzip
Fade In, Fade Out
The Moor
You and I are Earth
OTHER WORKS BY TOMMY DAKAR
BALLS – A FULL-LENGTH LITERARY COMEDY
THICK AND FAST – A TRAGI-COMEDY NOVEL
FALLS THE SHADOW – TWIN STORIES, DIFFERENT YET INSEPARABLE
THE TRAP-DOOR – A DARK FANTASY NOVELA
A WORLD APART AND OTHER STORIES – A COLLECTION OF SELECTED SHORT STORIES
OR VISIT THE WEBSITE https://tommydakar.wix.com/tommydakar
Fear of the Dark
Kingsley Jordan did not realise as he turned the key in the door of his basement flat that in under three minutes he would be dead. He had been down on the streets all afternoon photographing the demonstration, documenting police charges and the defiant rows of angry protesters, and now he was thirsty and bursting for the toilet. Had he been a more observant man, a more cautious, apprehensive person, he may have noticed the tiny signs that spelt danger. There are always signs. The door had opened too easily, as if it had been recently oiled, and he did not have to struggle with it as he usually did. That could have aroused his suspicions. He may then have turned the light on to take a closer look at the lock and noticed the splintered wood. But Kingsley did not live in fear, and he badly needed a drink, even more than he needed the toilet.
He had no idea as he pushed the door closed behind him with his foot that he was putting down his camera for the last time, that never again would he place his heavy lens bag on the hall table. In the evening gloom of his underground home he did not notice that the drawers to his work table were all open, because Kingsley was not afraid of the dark, and his mind was focussed on a glass of water. Had his urge to urinate been stronger than his desire to quench his thirst, he would have gone into the bathroom and been surprised to see the toilet seat up, the water in the bowl resembling white wine. He would have wondered, maybe, how he could have been so slovenly, so unhygienic. He always sat down to piss, at least in private homes; it had been driven into him throughout his childhood. If his mother had been there she would have frowned and called it to his attention.
Kingsley, come here this instance! What did I tell you about this, eh? If I had an infra-red camera you'd see pee all over the place. It's disgusting. Now wash your hands and don't let me catch you standing up again.
So how come the seat was up, and the bowl unflushed? It may not have been enough to make him aware of the peril he was in, but at least it would have caused a slight nagging feeling inside his stomach, the way your body tries to tell you the car keys you confidently believe are in your bag are in fact in your other jacket, hanging on the back of the bedroom door. Though most probably he would have brushed it off as odd, just one of those things, have gently lowered the seat, pushed the eco flush, and headed off towards the kitchen anyway.
He had taken some fantastic photos that afternoon. The march had started off calmly enough, the crowd stoically bearing their banners of political slogans through the rain. There was the odd insult, the occasional joke, but mostly it was a serious affair, with a woman in a dark overcoat, a kind of cheer leader with a megaphone, prompting simple, monotonous rhyming chants. They had made their way along Main Street and had turned into Bigton Square without incident, where the police had drawn their line in front of the Town Hall. Both parties had held their ground, content with this standard stand-off. A manifesto had been read, and two representatives had disappeared into the council building with a signed petition. It was then that an elderly man had staggered into view, covered in blood, and fallen to the ground. What had happened? Who had assaulted him? The mood immediately changed, the singing stopped, and some objects were thrown at the riot police who until this moment had remained patiently in rank. Did they receive orders, or did they just over-react? There was a surge, a moment of panic, then the two sides clashed. The umbrellas and placards of the protesters were no match for the plastic shields and flexible batons of the police, and the crowd was soon dispersed, with people running in all directions. And Kingsley had got it all.
He had managed to climb up the scaffold of a nearby building and take aerial shots of the square. With his zoom lenses he could pick out almost anyone from the mass of frenzied bodies and freeze them forever. A young student, armed with a stick, defiantly yelling at the police lines, daring them to tackle him, as if saying 'all at once or one at a time?' A middle aged woman in a pink plastic raincoat covering her ears as she fled towards the shelter of a shop doorway. The police commander, his eyes sweeping across the multitude searching for ringleaders and weak spots. Later Kingsley had crept back into the square and taken close ups of the blood and tears, of the fatigue, of the mixture of elation and defeat that hung over the Town Hall like gun smoke.
