Speaker 1: Hello everyone. Look, it's Hair and Skin, a story that
many of you will be familiar with and so perhaps
disinclined to listen to again. However, there are also many
of you who have never listened to it. Oh yes,
I know, I read my correspondence. You found me maybe
through Dracula or my HP Lovecraft readings, heard the promo
for Underwood and Flinch, and have only listened to that
Underwood and Flinch, skipping over all the other stuff here
in my feed, like the Whole of Mirrors short story
podcast from which this story is taken. And so for you,
this is like a big promo for that podcast which
is here in this feed that you're listening to right now.
So you don't have to go anywhere or subscribe to
anything new. It's right here. Just scroll back up through
the feed and you will find the episodes at your fingertips. Now,
this is the first time all the chapters of this
story have been collected together as one podcast fast episode.
It's also in stereo, as it was when it was
first released, but the other version in this feed now
is in mono, and as I say, it spread over
four episodes. The story is old. I wrote it in
the late nineteen nineties, not for podcast obviously because podcasts
didn't exist then, and not for publication either, like anyone
would have published it anyway. No, I wrote this story
entirely for my own amusement, which is a great way
to write, because you know, you don't care about what
anybody thinks, You don't care about anyone's opinions, their likes,
their dislikes. It's just for you. So with an audience
of one, it can't help but make you happy, which
it did. It made me very happy, both when I
wrote it and then later in two thousand and seven
when I recorded it for podcast. I remember that when
I was doing it, I sort of angled the microphone
directly down, got down underneath it limbo style, filled my
mouth constantly filling my mouth with water, and sort of
gargle speaking up to the microphone, getting water all over
the place. You'll probably understand why later on, but yeah, anyway,
give it a listen if you haven't already, or even
if you have, you know, and if you like it,
please do check out the other stories in the Hall
of Mirrors podcast earlier in this feed. If you like this,
you'll like them, and so then with no further ado here.
It is the complete and unabridged hair and skin. I
hope you enjoy it. Oh and of course this is
an adult podcast. Listener discretion is advised. Charles Mason stared
out into the rain soaked night, trying hard not to
see his own reflection in the window. Inevitably, however, his
gaze was drawn mothlike to the dour visage that stared
back at him from beneath the stark, improbable hairline of
his two pay From his left, the voice of doctor
Conrad de Vere slowly ground out the message that Charles
didn't want to hear. Charles watched as the rain steadily
accreted on the other side of the window, rolling down
the face of his reflection like an endless procession of tears,
and so Devere concluded, revolving his chair to face Charles,
at least for the foreseeable future. I'm afraid we're left
with no choice other than the compromise solution that you
currently employ. Charles turned to him. You mean I have
no choice left but to accept this, he said, pointing
at the hairpiece, this ridiculous hair hat. Devere offered a
small but sympathetic smile, Charles, Your scout needs time to rest.
I just can't keep sewing fresh hair in every time
previous crafts fall out. The best thing to do is
wear the two pay for six months. Then we can
do a complete regraft. Perhaps we could try body hair
again that held on for quite a while. But I
look ridiculous. No one's fooled by this damn thing. Perhaps
a hat would be better. Charles clenched his fists in frustration.
For God's sake, Conrade, then must be another way, lessimply,
must devere shook his head in resignation. None that we
haven't already tried, Charles, I can only work within the
bounds of existing hair transplantation, and sadly you seem to
be rather beyond those bounds. Damn the blasted bounds of
heir transplantation surgery. What kind of a doctor are you?
Charles turned violently, so much so that one of his
hands fluttered to his head to check that his too
pay hadn't spun skew with Why aren't you pushing these
boundaries back yourself? I need what am I employing you for?
Damn it take some risks, bad, do something experimental legally
even you must have some theories you'd want to try
out on a willing guinea pig. Devere smiled patiently. Don't
get excited, Charles, I understand your frustration. Really, I know,
Charles interrupted, sorry, Conrad, that you don't understand my frustration
at all. Maybe if you glossed your hair when you
were seventeen and endured a lifetime of persecution as a result.
Maybe if women had always spurred you tittering guide their
scented heads and how your hair piece doesn't quite pass
for vaguely human. Maybe if you'd spent millions on failed
quack restoration potions, chemical inhibitors, chemical inhass and every surgical
procedure ever conceived, only to still be as bald as
an egg after all of them, Maybe then, doctor, you'd understand.
Devere smiled thinly, not caring for Mason's intonation of the
word doctor, yet well aware that he was in no
position to air his distaste. Charles Mason wasn't just his boss.
He was his benefactor, and had been ever since the
unfortunate mishap three years ago, which had led to Devere's
being struck off of the medical register for a time.
It looked as though he might be facing complete ruin.
Then Mason, his long term client and sometime golfing companion,
had intervened with the offer of a job. Their arrangement
had Devere officially employed by Mason as a health consultant,
though in reality he was based here in these grotty
little offices in Ladbrook Grove as Mason's private physician and
hair transplantation surgeon. Mason had had the offices fitted out
as a private surgery exclusively for his own use. Then
he had ensconced Devere rather like a doll in a
doll's house, as his own devoted medical dog's body, and
it was here that de Vere had practiced illegally technically
for the past three years. It suited Mason to have
his own pet private surgeon, and it suited de Vere
in so far as he was still able to make
a good living as a practicing medical professional, even if
he did have only one patient. Devere knew he should
be grateful, but at times like these all he could
feel was loathing and contempt for Charles Mason. He was
at Mason's beck and call like a servant, or he
sometimes felt like a prisoner. Now de Vere looked into
the huffing, pompous face before him, and felt, as he
often did, an almost irresistible urge to lacerate it with
a scalpel, to have an another not so accidental mishap.
But of course that was unthinkable. And so concerned that
his veiled loathing might be leaking from the corners of
his strained smile, Devere bowed his head in a gesture
of slight but required deference. Forgive me, Charles, sometimes I
forget what you've had to go through. He watched as
Mason nodded, evidently happy with his apology. Devere's eye twitched,
and he added, unable to stop himself, but really, persecution,
I think you exaggerate. You were born the heir to
a fortune. It's not as if you've had to endure
a lifetime of loneliness as a result of your condition.
On the contrary, you can have almost any woman you desire,
bar Conrad, I could buy almost steady women I desire.
It's not the same thing. De Vere shrugged. Well, maybe
you could seek a second opinion. I won't be offended.
Oh I don't need second opinions. I've had them from
the best in the world, along with all their consequent
failed procedures. Yes, said de Vere. I know those quacks
are either better nor worse than you. Charles dropped his
considerable bulk into the chair on the opposite side of
Devere's desk. And all of you are equally useless, at
least to me. Thank you, de Vere smiled, I think.
Then Charles turned to look at du V with a
curious expression. He knew div well the mess he'd made
of that poor woman's face three years ago had been
a splendid boon for Charles. He'd swooped to Devere's aid
in his hour of ruin, and thus managed to procure
for himself and admired or at least once admired hair
restoration surgeon. Since that time, Devere had carried out innumerable
hair transplants on Charles. However, all of them had failed
to take permanently. Nothing new there. Every hair transplant he'd
ever had had failed. It was, he sometimes thought, in
his blacker moments, like trying to sow a lawn in
the Sahara. But at least by putting de Vere on
a modest private retainer, he kept his medical bills down.
It was cheaper to employ a ruined surgeon than to
pay through the nose for a fully licensed profession of
de Vere's caliber every time he needed fresh plugs, and
he needed fresh plugs often. But now here was Devere
denying him the only thing he employed him for, In
which case, what was the point of the man? He
could dismiss him. But if he did, where would he
find a replacement for the same or even similar money?
He couldn't. Charles narrowed his eyes and scrutinized his doctor.
Give him the Texan option. His mind murmured, that's what
he wanted to do. Isn't it prush him? What have
you got to lose? He squinted harder, as if he
were trying to read some imaginary small print tattooed on
Devere's eyes. Hum Charles said, nodding shrewdly. I'm being too generous.
Maybe you aren't quite the same league as those doctors,
after all, Conrad, I mean a lot of those fellows
of pioneers expediments. They aren't afraid to undertake new and
daring procedures. You, however, you're just follower, and followers can
never be as good as the men they crawled behind.
Devere raised his eyebrows and sat back in his seat. Well,
I'm sorry to disappoint you, Charles. You know I only
have your best interest at heart. I know what my
best interests are, that they lie in the hands of
the man with spunk, a man I'm afraid of a
little experimental surgery. From time to time, new procedures, the
kind that would take a brilliant surgeon like you to perform,
if only you had the nerve the spug to go
through with them. Devere looked at Charles for a few moments,
then said, what kind of experimental procedures do you have
in mind, Charles. Charles's hands came together, his chubby fingers
locking like a trap made of sausages. I was reading
something the other day, something about taking body hair troudsploods
one step further. Really, how fascinating do go on? Well,
as I say, said Charles, leaning forwards, conspiratorially, I've been reading,
doing some research, if you will, on the internet. Ah,
the Internet, Devere smiled, where exactly. I'm sure you don't
need me to tell you. The internet is full of
rogues and Charlatan's offering cures for everything. From the common
cold to cancer. No, no, nothing like that. This stuff
is genuine. I've been reading about hair Harod Skid, about
how hair works and how it lives and dies and
so on. Hmmm, fascinating, isn't it?
Speaker 2: No?
Speaker 1: Not really not. If you're looking for hope, it's not.
It's bloody depressing, Or at least it was until I
stumbled upon something that actually did give me hope. Devere
pressed his fingers together and touched them to his lips.
Speaker 3: Hmmm, go on.
Speaker 1: Charles leaned forward and pointed a chubby finger at Devere's face.
The cure to baldness, Conrad, is right under your those.
Devere frowned. It is. Charles smiled and rubbed his chin.
Your bird, my beard, Yes, said Charles. Think about it,
just for a moment. Have you ever heard of a
man who was bald of face? I mean, aside from
those freaks who get their balls chopped off and take
women's hormones and what have you. Devere chuckled. Of course
it happens. Sometimes a lack of testosterone may result in ah.
