Alan Baxter - The Gulp - Five Tales of Horror

He reached out and plucked a chunk of meat from one small, rounded thigh. It was a little grey in colour, more oily than he had anticipated. The skin and the texture of the meat reminded him of Cantonese duck dishes he’d had on a trip to Sydney years ago. The taste wasn’t dissimilar to duck either, rich and slick, but chewy. So little meat to the thing, all close to the small bones. Despite his distaste, he ate about half of one, left its denuded bones on the rack and turned away. Appallingly, it had settled his stomach from the previous night’s excess of whisky. He supposed any greasy breakfast sufficed as a good hangover cure.

He killed more time watching television, made another pot of coffee. As the time drifted around towards noon, he became more agitated, more nervous. At twelve on the button, there was a rapid knock at the door.

Dace sucked in a breath and jumped up, turned off the TV. A mirror on the wall in the hall showed his pale, stressed face as he glanced at it in passing. He took another moment, composed himself, forced his shoulders and jaw to relax. A shadow outside the frosted glass remained motionless. Broad shouldered, similar in height to Dace.

He slipped off his gloves and opened the door and smiled. The man was maybe in his fifties, close-cropped grey hair, receding a little from a high forehead. He had a square face, strong jaw, brown eyes. He wore a neat suit, shirt but no tie, shiny shoes, and carried a smart leather attaché case. He smiled and seemed immediately harmless and friendly. “David Nikolov?”

“That’s right. Grandpa said to expect you. Everything’s in order.” Dace stepped back, gestured inside, eager to close the door.

“I’m Talbot, Mrs Blumenthal’s representative.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr Talbot.”

“Just Talbot, thanks.”

“Sure, okay.” Dace closed the door and stood a little awkwardly.

“Nikolov has never mentioned you before,” Talbot said, the smile fading.

“No, he wouldn’t have. He keeps his business entirely to himself, even though me and my father are always around to help out. These are unusual circumstances for us.”

“The family emergency.”

“Yes. Grandpa asked me to offer his heartfelt apologies.”

“Your father is here too?”

“No, just me.” Don’t say too much , Dace told himself. The best lies were simple. If you loaded a lie with details, you made obstacles that were liable to trip you up.

Talbot stared, unblinking. Dace became uncomfortable again.

He swallowed. “Grandpa said you’d agreed on two for sixty?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, cool. You want to see them? I didn’t seal the lids yet.”

“Of course.”

Dace nodded, forced a smile. He gestured into the spare room and followed Talbot in. The man crouched, put his case on the floor beside himself, and looked carefully at each girl’s body. Appallingly, he reached between their legs, forced his hand in and leaned close to look. Dace grimaced but held his tongue. Who knew what the fuck the man was checking for.

Talbot nodded, picked up his case again and stood. “Your grandfather is offering us a very good price here.”

“He feels terrible about the change of plans and the position he’s put you in. He’s a proud man, values professionalism, and wants to make it up to you.”

“Hmm.” Talbot stepped aside and gestured at the boxes.

Dace took up the drill, reminding himself to take it with him when he left, as he’d removed his gloves. He set the lids, quickly drilled screws into each corner, a couple more evenly spaced along each long side. Then he stood and smiled. “I’ll help you out with them?” This was the part he’d dreaded, where he might be seen outside, even recognised.

“Not necessary, thank you. My driver will help me.”

Dace nodded, tried to keep the smile from his face. He could stay indoors, after all.

“But in a moment,” Talbot said. “The paperwork first.”

Dace paused. “The… paperwork.”

“Yes. They’re useless without the incantations.”

Dace laughed, heart hammering. His mind raced. “Of course, sorry. Grandpa left that stuff in the kitchen. This way.”

Talbot frowned, but followed him from the room. Dace’s head spun, the jitteriness from the coffee redoubled, he was lightheaded, dizzy. What the hell could he do? This close, there was no other choice. He had mentioned the kitchen before his conscious mind even registered the plan.

He walked directly up to the kitchen table and closed his hand around the handle of the knife. Without pausing to think further, he turned. Talbot was a few paces behind, paused in the doorway.

Talbot frowned, looked down at the knife in Dace’s hand and said, “What–” then Dace slammed the blade into his chest, right to the hilt.

Talbot managed to get one hand half up to block the blow, but it wasn’t enough. He cried out, blood bubbling over his lips, but his eyes went wild, his expression feral. He thrashed Dace with both hands, the blows battering into Dace’s face and head. A whistling whine curled in through Dace’s left ear and his vision crossed, darkening from the edges, as one of Talbot’s hands cracked into his jaw.

“Fuck!” Dace yelled, and his voice was slurred.

Talbot pushed away from him, the knife sliding free with a wet suck. Dace staggered back as Talbot made a burbling cough then came at him again. The man swung large, strong arms, raining blows again.

“Fucken die already!” Dace screamed, raising the knife and plunging it down again and again. He felt it hit Talbot’s arms, the blade grate along bone. The man roared in pain and anger, but still fought.

Dace backed into a chair and it folded the back of his knees. He went over, the chair tipping with him, grinding painfully into his arse and the back of one thigh. Talbot fell on him, slamming elbow strikes with one blood-soaked arm into the side of Dace’s head. Something cracked like a gunshot near his eye. Consciousness was fleeing, the blackness closing in on Dace’s vision like twin tunnels of night. The man’s blood was hot all over his face, his hands were slick with it. But he still held the knife. He raised it and stabbed it down into Talbot’s back. The man arched away with a roar and Dace stabbed again and again.

Finally, Talbot fell still, collapsed limp on top of Dace as he lay bent awkwardly over the chair. He gasped for breath, desperately trying to stay conscious. His head rang from Talbot’s blows, from the exertion.

He heaved, the chair grinding into his lower back as he forced the dead man off him.

“Fucking hell!” Dace said, though the words were mostly sobs.

He was soaked in Talbot’s blood, and more spread in a rapidly widening pool across the black and white kitchen floor.

Dace staggered to the sink and ran the taps hard, washed his face and hands. He pulled off the jumper and shirt, left them in the sink as he rinsed his neck and shoulders. His head ached, all around one eye and cheekbone hurt like hell, made him hiss at the slightest pressure. His vision was blurred that side.

“Broke my fucken face,” he said. He wondered if it was his cheekbone or the orbit of his eye that had fractured. It felt like both. But a kind of elation coursed through him. That was some fight, and he’d won. It felt good.

He found a black plastic bin liner under the sink and put his blood-soaked clothes in it. He’d worn them, there might be DNA evidence, so he had to take everything with him. He rolled the kitchen knife up in them too, then stripped naked right there at the sink. He put all the clothes in the bin liner, left it on the kitchen table.

Talbot had dropped his attaché case in the kitchen doorway during the fight. Dace crouched, grimacing at a stab of pain in his butt and upper leg from the bruises the chair had left, and popped open the clasps. It was crammed with neat wads of bright green one hundred dollar bills. A quick count confirmed there was exactly sixty thousand dollars. He whooped. “I fucking did it!” he yelled, then winced at his throbbing face.