Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (19 page)

“
Aleeeex,”
Victor would drawl in his thick Italian accent as he slurped down his
spaghetti.

“
Nobody
gets a joooob done like you doooo my frieeeend. Stick with me and you
wiiiill go farrrr…”

Alex
never really liked Victor, but knew enough never to question him. He
had seen what happened to people who got on Victor’s bad side.
In fact, it was often someone like Alex who would be sent out to deal
with those people.

As
he looked around him now at the lush green lawns and the beautiful
pale morning sky, which was cloudless apart from a few cotton wool
smudges, he thanked God for the fortunate intervention. For without
it, he too might be an overweight mass of flesh, surrounded by
frightened thugs waiting on his every whim. No sir, he wouldn’t
go back there. Not for all the tea in China, or all the money in
Victor’s deep pockets. Even so, he still had a lot of blood on
his hands, and although he wasn’t there yet, he was working on
redeeming himself.

He
remembered the day that everything in his life had changed. He often
thought about it when he found himself questioning his faith. He’d
been sent to do one of his special jobs for Victor. He was ordered to
pay a visit to a guy in Queens who was late on his loan repayments
and had started to drag his heels. He remembered Victor’s
instructions clearly.

“
Either
briiiing me my money, or bring me soooome body parts.”

The
man owed fifty grand, but only had four when Alex called. Later, as
he made his way back to Victor, his right inside jacket pocket
contained the four grand. His left contained a bag with three
fingers, seven teeth, and half an ear.

Lesson
learned.

You
don’t fuck with Victor.

Although
he didn’t know it at the time, divine intervention had already
begun. Alex drove a big Pontiac Firebird. It was black and had a gold
eagle painted on the hood. Some would say it looked sporty, but Alex
always thought it looked mean. He liked the sound of it when he fired
the engine, the aggressive way it growled, spat, and grunted, as if
it came from hell itself. He hadn’t paid attention to the
no
parking
signs as he pulled up outside Tony
Valentine’s apartment block. If he had, he would have parked a
little farther down, but he was keen to get on with the job. When he
returned twenty minutes later with his knuckles raw and bleeding, he
found his beloved Firebird clamped and ticketed. He was furious, more
at his own stupidity, as he now had no option but to return to his
pasta slurping employer on foot. It was an amateur mistake. His hands
and shirt had been spattered with blood, which made the journey
incredibly risky. He pulled his jacket around his neck and thrust his
hands into his pockets, which did and adequate job of hiding the
mess. Deciding there was no point crying over spilled milk, he set
off walking, hoping to maybe flag a taxi a little farther down the
street. He was just starting to calm down when he heard the
unmistakable wail of a police cruiser. It rocketed around the corner,
tires squealing in protest and casting its harsh blue and red lights
onto the darkened streets. Alex ducked casually into an alleyway,
pushing himself into a recessed archway as far as he could as the car
raced past him. Suddenly he felt a strange tingling in his left arm
as alarm bells began to ring in his head.

Please,
not now
.

He
willed himself to remain calm, thinking not of his health, but the
bags in his pockets and the blood on his clothes. A heart attack was
not something he could afford right now. He was sweating profusely,
holding onto the wall with gritted teeth, willing the feeling to
pass. He felt the vice-like grip on his chest begin to loosen
slightly, and thought he might actually be ok, when he was overcome
by incapacitating agony. He couldn’t breathe, and could only
manage a weak gasp as he staggered forwards into the street. He
managed a couple of slow, lurching steps before he fell, smashing his
face into the pavement as the pressure in his chest increased. He
began to drift in and out of consciousness, and was vaguely aware of
the crowd of people gathering around him, ghostly faces swimming in
and out of focus. Alex accepted what he was sure was his death.

Twenty-nine.

That’s
how old he was when it happened. His next memory was of waking up
dazed and groggy in a hospital bed with his ashen faced wife beside
him. Her eyes were relieved, but pleading for answers. She knew he
worked for Victor, but not in the capacity that he did. She thought
he was a manager of one of Victor’s export businesses, but that
was merely a cover. Every part of him hurt. He tried to talk, but
couldn’t muster the strength. Suddenly his memory returned and
he remembered the bag—the bag containing the non-essential (but
incredibly incriminating) parts of Tony Valentine that he had
forcibly removed. Surely they had found it, perhaps as a nurse
removed his clothes as they tried to save his life. He could imagine
her screaming and dropping the bag on the floor, the other doctors
recoiling in horror.

It
would transpire that on this occasion, luck was on his side. Two
things happened that managed to get him off the hook:

First
was the heart attack itself. When he’d fallen he had smashed
his face on the curb, which explained away the blood on his shirt.
Then there was the bag. Each day he waited for the police to arrive
and question him about it, but they never showed. He did receive a
visit from one of Victor’s men, however. Alex had seen him
before, but couldn’t remember his name. He thought it might
have been Gino or Giuseppe, but wasn’t certain. The man sat
beside the bed, watching carefully with shifty rat eyes. He
eventually leaned in close and said:

“
Boss
sent me to tell you not to worry. We took care of the bag.”

It
was as simple as that. Victor had come through for him.

“
He
also said with that ticker of yours, he can’t keep you on the
payroll. Here—” He pushed a sealed envelope into the
pocket of Alex’s trousers, which were neatly folded over a
stand by his bed.

“
Five
G’s for the job, as agreed. Plus an extra hundred grand for not
spilling your guts.”

Alex
nodded, but honestly wasn’t sure if he had spilled his guts or
not. He couldn’t remember the events immediately after the
accident, and he was still woozy from the medication.

“
Take
it easy, pal. You had a close call,” said rat-features as he
stood and walked away without looking back.