Charles waved a hand. Girly boys, freaks. I'm talking about
bed so am, I said Devere. Mildly anyway, it was
a rhetorical question. The fact is ninety nine point nine
percent of the time beards on bed grow like wool
on the sheep's back. Right, very well, just to expedite
your point, I'll agree with you, quite right, said Charles.
Please continue. You were getting to your point. Something to
do with beards. Charles sat back and nodded knowingly. Yes,
beards or beard transplantation, to be exact. The hair and
skid of one man's face surgically removed that then grafted
on to the scalp of another. Devere looked at him
a moment in silence, then a smile spread across his face.
You say you read about this on the internet, Charles, may,
I ask where? It's? The theory of Texan cosmetic surgeon,
highly regarded chap apparently highly regarded by whom, said de Vere,
a list of satisfied customers, all taken at random from
a telephone directory. Charles's expression narrowed. Sarcasm doesn't become you, conrad,
it makes you appear small and frightened. Devere's expression soured slightly.
What's his name? I don't recall anyway, it's not important now, Oh,
how unfortunate. I was going to say, if he's so amazing,
why don't you go and see him in person? But
if you can't even remember his name, then he's dead.
Charles interrupted. Oh well, that's too bad, said de Vere soberly.
Then a smile again tugged at the corners of his mouth.
May I ask how he died? Cutting his own throat,
perhaps trying to demonstrate his theory. I'm not employing you
for yours, de glided jokes to there. Now, correct me
if I'm wrong, But hair and dale's continue to grow
after death. Correct, that is correct, So beards effectively continue
to live after the body dies. Devere smiled, well, after
a fashion, yes, but not for long. Well, Charles again
leaned forward, conspiratorially. What if we could get the beards
of a couple of people who have left their bodies
to medical science, organdowners. He raised his eyebrows. I mean
they get completely mutilated, don't they, poor blighters? Eyes removed, lungs, livers, hearts.
But what of the rest? What becomes of the the leftovers?
Devere pouted thoughtfully. Hmm, Well, naturally, in the case of
organ doners, the leftovers go to the deceased funeral in
the coffin. As for those people who leave their bodies
to medical science, well they get used in furthering our
medical knowledge. And that's exactly what this would be, said
Charles excitedly. All we need to do is get a
couple of those freshly dead bodies and remove the lower
sections of their faces, then pack the beards in ice.
Then hey, presto, Hey presto. Devere smiled and shook his head.
I'm sorry, Charles, But even presuming I were to go
along with such a bizarre idea, how on earth do
you propose I could possibly gain access to such donors?
I must strike off, cosmetic surgeon. Can you imagine for
so much as a moment that I'm anywhere near the
list of people they call when a kidneyed donor drops
off the perch? Ignore the practical nutsing, balse doctor, stick
to the theoretical plausibility. Could it be done? Devere sat
back and caressed his own beard, thoughtfully, stroking the line
of his jaw and brushing his fingers through the thick,
resilient hair. Hm. Well, I've heard stranger theories. I must admit.
Facial hair is stronger coarser, and and it's a possibility.
Devere shrugged. Certainly, it's a possibility. But where would you
find a body, nor indeed bodies, he corrected himself. You
need at least two, maybe three to find enough tissue
to perform the operation. The chances of a couple of
card carrying organ donors turning up at the same morgue
at the same time virtually nil. Add to that the
fact that I can't access the bodies to steal their faces,
and that's what I'd be doing, stealing, grave robbing. Even then, Charles,
you get into well nigh impossible odds. Charles considered a moment.
Then he said, okay, so that brings us to the
other option. There's another option. There's always another option, Conrad,
and it's this living donors. Now, Devere laughed out loud
a living donors. I'm sorry, Charles, but who on earth
is going to donate half their face for you to
wear on your head. I wouldn't be wearing it. It'd
be a part of me, my hair and skid my blood.
Al tissue, yes, yes, but still, who would voluntarily have
such a thing done to themselves? Charles smiled. The homeless,
the desperate. The down at heel wave of big enough
water at someone, and you could get them to do
just about anything. Isn't that so? Doctor Devere's smile fell.
Charles continued, Suppose I could buy some dodors. What then,
would it be possible? Devere brought his fingers together and
touched them to his lips. He thought for a moment,
then he said, well, it'd be a very dangerous procedure.
Even you must be aware that the throat is a
veritable forest of veins and darter. Charles licked his lips.
Beard details, would it be possible? Devere stroked two fingers
thoughtfully across his brow. Well, I suppose if we were
to remove the donor's beard tissue from around the cheeks
and above the jawline, staying clear of the throat region
as much as possible, then graft skinned from their thighs
or buttocks to patch up their faces. He pouted and
turned to Charles. Yes, I dare say it could work,
but the patient would be considerably scarred. He wouldn't go
on to win any beauty contests, that's for sure. Your
financial carrot would have to be a very tempting one,
Charles how does five thousand pounds sound paltry? Dead? Twenty five?
Charles reacted as if he'd been kicked on the sho
Twenty five thousand cows a small price to pay a
man for his face, don't you think? Charles fidgeted in
his seat. By'm obviously paying you too much? Doctor. You
seem to think I made of money. Oh come, Charles,
your father built an empire on bread crumb, thighs, breasts
and drumsticks. Farmer Charlie's frozen chicken is probably the most
successful chicken food product in Britain. And hat's off to you.
You've done wonders with the company since he died. You
must be worth millions by now. Surely you'd miss twenty
or forty grand like the average person misses small change.
Poppy off, Charles spluttered, indignantly. You asked my opinion, Charles,
you don't have to take any notice of it. Charles's
lips tightened, gradually, drawing back from his gritted teeth in
an expression not unlike that of a constipated man straining
against the immovable. Then finally, he thumped a heavy fist
down onto Divia's desk. Oh very well, twenty thousand. But
do you think we could manage with maybe just one
dolor a big fellow perhaps? Devere shook his head, clearly
enjoying the other man's torment, alas, No, you'd have to
take whatever you could get, and most likely that it'd
mean two, maybe three beards to get a nice all
over covering, unless, of course, you fancy the Shakespeare look.
Charles sighed, no, very well, I agree, then, he smiled slyly.
Though it wouldn't be what I could get, doctor, it
would be what you could get. I would have no
part in the locating of the donors, eh, I see,
said de Vere. And how do you propose that I
go about it? Place an ad in the homeless shelters,
distribute flyers under Waterloo Bridge. That would be for you
to decide, Conrad, Perhaps you could enlist some assistance. You're
asking a lot, Charles, Devere murmured, I hope you don't
think that all this skullduggery would be covered by my salary.
It's not exactly in my job description, is it. Charles's
eyes narrowed. What would you want the same as the donors?
Charles again struck the desk twenty grand who danit Devia.
That's outrageous. I hardly think so, Charles. It's not like
an buy me a Caribbean island or anything. With these days,
twenty thousand bounds wouldn't cover the deposit on a one
bedroom flat. No, by refuse, nich unreasonable, unreasonable, Charles. For
me to operate and a member of the general public
can be seen as a crime in itself. But when
you add to that the fact that this would be
a highly dangerous operation, one that could have fatal consequences
for the donor. Why there are so many ways for
me to go to prison here, it's giddying unreasonable. Oh no, Charles,
all things considered, I think I'm being very reasonable, very reasonable. Indeed, again,
Charles found himself straining against the immovable for a few
moments before finally flapping his hands in defeat. All very well,
twenty thousand. So do we at least hypothetically have a deal?
Devere smiled? Are you asking me to go ahead and
procure these organs? Yes, very well, Charles, we have a deal. However,
just one question. Charles let out a small cackle of
delight and got up a stoctor. He crossed over to
the window outside. He could see it was still raining.
He checked his reflection and straightened his already straight hair piece.
The surgeon in Texas, are there any records of his
work in this field available? I'd like to do some
research of my own on which medical site did you
access his research? Medical sight, said Charles, fishing out his
mobile phone to summon his chauffeur. Why did it anything
off a medical site like searching on beard transplants? And
I just stumbled upon him? Well what was the site?
Oh sad page? All about the death penalty of the
United States. Seems a fellow got the lethal injection. His
one and only transplant went rather pear shaped. Devere sat forwards.
You mean the donor, ess, said Charles. Your risk assessment
is quite accurate. Conrad. Still, we've are that into consideration
when we agreed a figure, didn't we, Yes, Devere murmured.
Charles smiled. He was obviously less of an artist with
the scalpel than you are her. He gave Devere a
pat on the shoulder. You'll call when you find the donors.
Devere stroked his beard thoughtfully. Yes, though it may be
some time, of course, quite understandable. You need time to
prepare delicate business. I imagine beard grafting. Yes, said de Vere,
as a smile slowly spread across his face. I imagine
it probably is. Charles was on the golf course when
Devere called him A week later. He was lining up
a part on the fourteenth hole when the phone rang.
Oh damn it. He thrashed the air with his putter
and plunged his hand into the pocket of his plus
fours to retrieve his mobile phone. Sorry, Sims, he muttered
angrily to his partner. I told my damn pie I
was to take no calls from anyone except my physician.
Perhaps it is your physician, said Simms. Charles pulled out
the phone and pushed the answer button. It had better
be Hello.
Speaker 3: Mister Mason. It's Jane. I'm sorry to call you, but
doctor de Vere rang and requested that you call him immediately.
He didn't tell me anything more, but he said that
you'd know what it was about de excellent. Do I
have his number, sir, Yes, yes, thank you, Jane.
Speaker 1: Carry on. He cut off Jane's further apology and hastily
selected de Vere's number from his phone's address book. Sorry
about the Sims. But I'll have to make this call urgent.
The nickel busness, Simms waved the apology away. No, don't worry, Mason,
please take your time. As the call connected, Charles sauntered
away from Sims with a casual air that he hoped
veiled his inner excitement. When Devere answered, Charles spoke in
a low murmur. Devere, that's smooth, Mason. I got your message.
