Masters of Horror (31 page)

But the phone didn’t ring.

“
Hey, this is Kenny” the tinny sounding message said. “You know what to do.”

“
Fuck it!” she swore, slamming down the receiver. She didn’t have time to wait for callbacks.

She chewed on the corner of her thumbnail, considering her options. There were plenty of other dealers around, but she never knew what she was going to get when she bought from someone new.

But she was anxious. Already she could feel the need creeping up, like thousands of tiny insects were scuttling through her blood. Within an hour she would be desperate, and the insects would feel more like knives. The thought of the pain terrified her. She didn’t have the strength to fight it.

Unconsciously she rubbed at the needle marks trailing up her arm. She gritted her teeth. Her heart was already doing that skipping beat—part need, part anticipation—of getting her next fix.

She tugged her crop-top down over her stomach, the thin material doing nothing to shelter her against the cold bite of the night. Her nipples pressed painfully against the coarse material of her cheap nylon bra.

Walking again, she turned down a narrow alley, planning to try a local place she had heard rumors that sell.

With her hands in her pockets and her head down, she didn’t notice the approaching person until they were almost upon her. She started in surprise as a woman’s voice spoke out of the darkness.

“
You looking to buy, love?”

The words were spoken under her breath, and Stacey only just caught it.

Part of her hesitated. She didn’t make a habit out of scoring off of strangers, but no one else was around tonight and her desperation always over ruled her common sense. Even if the woman didn’t have any smack, she might have something else that could take off the edge until she can get hold of Kenny.

A small nod of her head told the woman she was interested.

Immediately, Stacey recognized that the woman was strange. She was older, in her forties at least. Dressed in long skirts and boots, with flowing white hair, she didn’t look like a typical dealer. Her eyes settled on Stacey for too long, her stare uncomfortably direct. The pupils of her eyes look iridescent, like spilt oil on the road, and Stacey was sure she could see colors floating across the black, even in the bad light.

The woman knew what Stacey needed without her even having to say it. All good dealers recognize their punter’s addiction.

With a sleight of hand she slid a twenty into the woman’s soft palm, just as the woman slipped the small, folded, cardboard wrap into her own hand.

“
It’s your medicine,” the woman said.

“
What?”

“
It will make you better.”

Stacey gave a wry smile, wondering if this was supposed to some kind of sales talk.

“
Yes,” Stacey said, without any hint of sarcasm. “I’m sure it will.”

She had everything she needed—lighter, tin-foil, syringe—wrapped within a cloth and stuffed down the side of her knee high boot. She was getting shaky, her brain was throbbing. Too desperate to wait to get back to her bedsit, she stopped at the end of the alley. She’d shoot up there. She had done it in worse places.

Commercial bins lined the bottom of the alley. A pile of cardboard boxes were stacked beside them and it was on these she squatted. It took her only moments to cook the smack and draw it up inside the much used needle.

With the tourniquet tight around her arm, her veins bulged. The strip of material was gripped between her teeth and, with her free hand, she tapped her arm, encouraging the vein to pop. Skillfully as an ER doctor, she slid the needle into the vein. She’d not reached the stage of injecting into her groin yet, though the veins were getting weaker and she knew it would not be long.

Stacey sank into the relief as she was injecting, riding on the wave of pleasure and calm. And everything was right again.

* * *

Her cheek was pressed against scratchy nylon. The smell of cigarette smoke and old vomit turned her stomach in a lazy flip. She had yet to open her eyes, but her gritty eyelids and pounding head told her it would not be a pleasant experience when she did.

But she needed to wake up, so she forced her eyes open. In front of her, an expanse of dirty beige carpet stretched ahead. She closed her eyes again, waiting for her world to stop spinning.

Where was she?

The last thing she remembered was being in the alley. After that there was nothing. She wasn’t in her bedsit, she knew that much. Had she picked up a John and collapsed? Was she even alone?

Stacey opened her eyes again and lifted her throbbing head.

The room was empty. That, at least, was a relief, and she let her forehead fall back to the floor.

She groaned, remembering something. The wrap had cost her last score. She was broke and would have to turn another trick before she could get another fix.

Her heart sunk. It was always like this. From the moment she woke she was either scoring, getting high, or turning tricks to make the money to get high.

Her life wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was empty.

She was empty.

Stacey forced herself to sit up and take in her surroundings. She had to sort her shit out if she was going to get back on the street and earn some cash.

The room was sparse. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, with no shade to subdue its glare. A single, metal-framed bed was pushed up against the back wall behind her, its mattress thin and soiled. No sheets covered it. The top of the plywood bedside table was empty and an ancient, thread-bare easy chair sat beneath the window. Heavy brown curtains, hanging from floor to ceiling, covered the windows. They were thick and Stacey couldn’t even tell if it was day or night.

Her legs trembled beneath her as she used the side of the metal bed frame to pull herself to her feet. For a moment her head swam and the nausea flooded back. She bit down on it, steadying herself.

