Scared to Death--Ten Sinister Stories by the Master of the Macabre Read online

  That evening, Dennis took us all out to dinner at the Golden Key to cheer us up. This was a smart pub in Snape, about five miles away. He ordered more posh wine and chose all the most expensive food. But when the bill came, I noticed he slid it over to my mum. “Left my credit card behind,” he explained. “You get this, Geraldine. I’ll pay you back.”

  He shrugged and got up to go to the toilet. While he was gone I asked my mum if things really were as bad as they seemed.

  “I don’t know, Lucy,” she said with a sigh.

  “Has he really used all your savings?”

  “I’m afraid so. He says you have to spend money to make money, but I don’t think…” She broke off. “Don’t you worry about this,” she continued. She sounded completely worn out. “I’m sure it’ll work out in the end.”

  “Are you still glad you married him?” I hadn’t meant to be so direct but the words just slipped out.

  “Of course!” she replied instantly.

  I wasn’t convinced. “You could always divorce him,” I said.

  Mum’s eyes widened. I turned round. Dennis had come back into the dining room. He was standing right behind me and he must have heard what I had just said.

  “Everything OK?” Mum asked. She looked really frightened. She was wondering if he had overheard our conversation.

  “I feel sick,” Dennis said. He reached for the car keys, which were lying on the table. “Let’s go home.”

  None of us spoke on the way back. As soon as Dennis had parked his BMW, I hurried into the house and up to my room. I just wanted the evening to be over. But it wasn’t yet. Not by a long way.

  I’d just got into my pyjamas when my door opened and Dennis came in. I was quite startled to see him. He never usually came into my bedroom. He must have seen the expression on my face, because he smiled at me in that lazy way of his and said, “I just came in to say goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Dennis,” I said. I’d never called him Dad.

  But he didn’t leave. He sat down on the bed. “You know, I couldn’t help overhearing what you said to your mum back in the restaurant,” he drawled. “I’d hate to think you were turning her against me.”

  “I’m not,” I replied.

  “That’s not how it sounded to me.” He looked me straight in the eye. “In fact, young lady, I’d say you’ve been more or less against me from the start.”

  It’s funny how things can change in an instant, like when the wind blows out a candle or a door swings open to show something horrible on the other side. That was how it was for me then. Dennis hadn’t done anything or said anything particularly unpleasant. He was still sitting there in his smart blazer and grey trousers with one leg over his knee. But he was suddenly a completely different man and I realized two things in the same moment. I was scared of him. And he knew I was scared … it was what he wanted.

  “I have to say,” he went on, reasonably, “it would make life very difficult if you were my enemy. I’d have to think about separating you … sending you away to a boarding school.”

  “You can’t afford boarding school,” I said. I regretted the words as soon as I’d spoken them.

  “We can sell this house. Get something smaller in Woodbridge or Leiston. Just your mother and me. Geraldine does what I tell her. You may have noticed that. You talk to her about me, she’ll tell me – and you’ll suffer the consequences.” He stood up.

  I flinched. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. That was the power he had, a sort of animal quality. He had the upper hand and he knew it. He took one last look at me, then walked out of the room. I stayed where I was. I was trembling. That was the effect he’d had on me. And that was when I began to wonder. Was Mum afraid of him too?

  In the next few weeks, Dennis’s business affairs didn’t get any better but he didn’t seem to care. By now we had remortgaged the house. A home in Orford, even a tiny one like ours, was worth a lot of money. But the question was – how would we ever pay it back? As far as he was concerned, Mum was a virtually bottomless well and he could continue drawing on her until she’d been sucked dry. And then, just when I thought he couldn’t be any greedier or any more demanding, up came the massage chair.