What is it?
Speaker 3: It concerns the matter of the beard transplants we were
discussing recently.
Speaker 1: Said the doctor.
Speaker 3: I've been making some inquiries, inquiries.
Speaker 1: What are you saying, Conrad, get to the point. Man,
Are you telling me you've found a donor? Oh?
Speaker 3: Better than that, Charles, I've found two two.
Speaker 1: Charles squawked, why that? While while that's excellent news, he
glanced around at Sims, lowering his volume back to a murmur,
when can we begin the transplant?
Speaker 3: I will hold on, Charles, not so fast. There's the
small matter of two individual payments twenty thousand pounds to
be made. Neither of the donors is interested in parting
with so much as a single hair until they get
their hands on the money.
Speaker 1: What's the problem.
Speaker 4: Now?
Speaker 1: Have the money transferred into their cows as soon as
I get back to the office, Devere chuckled.
Speaker 3: Unfortunately, they don't have bank accounts, Charles. They are as
we predicted, they might be, a gentleman of no fixed abode.
Speaker 1: I'm so sort them out with account's man. You've started
a bank account before, haven't you.
Speaker 3: I'm afraid it's not that simple, Charles. You see, they
don't actually want bank accounts. Unsurprisingly, they don't quite trust me.
There's no way they're going to let me anywhere near
them with the scalpel unless their pockets are bulging with
the promised fee. It's cash up front, childs or the
beards stay on the cider drizzled chins of their.
Speaker 1: But that's preposterous. Nobody walks around with that much money
in cash, especially tramps. Where on earth are they going
to keep it?
Speaker 3: I dare say they'll start their own accounts once they
get the money.
Speaker 1: What can we trust them?
Speaker 2: Yes?
Speaker 3: I think we can, though, more to the point, do
we have a choice. Don't worry, Charles, I'll take precautions
to ensure they hold up their end of the bargain.
Speaker 1: What kind of precautions, Devere chuckled, I'm a doctor, Charles,
I've got a medicine chest full of precautions.
Speaker 3: Just you leave it all to me.
Speaker 1: Charles bit his lip and thought for a moment. Then
he said, look here, but why don't you just tell
them who I am? My name should be guarantee enough
for anyone. Surely even the derelict classes have heard of
farmer Charlie's fried chicken chunks.
Speaker 3: Well, I could mention you to them if you'd like. However,
think about at a moment, will you if the process
goes wrong, or one of them should decide to sue
you later for ruining their self confidence or something. The
consequences could be disastrous for both of us.
Speaker 1: Hmm, yes, I see what you mean. So you're you're
keeping our identities strictly hush hush.
Speaker 3: Oh, absolutely, hush hush. I've only ever spoken to them
from behind a scarf and dark glasses, and it's a
look I intend to stay with. And of course, protecting
your anonymity is yet another reason why you're going to
have to pay them out front. I mean, supposing they
did start bank accounts and you did transfer the money
directly into them, why they could trace you? Charlie as
if you tend them invitation to a spiree at your house.
Speaker 1: Yes, muttered Charles, glancing in Sims's direction to make sure
the other wasn't listening. Yes, of course you're right, Conrad.
Very well, cash up front? What in a briefcase or something?
That's the usual method of delivery, isn't it.
Speaker 3: Yes, I'd say that would do nicely, and I recommend
that you used notes as well.
Speaker 1: Nothing traceable, ingenious, Conrad, Charles grinned. You know you're quite
a dark horse, aren't you. Have you ever considered a
career in crime? Devere gave a dry laugh.
Speaker 3: Considered one, my dear Charles, I embarked upon one of
the moment I took up your offer of a job.
All I lack is a mall and a hideout. Correction,
I have a hideout. All I need is a mall.
Speaker 1: Charles smiled. Well, the money you're getting for this, doctor,
you shouldn't have too much trouble locating one. He glanced
over at Sims, who was looking at his watch. All right, Conrad,
I have to go. I'll have the money brought around
to you by car as soon as I could get
my heads on all those used doats jolly good. You'll
call me when you get the beards.
Speaker 3: Of course, Charles. What else am I going to do
with them? Try and sell them on?
Speaker 1: Ebaye, Charles laughed out loud. Oh very good, godrad very droll.
He hung up and strode back to Sims with a
renewed spring in his stride. Sorry to keep usubs. Oh
not at all, nothing serious, I hope. Don't just arranging
a boob job for the girlfriend. Oh very nice, expensive procedure, yes,
said Charles, lining up his part. Absolutely criminal. He took
the shot and the ball rolled into the hole with
a satisfying PLoP. Four days later, Charles received another call
from doctor de Vere. He spoken to the receiver rapidly,
stumbling over his words. How goes it? My silicitis't wron
me that you received the money?
Speaker 5: You have?
Speaker 1: You got the beards, my dear Charles.
Speaker 2: Calm down, said de Vere. I have received the money
and it has been passed on to its new owners.
Speaker 1: And the beards. Do you have the beards?
Speaker 5: I have the beards, Charles. They were removed without incident
and in excellent health. Though I will need you to
come over as soon as possible, obviously as with any
organ transplant. The sooner the procedure begins, the better.
Speaker 2: I could be there within the hour, said Charles. Excellent,
said de Vere. I'll have everything ready for you as
soon as you arrive. Oh and Charles, yes, bring an
overnight bag. You'll be in for.
Speaker 1: A day or two. Yes, yes, said Charles impatiently. My
pa could take care of all that. Just to keep
those beards fashioned perky, he hung up. Of course, Charles.
Devere smiled as he replaced the receiver just so. As
soon as Charles regained consciousness, his hands groped to touch
his head and the new thatch of hair that was
hopefully sprouting there. Instead, he found a thick urban of bandages. Ah,
good afternoon, Charles, said de Vere cheerfully. How are you
feeling er Conrad, Charles croaked, How did it go? He
made a face and pointed at his throat. Water. Glass
of water. Devere went to Charles's bedside and poured him
a glass from the bottle on his nightstand. Don't excite yourself, Charles,
Everything went splendidly. They were in a room in de
Vere's practice that was fitted out much like a private
room in any hospital. Devere had wheeled Charles from the
operation theater a converted bathroom two hours ago. Charles took
the water and slurped at it gratefully. Then, eager to talk,
he lowered the glass. Ah you mean I love here?
Devere smiled. Yes, you do. Indeed, Charles beamed with gratitude.
Oh my god, God, Rad, you're a genius. I knew
you could do it. What does it look like? Well,
right now it looks rather like a tortoiseshell cat that's
been crushed by a bus. But that's only to be expected.
Good God, will. That's simply temporal, isn't it. Of course,
it'll take some time before you'll be able to achieve
a natural look. Right now, the beards are uneven, both
in length and color. But when they settle down and
start growing, you can have them cut and dyed, styled
if you will, to your heart's content. How long will
that be? Devere shrugged. It's difficult to say. This is
a world first, as you know, and I've no precedent
to refer to. However, I can say from the inuirable
skin grafts I've done in the past that providing the
transplant has been a success. You should be seeing growth
there in maybe a week or so. Well until then,
until then you rest, leave the bandages on and to
as little as possible. Then I think you should take
a holiday or something, give your body time to heal
and to accept its new additions. Charles touched his turban
and grinned, oh, I will, Conrad, a holiday sounds just
a ticket diviny. You'll take you cruise for a while,
perhaps on the Queen Berry too. This gives me the
perfect excuse. Well, that sounds excellent. Charles took another sip
of his water. Then suddenly he stopped. He lowered the
glass to his lap and looked to Devere with a
worried expression. And what are the donors, Comrad, how are
they doing? Devere smiled, Oh, they're fine. Don't worry about them.
Their operations are a complete success, and they're probably both
wondering how they're going to spend. Then you found wealth,
he chuckled, ha. Maybe they'll join you on your cruise
on the QM too. How od would that be? The
three of you at the captain's table. One of them
points and says, I don't know what it is, but
there's something familiar about you. Don't even joke about a comrade.
They never want to see or hear from things made again,
and you shan't, Charles. They have no idea of your identity,
just as you have no idea of theirs. M said Charles.
That's just as it should be. Well done, Conrad, you've
done a Marvel's job. Did you get your payment? All right? Yes?
Thank you? Everything is as it should be, Charles. Now
stop fretting. All this frowning is good for your scalp. Relax.
Charles sighed and handed his glass to Devere. Oh, of course, relax.
Made a little sleep. I'm still feeling groggy after the anesthetic, yes,
said Devere, helping Charles to ease back into a recumbent position.
That would be just what the doctor ordered. Hum murmured Charles,
closing his eyes. Good night, Conrad, Good night, Charles. Devere
went to the bedroom door and laid his hand on
the light switch before turning back to where Charles was
already slipping into sleep, Pleasant dreams. He turned out the
light and closed the door softly behind him. Penelope Gray
lay across a king's sized bed in a suite of
London's Dorchester Hotel, smoking a cigarette and watching Charles Mason
as he giggled and fidgeted on the stool before the
dressing table mirror. He was preening his new hair, striking
various poses in his bathrobe, and occasionally tearing his eyes
away from himself to make sure she was impressed. She
wasn't disappointing him, but then feigning admiration for the unimpressive
was part of her job. Penelope was a high class prostitute,
and Charles was a regular and valued client. Do you
think he makes me look younger? Peddy asked Charles's mirrored reflection. Oh, yes,
she lied, much younger and more handsome, if such a
thing as possible.
Speaker 2: Charles laughed, ha ha, It's amazing, isn't it, New hair
removed from another man and now living growing god by head.