Just
like that, Alex was out of the game, and with more money than he’d
made in the last year and a half. Something told him to heed it as a
warning, that maybe he was meant for a better life than that of a
thug.

He
looked down at the pamphlets in his hands as he crossed the street
and prepared to start work. The sun was warm and the breeze cool. It
was the perfect day for working outdoors, spreading the good word of
God. It was difficult at times. Most people were unwilling to listen,
and he noticed with dismay that the world had become a cynical place,
desensitized to the value of a true miracle. But there was still
hope, as scattered amongst the dark that lived in many were a few
bright souls who were just waiting to be given something to believe
in. This was his third street of the day, and already he had found a
few people interested enough to come to one of the sermons at his
church the following Sunday. He had high hopes for this street. There
was a wealthy vibe to it, and the rich in Alex’s experience
were often more tolerant than the rude lower classes. As he prepared
to begin, his mind drifted once more to his former life and the
change that made him the man he was today.

The
hospital discharged him three weeks later. He’d been even
luckier than he initially thought. They told him he died three times
on the operating table, and they were about to give up on the
resuscitation, when they managed to get a faint pulse. The
instructions were clear enough; no stress, less salt, less fatty
foods, more exercise—but not too much at first. He listened
closely, as his brush with death had made him appreciate life even
more. Even without the payoff from Victor, he had already decided to
change his ways. God had seen fit to give him another chance at life,
and he intended to make the most of it by spreading the word and
hoping to one day be forgiven his sins. His wife Lori had been
skeptical at first, but understood why it meant so much to him. And
once she had seen the passion with which he approached his new faith,
she got behind him wholeheartedly.

As
the months turned into years, his old life had faded away, and his
tireless work with the church was rewarded as he was made a minister.
He was no preacher, but he definitely believed there was a higher
power looking out for him, and he wanted to tell people about it—to
share it.

The
first two houses he visited had been busts – a disinterested
middle aged man at number one who seemed well on his way to being
drunk (just after ten a.m. on a Wednesday morning), and the woman who
lived at number three was just leaving the house as Alex approached
with his pamphlets. There was no point in getting frustrated though,
it was simply the nature of the game.

He
approached the third house on the street, number five, and looked it
up and down. Well-kept gardens. Neat and tidy driveway. Clean windows
and curtains. He had learned from experience that the house was often
a good representation of the owner’s character, and Alex
thought the occupier of number five might well be willing to hear him
out. He opened the gate carefully, whistling tunelessly as he walked
up the neat pathway to the door. He took a moment to compose himself,
then put on his best smile and knocked, waiting patiently for the
occupier to answer. He was about to leave, when the door was opened
just a crack. He could see a floating female eye peering through,
watching him suspiciously.

“
Yes?”
said the faceless eye, looking him up and down.

Here
we go Alex. Showtime.

“
Good
morning, ma’am. My name is Alex, and I wonder if I might talk
to you a little about our lord and savior Jesus Christ?”

He
smiled warmly at the floating eye, which continued to look at him
distrustfully.

“
You
aren’t trying to sell anything, are you?” came the shrill
voice from the other side of the door.

“
No,
ma’am. Of course not. I merely wish to speak with you, that’s
all.”

Silence.

“
You
had better come in then.”

Alex
heard the chain slide free.

Ten
minutes later, he was sipping a cup of tea in Mrs. Bendtner’s
sitting room as she fussed in the kitchen. He looked about the room,
noting that it was the typical dwelling of a lonely old woman.
High-backed chairs with gaudy floral patterns, mantle place full of
photographs of what Alex presumed were her grandchildren, and on the
small table by her chair (he could tell it was hers as it looked far
more worn than the one in which he was seated) was an old black and
white photograph of a much younger Mrs. Bendtner alongside a man who
Alex presumed was Mr. Bendtner, holding a chubby baby in her arms.

She
shuffled back into the room carrying a try of cakes and sandwiches,
her slippers making a
swish swoosh
sound as they padded the carpet. He looked at the old lady and smiled
warmly. If you were to pick up a dictionary and look up the word
‘grandma,’ you would surely find a picture of Mrs.
Bendtner, standing there with her tray of cakes. She was a small
woman, her skin heavily lined with the toils of age. Her hair was a
curly white permed mass, and her tired brown eyes looked out with
semi-glazed indifference. Age had not been kind to poor Mrs.
Bendtner, Alex thought, as he compared her to the picture by her
seat. She set the sandwiches on the coffee table and shuffled slowly
to her own chair, sitting with some effort.

“
Please,
help yourself to a sandwich,” she said as she wrung her hands
together fretfully.

“
Thank
you,” said Alex, noting a slight accent to the old woman’s
voice. Russian perhaps? Maybe Polish. Definitely eastern European.
Alex selected a cheese and cucumber sandwich and took a small bite.
It was good, and he quickly finished the rest before helping himself
to another.

“
These
are delicious, Mrs. Bendtner.”

“
I
don’t have much cause to make a fuss these days. My children
are grown up and don’t really visit.”

Bingo
.
Here was an old lady looking for something to fill her life with.

Alex
nodded sympathetically. “It must be lonely,” he said as
he took another bite of his second sandwich, this one egg and cress.

“
It
is. I miss my William dearly,” she said sadly, glancing at the
picture beside her.

“
I’m
sure God is looking after him, Mrs. Bendtner—in fact, that’s
why I’ve come to you today, to speak of the great Lord
himself.”

She
looked at him then, a flicker of coldness in her eyes, gone as
quickly as it came.

“
I’m
not sure if I believe in God anymore, young man,” she said with
a shake of her head, the European twang to her voice more evident
this time.