Matthew Fryer

SNUFF CLUB

 

Juliette York shivered.

 

She glanced up at the carnival of graffiti on the wall of the abandoned warehouse. There were jagged slogans, tags, images of street violence and guns, almost reduced to monochrome beneath the filthy light of the street lamp. She swallowed. It seemed so sinister and dangerous. Perfect for what was going to happen here tonight.

 

The small crowd of people clustered in the dark were muttering to each other, glowing cigarette ends occasionally illuminating their faces.

 

Juliette looked down at Tom, her son. He was staring at the ground, his baseball cap pulled low.

 

“You okay?” she asked and Tom nodded listlessly without looking up. Juliette sighed. Always the same.

 

“Are you okay?” Michael asked beside her, hoisting one eyebrow.

 

“Yeah,” she shrugged, thrusting her hands in her pockets. She was trembling.

 

“Hey, it’ll be okay,” he said, his soft, musical voice reassuring in the shadows. “It might not seem like that now, but the club will take care of everything. I promise.”

 

Michael slipped his arm around her shoulders.

 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered. They were only friends at the moment, but Juliette really liked him. She wasn’t sure if he felt the same way. He seemed to care and was forever calling her up, always there when she needed him and he treated Tom with great warmth and respect, despite the kid’s problems. But perhaps it was just friendship.

 

A car turned the corner at the end of the street and headlamp beams swung across the weed-choked surface like searchlights across a concentration camp. The vehicle drove slowly past the rows of rotting factories and warehouses, its engine loud in the night, tyres crackling over the broken glass that glittered on the oil-stained road.

 

The car stopped beside the warehouse and its engine died. Two young, shaven-headed men got out, their eyes dark with threat.

 

“Who are they?” Juliette whispered.

 

“Two of the club’s top boys,” Michael said. “Muscle, basically. Nobody messes with them.”

 

“I can imagine.”

 

Juliette watched the two skinheads walk across to the warehouse door, one of them speaking into his mobile phone. The small crowd subtly parted for them.

 

Tom’s indifferent head stayed down, despite the new arrivals. Juliette had never thought the kid would end up so traumatised. Had she done the right thing by bringing him here? He was only ten after all; maybe it would help an adult, but what if this experience just drove Tom deeper inside himself? It was too late to change her mind now anyway. People would be suspicious if they left.

 

A cold breeze swept down the street, sighing through the hulking carcasses of dead industry. Juliette nestled into the warmth of Michael’s body. Even the smell of this long-dead place was creepy; the tang of rust, engine oil and chemicals, mingled with cigarette smoke from the waiting crowd.

 

Please let this be okay, she prayed to nobody or nothing in particular. Tom was picking disinterestedly at his thumbnail. She closed her eyes.

 

Leon, you bastard.

 

It was almost six months since she’d last seen her ex-boyfriend, marking the end of five long years of violence.

 

When she first met Leon, he had seemed like a wonderful human being. He was caring, attentive and didn’t seem to mind her being a single mum. Things had moved quickly and she’d been swept along by his charm. But once she allowed him to move in with herself and Tom, something changed. Perhaps his support and trust had all been a sham, although to what end she couldn’t fathom, or maybe his personality had actually altered. Whatever. From friend and lover, Leon gradually morphed into a bitter, loveless man prone to mood swings that Jeckyll and Hyde would have admired. His anger grew worse, expressed not only with barbed words but fists. She tried to help, tentatively suggesting that maybe he’d be happier if he saw a doctor, assuming he was lost to some kind of clinical depression. He just retorted that it was she who needed help and struck her for the insult.

 

For those five years, Juliette and Tom lived in fear. She had seen her son thrown down the stairs, humiliated, beaten with a strap. Her ordeal was similar, Leon always careful to avoid her face, aware that nothing was more suspicious than a pair of sunglasses or a hat pulled low.

 

At first, his punishments were for behaviour he deemed worthy of such a sentence. As the years crawled by however, he searched the most innocent situations for evidence of imagined sins against his character. There was no way to avoid it and no matter how hard Juliette tried, she couldn’t protect them. Leon was paranoid, but had an egotistical belief in himself and somehow always managed to take the moral high ground. He became the worst kind of bully; completely unreasonable and self righteous in his brutality.

 

The night the Snuff Club took him, Leon had gone out to the pub. Juliette got a last-minute babysitter for Tom and snuck off to the local support group she attended whenever Leon wasn’t watching.