Taking a deep breath, she went to the door and twisted the handle. Nothing happened. Her brow creased in confusion. She tugged on the handle, then pushed. Her heart beat faster, the adrenaline firing through her veins. Was it locked? Has someone locked her in here?

For the first time, the thought that she might have got herself into something bad hit her. Her stomach tightened in fear. She had come across some Johns who had been violent before, leaving her with a black eye or bruised ribs, but it was only to be expected. It was practically part of the job. No one had taken it this far before.

She remembered the window. Crossing the room, she pulled back the thick material of the curtains.

A thin whine of fear escaped her throat and she stumbled back.

The tall window was completely bricked up.

Her hand was at her mouth.

Her fix. She was going to need her next fix.

That was the absurdity of her addiction. She could have been kidnapped by a mass-murdering psychopath, and the first thing that worried her was where she was going to get her next hit from.

Panicked, she ran back to the door.

“
Hey!” She slammed her small fists up against the door. “Hey! Whoever is out there—this isn’t fucking funny!”

She listened intently, hoping to hear something, but there was only silence. Suddenly she realized she couldn’t even here the constant drone of traffic that was always so present.

Could someone have taken her out of the city?

She thundered her fists against the door again. “Open the fucking door!”

Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She didn’t want to cry—it felt too much like giving up, like admitting that she was in some serious shit. Despite her admonitions, her eyes flooded with tears and she swiped at them, angrily.

How long would it be before the shakes start? Before every muscle in her body felt as though it was being torn from her body? Before she started vomiting so violently it felt as if her stomach was going to explode from her throat?

The thoughts terrified her. The prospect of going into detox was far worse than anything some psychopath could do to her. All she wanted was to get out of there. At least if she knew there was someone else around then there was also the possibility of getting out. Right now she thought she would rather be murdered than face going without her next hit.

“
Hey!” She banged on the door again. “You got to let me out. I need to take a piss.”

She listened again, desperately hoping to hear something – anything! But it was like a void out there. The silence was absolute.

Her hands went to her face and she wiped at her mouth. Already they were shaking, but surely that was from the fear and adrenaline? It was too soon to start withdrawing.

Turning, her back against the door, she surveyed the room. Her prison.

Something caught her eye; a book was sitting on the bedside table. Her nose wrinkled. Was that there before? Her memory flicked back over and she was sure the table was empty. But she must be wrong, she just must have missed it.

Curious, Stacey walked up to the table and picked up the book. It was heavy in her hand. The cross on the front cover told her that the book was a bible even before she had a chance to read the words. She flicked open the pages and frowned. Every page, except for the cover, was bare.

A shiver crept over her, trembling its way across her shoulders and down her spine, like the hands of a lover. She dropped the book and it landed on the floor, split open in the middle, its naked pages exposed.

It felt as though the book was mocking her and she kicked at it, pushing it under the bed and out of sight.

Her mouth was dry, her lips stuck together. Her tongue snuck out, trying to wet them, but it was thick and furry against her parched skin. Suddenly her desire for a glass of cold water was almost as strong as her desire for smack.

Could someone have left a bottle of water in here somewhere? It was an unlikely hope, but still possible. She pulled open the drawer of the side-table, checked beside the bed, but there was nothing. Turning, she scanned the rest of the room.

She noticed something and her heart picked up a notch.

The curtains were drawn again.

Immediately she spun back round. Someone must be in the room with her, someone who was hiding? But the sparse room left no place for someone to hide.

It wasn’t possible. There was no way she closed the curtains behind her—why would she? On seeing the bricked up window she had run straight to the door. There was no chance she had taken the time to close the curtains again.

Had she?

Her mind was fuzzy from drugs and fear. Could she believe anything her memory told her, could she trust any of her actions?

A barked sob escaped her chest.

Her legs were weak beneath her and they gave way, the side of the bed finding her for support. It creaked beneath her slight weight and Stacey put her face in her hands.

What was happening here?

Someone must be playing tricks on her, it was the only explanation.

Then, from beneath the bed, something reached out and grabbed her ankle.

Stacey screamed and threw herself across the room, landing on the floor. She scrambled away, her feet propelling her backwards. Her heart pounded, her breath left her body in frantic, shaky gasps. From her position she could see beneath the metal frame of the bed.

There was nothing there.

Her mind tripped, jumped over a moment in time. She tried to escape into the darkness of oblivion, but she couldn’t forget the feeling of cold, dead fingers as they wrapped around her skin.

There had been something there. Something had touched her.

But there was nothing beneath the bed now, not even dust-bunnies shifted in the slight breeze her movement had created. And Stacey realized something else. The book had gone.

She needed to get out of there.

Stacey turned to the door and her mind swam in disbelief. Where moments ago she had been pounding on the cheap painted wood, now there was only smooth wallpaper.