On his way back home he had stopped off at a coffee house and flicked back through his work. There was some excellent stuff here, not only for the usual clients, but perhaps even for an international competition. One of them in particular stood out above the rest. It showed the frightened eyes of a young woman, in her mid-twenties or thereabouts, her head a riot of dark curly hair with strands sticking to her face like scars, and above her, about to fall, a police baton, held by an officer whose face seemed chipped out of granite. In the background a hellish scene of twisted torsos caught in combat, and all of this reflected in the huge plate glass windows of a bank.
It was photographs like these that made it all worthwhile. The rest was bread money. To Kingsley Jordan, journalistic photography was the mirror version of other art forms. A painter, a musician, a writer, or a sculptor creates something totally new, something that has never before existed, in the hope that it will reflect reality, make people see their world in a different light. A photographer does the exact opposite; takes reality as a starting point, then transforms it into art. The young girl in flames, the unarmed man before the tanks, the exhausted fire-fighter caked in ash and brick dust. At its worst it turns horror into a thing of beauty, but at its best it is a portrait of an age. And looking back through his shots that day, Kingsley was convinced he had served his purpose, had been the eye of the people, the chronicler, the historian, the witness.
Back in his flat he took off his jacket and tossed it over a chair as he made for the kitchen. His thirst and the growing darkness made him unable to spot the faint boot prints made by his executioner who now waited silently for Kingsley to make his entry. The photographer was about to be murdered, but there would be no photos, no eye witness, no testimony. He walked through the open door, his mind concentrating only on water, cool, fresh, transparent water, when the chord was wrapped around his throat and he was held from behind by two alarmingly strong forearms. He began to thrash, to kick his legs, to scratch at the steel arms that pinned him to a leathery smelling chest. Although he tried to scream, no sound came out, and all he could hear was the determined breathing of his killer. Once more he saw the eyes of the woman he had captured that very afternoon, her fear and horror, her crazy, terrified hair. He saw many things then, as he automatically, incredulously, writhed and grasped and clawed in vain for the air that would bring him back to life. He saw ants swarming around a wound, s-like snake tracks in sand dunes, the purple sun through coloured sweet paper. He saw his smooth, brown skin sinking under bath water, and heard the sound of wind rushing along a deserted tube station.
He pissed himself then, and felt so ridiculously embarrassed he could have cried, except he could no longer do anything other than d
ie. The visions slipped, became incoherent and dreamlike, until they eventually faded into darkness. His murderer let him fall to the floor. On his way out, he snatched up Kingsley's camera and lens bag, and left without bothering to close the door.
The neighbours discovered the tragedy and informed the police, thereby saving his girlfriend from having to witness a scene which would have stayed with her and tormented her until the end of her days. Horror, once experienced, never goes away. Kingsley's father identified the body; she was allowed to forget, and move on.
The serious crime squad soon pieced everything together from the available evidence – forced entry, the intruder surprised by the victim's return, violent reaction leading to death. Sundry valuables missing including professional digital camera and accessories. Fingerprint search negative. Thorough analysis of DNA samples from crime scene pending.
The police photographer worked in a state of shock. He could not believe he was taking shots of Kingsley Jordan, could not believe the man with his head propped up against the kitchen cupboards was the famous photographer, could not believe that this corpse, with damp denims and a smell of stale urine, was his award winning colleague Kingsley, Kingsley Jordan, now reduced to a handful of snapshots in a police file.
Eventually the funeral parlour was given the go ahead to remove the body, the door to the flat was sealed, and Kingsley Jordan ceased to exist other than as a statistic.
The detectives assigned to the case were optimistic, they had noticed the bootprints and how they had entered the bathroom. Mr. Jordan had clearly not had the opportunity to do the same, so it was reasonable to assume that the assassin had relieved himself there. Not a very professional approach. They were unsure if the concentration was sufficient for a positive DNA result, but things had moved on and it was incredible what the lab boys could come up with when they put their minds to it. Some pubic hairs had also been collected and they were all hoping they did not belong to the deceased.
The Jordan family, and Lynn, had expressed their consternation at the criminal profile of the murderer. It seemed he was a thief, a habitual one, one who worked quickly and thoroughly and took pains not to leave too many clues behind. He wore gloves, and knew how to break into a flat without a sound. But who would then go and piss in the toilet? Or sadistically strangle his victim? It didn't add up, they argued. To which the police could only reply that, sad as it may sound, they dealt with thousands of such types every year.
Kingsley's camera had also been stolen, and they had traced it back to the supplier. It was not an everyday camera, and should be easy enough to locate should anyone try to sell it. A physical description would have been useful, but nobody they had questioned had seen anything out of the ordinary. Nonetheless they honestly believed that it was merely a question of time before they caught the culprit.
