Discoredia, page 9
No, he would hold out as long as he could, he would refuse to beg for a mercy that would never come. He would strain every sinew in his body and die with dignity.
Dignity? What a joke. A fat sweaty man on a stool with his cock out. Where was the dignity in that? Just do it. Spoil his games. He shook his head as the awareness hit him that his master was in there, whispering to him, masquerading as his own thoughts. He allowed a small smile as he realized he had survived round one, but was resigned to the fact he would soon fall. There would be no tears shed for a man like he, and he would shed none himself now that his time had come.
“A little cold in here is it?” said Woodrose, despite the man sitting before him bathed in sweat. He laughed––the laugh of a sadist enjoying his sport. The laugh of a man who was only too aware of the torment he was causing and was reveling in it. “You seem a little limp. Why not think of those young girls you paid for with my money. I hope they were virgins for the prices you were paying. If not I shall be demanding a refund on your behalf. Now insert the fucking thing.”
He could resist no more, and as he looked down, he saw that his own body had betrayed him. For the first time in years, his penis stood erect with no help from those little blue pills. He wondered how he could have an erection at a time like this, but then again, he’d never really had control, had he?
Albert concentrated and tried to will his mind and body to fight back, but it was futile. The tendons in his arm were taught, as though made from steel cords, but his hand was moving all the same. The metal was cold as he slid it inside. He raised his gaze to meet that of his tormentor as he depressed the plunger, feeling the cold metal penetrate further down into his urethra.
“Twist the plunger.” Woodrose wasn’t looking at the genitals of his victim. He was looking into his eyes. He wanted to see the fear and pain through the windows to his soul. The flesh was secondary to him; the soul was what he sought to destroy.
The barely audible click Albert heard was followed by a degree of pain he hadn’t felt since he’d passed a kidney stone some forty years previous. The bottom half of his body spasmed and his feet kicked out. His stomach tightened and tears welled in his eyes. Woodrose smiled as Albert watched his pupils change from green to bright red, to black, to blue, and then green again.
The twist had clearly released the candiru’s bards, splitting his waterworks like a burst pipe while fish-hooking the fleshy insides of his penis.
“Rip the fucker out!” Woodrose yelled.
Albert obeyed without hesitation.
As he yanked the syringe upward, the barbs splayed outward like an umbrella, cutting his penis into eight sections. It fell on his lap like a bizarre crimson flower. As blood spurted from his groin his body considered shutting down in shock, but instead opted to retch. He vomited a mixture of bile and undigested food onto the shredded remains of his manhood. He swayed on the stool and fell to the floor as he began to lose consciousness, but a kick to his ribs brought him back before a kick to the groin placed him into a state of indescribable agony.
Woodrose circled the man on the floor like a vulture awaiting a meal. “Oh, what a mess. You’ve sliced up your dick. And in your distress you’ve gone and been sick.” He chuckled at his little rhyme and began to head for the door, pulling on his black leather gloves as he went. “That’s just the start, old friend. I’ll make you wish you were never born, and make you curse your Catholic whore of a mother for not aborting you like your cunt of a father wanted. I’ll see you later, either here or in hell.” And with that he opened the door to leave. But at the last moment he turned to Albert once more.
Staring intently at the man who had served him for over half a century, Woodrose made a slow movement with his gloved right hand. It was a perverse parody of the gesture Albert’s mother used to make at least a dozen times a day, but, instead of the sign of the cross of Christ, Woodrose traced out the shape of the crooked cross he served under all those years ago. The emblem that adorned his uniform when the two first met. The crooked cross under which so many––Albert’s parents included––had gone to their deaths. Left, down, left, then back up before down, right, and down again. A symbol loved by Woodrose, yet hated by the man rapidly bleeding to death before him. Albert had always hated that sign; people forgot that it wasn’t just the Jews that suffered beneath it, but any such feelings, indeed any feelings at all, were beyond him now, as was the realm of consciousness.
Albert’s vision had faded and gone; his only companions as he fell into the abyss were the Swastika etched in his mind, the raucous laughter of a madman, and the echoing thud of a closing steel door.
CHAPTER 14
BOOM, CRASH, BANG. None of the onomatopoeic words that came to mind seemed to do justice to the noise made by his shotgun as he fired into the grey winter’s sky.
“Over,” came a shout from deep within the wooded hillside, as another pheasant rose from the trees. It arrowed its body and ran the gauntlet of shots fired by each of the eight guns, standing in line, in the valley below. Judging by the cacophony of sound, Warren estimated that most of the party had let both barrels loose at the bird, but other than a slightly dipped wing, the cock seemed unfazed and sailed through the barrage. Once clear, it landed in the small plantation of Christmas trees that formed a barrier between the wood and the moor. Safe for the moment; perhaps the bird would be fortunate enough to see the New Year.
Warren was a country boy at heart and loved his field sports. He rode out with the hounds before the ban. To him, opposition to hunting and shooting simply indicated stupidity and a lack of understanding of others. In his opinion, the best thing that could be done with anyone who disagreed would be to round them up, and hunt them too.
