Their Pale Perfection
By
Nick Harkins
All my life I yearned for fame and
adulation. As a child I idolised the movie stars I watched every Saturday afternoon
at my local cinema. Alone in the darkened auditorium, enraptured by the gentle
whirring of the projector and the silver deities on the screen before me, I dreamed
of one day joining them; perhaps even surpassing them to become the greatest
star of all time. I came close too, only for it to be snatched away from me when
I was on the brink of realising my dream.
The road to stardom proved to be a
far more difficult journey than I anticipated. I served a grim apprenticeship in
the grainy gore flicks of the early 80s. I managed to mask my distaste for my
amateurish surroundings sufficiently to excel in my work and earned a cult fan
base as I hammed it up as a vampire, a mad scientist and numerous other formulaic
roles. My profile grew until eventually I
got my big break in The Professor; a
mainstream horror movie with a full cinematic release.
I played a dashing University
lecturer who lured female students to extra tuition sessions and murdered them
in various deliciously gruesome ways. It was the perfect blend of horror and
sex; moviegoers relished my suave drawl as I seduced my fresh faced, voluptuous
victims, and waited eagerly on the edge
of their seats for the slaughter of innocence they knew would come. The film
was a global smash; the highest grossing horror movie of all time. It should
have been the start of an incredible career, catapulting me to the big time
starring alongside De Niro and Pacino, fucking top quality Hollywood whores on
and off the screen, everything I’d dreamed of since those afternoons in the
cinema that had provided refuge from my life in a bleak post-war council
estate.
Sadly, those aspirations came to an
abrupt end when certain allegations were made about my sex life. It was
complete nonsense for the most part, but it ruined my career. I was accused of
violating the dead. All lies of course, fuelled by jealousy. Yes, I visited
morgues and funeral parlours, and admittedly I requested private access to the
corpses, but it was all to help me research my role as a killer. Purely
research, nothing sexual. I was an artist – an artist of uncommon genius –
building up a sketchbook to help me create my masterpiece. I merely wanted to
gaze on the pale perfection of the cadavers; their icy stillness – it always
amazed me how cold they were to the touch - as they lay awaiting the eternal darkness
of the grave, unmoved by the wailing and futile lamentations of loved ones.
The scandal broke in one of the
Sunday tabloids; lurid headlines promised exclusive interviews with my
accusers. Before the morning was out, my agent had called me to drop the
ultimate bombshell; I was fired from the upcoming sequel of The Professor. I agonised over what I
could possibly do to rescue my career, but eventually realised it was pointless
to continue. Even if I managed to prove my innocence and escape the horrors of
prison, I would forever carry with me the stigma of perversion. I would be
lucky even to return to the ignominy of the splatter videos I’d worked so hard
to escape. Death was the only option.
In a last desperate act of grisly
theatre, I chose to dispatch myself with a prop from The Professor; the fountain pen I used in the movie to mark my
student’s essays, and, on occasion, gouge out their twinkling blue eyes. It
took me a number of attempts to successfully off myself in the same way,
reality proving far harsher than fiction, but eventually I managed to drive the
pen into my jugular and wrench it downwards towards my collar, opening a
jagged, inky wound. Arterial blood sprayed in a powerful crimson jet, some
mingling with the blue ink to form an exquisite purple.
In the years spent floating between
the realm of the dead and frequent, moping visits to the mortal world, it
dawned on me that the tabloid scandal was a set up. The hack they brought in to
replace me in the sequel was surely responsible for my downfall. He knew what a
success that film would be, how it could elevate his career beyond mere genre
movies onto the Hollywood A list, so he deliberately orchestrated my ruin in
the tabloids. Sean McCoy, the vulgar peasant from a crumbling Chicago housing
project went on to become the biggest star of the decade. Even to this day he
remains one of Hollywood’s greatest stars, revered and respected as a living
legend, and all thanks to his big break in The
Professor 2 playing my part.
