Page 39 of Pride
“A fucked-up freak, that’s who.”
I had no idea what they were talking about so conspiratorially, but I knew, once I stepped through the doors into my office and saw everyone huddled around Mike, the photographer’s desk, I was about to find out.
As I got closer, I saw the image he had on his screen, and part of me wanted to back up, turn around, and start the day again, preferably at another company.
“What’s going on?” I asked hesitantly, like I needed clarification when the ugly truth was staring right at me on his monitor.
It was a murder scene. But not any murder scene. This was a staged horror show. A gruesome spectacle. A torturing sickos dream.
There was a naked man nailed to a wall with what looked like tent pegs through his shoulders. His throat had been cut from ear to ear, but I wasn’t sure that’s what’d killed him. You see, he’d also been cut open from his sternum right down to his pelvis, and his ribs had been pulled apart, cracked open to let his internal organs spill from his body onto the wooden floor. His intestines draped over his lower half, creating a disgusting waterfall effect. Blood soaked his face, and I peered closer, only to see that he’d been scalped. He didn’t have any eyeballs, either. Those had been gouged out. My stomach rolled at how his head hung at a peculiar angle. Did he have a broken neck? And the way his arms hung limply, his severed hands lying on the floor beside his intestines. It made me shiver.
I’d never seen anything so fucked-up. It was hard for my brain to accept that it was real. It looked like something from the set of a horror movie. But it was real, and painted on the wall above him in red paint were the words, ‘Stripped of my pride.’
That fucking word was starting to haunt me.
“Hewasnailed to the wall and stripped of his pride,” Mike said, like he was proud of coming up with that line.
“What is that?” I asked, ignoring him and pointing gingerly at the screen where something seemed to be stuck to the wall in place of a full stop at the end of the words.
“That’s his tongue,” Mr Gold suddenly announced from behind. “He had it cut out and nailed to the wall. But the question you should be asking is, not what is it, but who is it.”
I turned to stare him down.
“Who is it?”
Mr Gold pointed at the screen as he spoke. “That is, or rather was, Sirius Bell. CEO of Rebulous and part-time art critic for The Herald.”
That shiver I’d felt moments ago became a shudder that made me want to run and hide. I didn’t want to ask the question that was burning a hole in my brain.
“We were lucky to get there right as the police showed up. They confiscated Mike’s camera, but he managed to get this one on his mobile first.”
“How did you know about this?” I asked Mike, who was sitting at his desk while the rest of the staff gathered around, smiling at his screen like he’d got the shot of the century.
“I got an anonymous tip-off.”
“From who? What did they say?” I questioned a little too aggressively, but I was starting to feel sweat trickle down my back, and pressure was building in my overactive brain.
“I’m not disclosing my sources to you,” he snapped back, and I wanted to grab him and shake him. Did he know what the fuck he was dealing with?
“This art critic...” I turned to face Mr Gold, blocking out the photo on the screen that I was sure I’d see in my nightmares until my dying day. “Did he get on the wrong side of anyone we know?” He knew what I was asking, and he curled his finger at me, beckoning me to follow him to his office.
I walked into his room and took a seat as he closed his door. He sat down and then took a deep breath before he spoke. “I’ve been speaking to a contact on the force and apparently he had his heart ripped out of his chest.” I couldn’t breathe. “He said it’s like he’s been savaged by a wild animal.”
I was panting now.
Moments away from a panic attack.
Mr Gold leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk as he fisted his hands. “They can’t find the heart.”
I shot up from my chair.
Of course they couldn’t find the fucking heart, because it’d been left in my living room as a warning that I was next.
“Fuck this,” I spat. I was spiralling, grabbing my hair in my fists as I backed away from his desk. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Calm down, Emma,” Mr Gold sneered at me. “It’s a murder. We deal with those all the time in our line of business. I think you’re being a little over dramatic.”
“Over dramatic? Over. Fucking. Dramatic!” I shouted, and then I slapped my hands onto his desk and leaned forward, glaring into his face that was so full of ridicule. “When he comes for you, let me know. Let’s see how you like being fucking terrorised and threatened with your life. But until then, why don’t you just shut the hell up. I’m not being over fucking dramatic.”
