Tommy couldn’t have hung up on Wayne now, even if he wanted to. He had to hear this through to the end. That it would be a bitter and very bloody end, he had no doubt whatsoever. That Wayne no longer possessed the ability to think for himself and respond to Tommy’s pleas, he was equally as sure of. But that wasn’t going to stop him trying.
“Wayne. Something very bad is going to happen. I can’t tell you how important it is that you get the fuck out of that cinema!”
No response. The frantic breathing on the cinema soundtrack suddenly erupted into screams. Ragged, agonised. Female. A vile thought that made Tommy almost drop the cell—Jasmine’s?
“Wayne! What’s happening! Is that Jasmine?”
Wayne was back. Drugged sounding, but quietly coherent. “Did you fuck her?”
“What! What are you talking about? Has anything happened?”
“You did, didn’t you?” Tommy could just about hear him over the screams—and they were Jasmine’s; he was sure of that. “Was she good? I bet she was a screamer.” He was chuckling now, a low, nasty guffaw that didn’t sound like Tommy’s good-natured friend at all. “Nice little tits as well. You didn’t tell me she was shaved down there, you naughty boy…” Again, the spiteful, cruel chuckle. “Good actress as well as a good body. She looks great up on the big screen—especially with no clothes on. A good screamer, alright. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she wasn’t acting. Maybe that fucker with the flamethrower is really going to burn her. He’s dressed in an asbestos suit, just like the maniac in Don’t Go in the House. You remember that one, Tommy? We watched it together at your place. Yeah, they’ve copied the scene from that film. Your tart’s hung up naked from the ceiling and the Incinerator Man’s gonna cook her up.” A titter, edged with madness that caused a cold, cold hand to slide down Tommy’s back. “Maybe this is a real Snuff film.” A pause, then: “I’d fuck her, too, before I burned her. Did you come in her mouth, Tommy, you cunt? Did you fuck her mouth?” Wayne’s voice rose in sudden sadistic fury. This time nobody shushed him. Tommy could hear general sounds of restlessness among the crowd, several low shouts. No panic yet. The screams from the soundtrack stopped.
Tommy had never felt so helpless in his life. Had they killed her, too, filmed her death and then inserted it into this atrocity of a film? He had to know.
“Is she alright—on screen I mean—is she still alive? I think it’s all real too, Wayne. I think you’re right. You’re actually watching real Snuff clips, and I need to know…please tell me, Wayne… Is she alright…?” He could feel his own sanity crumbling, and Wayne certainly wasn’t helping assuage his fears. He seemed more interested with what was happening around him now than the action on screen.
“The fucker in the boiler suit’s handing out tools from his barrow. And it’s just clicked who he reminds me of. He’s dressed like Cameron Mitchell in The Toolbox Murders. Go on, give ’em out, Cam. Ha, there’s kind, eh? What a helpful fellow. And he knows just what they’re gonna use ’em for, doesn’t he, the sly fucker? Drill with power pack, check; nail gun, check. Claw hammer, pickaxe, scythe, shears, rake, shovel, check. I could bore you with what films inspired those items, Tommy, but you already know.” Again that nasty grit of sadism in his voice. “He’s got it all, this bastard. A regular Handy fuckin’ Andy. The DIY Guy of Death. Toolbox Murders? Fuck that. The Wheelbarrow Butcher, more like.” He was laughing again, delirium lacing the manic chuckles. “Yeah, he knows what he’s up to. Wonder what I’ll get? Nah, he’ll probably run out before he reaches me. Just my luck, eh? Story of my sodding life. Someone else always get there first; whether it’s with the girls, the jobs, or the fucking toolbox weapons. Life, eh? It’s a fucking blast.” His manic ranting stopped suddenly. Tommy could hear other screams now, and they weren’t coming from the screen.
“Ooh, that’s good,” Wayne suddenly hissed, loud in Tommy’s ear—where the fuck were the police? “Oh, fuck, yeah! That was brutal, man! Got to fill you in, good buddy, can’t have you missing out on the action. Some fat fuck just ran up the aisle with a pickaxe. Buried it in another guy’s face. Took his fucking eye out! Literally. He’s fucking levering it out as I speak! Ha ha. They’re all at it now. Some bald cunt’s getting his head battered in with the claw hammer. Gotta love a man’s dedication to his workmanship. Another blow should do it. Fuck—did you hear that? Skull’s cracked. Yep, I can see a sludge of brain peeping out through a mess of bone. This is sooo much better than sex, man. Are you getting all this? You should be here. You really should. All those years of watching crappy video nasties and now I’m living through the real thing.” He was cheering raucously now, like a fan at a Millwall Vs West Ham match. The Wayne Tommy used to know had gone. The audience screams were strident, deafening, drowning the film, drowning everything but Wayne’s vile commentary.
He almost disconnected then, but something stopped him. He knew he was probably going to hear his friend’s death very soon, and this was the last time he would speak to him. He desperately wanted to hear something that would signal the arrival of the police, but still nothing but screams and the dull, sickening sounds of violence. He should call Slade, tell him his worst fears were realized. His thumb hovered over the red disconnect button on his cell. But there was something else he needed to know first.
“Is the director there?” That was important, right? If the main man was there, then the police would catch him. “Is anyone filming it all…?”
Wayne’s blood lust had abated slightly. When he spoke again, he sounded distant and disconnected again. “No. No cameras. Toolbox Man’s just enjoying the show. He’s on his own, far as I can see. He’s finished handing out his death tools and he’s just standing on the stage in front of the screen like master of all he fucking surveys.” Then his tone sharpened again: “Gotta love that dude. Cool as death.”
You’re going to die, Wayne, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
More screams: louder now, as the tide of murder and mutilation swept closer to where Wayne was still sitting like a Roman at an amphitheatre, watching the deaths of others all around him while waiting patiently for his own.
Then Wayne said, “There’s a lot of blood. I don’t like this anymore. I’m…” Silence for a beat. “…scared. I’m scared, Tommy.” And then, heartbreakingly Wayne began to cry. Tears were already rolling down Tommy’s own cheeks. Why didn’t you leave, when I asked you to? Why? He knew the answer to that though, didn’t he? Wayne had said the film had power. The film hadn’t let him leave.
Wayne sobbed for a few more minutes and then he stopped.
Tommy disconnected the phone.