Detective Don Jenkins was, to use the correct term, taciturn. His colleagues had other ways of describing him. He would speak only if spoken to, would answer in monosyllables where possible, rarely smiled, never joked, and kept himself to himself. Which is why he had been chosen to break the news to his superior, Commissioner Osborne.
Jenkins stood before the Commissioner's desk, a buff folder hanging loosely in his hand, his thick eyebrows furrowed as always, a dark, depressive look set around his mouth. His body hung from his thick neck as if it would rather slump slowly to the floor, and only remained erect due to legal imperative.
We have a positive match, sir.
Osborne tried not to smile.
Who is it?
Jenkins waited a second or two before answering, he was unsure what to expect.
Anselm of Hartswood.
Osborne waited a second or two, unsure what to expect.
Is that his name? What is he, some kind of artist? What do we know about him?
Jenkins drew in a long breath. He imagined his colleagues in the other offices trying not to laugh out loud.
He is, was, the Lord of Hartswood Manor, Hunsbury. Thirteenth century. The Dark Ages, sir.
Osborne glared at his subordinate. Had it been anyone else he would have trounced him out of the place in a second. He would have thought it was obviously some kind of set up, an elaborate joke on somebody's part. But it was the serious Jenkins who stood now before him, which meant that either he had fallen for the ploy himself, or... was telling the truth.
I assume there is some logical explanation?
Yes, and no, sir.
Osborne raised his eyebrows as a sign for Jenkins to continue. They also seemed to say 'be very careful'.
What I mean is that there is an explanation as to how a DNA search was run which included historical figures. The department of... the History Department, is where the anatomical data base is stored. Not here, but in North Compton. The police share computer facilities with the university. Not always, naturally, but for forensic material.... There has been a crossing of data from the police files, and by error the DNA database of the History Department was analysed alongside the police records. Instructions have been given and measures taken to ensure that it never happens again.
Let me see if I understand you. A criminal DNA search, using confidential information into a murder inquiry, was 'accidentally' mixed up with the database of.... of the Dark Ages? Is that what you are trying to say?
Yes sir.
Commissioner Osborne stared at Jenkins in disbelief, but his underling's face remained impenetrable.
So, they 'accidentally' ran their historical database through the police computers, and got a positive! Is that what you are saying? Is that what you want me to believe?
Detective Don Jenkins nodded.
Who did you say it was? Andy something or other?
Anselm of Hartswood, sir.
Anselm of Hartswood. Anselm. Of Hartswood. So he's our man?
Irony was lost on Jenkins.
He died in the thirteenth century.
In the Dark Ages.
Yes sir.
Leave that here and get out.
Don left the folder on his chief's desk and went back to face the interrogatory of his eager colleagues.
Commissioner Osborne leafed through the dossier. According to the scientific boys it was a perfect match. Which was nonsense, of course. But, it gradually dawned on him; it was also very dangerous nonsense. For a start it put DNA analysis into doubt, which would be a great set back in the courts. The lawyers would jump on it, and try to knock a hole in the concept of genetic identification. Maybe they could handle that side with an official denial or something. But it also occurred to him that if word got out, many people would actually believe that this Anselm character had truly come back from the dead and strangled Kingsley Jordan in his flat, leaving behind a pubic hair to prove it! He knew that to many such gullibility would sound inconceivable in this day and age, but he dealt with this kind of madness every day, and knew what he was talking about. It was imperative to nip all of this in the bud, straight away. He called a meeting. This would not leave the building.
During restoration work at All Saints church, Hunsbury Village, all items of historical worth were removed to the History Department of North Compton University, where they were catalogued by the staff. It was during this process that DNA samples were taken of skeletal remains. Anselm of Hartswood had spent over seven hundred years buried under the cracked flagstones of the central aisle in a solid oak coffin which was found to be in a remarkable state of conservation. Carbon dating helped verify the date marked on the stone slab which covered his tomb – d. 1283. Examination of the remains suggested a male, possibly around thirty to forty years of age at the time of his death. No other outward signs. Cause of death unknown. Parish records recorded him as Lord of the Manor, one of a long line of Hartswoods, though the documents were incomplete and at times impossible to read. Local legend spoke of Anselm the Executioner, a terrible figure who had summarily hung, drawn and quartered, or burnt at the stake, or strangled with his own hands in dank dungeon
s anyone who had dared to oppose his will, though whether or not the stories referred to this particular Anselm was anybody's guess.