Speaker 1: He turned and faced her, smiling broadly. From beneath his
amazing new head of hair, he looked ridiculous. One half
of his head was a dirty shade of ginger, the
other was almost black. His own hair, which grew around
the back and sides, was a graying chestnut brown. Yes,
said Penelope, it's amazing Charles. But you say the operation
is illegal. Why is it dangerous. Well, yes, Charles laughed,
that's part of it, But it's more to do with
my physician's professional status. It's madness, isn't it? A breakthrough
like this, possibly worth billions, and the poor chap's got
to hide it all behind the veil of secrecy. Tragic really, Still,
he was well paid for it. That I look magnificent,
that's the main thing. What's wrong with his professional status?
Is he a trainee or something? Oh god, no, the
band's one of the best in his field. Charles eyed
his reflections deductively as he spoke, teasing a twist of
curly ginger hair into a forelock. No, darling. Unfortunately for him,
he's being struck off the medical register. That beads he
can't legally practice medicine. Five years ago he was doing
the routined facelift that he managed to botch it. He
was drug made the person look like a nightmarish cloud.
He lost his license. It was sued for a fortune.
So how come he's doing operations on you because he
works for me? I owed him my own private surgeon.
That's handy. Does he do other enhancements? Maybe you could
arrange for him to give me one or two on
the house. Charles's reflection grinned at lecherously. You don't need
enhanceman's penny, and when you do well, He went back
to admiring his hair in the mirror. We'll see. What
Charles really meant was that she wouldn't be on his
list of lady friends anymore. But why spoil the moment,
Oh Charles, you certainly know the way to a girl's heart.
I'm not interested its way to a girl's heart, lovey,
I'm interested in the way to have sweet little ass. Why, Charles,
do I have a sweet little lass? No, you don't,
said Charles, getting up and letting his toweling robe fall open.
You've got a sweet big ass, like a lovely big
peach that I want to cab over and sink by
teeth it to. Penelope chuckled coquettishly and rolled on to
her front. Oh, mister Mason, you're insatiable. It must be
the new hair, yes, said Charles, sitting down on the
corner of the bed and kneading Penelope's bottom like fresh dough. Yeah.
I think you may be right there, Penny. Maybe I
did get something else draining into me. Frob it some
youthful vigor seeping down into my balls and keeping mister
Peckerwood up all night. He leaned forward, climbing over and
easing himself down so his erection pressed against her buttocks.
Penelope didn't notice it, preoccupied as she was with the
difficulty of breathing beneath his enormous weight. She groaned and
managed to make it sound like pleasure. Oh, mister peckerwards.
Charles grinned and buried his face in her hair, nuzzling
at her neck like an alsatian. You gorgeous start. Penelope
gritted her teeth, sucked in a breath, and managed to
squirm her way around onto her back. There and smiling sensuously,
she lifted her hands to touch his face and run
her fingers through his new hair. It was coarse and wiry,
and its touch filled her with revulsion. Oh it's so soft,
she purred.
Speaker 2: Hell yes, Charles chuckled dudlike mister Peckerwood.
Speaker 1: He kissed her, his tongue slipping into her mouth like
an eel. She returned his passion with professional enthusiasm as
he shifted his full weight on top of her. Oh, Charles,
she moaned. As the mattress rose around her. You big
sexy man, yes, said Charles.
Speaker 2: Oh.
Speaker 1: Yes. A fortnight later, Charles was lying beside the pool
of the Queen of the Aegean. He had followed advice
about taking a holiday and had finally decided upon a
cruise around the Greek islands. He sighed and touched his
hair lovingly. Yes, a holiday was just the thing he
and his new hair needed. He needed time to relax
and generally recuperate, and his hair needed time to settle
in and take root, time to flourish under the warmth
of the Aegean sun. Charles didn't get out in the
sun too often, and his white skin was dazzling beneath
an even coating a fact to thirty sun oil. The
whiteness of his body was a marked contrast to the
all over dark brown coloring of his hair. He'd had
it died just before he flew out to meet the ship.
It hadn't caused any problems. On the contrary, it had,
he believed, been a major factor in his wily seduction
of young Victoria. He smiled at her as she came
towards him from the bar. She had his martini in
one hand, and whatever ghastly technicolor concoction she was drinking
in the other. She smiled at him, her eyes concealed
behind her sunglasses as she sat down on the sun
lounger next to his Here you are, she said, handing
him the martini. He lowered his copy of yesterday's edition
of The Times and took the drink. Thank you, my dear.
No doubt she was just another gold digger. She was
probably hoping that he'd proposed to her in the next
few days, A rich old fool just dying to get
married to a pretty young thing like her. Well, he thought,
eyeing the tops of her bikini bound breasts. She had
another think coming. He'd enjoy her for the duration of
the cruise, then discard her. Jimmy, where you are, Charlie
said Victoria. Maybe you could roll over and I could
rub some into your back. No, thank you, VICKI, I
can't read my paper if I'm lying on my front.
That the fellow's got to keep up with current events,
don't you agree? Oh? I don't like current events. They're
always going on about war and politics. I like to
read about people like posh spys. Brittany, do you like
Pushbie s Darlin. Charles grimaced in Woodley. What utter drivel?
The woman talked, Ugh, yes, it's sir, it's charming. No,
Victoria laughed, it's not. It's it's as she she used
to be a spass girl. Silly. Charles managed to smile. Oh,
I see, of course. He took a long drink from
his martini. I'm going in for a swim, said Victoria,
running a hand up his oily sigh. You're coming in
as well, he smiled and raised his paper. Ah, not really,
by a cup of tea Viki. You go, though, and
when you get out, I'll rub a fresh coating of
oil all over that sexy little body of yours. She laughed. Ooh,
thought he. I had to make it a quick tip.
Then Charles grinned the sight of her sacheting bottom, sustaining
his smile as she got up and walked to the
pool's edge. She gave him a wave, then disappeared with
a small splash, and Charles returned to his newspaper. He
was just about to reach down to pick up his
drink when turning the page he saw something that caused
him to sit suddenly upright beneath the headline. Police release
picture of London homeless killer was an artist's impression of
a man's face, a face Charles recognized, perhaps only because
it had been on his mind so much of late.
Despite the lack of general resemblance, there was something unmistakable
about the eyes, and of course the beard. Oh my god,
he murmured, Tulah. His eyes darted to the story and
scanned for details. The text read believes today issued an
artist's impression of a man they wished to speak to
in connection with the disappearances of three homeless men in
the London area. The description was given to the police
by a man who was attacked last night near King's
Cross station. Richard Croft, thirty two, a homeless man who
lives in the King's Cross area, claims that his attacker
approached him and offered him a large sum of money
in exchange for a favor. Mister Croft presumed that the
man was seeking sexual favors and declined. However, his attacker persisted,
seizing Croft by the arm and pulling him into an alley,
and then attempting to render him unconscious with a handkerchief
soaked in what mister Croft believes may have been chloroform.
Craft managed to wrestle himself free and call for help,
which caused his attacker, a Caucasian man and his late
forties with a beard and very dark eyes, to run off.
The incident has been linked to the disappearance of Colin
Bale twenty and Stephen Tweed forty, both of whom vanished
on the night of March seventeenth, and Dennis Wilkins twenty six,
who went missing on March twenty ninth. Charles lowered his
paper numbly. His hand went to his head and touched
the new hair that grew there. His scalp seemed suddenly
to tingle, as if the new skin were trying to
remove itself from him. He felt a sudden wave of nausea.
He killed them, he thought devere murdered the men he
was supposed to pay, and kept the money for himself.
But now he's going.
Speaker 6: Into business, killing homeless men and hacking their faces off
the craft onto the heads of other men, men like me.
Speaker 1: He swung his legs over the side of the sun
lounger as a cold sweat prickled across his brow. He
could feel his breakfast rising in his throat and he
clamped his hand to his mouth. He got to his
feet and hurriedly stumbled across the deck to the side
of the ship, grabbing at the handrail and thrusting his
head out over the starboard side, just in time to
vomit his kippers back into the sea. Victoria Barnes stood
outside Cabin forty four and knocked again at the door.
Speaker 7: Charles, Charlie, you kay, Darlin, it's me Vicki Charlie. Oh,
speak to me, Darlin, you're scaring me.
Speaker 1: There was no reply. She hadn't seen Charles since yesterday morning.
She'd been in swimming for maybe ten minutes, and when
she got out, he'd vanished. She'd called at his cabin,
but it had been locked and there'd been no reply.
She'd then proceeded to search the entire ship, but she
hadn't been able to find a trace of him anywhere,
not so much as a tuft of his strange air
trance blant, which had always seemed rather unstable than about,
ready to drop out at any minute, and so she'd
given up her search, left with the only conclusion that
at that time made any sense to her. He'd given
her the slip, but after a few cocktails and a
lot of lavish male attention in the first class bar
last night, she'd come to doubt that she'd woken up
this morning with a hangover and a terrible certainty Charles
had fallen overboard. Dragged to the bottom of the Aegean
by the considerable weightiness of his wallet, She'd decided to
come down straight away and give his cabin door one
final hammering before going to the captain and telling him
her fears. Charlie, she said, to the cabin door, if
you're in there, please speak to me, Darling. I'm worried
about you. Silence, Charles, Charles. If you don't say something,
I'm gonna have to go to the captain and tell
him you've fallen overboard. So if you haven't fallen overboard,
say so, darln No. A voice from the other side
of the door suddenly replied, No, don't don't do that, Charlie,
She cried, Charlie, why don't you answer me. I've been worried, sick.
I just want to be alone. Aye. I've got an
egrain a lime and just lying here in the dark
hoping it will go away. Charlie, she said, with a keening,
childish lilt hip, poor thing. Is there anything I can
do for you? No? Please, just leave me alone. Victoria
stepped back from the door. She hesitated a moment before
answering quietly, okay, Charlie. She thought about adding something kinky,
but decided to leave it. Call me when you feel better. Yeah.
Inside his cabin, Charles spoke with his face pressed against
the cabin door. Yes, he lied, I'll call you all right, Darlene.