 

It was there she met Michael. They had begun chatting and although he was new to the group, she felt his heart was good and maybe even sensed that he could offer an escape from her ghastly circumstances. The trust he inspired, especially within the calm safety of the group, had been overwhelming and she opened her heart. Michael sat there and listened, the sadness and sympathy in his gaze slowly transforming to anger as he heard about Leon’s flair for abuse. But he never interrupted or judged, he just held her hands and nodded in all the right places. When she had finished, he hugged her tight and told her that tonight her nightmare would be over.

 

Unfortunately, she had lost track of time. She rushed home to discover Leon was already back from the pub, full of cheap lager and hate. The babysitter paid and dismissed, he accused her of having an affair. Denial was futile and his rage self-perpetuating.

 

Leon clubbed her to the kitchen floor, breaking her arm and cheekbone in the process, then as she squirmed in agony, he tore off her clothes and raped her.

 

In that moment, after the cathartic release of Michael’s unconditional support at the group, Juliette had never felt so miserable and alone. She would never have dared tell the police and even telling Michael had been a spur of the moment breakdown. She knew that Leon meant his threats and that if anyone interfered, if he so much as saw a police officer anywhere near the house, he would make her watch while he cut Tom’s fingers off one by one.

 

Leon strangled her as he came, his thick, steely fingers grinding into the cartilage of her throat, and in that moment, Juliette believed she was going to die. She couldn’t fight him, not even for Tom, too stunned by the crushing pain and sheer, mortal dread.

 

It was then that two men from the Snuff Club arrived. They were black-clad hulks, faces hidden behind balaclavas, and came crashing through the door like a pair of clumsy wrestlers, Michael close behind. Juliette’s relief was overpowering, but it didn’t last.

 

As the men took Leon down, Juliette turned and saw Tom. He stood in the hall doorway, tears dripping down the front of his aeroplane pyjamas, his favourite teddy dangling from one hand.

 

He had seen it all.

 

“Juliette?”

 

She opened her eyes. Michael faced her, genuinely concerned, hands resting on her shoulders.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Flashback, I’m sorry,” she said. Anger smouldered briefly behind Michael’s eyes and then he seemed to will it away. He squeezed her shoulders gently then let go.

 

“Don’t worry. That son of a bitch will pay for what he’s done to you. To you both.”

 

“I just hope it helps.” Juliette sighed and playfully tweaked the brim of Tom’s baseball cap. He didn’t respond, staring vacantly at the chimney stacks and shattered windows of a nearby forge. Maybe tonight would pull him out of his subdued malaise. But even if not, could it actually make him any worse? He’d witnessed his mother being raped and strangled for God’s sake.

 

“It’s time,” Michael said quietly. The crowd was shuffling towards the warehouse doors.

 

Here goes…

 

Juliette approached hesitantly, clutching Tom’s hand, and Michael placed a reassuring palm in the small of her back. The two skinheads were ushering people through the darkened doorway. One was still on his mobile phone, speaking quietly. The other, a tall aquiline man, was surveying the crowd suspiciously. For some reason, Juliette suddenly wondered if he was carrying a gun.

 

But Michael was here. He would look after them.

 

Heart thudding in her throat, she nudged Tom forward and into the waiting darkness. Michael followed in silence. 

The warehouse was vast, littered with broken pallets and hunks of machinery. Moonlight filtered down through skylights high above, gleaming on pools of stagnant water that had collected on the floor. Dust motes floated in the air and the smell of mildew and diesel stroked Juliette’s nostrils.

 

People were gathering beside a door in the right hand wall, forming around a makeshift stage built from stacked wooden pallets. Light came from a single bulb dangling above it.

 

Michael led mother and son across and took their place near the front. Tom was peering around the warehouse, his previously disinterested eyes now wide with curiosity and fear. Well, better than no reaction at all Juliette supposed. Please God, don’t let this be a terrible mistake.

 

Michael slipped his hand into hers and she caught a whiff of his aftershave. It smelt delicate and fresh, not like the bitter musk Leon used. She still had a perfect mental image of that smell and it haunted her dreams.

 

The crowd gathered behind them, murmuring voices drifting up the high walls into darkness. She was so glad Michael was here. She leaned close to him to speak, hoping Tom wouldn’t hear her above the hubbub, not that he seemed to be paying any attention.