Mere sparks of information, but enough to start a fire, and soon the whole nation was taking a crash course in Medieval History. The Dark Ages, it appeared, was now deemed an inappropriate term, and it was more accurate to refer to those distant times as The Early, High or Late Middle Ages. There was talk of vassals and villeins, of knights and damsels, of yeomen in sackcloth and hearty, ale-serving wenches with fists resting on ample hips. Cruel noblemen deflowered local virgins whilst self-flagellating priests looked on, and heretics were consumed by flames for refusing to believe the world was a plate. Realistic and detailed artists' impressions of Anselm the Executioner and his gruesome pastimes fired the popular imagination, much to the inaudible dismay of scholars and historians. Perfectly accustomed by now to such excessive media coverage, people sifted calmly through the mass of detail offered to them by their chosen source of information until they found something that tied in with their worldview. This they then learnt by heart for use in future conversations.
But the main question of debate was: did Anselm of Hartswood murder Kingsley Jordan?
The establishment dismissed such speculation as idle fantasy. DNA testing was a complex scientific process which depended on any number of variables for a true match to be considered one hundred percent verifiable. In this particular case, there was apparently a contamination of the historical, skeletal sample, taken as it was as part of an academic exercise, and naturally not treated with the same rigour as a serious, modern, up to date criminal investigation. It was therefore a false positive, and should not be given further consideration. They apologised for any misunderstanding, for any suffering caused, and reiterated that measures had been taken to ensure that such a lamentable accident would never again occur. Case closed.
Officially perhaps, but that made little difference to those who believed that there was still a great deal the boffins did not understand. Uncanny, inexplicable things like déjà vu, telekinesis, garden gnomes or spirits from the past. After hundreds of years of scientific study, nobody could explain the power of a Ouija board, or how miracles work, or why ghosts still haunt us. Charlatans and media moguls picked up on this desire to dabble in the occult, and there was a surge in the sale of Tarot cards, crystal balls, prayer beads and mystic magazines. When challenged in their beliefs they would not hesitate to point out that, ironically, modern technology had proven them right – the pubic hair discovered at the scene of the crime belonged to Anselm. He had come back to punish those who refused to believe, and had left a sign so that his identity could not be denied. He was guilty beyond all reasonable doubt.
Commissioner Osborne had been severely reprimanded for not being able to keep the lid on this unfortunate affair. As a result of his incompetence he had been ordered to come up with a solution, and had been led to understand that he was to do everything within his power to find the real culprit. Now. He called in the most trustworthy of his team and asked them to come up with a profile. They were to use all available evidence, and a drop of imagination. There was to be a press release the following morning, and everything had to be ready by then. And this time there were to be no leaks, their jobs depended on it.
Kingsley Jordan's murderer now had a name, a physical description and a photofit image. Curtis McAll was a mean character, with a long history of violent offences. He was tall, balding, a body building fanatic. New evidence from another crime had enabled the police to positively match his DNA with that discovered in Kingsley's basement flat. He was deemed dangerous, and was not to be approached. Should anyone have any information that may help the police with their enquiries they should use the helpline number specifically set up for the occasion.
Anselm of Hartswood was duly acquitted. A nationwide hunt was mounted to uncover the whereabouts of Curtis McAll, now nicknamed Curtis the Executioner, but it appeared he had managed to escape their grip and had probably fled abroad. Commissioner Osborne and his team were discreetly congratulated and obliquely rewarded. The case of Jordan/Hartswood/McAll was filed away under confidential and guarded along with a ton of other official secrets.
When he came to he was completely disorientated. His right arm was numb, he was freezing, and an intense, throbbing pain had started all down his left side. It was dark, dark and damp, and he realised he was lying, fully clothed, on a cold concrete floor. Slowly he dragged himself up into a sitting position and rested his back against the wall. There was no light, and it took a while for his eyes to adjust, but after a time he could make out a metal door, and what looked like a boarded up window high up on the furthest wall. The cellar was empty apart from a sack which he had been using as a makeshift pillow. Where was he? What was going on? As the blood trickled back into his right arm, so his memory began to return.