Charles remained pressed and listening to the door. Finally, the
damn woman was going away. When he was sure she'd gone,
he let out the breath he'd been holding and turned
back into the darkened room. He wasn't lying when he'd
said he had a migrain. His head was splitting, the
worst headache he'd ever had, and certainly the most frightening.
The pain had come on immediately after he'd been sick
the previous day, and he quickly returned to his cabin.
He was no stranger to migrain and knew there was
little to do, but waited out in a darkened room. However,
this time the pain was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.
It seemed to be located at two specific points on
either side of his scalp, as if each hemisphere of
his brain were hemorrhaging acid at the inner wall of
his skull. Charles had tentatively reached up to massage the
points of pain, pushing his fingers through the thick, coarse
hair that now flourished there, only to suddenly recoil when
he felt two hideous swellings on the surface of his scalp.
He'd pulled his fingers away, as if his scalp had
been on fire brain tubers. He thought, I've got brain tubers.
Somehow the transplant has gone wrong. Now I've got a
pair of brain tubers the size of lemnods bursting out
of my hair. His first reaction had been to call Dovere,
but then he checked himself. Devere was a murderer, wasn't he?
The last person he wanted to see was de Vere,
And yet who else could he turn to the ship's
doctor and have to answer questions about the transplants that
would surely implicate him as an accomplice of de Vere's. No,
that wasn't an option either. All he could do was wait, wait,
and hope that the swellings would go down of their
own accord, not tumors, just side effects, temporary aberrations, maybe
some kind of cysts or blisters filled with blood or
pus or something like that. They'd either simply go down
or burst. The thought of them bursting had caused him
to be overcome by fresh nausea, and he'd staggered to
the sink to vomit. And now, as soon as he
was certain that Victoria had gone, he moved unsteadily to
his bed and sat down. The pain in his head
hadn't abated in the least, and the cysts hadn't gone down.
What was more, they begun to itch maddeningly, and Charles
was terrified that if he scratched them they would burst. Warily,
he reached up and brushed his fingertips lightly over the swellings.
The itch raged at his touch, but he had to
continue gritting his teeth as his fingers explored, probing for
the source of the itch. And then he noticed something new.
Along the ridge of each cyst was what felt like
a line of baldness, and it was from these lines
of almost pouting, bare skin that the itchiness blazed. Charles
resisted the urge to sink his nails into them and
scratch for all he was worth. Instead, he caressed them,
both soothing and aggravating them at the same time. Then
a small laugh of relief broke from him. The transplant
was failing. That was it. He was going to lose
his new hair, and that would be the end of it,
and the beards that the severed faces of Diva's mutilated
victims would cease to. Charles's thoughts were suddenly cut off
as two simultaneous waves of pain poured through his head
and down his spine like torrents of molten lead. He screamed,
almost falling from the bed and clapping his hands over
the swellings. As again, duel waves of agony racked his body.
Charles fell sideways onto the bed, his hands coming away
from his head sticky with a warm wetness. He looked
at his palms and stifled a scream. A viscous substance
covered them, mucous like foam, flecked and stained with red
and black gouts of blood. Oh, merciful God, no, Charles whimpered.
They've burst, he thought, the Jobles have burst. I'm going
to die. Sheer hello, this studded Charles touched the swirlings.
He felt the substance wet under his palm. His new
hair was slippery with it, and the cysts blisters of
whatever they were, had split. Each had burst open like
an over ripe peach, and something brain juice was oozing
out directly from them. Child's fingers fluttered over the openings,
the viscid liquid coming away on his fingertips like treacle. Strangely,
he noticed the pain seemed to be abating, as if
soothed by his touch. His breath was coming and snuffling
snot lace gasps, and he held it as with trembling fingers.
He tenderly stroked the openings. Then he released his breath
in a little yelp as he felt a new sensation,
a tingle of pleasure. He stroked again and again, and
waves of almost erogenous pleasure rippled through him. He moaned,
his fingers caressing the wounds and probing at the openings,
parting the edges and finding a hard, unyielding surface within.
He opened his eyes suddenly, Oh my god, he thought,
I'm rubbing my skull. But it wasn't smooth as a
skull should be. It was uneven, bumpy, at more or
less regular intervals, more like rubbing the surface of It
was then that the hard surface beneath Charles's finger tips
began to part. Charles gasped and withdrew his fingers, listening
as the twins swellings hissed and bubbled as though air
were escaping through them. Was this it, he thought? Was
this the release of whatever poison had been causing his
head to literally split with pain. Cautiously, Charles reached again
to touch the swellings just above their oozing ruptures. He
could indeed feel warm air coming in short, steady drafts,
like exhalations. He realized. His fingers stroked the wet openings
and probed cautiously inside. But something was wrong with the
right side. The whole was deeper, The skull had opened,
and it was then that his skull bit him. Charles
screamed and yanked his fingers free, sending a wave of
pain through his head. Oh ChIL hissed a voice that
seemed to come from deep in the right hemisphere of
his brain. Charles turned to the right, trying to find
the owner of the voice, but there was no one there. ChIL.
Another voice sang, this time from the left again, Charles
looked for a speaker and found none. Looking for someone,
chi asked the voice on the right. It sounded as
if it were speaking through a mouthful of phlegm. Take
a walk in the mirror, Charles, said the other voice.
Charles sat up and stared into the mirror that faced
the bed from above the dressing table. He was quite alone.
Lean forward, Joel, said the voice on the right. Move
closer to the mirror. I'm a cold look. Charles eased forward,
stumpmbling from the bed to the floor. He crawled over
to the mirror and placed his hands on the edge
of the dressing table. As he rose slowly, head tilted
towards the mirror. He knew, even though it was almost
insane to contemplate, he knew what he would see there.
The beards, the lip like openings, the breathing, and the bite.
Charles's blood soaked reflection rose into the mirror and screamed.
Charles stared into the mirror at the two mouths that
had burst from the swellings on either side of his head.
Both of them drooled blood and black mucus from the
center of each of the beards. The mouths gurgled and
spat as something inside of each of them worked around,
trying to clear clumps of hair and skin from the
suppurating edges of their openings. Charles' mind struggled to reason
with the reflection that confronted it in the mirror. Mouths
with teeth, dear God, with tongues. It's not possible. It's insane.
Oh by God, Charles wailed, I've gone mad. Ah, that's
what it is. I've lost my mind, Not so much
lost your mind, Charles greened owlice, said the mouth on
the right in a mocking tone. Young, not insane.
Speaker 8: You don't get out of it, that isy, No covely
padded cell while you.
Speaker 1: No, hissed the mouth on the left. No snog, street
jackets or happy bills for you, Charles. There is no
medication that's been invented to Raker's scoy child, said the
mouth on the right. You know who we are, don't
you no leave me alone? Charles covered his eyes with
his hands. I've been said, that's all. You're not there.
Oh we are here, chuckled the voice on the left.
In the flesh. The voice on the right continued, you wandred.
Speaker 8: Half faces on your head and that's obtrucked me what
you've got?
Speaker 1: No, Charles screamed, you can't be, can't be. Charles hissed
the voice on the right. Weren't you grooming us just yesterday,
stroking us and teasing us into a pleasing shape. Wasn't
that you smiling?
Speaker 8: I get chest shear cat as you're your lady friend
ran her fingers through.
Speaker 1: Us, said the other voice. Where's she now, Charles, where's Ricky?
Get it in now and see if she wants to
run her fingers through your new hairstyle. Yes, said the
voice on the right.
Speaker 8: We can all pleasure heart together. Really give us some
head stop.
Speaker 1: A, shouted Charles, opening his eyes and forcing himself to
look at his head in the mirror. All right, I
think I know who you bite me? Well, permet us
to introduce ourselves, Charles hissed the voice on the right.
Speaker 8: Just to clear up any doubts. My name is Tweed,
Stephen Tweed, lean.
Speaker 1: Dead, Charles gave a low moan.
Speaker 9: Then I'm Colin Bale and I'm head and all just
two weeks shot of my twenty first birthday.
Speaker 1: Please, Charles sobbed.
Speaker 10: Please, you must understand I had no idea about what
Tavere did to you. I gave him half a million
pounds for each of you, A very transaction.
Speaker 1: This remark caused Bail and Tweed to laugh aloud, a
humorless mocking laughter which echoed and reverberated through the corridors
of Charles's mind. A fair transaction, said Tweed. Of course
we got a new air style. We get murdered. What
could be fairer than that? Everybody's happy, sang Bail. Who
was supposed to pay you? Said Charles. The body was
a used notes, just as you asked. We asked wonderhing,
Charles said, Tweed. We never even spoke to our murderer
because us unaware, said Bail, pushed our tickets before we
even you in Bart them send us to our account
with all our imperfections on our heads. Oh that bastard
he lied to me, said Charles. No, boy, you said Tweed.
Speaker 8: Look on the bright side, at least you've got us. Sorry,
we can't offer an actual shoulder to cry on.
Speaker 1: Are a sympathetic ear, added Bail.
Speaker 8: But we're here for you all the same, Charles forever.
Speaker 1: No, screamed Charles, Wat's the matter Charles said, Baile, Look,
do you like your hair dance flanks anymore? Why out?
They've been such a success.
Speaker 2: Yeah, hissed Tweed, The roots have grown so deeply into yard.
Speaker 1: Oh please, Charles whimpered, Please.
Speaker 11: I'll get you remove and distort to your bodies. I'll
see that you're buried, that you can go to heaven
or wherever it is you want to go to.
Speaker 1: They laughed again. Oh thank you, Charles said, Tweed. We
love to go to heaven, but not to before you've
sent your doctor devere to hell. Charles stared into the mirror,
his face contorted into a nott of horror and confusion.
What what, he stammered, What do you need? We want
you to avenge us child, said bail. We want you
to murder our murderer, and eye for an eye, a
tooth for a tooth. Only then will any of us
know any piece hissed Tweed. My god, I can't do.
Charles was cut off as both of the voices in
his head screamed. The sound was agony, like their vocal
chords were entwined with the nerves of his mind, resonating
like a dentist's drill in a cracked and rotten tooth.