 

“Sorry about that flashback earlier,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to freak out on you.”

 

“You don’t need to apologise,” he said quietly. “And you hardly freaked out. Do you get them often?”

 

“Not really. Usually places trigger them, familiar sights, smells that remind me of Leon.” She swallowed a cloying lump in her throat. “Ten-pin bowling’s always a struggle. That was where Leon and myself had our first date.”

 

“And you still go?”

 

“Tom likes it, I don’t want discourage him.”

 

“You really are something special,” Michael smiled.

 

Juliette felt light-headed. She had almost forgotten what it was like to enjoy the positive attentions of a man.

 

“Here we go,” Michael said.

 

A man emerged from the darkness of the doorway and clambered onto the stage. He wore thick robes and a cowl, the kind of garb some satanic cult leader might have worn in a hokey, dated horror flick, but here the effect was chilling. Juliette had heard about this man, probably why his arrival was so ominous regardless of his contrived attire. He was the executioner.

 

Please let this work, please God let me have done the right thing. Tom leaned against her, recoiling from the robed figure, and she slipped her other arm around him and pulled him close.

 

An eerie silence descended as the executioner surveyed his audience, his face in shadow.

 

“Welcome…” he said slowly, his voice deep and suffused with smug threat. “To Snuff Club.”

 

Tom was mesmerised, knuckles white, eyes unblinking. The executioner was speaking again, but she wasn’t listening.

 

“He’ll be fine,” Michael whispered to her. ”Snuff club worked for me.”

 

She turned to look at him. Her mouth fell open. “You?”

 

He nodded gently and there were tears in his eyes. Juliette didn’t know what to say. She could tell he had suffered, but he had always kept his past to himself. It had been one of the things that drew her to him; he always understood her pain, her unpredictability. But she never would’ve guessed he’d needed such an extreme form of therapy. Maybe one day he would tell her his story, but that would be his choice and in his own time.

 

“It’s… I…” Juliette’s throat closed and her brain stalled. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think of what to say. Pain, hope, love, hate; too many emotions boiled through her head.

 

“Hey, its okay,” Michael smiled sadly. “I understand.”

 

And Juliette knew in that moment that he did.

 

“It’s not an easy journey, but it’s a start, “ he said. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your son back.”

 

Juliette choked back a sob. The unspoken understanding between them was breathtaking. He squeezed her hand gently.

 

“Tonight we have a rapist, wife-beater and all round sick piece of shit,” the executioner said, spitting out the final word with contempt.

 

The audience murmured in anticipation as the two skinheads emerged from the doorway dragging a chained man behind them.

 

Juliette’s stomach knotted.

 

This was the first time she had seen Leon since the club had taken him that night almost six months ago. He’d lost a tremendous amount of weight, his filthy clothes loose over shoulders hunched with pain. His face was darkened with welts, fresh and scarred; they had already punished him severely. He looked pathetic, his gaze subdued. Perhaps he was drugged.

 

Tom stood perfectly still, his attention fixed on Leon. His face was a mask of shock.

 

Oh God, Juliette thought. What have I done? Blood thundered in her brain, the hateful voice of instinct telling her she’d ruined everything. Tom turned his head and looked up at her, his eyes accusing and hurt.

 

The two men dragged Leon up onto the stage and shoved him down at the executioner’s feet. One of them kicked him in the ribs and he shrieked, the sound echoing sharply off the cavernous walls.

 

“Do you have anything to say?” the executioner asked Leon and slapped him hard across face. Leon’s head was jolted towards the crowd and his hideous gaze found Tom. Fresh blood trickled from one side of his mouth.

 

Blood…

 

Juliette tensed. She couldn’t stand the sight of blood; the memories of abuse it roused were too real, too personal.

 

“Speak. Have you anything to say to Tom, the kid whose life you tried to ruin? And what about Juliette?”

 

Leon shook his head slowly. Someone in the audience spat and the gobbet of phlegm caught in his dishevelled hair. His breathing seemed laboured, somehow wet; perhaps he was dying anyway. He’d been their prisoner for months.

 

Then the executioner reached into his jacket and pulled out a revolver. He levelled the gun at Leon’s head.

 

“Burn in hell!” a man called from the back.

 

“Yeah, hope you rot you fucking scum!” shouted a woman, shrill with hate.

 

Tom looked round in bewilderment. He was scared. Juliette let go of Michael’s hand to crouch beside him but he pulled away. The rejection was devastating.