For almost thirty years I’ve waited
for the opportunity to destroy him for what he did to me. I’ve made many
fruitless attempts to do it alone, but I, like most of the dead, have no power
over physical objects. In the early days, I naively believed that my rage and
hurt were of such magnitude that I would be able to channel it into an ability
to move things. I tried snapping the brake cables in his car; I attempted to
drive a carving knife into his chest solely by force of will, burn his house
down by flicking a log from his hearth, all to no avail.
I failed at every turn and looked
on as his fame grew until eventually the worst blow of all; the Oscar for best
leading actor. I wept as I watched him collect the award, and stood on the
stage beside him, invisible to all, screaming tearful obscenities into the
microphone as I peered into the blank unseeing eyes of tinsel town’s glitterati.
It was then, as I wept before the oblivious
attendees of the Oscar ceremony and the millions glued to their televisions
around the world, that I realised I wouldn’t be able to get revenge alone. I
needed the assistance of someone living. It took me some considerable time and
effort to develop the knowledge and ability to become visible in the mortal
world. I spent almost two years consulting with deeply unsavoury characters in
the dark places of the dead before I could control it sufficiently to attempt
to make contact with a living person.
Keen to find someone who would not
become hysterical, I once tried to contact a medium who I assumed would have
experience of dealing with spirits, but the old crone seemed to sense my
murderous intentions towards McCoy and began chanting some kind of incantation
that I felt sure was designed to banish me from the world of the living.
Fortunately, I managed remove myself before she could complete the incantation,
but from then on I made certain to stay well away from mediums.
More failures followed over the
years, but still I waited for the break I never stopped believing would come. Finally,
it arrived: Aaron Beckerleg was the opportunity I’d been looking for. I knew he
was special as soon as I saw his first audition on Pop Singer. By that time I’d been searching for almost three
decades for someone as hungry to succeed in show business as I’d been before my
death; someone who could empathise with the tragedy of my unfulfilled potential
and help me seek revenge. My own chance of stardom was taken away from me when
I was on the cusp of greatness, something I hoped Beckerleg himself would soon
come to understand. I knew I could capitalise on the pain of unrealised
ambitions we shared, and persuade, or if necessary, force him to do my bidding.
He was a tall, painfully thin man
in his late twenties with an air of vulnerability. Dowdily dressed in grubby
jeans and a washed out t-shirt, his dark eyes darted nervously around the arena
as he scurried onto the stage for his first audition. His appearance prompted
immediate smirks and whispers from the audience as he introduced himself to the
judges and announced between nervous gulps that he was going to be as successful
as Michael Jackson. The backing track started and he commenced a torturous rendition
of Elton John’s Rocket Man. He was met
with a cacophony of jeers from the audience, many raising their arms in the air
to sway mockingly along to the music. The judging panel smirked and waited
eagerly for their turn to join the slaughter. When the backing track finished
and Beckerleg stood before them awaiting their verdict, they unleashed a ferocious
barrage of abuse. Beckerleg, they unanimously declared, had given the worst
audition of the series, perhaps of any series, and should accept the fact that
he had no future in the music industry.
There was nothing unusual in this;
dispensing insults to the deluded is, after all, the raison d’être of any television judging panel. It was Aaron’s
reaction that made him stand out from the other failures. Weeping hysterically, he sank to his knees and
crawled from the stage towards the panel, leaving a glistening trail of tears
and mucus in his wake. When he reached Steven Fowell, the head judge and
creator of the show, he began to kiss and lick his feet, begging between sobs to
be allowed to progress to the next stage of the competition.
The camera closed in on his soggy,
wild-eyed countenance as he slurped on Fowell’s handmade Italian shoes while
the audience hooted in the background. Fowell immediately recognised the potential
for further humiliation and put him through to the next stage. More
performances like this would be good for ratings. The sobs grew louder and
Beckerleg continued slurping with renewed gusto. I knew then that Beckerleg was
an ideal accomplice for me; he was desperate, ridiculed and clearly prepared to
do anything to achieve his dream of stardom. His fall, when it inevitably came,
would be catastrophic. And I planned to be there to pick up the pieces.