Charles clamped his hands to his head, covering the mouths,
but doing nothing to silence their voices or the pain. Stop.
He screamed, stop, I beg your stop. The voices fell
silent as suddenly as they started, and Charles sank to
the floor, curling into a fetal position, his hands still
pressed hard over the mouths on his head. Kill doctor
to rear child. Tweed hissed, his voice unobstructed. Charles moaned
and sobbed for a few moments. Then he said, I
can have you removed. I could see another surgeon. You can't,
Charles said, Bail were so much more than just pad
and skin. It was then that Charles felt something tickling
at the palm of his left hand, something that felt
unpleasantly like the tip of a tongue. He pulled his
hands away, as though from a flame. We call a
lot for them. That tweed continued beyond the reach of
the knife. Oh God, said Charles, Oh, merciful God, it's
not God you want to be dealing with. Charles said, Bail,
it's us, and the deal is kill doctor devere.
Speaker 2: And then asked Charles, what then we leave you Charles said, Tweed, what.
Speaker 11: Just like that?
Speaker 1: Just like that, said Tweed. A fair transaction? What did
you say? Charles's face twisted into a doubtful smile.
Speaker 2: Of their transactions. Yes, an eye for an eye, a
tooth for a tooth, said Bail. Charles began to laugh.
Oh you are glad, You're so amused, said Tweed.
Speaker 1: Oh, yes, I'm going to murder Conrad de Vere. Charles
closed his eyes, and the voices in his head joined
in with his laughter, all of them laughing together as
Charles fell away into blackness. For the remainder of the week,
Charles remained locked within the darkened confines of his cabin.
The ship's doctor, contacted by a mildly distraught Victoria Barnes, called,
but Charles refused to see him. He gave him the
megrain story and assured him that he knew best how
to deal with his problem. Charles told the doctor to
set down the bottle of painkillers he'd brought just outside
the cabin door, to then leave him alone coctently. The
doctor had complied. Once he'd gone. A few moments passed,
then there came the sound of a key turning in
the lock. The cabin door opened a crack, and a
chubby hand emerged and quickly drew the medicine back inside.
Then the door slammed shut and the key rattled again
in the lock with finality. Some complaints were received from
passengers adjacent to Charles's cabin concerning screaming rows day and night,
furniture being thrown, about glass breaking, and so on, but
these rows ceased as soon as Charles was informed of
the complaints. On the seventh day, the ship entered port
on the Greek mainland, and those passengers whose holiday had
come to an end disembarked to make their way back
to Athens Airport and so on home to wherever it
was they had come from. The captain and the ship's
purser made it their business to bid the richer of
these departies a personal farewell. Among these was Miss Victoria
Barnes soon to be missus Victoria Tench and her new fiancee,
the silver haired owner of a chain of hardware stores
in the English West Midlands. Also shuffling down the gangplank
that day with only the courtist of good byes was Charles.
In one hand, Charles carried his bulging suit case, while
his other hand was occupied with the task of keeping
a straw panama hat fixed firmly to his head. It
wasn't a windy day, nor was it particularly sunny, so
why he should have been so concerned with his head
gear seemed to the Captain quite odd. He exchanged a
clandestine raising of the eyebrows with the purser and reflected
inwardly that stranger things had no doubt happened at sea.
It was nine p thirty on a dark Monday evening
when Charles's plane landed on the rainwashed tarmac of London's
Gatwick Airport. He made his way through the arrival's lounge,
looking like a man in the blackest throes of a hangover.
His expression was grim, and compared to the other people
getting off the Athen's flight, his complexion was cadaverous. As
he strode unsteadily through the crowds. Charles's red eyes were
fixed in an unblinking stare at the exit signs ahead
of him. One hand was pressed firmly to the now
rather crushed looking straw hat on his head. The other
was clenched in a fist at his side, as though
it were holding on to his abandoned suitcase, which now rotated,
unwonted and forgotten on the baggage carousel. As Charles stepped
out into the night and Pail the cab Ladbrook Grove.
He instructed the driver and gave the address of Devere's practice.
The cab pulled away into the rain, and Charles slid
shut the glass partition window between himself and the driver.
He sat back and screwed his eyes shut as Bail
and Tweed continued to grind their teeth together, a habit
they had taken to shortly after their emergence. Oh could
you please stop doing that, Charles groaned. Tweed's teeth stopped grinding.
Why doesn't bother you, Charles? You know it bothers me.
That's why I keep asking you to stop doing it.
You keep asking not to shuttle, said Bail. It's almost
like you don't like having us around. Charles grimaced. Look,
why God, you just please leave me a load. I
beg of you. I'll go to the police. I'll turn
into there and myself into the bargain. We could settle
the whole batter legally.
Speaker 8: No, sadly, we're beyond the academic justice of man, Charles said, Tweed,
or you only know things in terms of life and death.
Speaker 1: That's right. A couple of years in Nick and then
you're out on good behavior. It just doesn't cut the mustard.
Charles said, Bail, we want to be a dead and
they're not alone? What, said Charles, what do you need?
Please are the victim? Of course, Wilkins. He can't be
here with us today, but he sends his best. He
Bal's mouth smiled broadly, and Charles winced with the pain.
He's waiting, Charles, waiting on the other side for a
good doctor's device, waiting for vengeance, added Tweed. As are
we all, and so I am to be the tool
of your vengeance, said Charles. Go very traumatic. Charles said,
bo yeah, you're our two. And then once he's God,
you'll leave me. Tweed smiled again, causing Charles to WinCE
with agony.
Speaker 8: How can we welcome him to hell if we are
still stuck on you, Charles.
Speaker 1: As soon as that bastard's heart stops beating, we'll be
gone from you to receive him, said Bail, and reunited
as it were in death, and.
Speaker 2: Then you can be reunited with your to pay again,
said Tweed.
Speaker 1: Charles felt a wave of relief flow through him at
the thought of his to pay. He clung to the thought,
imagining it with him here now, so soft and lifelike.
As Bail and Tweed resumed the slow, relentless grinding of
their teeth, Charles held his imagined to pay to his cheek,
stroking it, singing softly to calm its fears, as one
might to a frightened child. There there, said Charles through
his own tightly gritted teeth. Everything's going to be all right.
H Charles was still singing his jittery broken lullaby when
the taxi driver tapped on the partition window to announce
their arrival outside de Vere's building. Charles opened his eyes
and grabbed at his hat almost at the same time. Then,
feeling the hat secure on his head and seeing the
cabby pointing at his destination outside, he relaxed, albeit only
for a moment. He set his face in a determined
expression and threw open the door. He handed the driver
a hundred pound note and waved away the offered change
as he turned to look up into the falling rain
at de Vere's windows. God good, said Tweed, for the
doctor is in. Let's go, Charles said, bail I was wasting.
Charles took the steps slowly, one at a time, until
he stood outside the front door. He pushed the door
buzzer next to Devere's name and waited, staring at the
intercom and trying to ignore the excited chattering going on
beneath his hat. A few moments passed, then the intercom
crackled as Devere's voice suddenly came through. The hissing of
the tiny speaker failed to mask the annoyance in his tone. Yes,
who is it? Charles leaned close to the intercom and spoke, Trea,
it's me Mason. There was a moment's pause, then Charles,
what on earth do you want? Guy? I need to
speak to you. Trea. It's very urgent.
Speaker 3: Well, I'm sorry, Charles, but I'm terribly busy right now.
Speaker 1: It'll have to wait till tomorrow. That was when Tweed
shouted from beneath the straw hat busy, using London's homeless problem,
Devia is that it? For a moment, the intercom just
hissed quietly. Then Devere's voice came back, though whereas earlier
it had been strongly characterized by irritation. Now it was guarded,
possibly even afraid.
Speaker 3: Is there anybody with you down there, Charles.
Speaker 1: No, said Charles, willing silence upon his unwonted guests. No,
I'm alowed. There was another pause, then Devere spoke.
Speaker 3: Again, very well, Mason, come on up.
Speaker 1: The door buzzed and Charles bail and Tweed pushed it open,
stepped into the hallway and began to the stairs. Devere
ran back into his operating theater, tearing his bloody apron
from around him as he went. There was no time
to hide all the signs of his crimes before Mason
got up to the office. He'd just have to shut
it all in here and wait till the stupid fool
had left. He ran over to the wash basin and
snatched up a small bar of soap. He turned on
the tap and thrust his gore streaked arms beneath the
floe of water, rubbing the soap frantically between his hands
and over his wrists as the water carried the traces
of his most recent atrocity down the drain in an
incarnadine swirl. The distant sound of a fist striking the
door of the front office Devere grabbed a towel and
dried his hands. He wondered again at what it was
that he'd heard Charles say down there there about London's homeless.
Could it be that he knew? Could he have connected
the face in the paper with his own? If so,
what was this? Surely the fool didn't hope to blackmail him. No,
the man was richer than royalty. What then, surely he
wasn't here to try and talk him into giving himself
up to the authorities. He closed the door to the
theater and hurried up the hall to the front office,
rolling down his shirt sleeves and buttoning his cuffs as
he went. Once in, he closed the door to the
hall and took a moment to compose himself. He smoothed
his hair, checked his general appearance in the mirror, then
walked calmly across to the front office door and opened it.
Devere had no time to think, no time to raise
his hands in front of him to try to stop
or hinder Mason. The man was upon him as soon
as the door opened, soaking wet, wearing a crumpled white
suit and a ruined straw hat. Mason charged him like
a mad bull, Devere cried out as he fell back
onto the floor. Mason followed him down, diving upon him
like an over's zealous lover, panting and spraying Devere's face
with spittle. Devere shrieked, grabbing ineffectually at Mason's arms and
trying to throw him off balance. Mason didn't even blink.
He seized Devere by the throat and squeezed, Oh, remember us.
Devere gripped at Mason's hands and struggled to break his
grip the part of his mind that wasn't a blaze,
with panic fixed on the pronoun Mason had used, us.