He had been drinking at the Shanghai. Tony had been there, and Chris too for a bit. He had left, when? around one, half past one? and headed home. Up to that moment he could think of nothing out of the ordinary, he had certainly not noticed anything. But as he had turned into Craven Street.... It was all very confused, like a dream sequence, from there on. He had noticed the car, the two men, but had thought nothing of it. He had heard them get out, and as he had turned to face them he had felt a sharp, paralysing pain as something was pushed into his left flank. He had fallen to his knees then, under a cascade of punches and kicks, the stabbing pain growing in his side. He had tussled with them, but ineffectively, doubled up in pain as he was. They had stuffed his head into something, the sack that now lay on the floor next to him probably, and bundled him into the back of the car. He remembered his face hitting the door, a smell of pinewood air freshener, then nothing.
He pulled himself to his feet and checked his wounds. His arm felt a lot better now, though it was badly bruised, but the insistent pain in his side would not go away. He could feel with his tongue that his lip was swollen, too. Where on earth was he? And who had kidnapped him? For he was convinced he had been kidnapped. They had lain in wait and pounced on him, beaten him and thrown him into this cellar. But why? Who? Larry? Larry Bale? No, no, that didn't make sense. Larry was a bastard, but he wouldn't do this, wouldn't run the risk. Anyway, he'd spoken to him only last week and there had been no shit. Someone seeking revenge? Someone who had somehow found out about him and decided to take the law into their own hands? It was a possibility, but unlikely. If anyone had anything on him they'd just go to the police. No, it couldn't be that. Then what the hell was going on?
He started to feel frightened then, his ignorance leading to fear. If there were a light, maybe he could get his bearings, think a little more clearly. Straining in the dark, he stumbled along the confines of his cell, feeling up and down the walls, but he found nothing. Above him he thought he could make out what appeared to be a neon light tube, but if it were, then the switch was on the outside. Perhaps he should shout, kick the metal door, call for help. But he was afraid that might also arouse whoever it was that had done this to him, so he sank back to the floor in silence.
He was awoken from a fretful, semi conscious state by the sound of footsteps. His heart pounded in apprehension as he heard keys turn in the metal door. He pulled himself to his feet once more, still in terrible pain. Last night's drinking had left his mouth so dry he could hardly swallow, and he badly needed a toilet. But above all he was afraid.
The door swung open and three men entered, their silhouettes framed against the pale light that entered from the corridor behind them. One of them took a step towards him, then stopped, as if reluctant to come into contact with him, as if he were some kind of leper.
Friday the sixteenth of May, Baywater Drive, robbery with violence. She put up quite a fight, didn't she?
I don't know...
Silence! Patricia Loos, middle aged, management consultant. You half strangled her to death, but she'll be alright. She's a brave woman. Intelligent, too. And cautious.
He paused for a full minute before continuing.
She had cameras, and you got your picture taken. And you really should be more careful, there was enough of your skin under her nails to fill a test tube.
The man's voice sounded angry. He spoke quickly, with little intonation, like a person who has a job to do and wants to get it over with as quickly as possible. The others said nothing, just stood motionless on either side of the open door.
So they must be police. The way they spoke, what they knew about him and that woman, that bit about the skin under her nails. Then where was he? What was this place? He had heard of torture chambers and secret cells, but had never entirely believed it. Maybe they were relatives of the woman, her cop cousins or something. Either way he felt he was about to collapse in terror.
Deny it, that was the only way, the golden rule, deny everything. He was about to say that he had no idea what they were talking about, was even going to demand his rights, ask for a drink and a toilet, but got no further than the first syllable.
I...
Shut up! Don't even move!
His instinct told him it was best to obey.
You are Michael Anthony Gale.
He did not reply.
I said you are Michael Anthony Gale!
Yes, yes.
Pity. We thought maybe you were Curtis McAll. Because then we could arrest you for robbery with violence, and murder, and take you in for questioning.
He paused again for this to sink in.
Or Anselm, wasn't it? Anselm the Executioner. Anselm of Hartswood. Are you Anselm of Hartswood?
No.
Or Curtis the Executioner?
No. No, I am who you said I am, Mike Gale.
He understood now. It had been amusing to watch the police run around in circles after all that fuss about Anselm. He had followed with interest the invention of Curtis McAll and his timely escape. He thought he had been lucky, that his tracks had been covered. Now he realised his mistake. If Curtis McAll did not exist, was pure fabrication, then Kingsley Jordan's killer could not exist either.
You are right. You don't look like you've been dead for seven hundred years. You don't look like a body builder, either, come to that. You look like a man who is about to piss himself.
With that one of the other men closed the door, and the cellar was plunged into complete darkness.
KLUDGE