Clutching the car jack tightly in his sweaty fist, Tommy entered the house.
He moved as lightly as he could, not wishing to alert anyone to his presence, yet each step on the marble flooring of the spacious hall seemed amplified in the silence. He tried to breathe through his nose only—and was his heart audible too in the echoing gloom?
He reached the table with the candle and hesitated. Oak panelling was just visible on the walls around him as his eyes adjusted. There was the occasional shadow of furniture, the cold pool of a mirror on one wall, oil paintings hanging just out of reach of the tripping candle flame. The hall seemed empty. A corridor led off to the left. He hesitated. And heard the scream.
It was coming from down the dark corridor, and so distant that his first thought was that it might be a night bird, or a fox. He strained his ears, and there it was again: undeniably female. He knew he was supposed to follow the sound, right into the jaws of whatever trap awaited him, but had not come this far to turn his back on Jasmine now. That it was her faint screams he was hearing, he had little doubt. She was alive…and that was enough to compel him to move. He crept ahead into darkness which became thicker as he progressed.
Yet after a few more steps he became aware of a glimmer. The flash of a blade? No, another mirror, reflecting a flicker of light from around a corner where the corridor veered to the right. Tommy inched forward, then peered around the bend. The corridor ahead stretched into dimness, yet there was a slight illumination, an unstable glimmer, beckoning him on. The screams sounded louder now, edged with nerve-slashing pain and terror. His heart clenched at each one, his fist tight around the car jack—which now felt ridiculously inadequate. Who knew what monsters from the Vid had been summoned to guard her? And how crazy to even believe that was possible! But he’d seen the proof already, hadn’t he? Anthropophagous and Friends.
He forced his breathing into a regular rhythm and continued on. The intermittent screams and sobs drowned out the sound of his shoes on the marble flooring and Tommy felt he could increase his pace a little. He passed occasional antique chairs and sideboards, one of which he nearly stumbled into. But the flicker was becoming more prominent and he could at last recognise its source. He advanced ever so slowly to the entrance of a room on the left, from which a wash of harsh light emerged. The sobs came from inside.
He paused next to the open doorway, fist squeezing the bar even more tightly, though the metal was slippery with sweat. He pressed his head against the wall next to the door jamb and slowly, so slowly, leaned forward to peer into the room.
The room was almost as large as the central hall. The far wall and those to either side had been fitted with banks of video screens. All showed the same image: Jasmine in the torture dungeon. She was still twisting on the hook, her eyes closed, moaning brokenly. Just in front of the doorway a leather sofa sprawled decadently, facing the monitors. A figure was slumped against the cushions, the head fallen to one side. The face had acquired a dirty bluebottle sheen, moist with decomposition, but Tommy still recognised him. The musician had obviously been dead a good few months. Ever since the new resident paid him a visit, deciding this really was the perfect lair. His hair, once long and blonde, was now grey and clipped short around a balding pate, where maggots had taken the place of follicles, rupturing the scalp. The eye on the side of the face visible to Tommy had begun to sink inwards like a cheap prop.
Strangely enough—and boy, Tommy could appreciate the biting irony—the 70’s legend had once provided the music to one of the larger-budgeted nasties, and Tommy had the soundtrack at home on vinyl. The keyboard wizard was doubtless playing his last Moog solo in Prog Rock Hell… Tommy stared at the dead man on the sofa while screams broke from the speakers in the walls and felt again the resonance of so many echoes from his past returning to taunt him.
Tommy completed his tense scan of the room. He spotted another door, this one closed, in the opposite wall below the largest screen. Apart from the corpse, the room appeared empty. When the voice boomed suddenly from the speakers, Tommy felt his heart gripped just that little bit harder.
“Welcome to Hell.”
Tommy stiffened against the door jamb. Had he been seen? Or was this a trick to summon him from hiding? His eyes flicked around the room again but it remained resolutely empty. He became aware that the image on the multiple screens had changed. They no longer showed Jasmine. Instead, his father’s face watched him from every angle of the room. Young again, as he had been at the time of the Video Recordings Act which he had so primly facilitated. And hadn’t Tommy resented him for that? And how he wished he could return to those simpler times, when the only horror in his life was safely contained in eight inches of plastic and a reel of magnetic tape…
Staring at the multiple images of his father, he could no longer feel the old resentment, and shame. He remembered how he had been pilloried at school when his father first began his campaign. And then a year later in the pub, when the reality of the Act had become clearer and real people were losing their stock, their livelihoods, their right to choose because of something his father had precipitated. He remembered the son of the local video shop owner pinning him against a wall in the Falcon Inn, his mates urging him on, his podgy face florid with indignant fury. Uncomfortable memories that flashed back in the instant, relived now as he stared at his father’s face on countless screens. But he knew his father wasn’t to blame anymore. How could he have envisaged his self-serving actions would result in this? A Video Nasty helter-skelter, Slade had called it. And if Slade had been wrong about many things, that wasn’t one of them. No, Tommy’s father was not the monster here. He was just a weak man, with one eye on his career and the other on the prize money: respect, approbation… Acceptance. Well done, Mister Wallace, you did a fine job there. Join our club and have a cigar. You’re one of us now.
His father spoke again, and even though Tommy knew the words coming from the lips were not his, (how could they be?) the voice most definitely was.