  Dennis had seen it advertised in a magazine: the Silver City Pro-elite Massage System Deluxe. In the picture, it looked like something you might find at an up-market dentist’s, a series of padded leather cushions on a swivelling steel frame, with headphones for the built-in sound system and two remote controls – one for massages, one for music. According to the advertisement, the SCPMSD came with state-of-the-art roller-and-airbag technology, a powerful (but silent) tri-point hydraulic system and a choice of fifteen different programs as well as a unique Body Memory feature which automatically took your weight and measurements and selected the massage to suit your needs. Other bonuses included a super-strong air-pressure option, an economy standby mode and automatic shut-off. The SCPMSD was being offered at a special, once-only price of £3,950 + VAT.

  “We’re simply not getting this,” Mum said, pushing away the advertisement which Dennis had thrust under her nose.

  “But it’s my birthday!” Dennis scowled. In fact, his birthday was still a month away.

  “I’d love to get it for you. But I simply can’t. There’s no money in the bank and my credit cards are all over their limit.”

  “We can get another credit card.”

  “Why do you need a massage chair?” Mum asked.

  Dennis rubbed his neck. “Living with the two of you, always criticizing me all the time! You have no idea how stressed I am. If I was more relaxed, I’d be able to concentrate on my business a little more.”

  “I’m sorry, Dennis. I’m sure it would be a lovely thing to have. But I’m afraid this time what you’re asking really is out of the question.”

  The massage chair turned up a few days later. It was a monstrous thing that took four men to carry in, and by the time it had been installed in the living room, there was hardly any space for anything else. Dennis wasn’t there when it arrived. He was at the pub, somewhere he’d been spending more and more time recently. After the delivery men had finished their work and gone, I found Mum in the kitchen. I could tell that she’d been crying.

  “Mum!” I went over to her and this time I wasn’t going to hold back. “Why are you putting up with this?” I demanded. “It’s stupid. You should get rid of him. You should kick him out.”

  “Sssh!” She turned round and for a moment she looked terrified. “You don’t understand, Lucy. I can’t…”

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “No. It’s not like that.”

  “Then why?”

  I heard the front door open and my heart sank.

  “He’s not so bad,” my mum whispered. “And maybe he’ll be happy … now that he’s got his chair.”

  In fact, Dennis was delighted. He sat in it at once and began to experiment with the programs, trying to find the one that suited him best.

  Have you ever seen a massage chair? For something that was meant to be a luxury item, this one was hideous. The leather was black and highly polished, and even if it was packed with the latest technology, it still looked awkward and old-fashioned. It was also very big, completely enclosing Dennis when he sank into it … a bit like a mummy in its sarcophagus. The chair sat on a metal plinth. There were supports for his arms and legs, and when the program started, these gently pressed on both sides of his wrists and ankles, massaging them and at the same time keeping him in the correct position. Cushions also inflated behind his head and around his neck and hidden rollers moved up and down his spine, under his hips and thighs and even behind his calves. Every inch of his body was catered for and, just as the advertisement had stated, the massage chair was practically silent, with only a faint humming as it went about its work.

  I hated that chair. You have to remember that we lived in a small, pretty house and the chair – with its pistons and rollers and airbags and leg tracti
on – completely spoiled it for me. I could always tell when it was on. I couldn’t hear it, but the walls of my bedroom vibrated. I thought of it as a monster in a cave. If any of our friends had seen it, they would have said it was completely out of place, better suited to an airport lounge or health club. But not many friends visited us any more. (They didn’t much like Dennis either.)

  Dennis had the chair for less than a week before it broke down. He used it every evening. He had a set pattern: after dinner, he’d pour himself a glass of expensive wine, light one of his expensive cigars and sit there in his black leather beast with a vague smile on his face, watching TV. Meanwhile, Mum would do the washing-up and maybe the ironing before she went to bed, and I’d stay in my room, doing my homework, almost afraid to go out.

  Well, one evening, just before I went upstairs, he got himself all set up, reached for the remote control, pressed down with his thumb and…

  Nothing happened.

  “Geraldine? Have you been tampering with this?” he demanded.

  “No.” My mum stopped, a pile of washing in her arms.

  He tried again. “It’s not working.”

  “Is it plugged in?” Mum asked.