He enjoyed the shoot, the skill required to hit a high bird, the camaraderie of the beaters and guns, and the countryside. It reminded him of the days before he had money, when he had beaten as a teenager alongside his father and grandfather. Those were the good days, walking among the frost covered trees as the winter sunlight lanced through the branches. Trudging through fields with boots heavy with mud. Beating the hedgerows with his stick, taking a nip of whisky from the hip-flask his Granddad bought him for his sixteenth, and if the guns were having a good day, a share of the Sloe Gin after the second drive. The wages of £25 and a can of Tetley’s weren’t much for a day’s work, but he loved it, even when caught in a blizzard or storm. Part of him thought he enjoyed those days more than these. But those days were gone. Now he was one of the well off sporting set; the rest was just treasured memories.
The line of beaters could be clearly heard; they were directly in front of his stand, number 2 for this drive. They were getting close to the line of flag bearers. He watched their flag waving become frantic as they attempted to ensure that any birds that took flight would reach an altitude that made sport of the activity, rather than wholesale slaughter.
He tossed two empty cartridges onto the floor and reloaded; he knew what was coming. The fog that threatened to ruin the day lifted by the end of the first drive. The second by the beck had gone well, and on the third the guns were well on their way to hitting the bag of 150 for the day. And that was why he expected the flush to come.
A third line of beaters was visible on the top of the bank side, the skeletal, leafless trees affording him a clear view of the carefully choreographed movements to come. The line on the left held firm, a small clearing visible yards in front of the uppermost flag bearer, who was tapping his flag against the side of his Wellington boot, unable to wave it properly for the branches overhead. The highest line joined in on the left and was close to doing so on the right. As the birds began to be hemmed in, the forest floor seemed to be alive. The bottom of the right hand line was curving around into a J, and the men on the left began to close ranks as the trap was closed.
The birds were surrounded and the beaters shouts had become muted on the orders of the head keeper, who clearly intended to close the trap tighter before allowing the flush. The men at the bottom were moving uphill, pushing the birds toward the top of the rise so that when they did fly, they would reach a good height and give the guns the sport they wanted.
“Ger ’od o’ that fuckin’ ’ound” cut through the cold winter air, and he saw one of the beaters grab his spaniel before the over-eager pup was able to dive in and spoil the balletic opera of entrapment that was being played out before him. The forest floor in the clearing seemed to be a moving carpet of feathers, the grey and light brown hens mingling with the red, gold, blues and browns of the more numerous cocks. The calls of the near to panic birds were coming to be as loud as the murmurs of the encroaching beaters and the tap-tap-tap of their sticks and flags on their boots.
“Send ’em in!”
The dogs were let loose, the spaniel being the first in, snapping this way and that, trying to catch a pheasant for his master, who would probably give him a clout with his stick if his efforts proved successful. The birds were for the guns not the dogs.
Virtually as one, the carpet of feathers lifted and streaked off in all directions, and the response from the guns was instant. They had all seen what was coming and were ready, letting off a volley of shots, with the majority of them hitting a target. It was over in a matter of seconds and with a minimum of nine birds on the floor, at least one of the guns must have had success with both barrels. The beaters were coming down the bank side, picking up the downed birds, which crashed into the woods earlier in the drive. It must have been hard work as most of them were puffing and blowing, their red cheeks in sharp contrast to the greens and browns of their wax jackets and leggings. It had been a good drive and Warren felt good. All thoughts of Hector Woodrose and the opening of Discoredia had been put to one side for the moment, even though the doors of his fantastic castle would be opening within hours.
“Time for lunch, Mr. Charlton,” he heard one of the keepers say as he walked by looking at the sky filling with clouds. “Looks like snow, it’s warming up for it.”
Snow, that wasn’t good, but looking at the bellies of the clouds above he had to agree with the keeper’s forecast. His temporary respite from thoughts of Discoredia was swept away. Tonight was a sellout and the ticket money was in, but this wasn’t a one-off and the club needed to make a reputation for itself. The atmosphere would be lacking if it ended up half empty with little convoys of ravers trapped in blizzards across the country. And what of the road to Discoredia itself? It was more than a forest track, but he doubted it would be on the council’s list of priority routes for gritting and clearing.
“Ready for the roast beef, Warren?” It was Councilor Preston, a guest gun for the day as reward for services rendered. Warren’s mind had moved on from the shoot and the Councilor was in his sights, a target of a different sort.
He replied and forced a smile. “Of course. I take it you are enjoying the days sport? Perhaps we could make it a regular thing for next season, I could have a word if you like.”
The trap was primed and the Councilor willingly drove into it.
“Would you? That would be great. This is so fantastic,” said the Councilor with his customary over emphasis on his adjectives.
The trap was sprung and the fool within it was both aware and glad. One good turn deserves another. Warren would wait, letting the upstanding member dwell on his potential newfound status as a gun with one of the most exclusive shoots in the area. He knew Preston would relish the chance to network with the other members of the syndicate––landowners, businessmen, the rich and influential. The very types he aspired to be. He also knew that he would soon come to understand what the price would be for his desire. Nothing extreme, but a price nonetheless. And when Warren asked if the road to Discoredia would be looked after should the snow come, he would be obliged to state that it would be a priority. “Due to the number of people who’ll be using it, it ab-so-lutely must, be made safe,” he would say. How could he say otherwise? He couldn’t let down his sponsor and jeopardize the place in the syndicate, despite no such commitment having been made.