His journey through the stages of Pop Singer grew steadily worse. Fuelled
by a string of bizarre performances, the baying mob began to thirst for blood. In
the tabloids, the gossip magazines and on social networking sites, Aaron became
the nation’s favourite hate figure. Death threats were made and his work colleagues
spoke gleefully in the tabloids of his kooky behaviour and pariah status in the
office. But still he soldiered on from week to week. As the hatred - cleverly
fed and nurtured by Fowell - grew to feverish
levels of intensity, dark forces gathered, greedily feeding on the loathing and
suppressed violence that surrounded Beckerleg. It is not uncommon for
malevolent spirits to be drawn to such powerful feelings. Ghouls flock to
horrific events; wars, terrorist atrocities, and now, it seemed, reality TV
shows.
Unseen by the viewing public, inky
black shapes moved amongst the audience, feeding on their malevolence. Often,
they would assume the form of human shadows, crouching in front of the most
belligerent spectators, sucking in the bile as they screamed at Beckerleg.
Others took the form of giant bats, swooping around the studio, basking in the
hatred; whilst a huge black snake would often slither noiselessly over the
judge’s panel, coiling itself around their necks and feasting on their malice,
sucking greedily on the fears and resentments that burned within them as they speared
Beckerleg with venomous barbs of derision.
I began to plan my strategy,
watching Beckerleg’s every move on and off screen, observing his habits to
ensure nothing would be left to chance. I soon learned that he was an
incredibly lonely man who spent most of the tiny amount of free time the show
allowed him in his bedroom in the house all the show’s contestants stayed in.
Mostly he gazed at the ceiling deep in thought, sometimes he paced the floor
anxiously, and he occasionally jerked off, but not once did I see him have any
kind of conversation with his house-mates beyond the most basic of pleasantries.
I assumed he yearned for fame to fill the emptiness inside him.
The end of his Pop Singer journey finally
came in the sixth week when he finished bottom of the public vote, as he
had done on every show, but this time the head judge did not come to his
rescue. He’d received a tip off that a Sunday tabloid planned to publish completely
untrue claims that he’d been rescuing Aaron from elimination in exchange for
sexual favours, and realised it was the right time to consign Beckerleg to the
murky world of failed TV talent contestants. He announced his decision with a snarling
brutality that even the studio audience found excessive. Only a few gasps and
some uncomfortable shuffling could be heard as the spotlight once again fell on
Beckerleg.
I, like most observers, expected
more tears and pleading. In the end though, Beckerleg remained outwardly calm. When
the show’s presenter put his arm around him and said ‘Aaron, the judges have
made their decision. You’ll be going home tonight’, the audience waited in
anticipation of histrionics to follow. Aaron raised a trembling fist and
presented his middle finger to the nation, then without a word he strolled off
the stage, out of the studio and into the London night. His anger had taken
over; anger at the weeks of abuse and threats, anger at the rejection by
Fowell. And so, at the last he had found the courage to stand up to his
tormentors.
I opted to approach him when he was
just home from the studio after eviction and his emotions would still be raw. That
final night, as Beckerleg left the Pop Singer stage for the last time, I made my
way to his bedsit and waited. I knew he wouldn’t return to the house he’d shared
with the other contestants to spend a last night amongst their whispers and
disdain, but would return to his own place where he could be alone in his
grief.
He hurried straight home when he
left the studio, striding quickly through the London streets to the tube
station, hoping nobody would recognise him. A few spirits floated out of the
studio with him, but were soon disorientated in the bustle of London on a
Saturday night, and turned back to the studio to rejoin their brethren in
sucking up the last of the audience’s hate. Gone now for Beckerleg were the
dreams of travel by chauffeur driven limos or vintage sports cars. Spurned by
those to whom he had given everything in his quest for stardom, he sat
miserably on the tube, pretending to read a free newspaper just to hide his
famous face.