  “Of course it’s plugged in, you stupid woman. You can see for yourself. The green light is on.”

  “Well, it’s not working.”

  “I know it’s not working. I just said that.”

  “Maybe it’s fused,” I suggested, secretly hoping it was something more serious.

  “We need to call someone in,” Dennis said.

  “I’ll find someone,” my mum said. She was really upset. I don’t suppose she cared about the stupid chair, but she didn’t want Dennis to be in a bad mood.

  She rang the chair company the following morning – but that prompted the next crisis. The Silver City Pro-elite Massage System Deluxe was still under guarantee, but Dennis had lost the paperwork and they said they wouldn’t come to the house if we didn’t have it.

  “We can get someone local,” I said. “I bet it’s something simple. Maybe one of those stupid pistons has fallen off or something.”

  “Lucy!” My mother rolled her eyes nervously, even though Dennis wasn’t in the house.

  “I’ll find a number,” I said.

  I went into the kitchen. Living in the country, we still relied on a local telephone book – not every business advertised online. And there it was, lying open on the windowsill next to the sink, a directory with a picture of a cartoon tiger and a title: local businesses at your fingertips. But here’s the strange thing. As I walked over to it, there must have been some sort of breeze in the room, because the pages fluttered and turned as if the book were opening itself. Stranger still, by the time I reached it, it had settled in exactly the right place, because there was an advertisement in a black box in the top corner that drew my eye immediately.

  I showed the advertisement to Mum and she rang the number, although she was a little puzzled by all those zeroes. What sort of phone had a number like that? I’m not sure she was even expecting to get an answer, but she was connected after the first ring. She spoke briefly to someone at the other end of the line, then put the phone down. “They’re coming on Saturday,” she said.

  “Are they expensive?” I asked. I was always worrying about money these days even if it was the one subject we never talked about.

  “They didn’t say.” Mum saw the look in my eyes. “However much it is, it’ll be worth it,” she said. “Dennis loves that chair. And it does help keep him calm.”

  The mechanic turned up at ten o’clock the following Saturday, exactly when he’d said he would. He came in a white van that reminded me of something. Had I seen it before, on the day of the wedding? If so, it was a strange coincidence. In any event, he entered the house carrying a neat, metal toolbox. He was a very short man, barely taller than me, dressed in blue overalls with a biro behind his ear. He was dark-skinned, bald, with a moustache that was a little too big for his face. His teeth were a dazzling white. All in all, he didn’t look like a mechanic. He looked like someone dressed up as a mechanic.

  Dennis had just finished breakfast and followed the mechanic into the living room. The little man was already crouching in front of the chair.

  “What a beauty!” he was saying. “The Silver City Pro-elite Deluxe! Multi-airbag system. Twin 26-point shiatsu rollers! I congratulate you, sir, on your good taste. Only the best for you. I can see that!” He straightened up. “I bet you must love sitting on this.”

  “It doesn’t work,” Dennis said.

  “That’s the trouble with Silver City.” The mechanic shook his head. “They’re unreliable. It’s Japanese engineering. Not that I’ve got anything against the Japanese. Great cars. Great TVs. But when it comes to massage chairs, they can be a bit shoddy, a bit slapdash…”

  “Can you fix it?” Dennis asked.

  “I can fix anything. It might take an hour. It might take all day. We won’t know that until we’ve got the back panel off and I’ve had a quick scout around inside.”

  “How much will it cost?” Mum asked.

  “Fifty pounds plus VAT, or forty pounds if you’re paying in cash.”

  I could see Mum was relieved. We’d had plumbers and electricians come to the house and they’d charged double that just to walk through the door.

  “Mind you,” the mechanic went on. “Let’s hope the vertical sensors or the spine rotation systems haven’t blown. That could be more expensive. And I might have to take out the motherboard. This Japanese circuitry … it can play all sorts of tricks.”

  “Just mend it,” Dennis said. “I’m going out.” Dennis had recently taken up golf. Mum had used her connections at the hotel to get him cut-price membership at a local club.

