Alan Baxter - The Gulp - Five Tales of Horror

“No no no!” Dace said breathlessly, looking around himself. He’d hardly touched her, it wasn’t a hard slap at all. Barely a tap.

Footsteps behind him. He grabbed the knife from his thigh pocket and spun around. An old man, tall and thin, iron grey hair in disarray, stood there. He wore blue and white striped pyjamas, his face hard, eyes narrowed.

“You hurt her,” he said. Not a question, an accusation.

“I didn’t mean to!”

Dace took a step back, the knife held in front of his chest, pointing at the old man, but he made space. Nikolov approached his wife, crouched before the armchair. Tears rolled over his high cheekbones, into his hollow cheeks.

“Elena,” he said plaintively. “Elena.” He turned, looked up at Dace with haunted eyes. “Why?”

“I’m so sorry! It was an accident!” Dace’s mind raced. He couldn’t be responsible, it would be even more trouble. “A heart attack,” he said, voice desperate. “I surprised her? It must have been a shock!”

Nikolov stared, mouth half open, lips as wet as his cheeks. He shook his head. “I saw you hit her.”

Dace’s heart rushed, hammered in his ears. “Fuck fuck fuck.” He brandished the knife. “Okay, sorry about this, but get up. Get away from her.”

“You want to rob us, yes?” Nikolov said. He rose slowly, grimacing, one hand to his lower back.

These two were ancient, they had to be in their nineties at least. Dace licked his lips, dry-mouthed despite the sweaty confines of the rubber. His breath was hotter than ever. “Over there.” He pointed at the sofa with the knife. “Over there, come on. Sit down.”

Nikolov complied, without taking his eyes from Dace. He sat on the centre cushion of the three, back straight, hands on his knees. Dace moved to the door and turned on the light, put away his torch, then stood staring at the old man. His hand shook holding the knife, his knees knocked. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Think. Think!

The woman was dead, that was done. Couldn’t be changed. He needed Carter’s money, that was still his priority. Old man Nikolov had no idea who Dace was. Get the money, leave the old man to call the police. They never came to The Gulp quickly, if they ever came at all. He’d be away and gone, he’d burn the Freddie costume, or maybe put it in the bag with a load of rocks and take it out in Carter’s boat, drop it far out to sea where it would never be found. Just get the money and get out. Easy as.

Fuck.

“Yes,” he said, trying to make his voice strong. “I want to rob you.”

“Good luck. We have nothing.”

“Bullshit!” Dace shouted. “Everyone knows you have money. This… this fucking guinea pig bullshit circus, the fuck are you even doing here?” He was ranting, rambling. Panicking. He killed that old woman. Was that murder? It was an accident. But no, he’d hit her. “You’ve got money!” he said again. “Where is it? Give me the money and I’ll be gone. Simple.”

“No money.” Nikolov’s face was hard, expressionless. But his eyes burned. The lower lids were loose, wet and red, but his gaze was iron.

Dace stepped closer, waved the knife under the old man’s wattled chin. “The fucking money!”

Nikolov lifted his chin, exposed his throat, like a dare.

“Don’t fucking move!” Dace said.

He searched the room, starting with the roll-top desk. Every few seconds he glanced back at Nikolov, but the old man sat stock still. Dace rummaged everywhere, found nothing. He saw a jacket hanging on a hook on the door and went to it, found the old man’s wallet. Inside was $240 in fifties and twenties. He pocketed it with a sob of disappointment. Next to nothing compared to the sixty K he needed.

“Where is it?” he yelled, rounding on Nikolov.

The old man sat still, staring.

He would have to tie the bastard up and search the rest of the house. Or could he convince the man to tell him? He might search for hours and find nothing. He might miss it. But this fucker knew where his money was. Dace’s mind flicked back to the kitchen. The guinea pigs on their little metal stretchers. The pile of wire pieces. He was all in now, the old woman’s corpse was proof of that.

“Don’t move!”

He ducked around the door, grabbed the pliers. Nikolov’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of his tool in Dace’s hand.

“We have nothing,” Nikolov said. His voice was steady, but was there a trace of fear under it now? “You should go. Just go now.”

“Can’t do that. I’m in a world of grief and your money is my only way out.”

“No money.”

“Bullshit.”

Dace grimaced. These people were virtually cadavers already, eating roast fucking guinea pigs, living in a house where no single item of décor was less than thirty years old. Maybe the old man was scared because he was telling the truth. Maybe they really had nothing. But he had to be sure. Because he had no other ideas if this one didn’t work.

He sucked in a deep breath, blinked, his eyes gritty with tiredness. Then he moved towards Nikolov. The old man shifted back in alarm. Dace crouched, put the knife on the ground beside him and grabbed one scrawny ankle. The man’s bare foot was long and thin, the bones standing up in ridges to his knobbly toes, the nails thick and yellowed.

“No!” Nikolov said.

“Where’s the money?”

“No money.”

“Bullshit!”

Dace opened the pliers and put the toothed metal grips over and under Nikolov’s pinkie toe. The man struggled, stronger than Dace had expected, but no match for him. Dace squeezed, enough to whiten the skin, and Nikolov stilled. “Where’s the money?”

“No money!”

Dace blew out an exasperated breath. Fuck it. He gripped the plier handles hard. Nikolov howled as his toe burst, the bone crunched, blood spurted from under the nail, then the nail skidded sideways and came away. The pliers slipped off and Nikolov stamped his free foot up and down, gasping and sobbing with pain. Blood sprayed, Dace heard some spatter against the rubber face of his mask. His breath was short and shallow, furnace hot in the confines. It felt tight against the back of his head, thick and heavy around his neck and over his shoulders.

Nikolov stilled, his chest heaving, a huh huh huh of pain and shock punctuating his breath.

Dace sat back on his heels, looked at the old man. Nikolov stared back.

“Just tell me where your money is,” Dace said. “I’ll take it and be gone, and all this will be over.”

“Nema da zemeš ništo od mene,” Nikolov said through clenched teeth.

“What? What the fuck did you say?”

“Kopile!”

Dace frowned. He thought maybe he understood that from the delivery alone. “Speak English, old man. And in English, tell me where the fucking money is! I don’t want to do this.” He swallowed bile, refusing to look at the stark white bone sticking sideways from Nikolov’s rent flesh.

“Then don’t! Just go!”

“I need the money, man! You can’t understand how badly I need the money. My whole family!”

Nikolov stuck out one bony arm, one long finger trembling as it pointed at Elena. “And what about my family?” The strength of his anger was surprising.

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t supposed to happen.” Dace gestured at Nikolov’s foot. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Any of this. But here we are.”

A surprising amount of blood still pulsed from Nikolov’s little toe. Dace didn’t want to do it again, but he would. He was committed now. If the man truly believed Dace wouldn’t stop until he had the money, Nikolov would tell him where it was. But he couldn’t bear to look at that mangled toe. He grabbed the other foot.

“Ne Ne Ne!” Nikolov said, thrashing harder this time. He leaned forward and rained blows with his bony fists and forearms onto Dace’s head. They were incredibly strong strikes, the mask slipped and shifted on his sweat, the eyeholes moving down, blinding him. Nikolov kicked his leg, hammered at Dace, even kicked at him with his other foot, heedless of his ruined toe.