What did he mean by that? The question fell apart
in his mind as Mason began to shake him violently.
The tattered hat fell for from his head and Divere's
mind struggled with the sight that its falling revealed the
hair and skin that he had so carefully grafted just
over a week ago, now hung in ragged flaps from
a scalp that looked as though it had been flayed.
Devere gave up pulling at Mason's hands and reached up
to claw at his face, trying frantically to connect with
the man's eyes. Mason responded by holding his head up
and out of reach. Then suddenly Mason winced, and Devere
watched with a mixture of horror and professional fascination as
blood began to spurt in thin gouts from either side
of Mason's scalp. More blood flowed in rivulets through what
remained of Mason's hair transplant, running over his face and
spreading down onto Devere's scrabbling hands. Why did you do it, Devier,
Mason shouted, Why I gave you Bunny for the donors?
Why did you have to murder them? Devere felt a
darkness reaching for him, rising like cold water around his consciousness.
He felt the strength draining from his arms and the
pain in his throat to begin to lessen as a
sense of euphoria began to overcome him. His hands fell
from Mason's face as he watched through a rising mist.
As Mason relaxed his straining neck and lowered his head
a little, the darkness closed over Devere, comfortable now like sleep, drifting, drifting.
Then a lightning flash across the darkness as panic forced
its way back into his mind and with it a
final rush of Adrenalyn. Devere grabbed at Mason's blood soaked face, and,
finding slippery purchase, sank both of his trembling thumbs into
his attacker's eyes. Mason howled in agony, releasing Devia's throat
and tumbling back. His vision burned behind a red and
black cascade, and from somewhere beyond that cascade, he could
hear Devere coughing, choking, gasping for breath from the right
hand side of his head. Tweed screamed, you bastard, Deville
will murdering, bast Did you really think you could get
away with it? What did you do with our bodies?
Devir cried, bail? What did you do with the wastage?
The pitcher couldn't sail or to someone else? Devere managed
to get to his feet, massaging his throat. He ignored
the questions and aimed a vicious kick at Charles's bloody face.
How did you find out Charles read about it in
the papers? Did you hardly a flattering likeness, but obviously
good enough to arouse your suspicions? Charles spat blood, his
vision beginning to clear. So it is true, then you did,
kilb Devere smiled contemptuously, of course, But what's it to you.
You've got your new hair, haven't you, though, I have
to say, looks as though you've been taking rather rotten
care of it. What have you been doing, Charles? You're
obviously not using head and shoulders. Conrad, please call the
police and turn yourself, he'd laughed, ha, And why would
I want to do that, Charles? Just as I'm on
my way to my first million and a one way
ticket to Brazil, far away from this insufferable existence as
your pet surgical stooge, I can be a proper surgeon again, Mason.
What do you think of that? Please? Conrad the police,
call the police. Charles was cut off by another kick
to his face. He screamed with shock and rolled into
a fetal position, his arms thrown protectively over his face.
Will you shut up about the bloody police, Mason. I'm
surprised you didn't bring them yourself, said Devere, wiping the
blood from his shoe on the seat of Charles's trousers.
In fact, that's odd. Why didn't you Why didn't you
just call the police yourself? They wouldn't let be, said Charles,
keeping his arms crossed. Over his face. What who wouldn't
let you? What are you talking about? Tweed? Charles snuffled,
bailed Tweed. Devere frowned, confused. He hadn't known his first
two victims by name, though he had subsequently read about
their identities in the newspapers. Obviously Charles had done so too.
You don't mean that's right, div you murdering bastard. Came
a strange, hissing voice from Charles.
Speaker 8: Bill and Tweed. All away from hell and we're taking
you back with us.
Speaker 1: Devere stared at the wadded bundle of arms and legs
his feet. The voice had definitely come from Charles, but
it hadn't sounded anything like him. Perhaps his nose was
bleeding into his throat and he was speaking through blood
and phlegm. Evidently the man had suffered some kind of
mental breakdown. De Vere laughed nervously. I see Charles guided
by voices?
Speaker 3: Are we.
Speaker 1: The Heardeville, said Charles piteously. Here with me in my head?
Oh dear, said de Vere, shaking his head. That must
be quite uncomfortable for you. What did you do with us?
Came the strange hissing voice. Again. De Vere shook his
head Oh, the million dollar question. Hmm. He smoothed his
hair back into place. It was too bad that Mason
had to die. He was high profile and directly connected
to him. Still, there were ways and means, he smiled affably.
Very well, Charles, you say you'd like to know what
I did with the bodies? Yeah, tash, very well. Then
I'll go one better. I'll show you. De Vere extended
a hand, though Charles, his face still enveloped by his arms,
didn't notice. Devere sighed, Oh, come on, Mason, do you
want to know what? Don't you? Charles wearily lowered his arms.
His eyes were closed and wet with blood. Can you
see all right, asked de Vere. Charles opened his eyes
and looked straight back at de Vere. We could see
he just fired, he said, taking the offered hand and
getting to his feet. Oh we I see it's we now,
is it, said de Vere, leading the way over to
the hallway door. Well, come on then, all of you,
and I'll show you what became of the rest of
her your bits. Devere opened the door and led the
way down the short hall. Charles followed, grimacing at the
suffocating smell that filled the windowless space, A chemical odor,
redolent of hospitals, sweet antiseptic, and yet there was something
else beneath it, something that reminded him of his own
battery farms, something Charnel. Charles stopped and steadied himself against
the wall, trying to ignore the grow minding of Bail
and Tweed's teeth and stay focused on de Vere, who
now turned to him from the door at the end
of the corridor. You're looking a bit peaky, Charles. What's
the matter? Lost your curiosity all of a sudden, Come on, Charles.
Speaker 2: Tweed hissed, don't go to Jenny on a snow Yeah,
sac Like, Charles said, Bail.
Speaker 1: Don't you want to know what that bastard's been not to? No,
Charles moaned, sorry, said de Vere. Does this hurt? Charles said, Bail,
and he bit down on his tongue. Charles screamed and
clutched at his head. I'll stop it, stop it. Devere
watched in astonishment. This was worse than he had thought.
Mason had gone completely insane. He took a step towards him. Charles, No,
said Charles, holding up a hand to stay. Devere go ahead,
I'm cubbing. Bail stopped biting his tongue and smiled. Harry
Boy Charles now get Dolan. Charles steadied himself and walked
on down the corridor, the smell thickening around him as
he approached the last door, a fowl sulfurous odor. He
stopped eye to eye with Devere and managed to curl
his lip in a sneer of defiance at the other
man's sanctimonious smile. Go ahead, doctor opened it. Devere lay
his hand on the door handle and opened the door.
Charles had seen and experienced a lot in the last week,
yet somehow none of it had prepared him for the
horror that waited beyond that door. On a metal operating
table in the center of the room lay a dismembered
human torso. The head was still attached, although the lower
half of the face was a mutilated mess. The beard
had been removed, sliced away to expose the raw, wet
muscle and sinew beneath. The Man's jawbone showed white in
particularly hacked places, and his yellow teeth grinned in a
grotesque rictus at the bright lights positioned above. The arms
and legs had been removed. One arm lay where it
had fallen beside the operating table, reaching out to Charles
from a pool of blood on the white floor tiles.
It was one of many such pools, and child noticed
bloody footprints tracking everywhere around the room. His eyes followed
the tracks along the bloodiest trail to a metal table
covered with a scattering of surgical instruments. They included numerous
serrated edged tools. Among them a large hack saw its
teeth dark and clogged with gore. Charles felt faint and
looked away, following footprints again, this time to a large
aquarium on a table against the far wall. The water
inside looked like it had been drawn from the Thames, dirty,
far too dirty for any fish to live in. Perhaps
de Vere was keeping eels forgive them mess, chuckled de Vere.
But this is what happens when people dropped by unannounced.
Why I barely had time to wash my hands, let
alone tidy up. Felt his stomach give a lurch. He
belched manners, Charles, said Devere. He walked over to a
small table beside the corpse and lifted what looked like
small flattened roadkill. It was the dead man's beard. What
do you think, Charles, fancying you look your mad, di
vill said Charles. Devere laughed, I'm mad. You charge in
here trying to strangle me. Driven, you say, by the
collective will of a couple of dead men, you say,
are living in your head, and you call me mad? Really,
what did you do with us? Doovia? Came a voice
from Charles. What did you do without bodies?
Speaker 6: Oh?
Speaker 1: I'm sorry, I forgot. That was the purpose of this
little tour of ours, wasn't it. Devere dropped the beard
back into the tray and strolled over to the instrument table.
He picked up the hack saw, smiled, and returned to
the corpse. He took hold of the big toe of
the dead man's left foot. This little piggy went to market,
ah mason. Devere pressed the saw to the toe joint,
and with one deft stroke he severed it. The foot
dropped back onto the table with a dull, metallic thud.
Devere tossed the toe lightly into the air and caught
it as he walked over to the aquarium. You know, Charles,
there are few things these days which the thoroughly unscrupulous
former medical professional cannot procure on the black market. Devere
held the toe over the murky liquid. Large quantities of
sulfuric acid present little difficulty. You just have to know
the right people. Devere held the toe over the murky liquid.
He dropped the toe into the liquid, and immediately it
began to churn and fizz, surging around the toe like
water around an alka seltzer tablet. Charles felt something inside
of his head recoil with rage. Both of the mouths
on his scalp clenched their teeth, trembling with a fury
that suddenly broke from him in two deafening screams. Charles
instinctively threw his hands over his ears, but this gave
no relief from the terrible sound. He pushed his hands
up the sides of his head, clamping his hands over
the screaming mouths and staggering backwards. Dimly aware that he
too was now screaming like a bedlamite, Devere saw his chance.
He turned and reached into the pocket of his jacket,
where it lay draped over the back of a chair.