He sought immediate liquid solace
on his return to his sparsely furnished bedsit. As soon as he closed the door
behind him, he poured a generous measure of vodka into a chipped mug and gulped
it down in one. Believing himself to be alone now, he let the tears flow. Not
the flamboyant sobbing he’d indulged in on Pop
Singer; now that there was no audience, his sobs were deeper and almost
silent. His narrow shoulders rose and fell as he filled and refilled the mug
with booze.
I watched him polishing off the
cheap spirit and wished I could have a shot of it myself, feeling a little
ashamed that I was afraid of a confrontation with a living person. After taking a moment to get myself
together, I went in for the kill, allowing myself to become visible to Beckerleg.
‘Hello there’ I said by way of greeting, adopting a matey, avuncular tone.
Beckerleg said nothing. A dark
patch on his trousers spread rapidly from his crotch to his thigh, then down
his shin to drip onto the threadbare carpet. ‘I’m real. You’re not dreaming. This
isn’t a hallucination brought on by vodka, or the stress you’ve been under. So,’
I said ‘now that you’ve pissed yourself, can we crack on and talk sensibly?’ I
gave him my most charming smile.
He seemed to consider this
carefully for a moment, looking down at his reeking, piss-soaked jeans then
back up at me. ‘Sure’ he croaked, his hand pulling the fabric of his trousers
away from his skin.
‘You’ve had had your dreams
snatched away from you’ I said.
‘Well, yeah’ he nodded, his eyes
wide and staring, all hint of drunkenness vanished.
‘I’ve been watching you for a while
now. You deserve to be a star with a special talent like yours’ I lied. ‘They
fucked you over, couldn’t handle someone as good as you, so they made you look
a fool.’
‘Yeah’, said Beckerleg ‘but what
does it have to do with you’
‘I’ve been through something very similar
myself, you know. I think we can help each other.’
‘How can you help me when you’re
dead?’ said Beckerleg, pouring himself another drink, his hands trembling
wildly, splashing vodka on his already sodden trousers.
‘Revenge’ I said, and paused for a
moment for dramatic effect. ‘Revenge against the scum that have denied us our
chance for greatness.’
‘I’ll get my revenge next year when
I win that competition and become the biggest music star this country has ever
produced’ said Beckerleg.
‘That’s not going to happen; they
won’t ever let you win. Do you think they’re going to let you make them look
stupid? You’re deluding yourself’ I said.
‘Well, I could enter another talent
show on TV and win that’ said Beckerleg, flustered.
‘Not a chance’ I shook my head
sadly. ‘These people, these shows are all the same. The big shots, the men at
the top, they never understand people like us; the artists, the true originals.
They’d rather play safe, go with bland normality.’
Beckerleg lowered his head,
defeated. ‘I guess you’re right. It’s just so unfair’ he whined.
‘You want to pay that arrogant
swine Fowell back for humiliating you in front of millions, don’t you? He only
wanted you there to destroy you.’
‘Yes’ said Beckerleg, venom now in
his voice. ‘But what do you want me to do for you? You said you wanted revenge,
too.’
I told him my story much as I
recounted it to you, adding one or two embellishments here and there to add
spice to the performance. I was always a master of improvisation, even in the
grubby gore-fest slasher flicks I began my career in. I could take any stilted,
hackneyed script and inject it with life and authenticity. I concluded my tale
with a dramatic re-enactment of my suicide with the fountain pen, complete with
sound effects and stabbing and tearing actions. I looked up anxiously when I’d
reached the gruesome finale, hoping to see Beckerleg moved by the tragic
spectacle he’d witnessed. I wasn’t disappointed; Beckerleg gazed back at me, his
eyes filled with a new understanding.
‘That’s one of the saddest things I’ve
ever heard’ said Beckerleg.
‘Yes, well we’ve both been cheated.
They set you up to look a fool, and they accused me of being a pervert, the
hypocrites. We’ll never be what we should have been, but we can bring hell to
those responsible.’
‘Do you really think we can?’ said
Beckerleg wiping the tears from his face with his sleeve.
‘I know we can, but I can’t do it alone. I have no way to physically
touch a living person, let alone kill them.’
‘Death?’ said Beckerleg.