 

The executioner clicked off the revolver’s safety catch. More cries of loathing and derision came from the crowd, building up to a crescendo until the warehouse was a cacophony of merciless mob rule.

 

Juliette looked at her son, fearing the worst. She expected to see confusion, maybe even pity towards the doomed man on the stage, but his expression was changing.

 

Her heart leapt.

 

A smile curled the corners of Tom’s mouth, colour returning to his cheeks. As he stared at Leon, his eyes narrowed darkly.

 

He stepped forwards and began clambering up onto the stage. Juliette moved to stop him but Michael put a firm but gentle hand on her arm.

 

“Let him go,” he said, watching with confident anticipation.

 

The shouting of the crowd eased off as Tom faced the executioner. He held his hand out for the gun.

 

Juliette watched in stunned silence.

 

“You sure?” the executioner asked.

 

Tom nodded, then glanced at Juliette. “Okay mum?”

 

She nodded dumbly, vaguely realising that was the first time he had spoken all night.

 

“This gun packs a punch Tom,” the executioner said. “It’s too powerful for you to handle on your own so I’ll help you.”

 

The crowd began to yell again as he put the revolver in Tom’s grip then arranged both their hands around the weapon.

 

“Payback,” Michael said. He tenderly brushed a few hairs away from Juliette’s face. “That’s all he needs. It’s going to be very different from now on, I promise.”

 

She stared into his deep, dark eyes. He had been through the same. She may not know the details, but she could see he knew pain, despair, the anger and sleepless nights. Michael slipped his arm around her shoulders. She rested her head against him. She wanted to laugh and cry.

 

On stage, they were almost ready. The two skinheads grabbed Leon’s arms and lifted him up in cruciform. Tom, his small hands enveloped by the heavy fists of the executioner, pointed the gun at his forehead. A man behind Juliette hollered, “Go on kid, shoot the bastard!”

 

Tom stared at his abuser, his mouth a tight thin line. Leon looked delirious, his face the colour of spoiled cheese. There was no violence in him now. He was broken, in body and soul.

 

Juliette saw Tom’s finger whiten on the trigger, then it relaxed.

 

“No,” Tom said. The crowd hushed slightly. Had he lost his nerve?

 

“Open your mouth.”

 

Leon obeyed his pre-pubescent executioner. Tom forced the barrel deep into his mouth and he gagged as the metal invaded the soft tissues at the back of his throat. Juliette enjoyed the violation, and wondered if the symbolism was lost on Tom.

 

Then Leon’s pain-dilated pupils settled upon Juliette, her head resting on Michael’s shoulder. His face was filled with deep regret and sadness. Too late for that, Juliette thought. She turned her head, pulled Michael’s head towards her and deliberately kissed him full on the lips for Leon to see.

 

She saw the flash reflected in Michael’s eyes. The bang shocked through her brain and she quickly looked back to see Leon tumble to the floor, limbs askew, blood pouring from his mouth in a thick stream of deepest red. His body tensed for a few seconds, then relaxed.

 

Although he was dead, the bloody cascade kept coming, gushing down his chest, spreading out across the stage. Juliette had never seen so much blood. The deluge was so thick, such a beautiful deep colour in this cold and lifeless place.

 

At last the flow began to ebb.

 

The executioner took Tom’s hand and led him to the front of the stage. The crowd roared. Tom turned his head slowly, surveying his whooping admirers. The overwhelmed smile on his face grew into a huge, crocodilian grin.

 

Tears spilled down Juliette’s face. It had worked.

 

She felt Michael lean close to her.

 

“I love you,” he whispered.

 

On top of what she had just witnessed, the words overwhelmed her. She swallowed the constriction in her throat, suddenly feeling drunk. It was as though she had always known him, knew everything about him. This was meant to be.

 

“I love you too,” she murmured, and relaxed into his arms.

 

In a dream-like haze, she looked at the rich pool of red staining the makeshift stage, stark against the grey skin of Leon’s dead face.

 

Never again would she recoil at the sight of blood.

 

She would look at the crimson of life and smile fondly in memory of the day she got justice. The day she got her beloved son back. And the day she fell in love.

 

The porky, acrid smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils, and Juliette inhaled deeply. It was the most wonderful smell in the world.

 

© Matthew Fryer

Originally published in Wicked Hollow  – Issue 3 (Story artwork by Eric Yates)