  As soon as he had gone, the mechanic set to work. He opened his toolbox to reveal a gleaming array of spanners on the top shelf with a dozen screwdrivers, pliers, wrenches and tweezers neatly lined up below.

  “Would you like some tea?” Mum asked.

  “No, thank you, Geraldine,” the mechanic replied. “But I wouldn’t mind a glass of water. Tap, not mineral. And maybe a slice of lemon?”

  “Right…” My mum sounded bewildered.

  And there was something that puzzled me. I had been there when she had made the phone call and I had been there when the mechanic arrived. Mum had never told him her name. He couldn’t possibly have known it.

  But he had called her Geraldine.

  The next time I looked into the living room, the massage chair had been turned inside out. The mechanic had taken off the leather cushions to reveal a metal panel, which he had unscrewed. Now there were about a thousand wires spilling onto the carpet and I could see metal pistons, cogs, wheels and circuit boards packed together inside. The mechanic was whistling cheerfully but my heart sank. I’d decided that he was a complete fraud. I didn’t believe for a minute that he had the faintest idea what he was doing.

  I was wrong. He worked for three hours, occasionally stopping to sip the lemon-flavoured tap water he had requested. When I went into the room again, the chair had been put back together again and looked as good as new. He was just screwing the panel back into place.

  “Is it fixed?” I asked. It was the first time I had spoken to him.

  “As right as rain, Lucy. Fixed and fastened.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Your stepfather told me.” He slipped another screw into place and began to turn it.

  “Do you live in Suffolk?” I asked him.

  “No, no, no. Not me.”

  “So where do you live?”

  “I get around.”

  At that moment, my mum came into the room. She took one look at the chair and I could see the relief in her face.

  “It was the auxiliary sprocket,” the mechanic told her. “Would you believe that someone had put it in upside-down! It short-circuited the main drive. And without the main drive the whole thing was a non-starter.” He picked up th
e remote control and pressed a button. The massage chair began to vibrate the way it always had. Music played in the headphones. The back rollers gently pulsated. Everything seemed to be working.

  “How much do I owe you?” my mother asked.

  “Forty pounds if you don’t mind paying cash,” the mechanic replied.

  “But you’ve been here for hours,” Mum said.

  “Yes. It took a little longer than expected. But the price I quote is the price you pay. And forty pounds it is!”

  “Well … thank you very much.” Mum reached for her handbag and took out two twenty pound notes.

  The mechanic rolled them up like a cigarette and slipped them into his top pocket. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” he said. “And a pleasure working on the Silver City Pro-elite. What a chair! What a great investment! I wish you hours of pleasure. Good day!” He had already packed up his toolbox. He picked it up and left.

  Dennis was in a bad mood when he got back from the golf club, which meant that he had lost. But he brightened up a bit when he saw the massage chair. “Is it mended?” he asked.

  “Yes, Dennis,” my mum said.

  “Did that man demonstrate it before he left?”

  “He turned it on.”

  “Did he run through all the programs?”

  “Well, not all of them…”

  “You shouldn’t have let him leave without going through all the programs,” Dennis said. “If he’s damaged it…”

  “It seemed to be working all right.”

  “We’ll see!”

  Dennis didn’t actually try the chair until after dinner. As Mum and I cleared the table, he lit a cigar, poured himself a glass of wine and ambled into the living room. I heard the squeak of the cushions as he sat down. Then came the faint tish-tish-tish of music being played through the headphones. A moment later, the chair – and much of the house – began to vibrate.

  “Well, that seems to be all right,” my mum said.

  “Let me make you a coffee,” I said. Mum was looking exhausted.

  “Thank you, Lucy. That would be nice.”

  How long did it take for everything to go wrong? I can’t tell you. Even now I find it hard to remember exactly what happened. Maybe I don’t want to. My therapist told me that sometimes, without even trying, we block out things too horrible to recall. Not that I’m seeing a therapist any more. But she might have been right.