‘Death. That’s the only way we can have full satisfaction for the
injustices these men have perpetrated against us. Just look at the two of us
here in your grimy bedsit’ I said waving my hand theatrically around
Beckerleg’s dismal garret. ‘It’s tragic.’
‘You’re right’ said Beckerleg, ‘It
shouldn’t be like this for us.’
****
The day after our initial meeting
was the hardest. When Beckerleg finally hauled his aching, dehydrated carcass
from the armchair he’d crashed out on the night before, he looked at me in
abject horror for an instant, and then proceeded to studiously ignore me for
most of the rest of the day. In the gloom of the evening, however, after he’d
polished off the rest of the vodka, his resistance gave out and we began to
talk seriously about how we would carry out our plan. By the time Pop Singer had aired the following week,
we had devised a plan to publicly execute McCoy and Fowell.
As a spirit, I can move unseen and
unheard anywhere I choose. To my shame, I have used this for sexual purposes on
a number of occasions, and have witnessed acts of excess and depravity that I
would never have contemplated in life. I once attended a party at an apartment
in Ladbroke Grove where acts took place so unspeakable that I shall not recount
them here. My only defence is that I did not participate in the slaughter; I
merely watched and listened to the screams as I ejaculated black, translucent
seed into the face of the dying victim.
In addition to helping me to
indulge in voyeurism, my spectral state allows me to find out information.
Through careful surveillance, I was able to discover that both McCoy and Fowell
planned to attend the big movie premier of the festive period at Leicester
Square; McCoy because the bastard starred in it, and, curse him, directed it,
and Steven Fowell because he wanted to bask in the glow of the movie’s
guaranteed success, and probably get a few free drinks. Through regular visits
to McCoy and Fowell’s homes, I was able to learn their plans in detail. As I’d
hoped would be the case, Fowell’s colossal ego would not allow him to arrive at
a time when he would be walking the red carpet with any of the film’s lesser
lights. He had synchronised his arrival with that of the leading man, meaning
that they would be in close proximity and as close to the public as either of
them ever cared to get.
I was pleased to find Beckerleg unconcerned
about the potential consequences of the murderous plans we hatched. He was
aware, even in the deep funk of drunken depression that enveloped him, that
there would be no way back for his musical aspirations, but felt little unease
about the prospect of losing his liberty if apprehended by the police. Often,
he would rave drunkenly about how no jury would ever convict him of murder, and
he would get off based on diminished responsibility. The stress he’d suffered
during his humiliating ordeal was enough to send anyone over the edge. In his
more drunken moments, he’d even convince himself that I could appear as a
character witness for him in court; a conviction I did nothing to discourage.
For my part, I realised that it
would probably be the end of me in the sense of my ability to continue
lingering amongst the living. My purpose served, I would finally end my
purgatory in the shadows of celebrity and move on to whatever awaited me, good
or bad. I felt sure that my appetites in life and the scheme I was now hatching
in death meant I would not be headed anywhere pleasant, but the fact that McCoy would be joining me offered me great
comfort. I would have an eternity to wallow in his suffering.
As Beckerleg never had the
connections to allow him to purchase the firepower we needed to carry out the
executions, it was left to me to do some reconnaissance work. I haunted the
drinking pits of London looking for someone who could supply us with a gun.
Many nights I mingled unseen amongst pimps, junkies, thieves and whores until I
found a supplier. I witnessed two fatal stabbings, and a number of severe beatings,
all of which served as welcome entertainment after the relentless claustrophobia
of Beckerleg’s bedsit. One hapless dealer who’d burned his supplier on a
shipment of heroin was repeatedly kicked in the head so severely that an eye
detached from the socket and dangled limply on his cheek, much to the amusement
of his assailants.
I eventually located our man in a
South London pub. For a reasonable price, was able to provide a gun and
ammunition to rent no questions asked. After much cajoling, I persuaded
Beckerleg to take the tube south of the river and make the transaction at a
time during the day when I knew our supplier would be present in the pub, and
the place would be relatively quiet.