Preston knew how to play the game. He was good at it, but that didn’t change the fact that he was on the bottom rung of a long ladder. Warren couldn’t stand the man, so easily bought and so smug in the knowledge that people were aware of his value. He made a mental note to wait until the fat sod was seated for dinner before choosing his own place.
The Councilor imposed himself upon Mr. Grey, a well to do farmer who had successfully diversified into holiday cottages and log cabins and was frequently in need of assistance regarding planning applications. At the other end of the table Warren, with his rose tinted spectacles firmly tucked away, was free to enjoy the roast beef, Yorkshire puddings and roast potatoes. The meal was far more satisfying than a couple of cheese sandwiches, a pie, and a packet of crisps, even if they were flavored with a hearty dose of nostalgia.
After lunch they did another drive before the snow started to fall and the decision was made to call it a day. With a total of ninety brace, the bag for the day exceeded the 150 that had been penciled in. The difference merely compensated for a couple of the days when they had fallen short prior to Christmas. Warren was pleased, not only with his personal tally of 23, but also with the early finish, just gone half past two. It gave him plenty of time to go home, shower, and change before heading to the club where he was due to meet the VIP ticket holders. If they were on time they would be there for 5:30 expecting the grand tour and he always enjoyed showing off his masterpiece.
He mentioned the weather and the roads to Councilor Preston as they walked back from their stands on the final drive and received the response he expected. Saying his goodbyes as he headed through the stable yard, he walked to his Land Rover. It was an old model, beaten up and dirty both inside and out. The smell of the old wax jacket on the passenger seat hit him when he opened the door. Normally he would take the Jag to the club, luxury overtaking practicality, but looking at the clouds sitting low on the horizon he contemplated taking the Land Rover. The tubby fool Preston had given him the answer he wanted regarding the road to Discoredia, assuring him it would be gritted within the hour, and telling him that if conditions worsened overnight all he had to do was give Mr. Kilby a call. He’d also prattled on about the cost of paying overtime to the crews working New Year’s Eve but Warren had only half listened. Preston was in his pocket, bought and paid for as his mother used to say, and it was up to him to grease the smaller cogs further down the chain.
Switching his phone from vibrate to ring he was about to drop it into his pocket when it rang. The display said Carmen.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” said the voice on the other end of the line. She sounded sweet and calm, but he was concerned. Why was she ringing him? He’d dropped Shelly off, along with an overnight bag and a case full of DVDs, before going to the shoot. The plan was for Carmen to babysit until early afternoon New Year’s Day, at which time he would collect his daughter and take her out for a nice dinner. Carmen had been babysitting Shelly for years, but had never rang him before.
“Hello,” he said again.
“Mr. Charlton? Sorry to bother you. Oh, I am glad to have caught you, I’ve been trying all day. Shelly used up her battery playing games and I don’t have a charger that fits her phone.”
The worry was increasing. How had he missed the phones vibration? Not seen the missed calls? He must have been without a signal. “That’s okay (it wasn’t), I must not have had a signal.”
“Guess so. Anyway, I’m really sorry to bother you,” he tensed, “and everything’s okay,” he relaxed a little, “but Shelly wants to see you.”
The tension was back. Although her independence, fuelled by expensive schooling, exceeded her years, wanting to see her Dad was not that unusual, but to get Carmen to ring him and say so certainly was. Particularly when she knew how busy he was and that he wouldn’t have time to see her.
“Can you put her on?”
“Sure, hang on.”
He looked at his watch. 2:45. He aimed to be home by half three, out for half four, and at the club for about quarter past five. Today of all days. The phone clicked as someone picked up the other end. “Here she is.”
“What’s up sweetheart?”
“I had a nap and I,” she paused, uncertain how to proceed. “And I had the bad dream. Sorry Dad, but I need to see you.”
Warren was about to tell her that dreams were just your mind telling a story, a reconciliation of recent events getting filed into memory. About to tell her not to worry, comfort her, tell her he would ring back as soon as he got himself organized at the club. Then he stopped. What had she said? Not A bad dream, THE bad dream.
“What dream honey?”
“I… I can’t remember it all, but it was the bad dream, like the one I had before. I’m sorry. I know I said I wouldn’t talk about it again but I need to see you. I’m scared.” He could hear her trying to hold back the tears and he knew why. A feeling of guilt came over him. This should have been talked about before but it had been pushed away, filed away in the topics best avoided section of his mind. She was sobbing. He could hear Carmen telling her it was okay, not to cry; he visualized her putting an arm around his daughter to comfort her.
Going to Carmen’s to see Shelly would take him an hour out of his way and he didn’t have an hour to spare, but he had to go. The bad dream, which she promised never to mention, could only be the dream she had the night her mother had been taken from her. She had nightmares before and after that night, but approached him two days after the murder to tell him about that one.