“If you’re looking for your slut, she’s down below. She’s dying to meet you again.” The mouth moved in different time to the words, badly synched. Just like most of the nasties, Tommy thought wildly.
“If you hurry you might find her in time. She’s looking particularly hot at the moment, I must say. So tempting. Such pretty flesh.”
The mocking voice drew Tommy into the room. He irrationally considered smashing the screens, but what good could that possibly do him or Jasmine? He twisted his head from right to left, from one screen to the next, but the face duplicated fifteen or so times had paused. Video flack skidded across the monitors. Then the image unfroze and Tommy’s Dad was replaced by Jasmine. The burning man was fondling her again. Her sobs picked up from where they left off.
“Where is she?” The cry burst from him before he could stop himself. He spun on impulse and ran from the room, heading down the corridor deeper into the house, the shadows closing over him again, the sound of her sobs dwindling.
Detective Constable Peter Brack was whispering into his cell phone as he paused at the bottom of the hill to survey the empty cottages. He’d discarded the HT for obvious reasons. Too damn loud. Slade sounded tired, and that made him frostier than ever.
“Have you lost him?”
“No, sir. I mean…he must have gone into one of the houses.”
“For fuck’s sake. Ask you to do one simple thing. Any sign of trouble?”
“No, sir. Quiet as a graveyard. But maybe we should call for back up, sir.”
“And why the fuck would we do that? If I fuck up one more time, it’s all over. Case pulled. You know that. Scotland Yard or some other bunch of wankers will come marching in. You’ll be pensioned off for a start, Brack, you useless bastard.”
No, I rather think it’ll be YOU who gets shunted off to Bournemouth, Sladey, spending the rest of your days shuffling round tea shops and wearing slippers while you watch Midsummer Murders on TV, ruefully chewing on tea cakes and regrets. Brack bit his lip and said nothing. He was scared. He needed the company of another officer, even if it was Slade. “Where are you now, guv?”
“Some shit-arsed, retard village called Hillesley. Only two or three miles, Brack. Try not to soil your pants, I’ll be there before you fucking know it. And make sure you’ve located Wallace before I arrive.”
The cell went dead. Bastard. Brack pocketed it and stealthily followed the road as it wound between the derelict cottages.
He was passing the first building when the guard dog emerged from the shadows inside. This particular guard dog was seven feet tall, bearded, and clad in what looked like a hospital Johnny soiled with dried blood. Tommy would have immediately recognised him as the psychotic killer with the out of control tissue-regeneration from the sequel to Anthropophagous. Twice as violent as his first incarnation, this homicidal giant was far from Absurd. Tommy had always believed the French title to be far more apposite: Horrible. Of course, Brack was aware of none of this background detail.
Absurd didn’t bother hiding his presence anymore. The fencing clattered as he pulled it further apart as he came for the policeman. Unlike his Anthro forebear, this big bastard remained silent, apart from ragged breathing and the stomp of his huge boots as he lumbered after his prey.
DC Brack whirled. He saw the abomination heading his way, massive hands spread for mayhem, and promptly did what his guv had told him not to, and soiled his boxers. Even though he was a trained officer of three years service, he knew he had no chance against this brute. He knew he was going to die.
He thought of turning to run but also knew he’d never make it. So he held his ground, ready to get the first punch in. Absurd slowed long enough to swat the detective’s head with his huge right hand and the copper went down. The giant scooped him up effortlessly under one arm and carried him back to the cottage he’d emerged from.
Now and again he would find a fire burning in a grate inside a room off the passageway, or a candle strategically placed on an occasional table to abate the darkness. Mood lighting, just for Tommy… He soon found himself at the heart of the house where a large stairwell wound impressively upwards into more gloom. But it was the open door to one side, revealing a far smaller set of steps leading downwards that interested him.
The steps were hewn from stone, and crawled with more flickering light, this time coming from below.
His shoes kicked up echoes from the first two steps, forcing him to increase his stealth. He didn’t have far to go; the short flight brought him down to another door, this one half shut, just allowing him a glimpse into the stone dungeon beyond. And it was certainly more of a dungeon than a cellar—at least it was now. The hook was probably a new acquisition (unless the 70’s muso had been prone to dangling naked ladies from the ceiling in between doodling on his Hammond) and the shackles gleamed with sweat and dried blood.
The first thing he realized was that the hook, and the shackles suspended from it, were empty.
Jasmine was still in the room however, and she was very much alive. Tommy’s jubilation was short lived; her torturer in the bulky asbestos suit was still there, too, fuel tank slung over one shoulder, flamethrower cradled in his arms.
Jazz was sitting in a corner, still naked, but no longer crying. She was staring at the floor, as if dulled by terror, lost in a trance. Her persecutor stood in the centre of the room, motionless, his back to the door. Waiting? For Tommy…
This was it then. Tommy had never been a man of action. He’d avoided fights at school, been drawn reluctantly into them at college. He didn’t know how to swing a punch to make it count. And now it really was going to count. But he had his car jack, and even though he quailed inside at what he was about to do, the sight of Jasmine, huddled and grimy with sweat and tears, spurred him on.
He pushed the door open wider and slipped through.
Jasmine slowly raised her head. Her eyes opened wide. Wider. Tommy put one finger to his lips and hefted the car jack.
And Jasmine smiled.