He withdrew a small brown bottle and a handkerchief. Quickly,
he splashed a generous quantity of the contents of the
bottle onto the handkerchief. The smell of the chloroform rose
to his nose, oblivion tickling at his senses. Good Night Vienna,
he whispered, skirting around the room and up behind Charles.
Charles was howling, trapped in the private vortex of bail
and tweeds, rage and misery. When he felt Devere pounce
against his back. He felt bony arms encircle his neck,
and then something soft and wet pressing against his nose
and mouth. Charles opened his mouth and tasted chemicals chloroform.
The realization shone momentarily, then began to fade, like a
light in the fog, as the sharp edges of the
world began to soften and blur clear You bashd came
a wet, but strangely unmuffled voice from Charles. Devere pushed
the handkerchief harder against Charles's mouth. He could feel the
impression of lips and teeth trapped beneath his hand, so
how could Mason possibly be speaking? Suddenly Charles threw his
great weight backwards into Devere, sending him crashing backwards and
down to the floor. Devere, desperate for the chloroform to
take effect, held on to Charles as he fell, bringing
the big man down on top of him. Devere managed
a momentary howl before the air was knocked out of
his lungs. Calvi Bastard screamed, bail. Devere's handkerchief fell from
Charles's face, and Charles rolled clear, coughing and heaving deep
lungfuls of air. Now while he's down, hissed Tweed. Callum Charles.
Charles crawled groggily towards the table of surgical tools. He
could hear Devere moving and scraping behind him. Come on,
Charles said, Bail, he's getting up. Walk at the silverware.
Use that, said Tweed, directing Charles's eyes to the severed arm.
Oh my God, said Charles, use it, bail, and Tweed
screamed in unison. Charles reached out and took the severed
arm by its hand. He heard the voice of his
own mind screaming in revulsion at the cold, lifeless touch
as he closed his fingers on it. Then he heard
the sound of footfalls running on the tiles behind him.
He didn't think he acted, whether at his own direction
or at someone else's. He swung the severed arm in
an arc with all his strength, twisting with the swing
and watching as the ragged shoulder muscle caught Devere under
the chin. Blood burst from the limb in a red
and black gush that flew through the air, along with
the scalpel that had a moment before been clasped into
Vere's hand. Devere crashed into the operating table, grabbing at
it to stop his fall, and instead upsetting it, pulling
the corpse down with him as he fell. Now said,
tweed finish him. Nye for an eye, shouted bail. Somewhere
Charles could hear his own voice repeating no, no, no,
but it was drowned beneath bail and tweeds screams for vengeance.
Charles staggered across the room, his hand stitched to Talian loafers,
slipping and sliding on the bloody tiles, before he dropped
his full weight down onto Devere, his knees crashing onto
the doctor's shoulders and pinning him mercilessly. Devere groaned and
thrashed futilely beneath him, barely able to breathe. Please, Charles,
for pity's sake, I helped you. I only did what
you wanted me to please, Devere wheezed, all trace of
cool superiority gone and replaced with frightened desperation. I never
wanted any of this, said Charles, shaking the severed arm
in front of Devere's face. I never wanted burder. Charles
took the limb by the wrist and elbow joints and
held it over Devia's throat, then stopped. Divera's eyes were
mad with fear. This murdered Charles. Can't you see that
if you kill me, that makes you murder it too,
You'll be no better than me, Devere stammered hysterically. Charles
snuffled and began making a weird, keening noise. He held
the amputation poised and trembling over Devere's throat, seemingly lost
in an almost trance like state. A moment passed, and
Devere thought he sensed doubt in Mason. The man was confused.
Whatever strange new wiring it was that crackled in his head,
it seemed to have somehow shorted out. Devere swallowed and
tried to steady his breathing. The tattered remains of the
beards grafted to Mason's scalp flapped in front of his
forehead as he continued to keen and whine. They began
to drip blood onto Devere's face, and it was only
with a supreme effort of self control that Duvere managed
not to scream. He tried to relax his expression into
some semblance of a smile. Then, with his best shot
at professional cheer, he whispered Charles. Charles's eyes blinked and
came to focus, and a voice, one of the voices
Charles seemed to be playing the ventriloquist with, shattered the
stillness like a brick through a plate glass window. Krim Child.
Another voice joined in, two voices chorusing impossibly together grim
kilim killing. Charles leaned forward and pushed down hard on
the elbow and wrist of the severed arm. He watched
with eyes he knew he shared with others. As Devere's
tongue began to swell and protrude from his gaping mouth.
He watched the frantic eyes as they darted about in
desperate hope of some impossible salvation. Felt the arms pinned
beneath him, thrashing about for something, anything to grasp at,
they settled on the wet folds of Charles's trousers. They're
clutching and pulling, now going unnoticed. As for the first time,
Charles noticed an old TIMEX watch on the wrist of
the severed arm. The second hand still moved beneath the
cracked and blood smeared surface. Ten thirty three, and Charles
tilted his head to get a better look. Seventeen seconds
Is that all, he wondered, and that part of his
mind still inhabited solely by Charles Mason marveled at the
way time had flown since he'd landed at Gatwick Airport.
That mind now drifted completely from the man dying beneath
him and took refuge in the precise movements of the TIMEX.
Charles even managed to ignore the voices that screamed from
his skull over and over the same thing, targv over die. Finally,
Charles felt Devia's last desperate spasm of struggle pass and
the body beneath him eased into stillness. Charles looked down
at Devia's face. The dead man's eyes stared at him
with what appeared to be a look of confusion. Charles
threw aside the arm and allowed himself to go slack,
rolling off the body of de Vere and coming to
rest against the other, the dismembered corpse. He felt nothing.
He was past caring, now, past the fear, the horror,
the revulsion. He was just tired. Are you happy now,
said Charles, calmly. He's dead. Bail and Tweed made no reply.
Charles frowned, irritated by the silence. Well, you've got your
eye for an eye, now go be God, get back
to Bell to greet him on whatever it is you
want to do. Charles waited for the taunting response, but
it didn't come. He listened intensely to the world without
and within himself. There was only silence. Charles raised his
hands to his head and carefully began to trace his
fingers through the ruin of his scalp, trying to locate
the mouths, their beards. The transplants were coming apart from him,
almost physically crawling away from him, But inside were Bail
and Tweed gone. He ignored the pain as he pushed
and groped through the tangled, gory mess, prying at what
had until so recently been mouths and now now were
just wounds. Again. He felt a wave of relief pass
through him, and he laughed nervously. Terrible wounds, that's all.
They were wounds that needed the attention of a surgeon. Yes,
but only wounds only. That was when the wound under
his left hand smiled.
Speaker 2: Charles said, bail, change your plan, No, whispered Charles. No, yes,
Charles said, Tweed.
Speaker 1: You said you'd go, You said you leave? What the
deal was? Dead? Did I for an eye? Well he's dead?
Ad you do you have to go?
Speaker 7: Now?
Speaker 1: Do we had a deal? Transaction? Chuckled Bail. Yes, screamed Charles,
struggling to his feet for transaction. Tweed answered with a calm,
unemotional No. Charles was incredulous. What we won't go?
Speaker 3: Mary?
Speaker 1: What does your maid? Who killed the heir? Charles asked bail.
Charles winced as the mouths on his head smiled.
Speaker 10: What I no, you you did you killed him?
Speaker 1: I was your tool that you you killed him? Tweed laughed, Oh,
but we.
Speaker 8: Are dead, Charles, uncle, we haven't murdered anybody.
Speaker 2: Surely you must real eyes that you heart wears matter. No,
Charles whispered, yes, Charles, you are the murderer.
Speaker 1: Doth quite too, were said you do. We you do
are just as bad as he Jamma to peased upon
said bail.
Speaker 3: No.
Speaker 1: Charles shouted a note of hysteria in his voice. Now, no,
you did it. Look Kiver, turn yourself in. Charles said, bail.
There's a phone in the other room. Call the police
and tell them what you've done. Friend, we'll be even,
said Tweed. No, no, cried Charles. I didn't do it.
I never kill what he was. You did it, you
used me. Suddenly Baile began to scream in a voice
that went through Charles like an axe splitting rotten wood.
Will ye clean? Tweed joined in b bar No, screamed Charles,
please stop it. Stay below. He clapped his hands over
their mouths and felt teeth snap and bite at his palms.
He screamed and pulled his hands away. Blue monsters. Monsters.
He looked down at his palms, where blood was beginning
to trickle into the impressions left by their teeth. The
dead men continued their chanting, over and over. Charles wailed.
He punched at his tattered scalp, but it had no effect.
The voices wouldn't stop. They were getting louder and louder.
Charles looked around for something to gag them with, something
to stop off into their mouths, and silenced there screaming,
shouting holes once and for all. Then his eyes fell
upon the aquarium, the acid bath. Charles let out a
wail that became a long, twisted laugh, but it was
almost inaudible beneath the lunatic shouting that filled the room,
bouncing off the tiles and resounding around without end. Charles
stumbled over the bodies on the floor and staggered to
the tank. He laid his hands cautiously, almost irreverently, on
the glass, and stared at the fowl untroubled liquid within
bail and tweed roared and shouted, gnashed and spat, while
slowly Charles's expression rippled from a grimace into a smile.
Then he laughed a laugh that spiraled into a scream
in order to be heard above the clamor in his head.
Won't lave me.
Speaker 4: I rode on your side of the bargain while that
is by head, I'll be damn if I'm going to
share it with your toe bastards.
Speaker 1: And a longer Charles gripped the tank by its rim
and pulled himself forwards, plunging his scalp into the acid.
The pain struck him with incredible force, and he felt
his back convulse as his body's every reflex attempted to
pull him clear of the agony. But Charles could hear
the screams of his tormentous even though their mouths were
submerged beneath the hissing, bubbling, blood clouded turmoil. He could
hear them screaming. And it was this the tight and
his grip on the edge of the tank, and held
him fast. Even as the tendrils of accurate smoke rose
around his darkening world and the voices became choked and broken,
Charles could hear them screaming, and he wasn't pulling out
until he heard them stop.