James Grippando - Afraid of the Dark

“Which way is the Kushiara ATM?” asked Vince.

“Get out and you’ll be standing right in front of it.”

That was exactly where Vince wanted to be-the corner of Brick Lane and Fashion Street, south of the old Truman Brewery. He paid the fare, stepped out to the sidewalk, and closed the door. The taxi pulled away, and even though he was alone, his old friend was with him. Rain. It was abundant in London, creating a world that didn’t depend on sight. Vince popped his umbrella and listened. He could hear footsteps around him, easily differentiating between the heavy plod of a passing jogger and the lighter step of a woman walking in high heels. He could feel the breeze on his face and smell the curry from the restaurant down the street. He heard a flag flapping in the breeze overhead, the clang of a bicycle bell. With a little extra concentration he could distinguish buses from trucks, trucks from cars, little cars from motor scooters. Nearby, a pigeon cooed, then another, and it sounded as though they were scrapping over a piece of bread or perhaps a muffin that someone had dropped on the sidewalk. A car door slammed. Men were talking in the distance. In some ways, he was more aware of his surroundings, or at least of certain details of his surroundings, than many sighted persons.

Are you afraid of The Dark?

The question had been poignant. Yes, sometimes he was-when he used his mind’s eye to step outside of himself, and he remembered a world that was so much more than sound, smell, taste, and touch. The fearful Vince was all too aware that he lived his life largely in a reactive posture-that things still existed even if they concealed themselves and did not call out to him for recognition. He wondered what lay hidden on these old streets, how close he really was to danger-to the Dark.

“Are you Vince?”

He turned at the sound of the man’s voice. “Who’s asking?”

“Prince Charles.”

The guy was every bit the smart-ass in person that he had been on the phone, and the Bangladeshi accent was just as prominent. Vince took the envelope from his pocket and handed it over. He could hear the man open it, presumably counting out the two hundred pounds in cash.

“You sure you don’t want the submachine gun?” the man said. “It’s only another hundred pounds.”

The U.K. had some of the toughest gun laws in the world, but the guy was only half joking. Even semiautomatic weapons could be had for as little as three hundred pounds, and bootleg DVDs and black-market tobacco weren’t the only illegal trade in Banglatown. It was all a matter of knowing the right person, and Chuck Mays had assured Vince that if he needed anything-anything-in the East End, an ex-pat from Dhaka named Sanu Reza was the go-to guy.

“The Glock will do,” said Vince.

“We have to walk about two blocks,” Reza said.

Vince unfolded his walking stick, asked the man for his arm, and placed his hand in the crook of the man’s elbow. “You lead,” said Vince.

“I’ve never brokered a sale to a blind guy before,” he said as they started down the sidewalk.

Vince smiled to himself, mildly amused that both Reza and the Dark were under the same misapprehension.

“No worries,” he said, thinking of the precious time he’d logged at the shooting range with Brainport back in Miami-and of the prototype of the device that his friend Chuck had shipped to the hotel. “This blind man isn’t as blind as some people think he is.”

It was well beyond nightfall, and the Dark walked down the alley with purpose.

Part of him had wanted to go straight from his computer to the cellar, but he kept his urge under control. The self-storage unit for his equipment was eight blocks from his flat, and it had taken almost forty minutes to walk there. It was a discipline he’d learned with al-Shabaab: Never go directly from point A to point B. Take the long route, then go around the block again, until you’re absolutely sure that no one is following. Everything he needed from storage fit into his backpack, and in minutes he was on his way. The diversion had fueled his intensity, however, and he took a less circuitous route to the cellar.

He checked over his shoulder once, then put down his backpack and aimed the key at the door lock. The tumblers clicked as the lock received the key, and the feel of a perfect fit was a sensual rush-a sign of what was to come.

The Dark had waited a very long time for this, having resisted the temptation to take her so many times in the past, before the moment was exactly right. It had been six months since she had fallen into his trap. The first four had been the usual conditioning: sixteen weeks of confinement and total isolation in the cellar. She ate, slept, and bathed only when he allowed it. She wore the clothes he gave her. The lights went on or off when he said so. She had no television, no radio, no iPod, no CDs, no computer. Then, at week seventeen, he started leaving magazines for her. Soft-core things at first, partially clothed young girls in provocative poses. At first she ignored them, but eventually boredom or curiosity got the best of her. She bit. He’d changed the material daily, each magazine a little more explicit than the one before it. The conditioning had gone much better than with her underage predecessors. She’d soaked it up, thumbing through even the images of old men having the time of their life with the oral-sex-is-not-sex generation. It had gone so well, in fact, that at week twenty he’d started letting her venture out for an hour each day with an ankle bracelet. The plan was to turn her into a recruiter, his link to more teenage girls-the way he’d trained Shada to be his link to other women.

You’re next, kitty8.

The deadbolt turned. The Dark pushed the door open, locked it behind him, and started down the concrete staircase. He was just ten steps away from the secure metal door that he had installed at the lower entrance to the cellar apartment. His pack of tools was starting to feel heavy. He’d taken only the bare essentials from the warehouse, but filming without a crew wasn’t easy. He needed two cameras with tripods and remote-controlled zooms for wide shots, and a handheld for close-ups. He would cut and mix later. One shotgun microphone would catch the audio. A Paglight would eliminate the grainy amateur look, even if his hypersensitive eyes did force him to wear dark glasses suitable for the snow-blind. No glasses for her. Just gold stiletto heels, a black lace thong, rope, and handcuffs.

A rush of adrenaline coursed through him as he fumbled for the second key. He was already thinking of camera angles and positioning. First-class footage was not required, but material on the P2P networks did need to be trade-worthy. The quality of some downloads he’d watched was abysmal, and once upon a time, quality hadn’t mattered. His earliest ventures into P2P weren’t about titillation. He was studying the ways of encryption and secret communications among pedophiles, seeing how those methods could be applied to al-Shabaab’s communications. Sometimes it angered him the way this dark world had sucked him in. Sometimes.

He turned the knob and pushed open the door.

“Is that you?” she asked.

She always asked that same question, but he knew what she was really asking: What do you want from me? That fear in her voice was a good thing; he wished the camera were already running. He adjusted the dimmer switch on the wall to bring a little light to the room, then started toward her. She lay on the mattress in the corner, which was a good place for them to start. She’d end up on the floor. There was no written script, but as he drew closer, he could hear the first take in his head.

“Who did this to you, huh?”