Fortunately, Beckerleg was not
recognised when he arrived at the pub. I told him to stroll in as though he was
a regular, but not to overdo the confidence. He pulled it off perfectly, moving
quickly through the dingy pub, the hood of his sweater pulled up to mask as
much of his face as possible. He arrived at the dealer’s regular table in a
quiet nook unchallenged by the smattering of bar flies around the premises. In
a brief, muttered transaction, he managed to rent a handgun and ammunition. The
thug never asked any questions about what Beckerleg planned to do with the
weapon, probably taking him for a cuckolded husband or a disgruntled employee
seeking retribution against his boss.
Transaction complete, he made his
way unsteadily into the pale grey London afternoon, blinking as his eyes
adjusted from the gloom of the pub and made his way home as quickly as he
could, anxious to enjoy a drink to calm his nerves. When he arrived, he took out the gun and sat
for some time staring blankly at it as he sipped his drink, ignoring my
attempts to engage him in conversation. I began to worry that he was going to
flake out on me in some way and fail to carry out the plan. ‘I wish I could
just shoot you and end all this’ said Beckerleg eventually. ‘Why did you have
to involve me in this madness?’
‘You know why, we’ve been through
this dozens of times. We’ve been wronged, cheated. Something has to be done
about it and this is the only way’ I said patiently. ‘Tomorrow night, you are
going to that movie premier. You’re going to wait in one of the nearby bars
until I give you the word, then you’re going to burst your way through the
crowd and open fire.’
‘But...’
‘But nothing. You wanted to be
famous, remember? Nobody is going to forget your name.’’
‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right’ said
Beckerleg brightening slightly.
When the day finally came, I could
barely contain my elation. I floated around the bedsit, singing to myself,
visualising what was to come. Beckerleg was going to go through with it and I
would get my revenge. Despite my initial sympathy for Beckerleg, I’d privately
grown tired of his deluded whining. Even so, he was serving his purpose
wonderfully; choosing him had been a masterstroke. Prison no doubt awaited him,
but that was no concern of mine. I chuckled at the thought of watching him
being violated in prison by cons who would no doubt welcome such tender meat in
their midst.
****
Beckerleg found a quiet seat in a
little nook in the dusty old pub near Leicester Square tube station that we’d
agreed he would start operations from. When I arrived I found him nursing a pint
of lager and staring intently at a faded old print on the wall depicting Sherlock
Holmes shooting a large, ferocious hound with glowing eyes.
‘It’s time’ I said.
‘I know’ said Beckerleg ‘This is
for the best, isn’t it? I mean, we’re doing the world a favour really?’
‘You know we are.’
‘Well, let’s get it over with.’
I said nothing and watched him get
to his feet and head for the door. To my surprise, he moved purposefully
without stumbling or bumping into anything. He kept his head down and strode
quickly towards Leicester Square past the cafe bars and ticket agencies into
the throng of people gawping at the arriving stars. He timed his movements
perfectly, hanging back until a large black limo arrived and the crowd began to
scream and push towards the metal barriers. It was him.
McCoy oozed out of the limo and
began to strut his way up the red carpet, then, as planned; Fowell arrived
thirty seconds or so later. Beckerleg’s eyes honed in on his prey. He moved
between the throng of excited fans squeezing himself to the front of the crowd
until he was pressed up against the barrier.
‘Hey! Remember me?’ Beckerleg
shouted at Fowell.
‘Aaron?’ said Fowell, grinning
wolfishly, anticipating an opportunity to raise a few more laughs at
Beckerleg’s expense. ‘Are you going to sing for us?’
Beckerleg drew the gun from under
his belt and shot him in the mouth, shattering his whitened teeth and blowing
the back of his head out onto the red carpet. McCoy froze in terror as
Beckerleg then pointed the gun at him. As security lunged for him, Beckerleg
turned swiftly to me and grinned.
‘You’re just like all the others’
he said, then lifted the gun to his temple and fired. Blood, brain and bone
splattered onto the carpet and merged with Fowell’s, their minds finally meeting
in death.
****
So close. Next year will be
different.
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